Read Ebook: The Pit Town Coronet: A Family Mystery Volume 1 (of 3) by Wills C J Charles James

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Ebook has 508 lines and 40719 words, and 11 pages

Conny stepped smilingly forward, and proceeded to affix the band around the vicar's massive throat.

Fat Jack Dodd was in his glory; "Jumbo" was in the seventh heaven of bliss. A smile of beatitude spread over his enormous countenance during the process. But it suddenly disappeared, as a sharp slam of the door announced the sudden departure of his indignant wife, the outraged Cecilia. Will it ever dawn on Mrs. Dodd's mind, that parsons, even married parsons, are but men?

WALLS END CASTLE.

Walls End Castle was the seat of John, Earl of Pit Town. It had come into the family through the marriage of a former earl with the heiress of the great Chudleigh family. It was one of England's show places. The great park which surrounded it was one of the most celebrated in all England, celebrated alike for its size and its beauty. The entry to the park was never denied to artists; and they, their easels, and their umbrellas, might be seen at the various well-known "bits" all through the summer and autumn. The boys of the Elizabethan Grammar School had also the privilege of roaming in the park; and time had been when the people of the neighbouring town and the public generally were admitted; but excursionists had arrived in crowds, they had destroyed the poetry of the place with pieces of greasy newspaper, broken bottles, ham bones, and the remains of their Homeric banquets. They had shouted and whistled in the great picture galleries, they had written their names upon the window panes, they had committed all the innumerable offences that such people do commit; but the final straw which determined the present earl to exclude them, was their having played at the game of Kiss-in-the-ring, one Whit-Monday, directly under the windows of the noble owner. After that memorable day, Lord Pit Town kept his castle and his park to himself.

"It is onhappy, most onhappy," replied the doctor of philosophy, "but I fear it is drue, too drue."

"What will your lordship do with it?" said old Mr. Creeps.

"You shall see," replied that eminent collector with a smile, as he advanced to the easel on which the doubtful picture stood. His lordship opened his penknife, carefully and quietly he cut the canvas out of the frame, he folded it in half; again he cut it, as though he were cutting up a sheet of brown paper; he repeated the process several times, then, handing the pieces to the German, he merely remarked, "Oblige me by burning these, Wolff."

"They shall make a vamous blaze," said the philosopher, as he left the room to carry out the sentence.

"Would that all collectors could afford to do the same, Lord Pit Town," remarked John Buskin with a sigh.

"Your lordship has done a noble act," cheerfully cried old Mr. Creeps, as he rubbed his hands. "Of course you will trounce Abrahams. When the artistic world hears of this morning's work, Lord Pit Town, it will know what it owes to England's most distinguished amateur."

"No, no, Mr. Creeps. I must ask you to keep this business a secret; no cheap popularity for me," replied the old lord.

"Cheap!" echoed the critic, as he raised his eyes to the skylight. "Good heavens! he calls it cheap," whispered the old man to John Buskin.

"His lordship is right," was the oracle's oracular reply.

Men said that Lord Pit Town was eccentric. Gossips said that he was mad. Perhaps after all he was only honest according to his lights. Next day the handsome frame, carefully packed, was returned to Mr. Abrahams; it was duly deducted from his account. But he got his cheque for the price of the picture, and his very liberal commission.

In vain did the artists who frequented Walls End Park attempt to stalk the old nobleman in his lonely walks. They never succeeded in selling him a picture from the easel. "Capital, capital," his lordship would remark with great alacrity, when there was no other way of escape. The eldest Miss Solomonson, the most talented member of that clever Hebrew family--she is great at animals--tried to shoot the wary old lord with her well-known picture of "The Timid Fawn," but she ignominiously failed.

"The old wretch called me 'my dear,' and said he liked my sky, when I hadn't even indicated the sky," she indignantly remarked to her amused father.

Miss Solomonson's masses of jetty hair, and the fire from the glances of her oriental eyes, were said to have melted the stony hearts even of dealers who were her co-religionists. But with all her advantages Miss Solomonson failed with the old lord, and she abuses him to this day. She had her revenge, however, for in her well-known Academy picture of the following year, "Balaam and his Ass," the angel was represented by a glorified portrait of Miss Solomonson herself, who glared down in an indignant manner upon the terrified and kneeling Balaam. Old Mr. Creeps and the other art-critics chuckled as they recognized the angelic portrait; but they chuckled still more, when they saw that the terrified Balaam was but an ill-natured caricature of John, Earl of Pit Town.

"I'd have done him as the ass, you know, only he was too ugly. I hope he'll like the figures better than the sky this time," snorted the indignant Hebrew maiden.

Two only of his heirlooms had stood the crucial inspections of Lord Pit Town and his experts. These were the great Raphael, and the celebrated portrait of Barbara Chudleigh, the well-known beauty of Charles the Second's time, by Sir Peter Lely. Wicked Bab Chudleigh, as a wood nymph, simpered upon the walls of the new gallery in which the Chudleigh Raphael occupied the post of honour.

We have seen what manner of man John, Earl of Pit Town, was. We have seen how his heirlooms troubled him not a little. We have seen how he passed his life with the faithful Wolff at Walls End Castle, patiently waiting to fill the numerous blanks on the walls of the new galleries, in fact to accomplish his destiny. For if ever there was a born collector, a real collector, to whom the actual intrinsic value of a painting was absolutely of no importance, it was John, Earl of Pit Town. And this indifference to the value at the hammer of their acquisitions, marks the distinction between the genuine collector or connoisseur and the ruck of the people who buy pictures; the bulk of whom are after all but amateur dealers. When the successful stock-jobber leaves off dealing in shares and takes to art, he merely deals in another more or less intangible security of very fluctuating value. With childlike confidence he follows the advice of some more or less honest dealer. He buys from the easel with a hope of a "rapid rise." Works are knocked down to him at Christie's simply because they are apparently cheap, and he is carrying out the old axiom of his trade, "always buy rubbish." In the same way he is perpetually buying and selling pictures upon the time honoured maxim of Capel Court, "nail your profit, and cut your loss." He will even go so far as to develop a taste for a particular master in the hope that he may succeed ultimately in making a "corner" in that special security. And the sole dream of such a man is the result in pounds, shillings and pence of the auction that will inevitably take place at his death. The possession of a certain number of valuable works of art confers an amount of distinction upon their proprietor, and Brown, who as Brown is a nobody, becomes a somebody as the owner of the Brown collection. Of this fact Manchester "men" and Liverpool "gentlemen" are well aware. But, as has been seen, a deep gulf divided these amateur dealers from John, Earl of Pit Town.

The old earl's property, the source of his wealth, as from his title the reader will have shrewdly guessed, was in collieries. With the management of these, however, the Earl of Pit Town did not trouble himself. His various agents paid yearly increasing sums into that aristocratic bank in the Strand, which never allows interest on deposits, which never advises any investment except Consols, and whose clerks from time immemorial have worn white chokers.

For many years it had been the old lord's habit to entertain those members of his family, never exceeding four in number, who were nearest to the title. Twice a year the formal invitation was sent out by the old nobleman to his only son, and to his two nephews. Once in the height of the summer and once at Christmas these invitations were issued. They were never refused, for their recipients looked upon them much in the light of a royal command.

Mr. Haggard, of the Home Office, a faultlessly-dressed gentleman, whose principal characteristic was his brilliant whist, which it was said brought him in a certain but variable income, was the next heir in direct succession; he was the nephew of his lordship, and a childless bachelor. His presence, also, always graced Walls End Castle at the regulation periods.

Mr. John Haggard, of Ash Priory, the father of big Reginald, was always the third guest. John Haggard, the second nephew of Lord Pit Town, was a J.P. for his county, of the Shakespearian type. He was fond of good living, his eye was severe, and his beard of sober cut. He embodied the law, in his own immediate neighbourhood, to the intense terror of local delinquents. He had meted out stern justice to his own son, when he had banished big Reginald to South America; but he had his virtues. He lived within his means, he entertained his neighbours at rather heavy dinners, he gave his wife and daughters a fortnight in town during the season, and he habitually took the first prize at the county show for black pigs. He never forgot that he was third in succession to the title. He never doubted his capacity, should he ever be called to occupy the position of a hereditary legislator; and now that his son had returned a considerably wealthier man than he himself was, he chuckled, when in his mind's eye he thought of him as some day bearing the courtesy title of Lord Hetton.

The earl and the doctor of philosophy sat at breakfast in a little oak wainscoted room whose windows commanded a full view of the new galleries. In this little room the galleries had been designed; the windows had looked upon the commencement of the great work. An army of navvies had dug out the earth for the gigantic foundations. Then arose a very forest of scaffold-poles. Two huge steam engines had snorted and puffed for three whole years. A colossal steam "traveller" had ceaselessly carried great blocks of stone and long steel girders from point to point. The clink of the stone-masons' chisels had resounded year after year from morning till night. Then came the carpenters, and the noise of their busy hammers had been deafening. When not actually on the works, Lord Pit Town had viewed them from the window of his favourite room. But scaffold poles, steam engines and labourers had disappeared; the rubbish had been cleared away, and the huge white block stood out in the clear air; dominating the grey weather-stained gables of Walls End Castle much as Aladdin's palace is said to have dominated the more ancient but less magnificent residence of his father-in-law the Emperor of China. There was an air of spick-and-spanness about the whole thing that annoyed the earl. The new galleries had been finished four whole years, but they still looked painfully fresh.

"I hear that I am to have the pleasure of welcoming another of your lordship's relatives this year," said the doctor of philosophy to the earl.

"Yes; Wolff 'where the carcase is there shall the eagles be gathered together.' I have kept them waiting for some years, and I don't feel a bit like dying, Wolff. Though I confess I dread Hetton's critical examination. He always looks me over in his stud-groom sort of way. But I suppose, as he is my nearest relative, it is but natural he should be anxious about my health. As for the young fellow, I have never even seen him. My nephew wished to bring him, and he is about to marry. In fact he and his father will be the only married men among my direct heirs."

"And does the young man love art?"

"No. I think his talents are confined to spending money and getting into trouble. But my nephew tells me that he is now going to forswear sack and live cleanly."

"That is what I cannot understand, my lord. I had a cold the other day, a most severe cold. I tell the young man to bring me a cup of sack; he sends to me the butler. I say to him, 'Give me the sack.' He replied to me, 'I cannot do that, sir, it's only his lordship can do that.' What is, then, this precious drink I read of in my Shakespeare--so precious, that your lordship will not trust him to his butler? And now you tell me that your nephew will drink him no more. I never see your lordship drink him. Has, then, your lordship forsworn him too?"

His lordship laughed as he finished his coffee. "No one drinks sack now-a-days, Wolff, and the quotation was merely figurative; while the other sack the butler talked about was but a vulgarism used by his class. You will never get that either, in my lifetime at least."

"I understand it not. But your grand-nephew, the young man, it pleases you that he shall marry?"

One of his lordship's close carriages was coming up the great chestnut avenue; Lord Hetton was its sole occupant. As the old butler received him in the hall, with the deference due to his master's son, the sporting nobleman laughingly commiserated him.

"I most humbly thank your lordship," replied the butler with an air of profound gratitude, as he chuckled in his sleeve. For the old man too was of a sporting turn. He knew all about Dark Despair, and annually he had carefully laid the odds against Lord Hetton's nomination for the great race.

"The same rooms, I suppose, Russell?"

"Always the same rooms, your lordship."

Lord Hetton mechanically proceeded to his quarters.

On joining the earl, father and son met as if they had parted only the previous day. The pursuits of neither interested the other. Art and horse-flesh were subjects tabooed by mutual consent. A desultory conversation on politics, in which neither took the slightest interest, was a safe neutral ground. It was with a feeling of relief on both sides that the arrival of Mr. Haggard, of the Home Office, was announced. His lordship retired shortly to his study, Hetton and Mr. Haggard betook themselves to the billiard-room.

At dinner the family party was increased by the presence of John Haggard and his son, both of whom were well received by the earl, who now saw his grand-nephew for the first time. Big Reginald's magnificent physique made its due impression; his father was evidently proud of him, and the old lord congratulated the young man on his approaching marriage.

Reginald Haggard was not diffident, he truckled to no one. He frankly avowed to his grand uncle that he knew nothing of art. When his lordship retired early, as was his custom, the other men adjourned once more to the billiard-room. Big Reginald took their lives at pool, and pocketed their half-crowns in an easy genial way, which almost made losing a pleasure.

During the fortnight in which Lord Pit Town entertained his relatives, nothing occurred to mar the harmony of the meeting. During that fortnight Big Reginald got on friendly terms with everybody.

Nothing seemed to overawe or intimidate the ingenuous youth. He saw with evident pleasure the outward and visible signs of the old earl's immense wealth. As he looked round upon the priceless collection in the new galleries, as he thought of the old nobleman's huge estates, he remembered that the investment that Mr. Hyam Hyams had made in his own contingent post obits was probably a good one; he prudently determined to pay off the Jew as soon as he should realize his American properties. In his own mind he determined already that, should he ever be his great-uncle's successor, he would distribute the great Pit Town collection to the four winds of heaven. But he made one mental reservation, as he stood before Sir Peter Lely's masterpiece, and gazed on the lovely features and roving eye of "Wicked Bab Chudleigh:" "A monstrous fine girl. Yes, I should stick to her." If Reginald Haggard did come into the estates after all, and did "stick to her," she would be the first one of her sex he had ever stuck to.

Walls End Castle, when the party broke up, returned to its normal state. The earl and the philosopher continued the even tenour of their ways. Lord Hetton took away his big cheque, which was duly honoured at the old-fashioned bank in the Strand. A cheque for a like amount had been given to Reginald Haggard by the earl. "Buy something for your wife that-is-to-be," he said to his grand-nephew, as he handed him the folded paper. "Warrender was one of my friends years ago, when I had friends," said the old nobleman with a sigh "They are good old-fashioned people the Warrenders, and honest. Don't thank me," he said, as he shook hands with the young fellow. "Of course you will come here with your father in the winter. I shall hope to see the new Mrs. Haggard too," he added. "Good-bye. I shall send you a formal invitation."

AT THE PANDEMONIUM CLUB.

It is one in the morning. Though it is in the height of summer the Pandemonium card-room is cool; they burn wax candles here, and gas is absolutely banished from this particular chamber of the club, where fortunes are sometimes lost and won. In most club card-rooms smoking is not permitted, but at the Pandemonium it is the fashion to smoke everywhere. One whist table only is at work; General Pepper and three old hands of the same kidney are hard at it. The four old men rub their blear old eyes at the conclusion of each deal, and then pull down their faultless cuffs over their eager and bony old hands. The card table profitably occupies some six to eight hours daily of these old fellows' attention. There is not much harm in it after all. Probably none of them are very much the better or very much the worse at the end of the year; their sole ambition is the saving of a game, particularly when there is a good "gallery" to admire their efforts. One dreaded Nemesis awaits these men--the inevitable day when memory will begin to fail, and they shall trump their partner's best card. Or the still more horrible apprehension of dimness of sight; for a pair of wicked old eyes will not last for ever; then the unhappy old player will begin to revoke, and find himself perforce relegated to "bumble-puppy," or to whiskey-and-water and solemn slumbers in the smoke-room, or, more horrible still, the prolonged society of Sir Peter Growler and Canon Drivel, D.D.

The game was baccarat.

The table is covered with a tightly-stretched green cloth, which is divided by yellow lines into fourteen spaces; two larger ones in the centre of the table are the places of the banker and the croupier; twelve other spaces of a smaller size indicate the seats of the rest of the players, or "punters," as they are technically termed. The table is full, as has been stated: a bank has just been terminated, and the banker retires, having lost the whole amount of his bank. The croupier, who is, of course, a professional--a bald Frenchman, nominally one of the card-room waiters--looks round the table with the air of an auctioneer. "Fifty pounds--seventy-five--a hundred--two hundred--two hundred and fifty--three hundred; thank you, sir. Mr. Haggard takes the bank, gentlemen, at three hundred pounds."

Haggard rises with a smile, seats himself in the dealer's vacant place, opposite the croupier; he places in front of him a pile of gold and notes. With the rapidity of one of Messrs. Coutts' young men, the French croupier counts the money; he arranges the gold in little piles, and the notes in three little heaps, placing a small paper-weight on each heap. Then the croupier tears open two packets of new cards, flinging the old ones into a waste-paper basket at his side. He invites various players to make the cards; this is done in rather a perfunctory manner. With a sort of huge paper-knife the Frenchman passes the cards to Haggard, and as he does so, remarks in a clear, but mechanical voice: "Gentlemen, the bank is opened for three hundred pounds." Haggard takes the cards, and, dividing them into two equal parts, rapidly shuffles them, by raising a corner of each parcel simultaneously, and letting the corners slip with a rapid "brrr." Evidently, from the dexterity and precision with which this feat is accomplished, Georgie Warrender's affianced lover is no novice. He hands the cards to his right-hand neighbour, who carefully cuts them; each player puts forth his stake towards the middle of the table, in front of the space allotted him. These stakes are gold only as yet, and no man's venture seems over five pounds. Haggard takes up about a sixth part of the cards. "Gentlemen," cries the croupier, "the game is made." Haggard places a card to the left, for that half of the table; another at his right, for the other half; a third one he takes himself: he repeats the process. The croupier slips the blade of his huge paper-knife underneath the two cards which are on either side of the dealer, and deposits them, unexposed, with marvellous adroitness, before the punter on either side whose turn it is to play. Court cards and tens count as nothing, the ace as one; should the player make either eight or nine he invariably rests contented, and exhibits it; if below eight, he exercises his fancy or discretion, and takes or refuses a third card. Then Haggard turns up his own hand, doing precisely the same. He has drawn a knave and a six; he takes another card; this turns out to be an ace. "I have seven," he says. The player to his right holds eight, the player to his left has only six--the right side wins, the left side loses. In an instant the croupier, with his huge paper-knife, sweeps up the cards, and, with the rapidity of a conjuring trick, he casts them into a wooden bowl in the middle of the table; then he rapidly sweeps off all the stakes on one side of the table; with equal celerity he places each man's winnings before the players on the other side. There are no quarrels, and no mistakes. Everybody is terribly polite. And so the game goes on.

"Dutch courage, Lammy, my boy," remarked Spunyarn, as he calmly helps himself to one of the youth's cigars.

"You'd be doing the same, Shirtings, if you'd been hit at this beast of a game as I have."

"Shirtings" was the playful name bestowed on the noble lord, in reference to the well-known fact that the Spunyarn money had been made in a Manchester cotton mill, and with that money it was said that the Spunyarn title had been paid for; the first gentleman in Europe not disdaining such bargains. Lamb swallows a second glass of his panacea. The real fact is that the boy likes it because it is sweet, the after-taste indistinctly resembling the distant memories of the peppermint bull's-eyes of his early youth. But green Chartreuse unhappily is not innocent; it is more than a spirit, it is a powerful drug. Fired by this second draught, his tired eyes already a ferrety red, his mouth dry with the tobacco, the drink and the excitement, Lamb in a rasping voice shouts, "Banco."

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