Read Ebook: For Fortune and Glory: A Story of the Soudan War by Hough Lewis Paget Walter Illustrator

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Ebook has 1916 lines and 110901 words, and 39 pages

Filial affection might surely be taken as a valid excuse for withdrawal. And yet, having had no experience of the etiquette due to prophets when the orgy of vaticination is upon them, he was not quite comfortable on the question of being scathed. There was no need for fear; Sheikh Burrachee was too rapt to heed his presence or absence. He heard not his voice, and knew not when he crossed the room and closed the door softly behind him. He found Trix in the hall looking out for him.

"Well?" she cried.

"Oh, my prophetic uncle!" ejaculated Harry.

"That is a mis-quotation."

"It is not a quotation at all; it is an exclamation, and a very natural one under the circumstances."

"Has he been telling your fortune?" asked Beatrice, her large eyes expanding with the interest which is begotten of mystery.

"Not exactly," replied Harry; "except that he hinted something about the propriety of my choosing the profession of a Bedouin, and, I suppose, making a fortune by robbing caravans. But he told the misfortunes of other people with a vengeance. The Mohammedans are going to turn the Christians out of Asia and Africa everywhere."

"Good gracious, Harry! Why, papa's a director of the Great Transit Bank, and all our money is in it, and it does all its business in the East."

"Poor man, he had a sunstroke when he was quite young in India, and has led a queer life amongst savages ever since. But papa has come home and been asking for you. You will find him in the drawing-room."

Harry thought his father thinner and older than when he had last seen him, and asked how he was in a more earnest and meaning manner than is customary in the conventional "How do you do?"

"Do I look altered?" asked Mr Forsyth, quickly.

"Oh, no, father, only a little pale; tired-looking, you know," said Harry, rather hesitatingly, in spite of the effort made to speak carelessly.

"I have not been quite the thing, and have seen a physician about it. Only a little weakness about the heart, which affects the circulation. But do not mention it to your mother or sister; women are so easily frightened, and their serious faces would make me imagine myself seriously ill. Well, how did you get on with your uncle? You see he has turned me out of my private den."

"Is he at all--a little--that is, a trifle cracked, father?"

"A good deal, I should say. And yet he is a very clever man, and sensible enough at times, and upon some subjects. He was most useful to me out in Egypt on several occasions when we happened to meet. A great traveller and a wonderful linguist."

"Was he badly treated by Government? He told me a story in the third person, but I expect that he referred to himself all the time," said Harry.

"Well," replied Mr Forsyth, "it is difficult to tell all the rights of the story. Ever since he had an illness in India, as a very young man, he has been subject to delusions. No doubt he behaved well on the occasion of a certain shipwreck--if that is what you allude to--and incurred heavy expense, which ought to have been made up to him. But I doubt if he went the right way to work, and suspect that his failure was due very much to impatience and wrong-headedness, and the mixing up of political questions with his personal claims. He wrote a book, which made some noise, and caused him to lose his appointment. Then he came to me in Egypt, and was very useful.

"I should have liked him for a partner, but he went off to discover the source of the Nile. He thought he had succeeded, and after a disappearance of some years came back triumphant. But he had followed the Blue Nile instead of the real branch, and the discoveries of Speke, Grant, Livingstone, and Stanley were terribly bitter to him--drove him quite mad, I think. Since then he has identified himself with the Arab race, and seems to hate all Europeans, except his sister and her family. With me he has never quarrelled, and I think remembers that I offered him a home and employment when his career was cut short. What he is in England for now I do not know. Perhaps only to see your mother once more, but I suspect there is something else.

"He writes many letters, and makes a point of posting them himself. I fear that he takes opium, or some drug of that kind, and altogether, though it is inhospitable perhaps to say so, it will be a relief when he is gone, and that will not be many days now."

After leaving his uncle in such a rapt state, it was curious to Harry to see him walk into the drawing-room before dinner in correct evening costume, and not wearing his fez. He was somewhat taciturn, ate very little, and drank nothing but water, but his manners were those of a perfect gentleman. After dinner he retired, and they saw no more of him that evening.

Harry Forsyth had several other interviews with his uncle, who showed more fondness for his company than he had for that of any other member of the family, but who kept a greater guard over himself, and was more reticent than he had been on the occasion of his first interview. He spoke of Eastern climes, war, sport, and scenery, with enthusiasm indeed, but rationally, and Harry grew interested, and liked to hear him, though he never got over the feeling that there was something uncanny about him.

One night, after dinner, when a fortnight of Harry's holidays had elapsed, the uncle, on retiring, asked his nephew to come and see him in the study at eleven on the following morning, and Harry, punctually complying, found him seated on a chair before the large table with three packets before him.

"Sit down, my lad," he said, and the deep musical tones of his voice had an affectionate sadness in them.

Harry rose and stood by his side. His uncle fitted the ring on his fore-finger, put the morocco box containing the sapphires, and the thin silver case, like a lady's large-sized card-case, that protected the written document, into his breast pocket, and then rising himself, rested his two hands on the lad's shoulders, and gazed long and earnestly into his face.

Then turning his eyes upwards, he muttered a prayer in Arabic, after which he gently drew him to the door, and, releasing him, opened it, and said, "Farewell."

MR. RICHARD BURKE VISITS HIS LAWYER.

Mrs Forsyth had another brother, named Richard, living in Ireland. When Ralph Burke--the Sheikh Burrachee of to-day--was in trouble, and lost his Indian appointment, he went to his brother, whom he had not met since boyhood, and who welcomed him at first cordially. But Ralph, possessed by the one idea of injury received from the Government, engaged in seditious plots, and nearly involved his host in serious trouble. The brothers quarrelled about it, and Ralph left in anger, and never afterwards mentioned his brother's name.

Probably he did not know at present whether he was dead or alive. But alive he was, though in failing health. He was the eldest of the family, ten years senior to Ralph, and seventeen to his sister, Mrs Forsyth. In spite of Ralph's story about Oliver Cromwell, the elder brother had some land, though whether it was part of the original estates, or had been acquired since, I know not. He had no tenants, but farmed himself, and was therefore not shot at. The farming consisted principally, however, in breeding horses, in which he was very successful.

It was not that he realised such large profits, or grew rich rapidly, but he always made more than he spent in the course of the year, and invested the balance judiciously. And in twenty years hundreds grow to thousands in that way.

Rather late in life Mr Burke had married a widow with a son, an only child. He lost her early, and, having no children of his own, attached himself to her boy for her sake, and made a will leaving him sole heir to his property, after a legacy had been paid to his sister, Mrs Forsyth, and a provision of 200 pounds a year made for Reginald Kavanagh, an orphan cousin for whom Richard Burke had stood godfather, and was now educating at his own expense, the boy spending all his holidays with him in Ireland, and becoming a greater favourite with him as time went on.

For his step-son, Stephen Philipson, had disappointed him grievously, developing idle, dissipated, and extravagant habits as he grew into manhood. Mr Burke bore with him for some years, hoping that he would sow his wild oats and reform. But instead of this, he became worse and worse, till at last it was evident that he would make the worst possible use of any money which came to him.

And then Mr Burke had an accident in the hunting field, and, while he lay between life and death, his step-son behaved and spoke in a heartless and ungrateful manner, which was reported to him on his unexpected recovery; and in his indignation he determined to take a step which he had for some time contemplated. For, though he was able to get about again, he felt that he had received injuries which would bring him to the grave before very long, and that he would never be the man he had been. And, indeed, when pressed, his doctor did not deny that he had reason for his conclusion.

So as soon as he was strong enough to get about, he wrote to secure a room at the hotel he used in Dublin, and took the train to that city. And the next day called upon his solicitor, Mr Burrows, of the firm of Burrows and Fagan.

Mr Burrows, a sleek little man, particular about his dress, and as proud of his small hands and feet as a cat is of her fur, was waiting for him in his private room.

"I am going to alter my will," said Mr Burke.

"Exactly," said the lawyer, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, which intimated that he was not at all surprised.

"I have drawn up a rough copy of what I want put into legal terms; it is very short and simple; we can get it done to-day, can we not?"

"Certainly, I expect so. Let me see what you wish," replied Mr Burrows, taking the sheet of note-paper.

Now, do not skip, reader, if you please. If you do you will either have to turn back again from a more interesting chapter, or you will fail to follow the thread of my story. I promise not to bore you with legal terms; only read straight on, as Mr Burrows did.

"I revoke my former will. I now leave to two trustees as much money as will yield 240 pounds a year to be paid monthly to Stephen Philipson, the son of my late wife by a former husband. My land to be sold, and that, with the rest of my property, to be equally divided between my sister, Mary Forsyth, or her heirs, and Reginald Kavanagh."

"Not long, certainly, as you have put it," said Mr Burrows, with a smile. "But here is land to be sold, and other descriptions of property to be entered correctly. Can you not give us till the day after to- morrow? If not, I will send the will to you, and you can sign it, and get it witnessed at home."

"No, no; I had sooner remain in Dublin, and get the thing off my mind at once. The day after to-morrow, then, at this time."

"It will be all ready by then."

As he passed through the outer office, the head clerk came from his desk, smiling and bowing obsequiously. He was a young man of dark complexion, and black hair, worn rather long.

"Ah, Daireh, how do you do?" said Mr Burke with a nod, but not offering to shake hands, as the other evidently expected.

Mr Burke had friends to call on, and business to transact, so the delay did not really matter to him; and he called at the lawyer's office again at the appointed time, Daireh, bowing obsequiously as usual, ushering him into Mr Burrows' private room.

"Well, we have put your good English into what you profanely call legal jargon," said that gentleman.

"Just listen, and try to understand your own directions while I read them over."

It was all plain enough, and short enough, in spite of Mr Burrows' little joke, and then Mr Burke put his mouth to a speaking-tube, and called Daireh to come and witness the document. Then there was some signing, and the new will was consigned to the tin box bearing the name of Richard Burke, Esquire, upon it.

"Better destroy the old one," said he.

"Certainly," replied Mr Burrows. "Throw it behind the fire, Daireh."

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