Читать книгу Sydney Cove - J H M Abbott - Страница 9

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FOR a few moments Patrick did not speak. It was not that he did not appreciate the extent of his loss—but for the life of him he could not get himself into what he supposed to be the right frame of mind in which to contemplate such a disaster. It was serious enough to Mr. Cooper, he could see, to constitute an irreparable one.

"You take it very quietly," said the lawyer.

"Oh, well, I suppose there's not much use taking it any other way. It won't alter the fact, will it?"

"Hey, hey—no, of course not. You're right not to let it cast you down, Patrick. But if I had lost two or three thousand a year, to say nothing of a fine house and a considerable quantity of good land—well, my dear sir, I think I should be inclined to—possibly—relieve my feelings by swearing. Hey, hey—yes. I think I should be inclined to be a little profane."

Patrick looked up and laughed.

"Damn!" he said. Mr. Cooper laughed also.

"You've your mother's cheerfulness," he chuckled. "Hey, hey—best way, after all, perhaps. 'Tis a serious set-back—but you're not quite penniless, you know. You have the income of the little fortune your mother left you, of course. It hasn't been touched these years past, and it's safe in Consols. Just a moment, till I look up what it is."

He rose and went to his desk, before which he seated himself, and pulled open a drawer. After a moment or two of search, he extracted a book and laid it open upon the desk. For a few minutes he figured busily with a lead pencil, whilst Patrick stood in front of the fire, vaguely wondering why he could not feel more sorry for himself than he did.

Presently Mr. Cooper looked up, smiling.

"Hey, hey!'" he remarked cheerily. "Not so bad—not so bad at all. As near as I can make out, roughly, you will have an income of about two hundred and fifty pounds per annum. Might easily be worse off! Hey, hey—yes!"

"Two-fifty?"

"Yes! about that. Maybe a little more. But not less. Well, that will not come amiss as an addition to your pay in the Marines. Why, you might even marry on it, when you have attained your captaincy. Lots of young fellows in the service are not so well off. So cheer up."

Smiling, Patrick intimated to his lawyer that he was not downcast.

"I know I should be," he said, "and I suppose I am, to some extent. But, do you know, Mr. Cooper, the thing that seems the greatest pity is that my uncle's wishes should be nullified in this manner. It is such an absurd affair, in a way. I know he wanted me to have the place, and see to its welfare, and all that—and here, by the queerest sort of fate, all his plans are upset, and everything goes to the last man on earth whom he designed to have it. Can't you tell me something about this half-brother of mine? I know nothing of either himself or his mother, except what my uncle told me on the night of his death—and it wasn't very much. I think he meant to tell me all about him, and why he regarded him with such disfavor—but he had only really expressed his dislike of him to old Marvel in my presence—when he said that he would not see him on any account, and that, if he wished to communicate with him, it would have to be through your firm. Have you time to enlighten my ignorance a little?"

"Hey, hey—of course, yes. Quite right that you should know. Of course, if this fellow comes to his deserts, or otherwise dies, you, as the next-of-kin to him—nominally, you are his cousin—you come in for the estate. Yes I will tell you all I can."

He left the desk, and came over to the fire-place. Suddenly Patrick remembered something, and sprang up.

"Pray excuse me a moment, Mr. Cooper." He walked towards the door.

"Why, what's the matter?"

"I'd forgotten the porter. He was to show me the way back into Holborn. I'll just dismiss him, or tell him to come back later on."

"Oh, one of the clerks will do that—just open the door, will you? James," he called into the other room—"run downstairs and tell that Joe Mumford 'tis no use waiting. Sit down, then, Patrick, and I'll tell you about this precious mother and son."

"My uncle told me something about my father's entanglement with this Mrs. Mortimer, Mr. Cooper; about the duel with her husband, and how he married her. He had just got so far when we were interrupted by Mortimer himself."

"Hey, hey—he did, did he? Well, did you ever hear such a story! A most unbelievable piece of quixotism! He actually took upon himself all the consequences that should rightly have been borne by your father as the result of his folly. Amazing. Admirable, in a way, and yet foolish. But he had a great regard for your mother, and that's why he did it. Devoted to your father, of course, too—devoted to both of them. Well, I'll go on where he left off. Where had he got to, did you say?"

"Just to his marriage with this woman."

"Hey, hey—ah, yes. Well, he married her, and from that time out until she drank herself to death your good uncle never knew a moment's peace. She gave him a dog's life. Look ye, Patrick—I'm a peaceable, easy-going fellow—but I verily believe that I'd have choked that woman had I been in his place and called upon to endure what he put up with from her."

"Was she so very bad, then?"

"Bad. Hey, hey! 'Bad's' too mild a term. She was a she-devil, who'd have been too much for Old Nick himself. Your uncle was obliged, of course, to take her to India when he went there with his regiment, and his life out there with her was one long succession of sordid and disgusting scandals. She was an absolute wanton—one of those women to whom the word 'chastity' means nothing at all. You see? You understand what his life must have been? A hell upon earth. Hey, hey—yes, Frightful!"

"Great heavens! How long did he endure it?"

"Until she died. It was a merciful thing that she eventually managed to kill herself with drink—but he had ten years of it. Hey, hey—the most miserable tale that was ever told. But drink and opium finished her off at last—in most degraded circumstances. She was found dead one morning in some awful den in the native quarter. It was a release for your uncle—a most blessed release—for, of course, he'd been more or less cut off for years from his own kind. While he stuck to her—and that he did, most loyally—he was naturally unwelcome in the homes of his brother officers. It was impossible that he could associate with them. He was really an outcast from society on her account. And I am told by men who knew him at this time that never a word of complaint or lamentation for himself would ever pass his lips. He was a fine soldier, and devoted to his profession—'twas a marvellous thing how he could give his mind to it, under such a burden as he had to put up with. At the time of her death he had just come into the command of the regiment—but he told me once that, had she lived any longer, he'd have had to sell out. The position was impossible."

"And the boy—this child of my father's?"

"Of all the misbegotten scoundrels that have ever been inflicted upon the world, he was surely the very worst. Hey, hey! From his tenderest years—if such a congenital young ruffian can be said to have had any years of tenderness—he was a very epitome of villainy. He did the most devilish things as a little boy. Tortured kittens for amusement. Caught small birds, and set fire to their feathers, letting them fly away blazing. Did horrible things to cows and horses, for the beastly satisfaction of inflicting pain. He attempted to stab his nurse when he was only seven years old. Oh, a sweet little pet—a lovable child, to be sure. Hey, hey! One might almost say that his very life's blood was undiluted sinfulness."

"What on earth could my poor uncle do with him?"

"Well, he had to put up with him whilst his mother lived. But he was for ever involved in some trouble concerning him. He did awful things—unmentionable, depraved things—you follow me? I remember your uncle saying to me, here in this room one day, when he had brought him home to be put to school: 'Look ye, Cooper, there have been times when I could have loaded a pistol and blown the young monster's wicked brains out. He'll come to a gibbet yet.'"

"By heavens," ejaculated Patrick; "if I can do aught to bring him there, he'll swing!"

"Hey, hey—yes. I've no doubt you'll yet come into your inheritance through the good offices of Jack Ketch."

"Oh, believe me, I wasn't thinking of that, Mr. Cooper."

"Hey, hey—I know you weren't, Patrick, my boy. I know you weren't. 'Tis this last villainy that embitters one. To slay so callously his benefactor—the man who saved him from being nameless. 'Tis that that angers a man."

"It is, indeed. But, pray proceed, Mr. Cooper."

"Well, he brought him home with him, and put him to school—a preparatory school for the sons of gentlemen, at Twickenham. He'd not been there a fortnight before the proprietor of the establishment wrote to the colonel to remove him. He had never, he said, had to do with such a consummate young scoundrel. I forget exactly how many schools your uncle sent him to—but it was the same with all of them. He was invariably expelled, after a few weeks. It was about this time that Colonel Cartwright determined that he was not fit to bear the name. He came to me one day—very depressed and downcast—and said, 'Look here, Cooper, that young blackguard's my dear brother Dick's son, and I was fool enough to give his mother the shelter of my name. But he's not going to disgrace it any further. I'll still provide for him, but he'll bear his mother's name in future. I don't want ours to figure too prominently in the Newgate Calendar.' So the estimable young gentleman practised his villainies henceforth under the name of Mortimer. Hey, hey—and he has practised them with a will!"

"And what did my uncle do with him then—when none of the schoolmasters would stand him?"

"He had to employ a man to look after him. At first he hired tutors—young men from Oxford and Cambridge—but, hey hey—he was too much for them. As it had been with the schools, so it was with the tutors—they could not stand more than a few weeks of him. So, in despair, the colonel came to me and implored me to advise him what to do. Hey hey—I was all for turning the young varmint adrift, throwing him out, sending him to sea in a King's ship, perhaps. But this the colonel would not hear of. A most sentimental man your uncle was—God bless him! Just because he had your father's blood in his veins, he would not abandon him to his inevitable fate—the fate of a pre-destined gallows-bird."

"And what did you advise as an alternative to getting rid of him?"

"Hey, hey—I thought I was very clever. I said to the colonel, 'I'll get you the right sort of man for him.' So I sent for old Tom Lennox an ex-prizefighter—I was rather keen on the ring in those days—and told Tom all about him, and how he was to knock the stuffing out of his estimable charge, to be as brutal with him as was necessary to tame him. Hey hey—do you know—he tried to poison Tom Lennox—and nearly succeeded. Oh, he had murder in him, even in those days!"

"And what was done with him when he became a man?"

"Hey, hey—by that time the colonel wouldn't have him at Magnus Hall at all. Too dangerous—the maids, you know. So he got him employment in a merchant's office in Liverpool. Here, of course, he distinguished himself in his usual style—robbed his employer, and ran away. Out of consideration for the colonel, the merchant—who was an old schoolfellow—didn't prosecute. Else he would have hanged—and 'tis a pity he didn't. Well—for years this sort of thing went on. I'll not weary you with further details. But at last he actually went down to Magnus Hall, whilst the colonel was away on the Continent, and burgled the place. He left some trace behind him that made it clear enough who the robber was. And, about the same time, he forged your uncle's name to a draft for a considerable sum of money. Well, that was too much. The colonel would not prosecute, but he got me to arrange a passage for him to America, where he would be paid £500. He was to stay there, at the risk of being proceeded against for the forgery, should he ever return. Hey, hey—you saw his return. May the infernal villain—oh, but I don't know how to curse him competently! Hey, hey—let's change the subject, my good Patrick. Tell me—what are your own plans?"

"What a devil—what a frightful brute! Mr. Cooper, if ever I have the fortune to come across this fellow—by heavens, I'll kill him like a dog!"

The young officer was silent for a while, seeming to brood unhappily over the reward his well-loved uncle had had for all his fine self-sacrifice. At length, with a shrug of his shoulders, he seemed to seek to dismiss his unpleasant thoughts.

"My plans, Mr. Cooper?"

"Hey, hey—yes. What are you thinking of doing with yourself? What will you make of your life? One thing I am certain of, my boy—you won't disgrace the honored name you bear."

"Well, I suppose, sir, I'll stick to the service. What else is there? Besides, I am keen about my profession. Yes, I think I'll continue in the Marines."

"I'm glad to hear it, Patrick. 'Tis as your uncle would have wished. Have you any idea of your next appointment?"

"Yes. I am under orders to join an expedition to Botany Bay."

"Hey, hey—you don't say so! Why, that is the settlement my good friend, Sir Joseph Banks, is so interested in! Indeed, 'tis like to be a hazardous venture, Patrick."

"Perhaps it will be, sir. But there is something about it that has a fascination. A new country, you know. A little variety from soldiering aboard ship. On the whole, I think I look forward to it with interest. Captain Phillip, who is to go as Governor, is an old shipmate of mine. No better officer could have been chosen from the Royal Navy to fill the position."

"When do you start?"

"'Tis not known yet—but I have orders to be ready to join the ship, whatever it may be—early in the New Year."

The old gentleman rose, and held out his hand.

"Well, good fortune attend you, my dear Patrick. Remember, I am always at your service here in London. I will see more of you before you sail, I hope?"

Patrick shook his hand warmly.

"Oh, yes, indeed. I'll have many business arrangements to trouble you with before I sail, sir."

"Hey, hey—trouble! A pleasure to me, my dear lad—for my dear friend John Cartwright's sake, if for naught else."