Tatterley: the story of a dead man

Front matter

TATTERLEY Tatterley THE STORY OF A DEAD MAN BY Tom Gallon Xon&on 1897 HUTCHINSON & CO. 34 PATERNOSTER ROW PRINTED AT N1MBGUBN (HOLLAND) HY U. C. X. THIEME OF NIMKOURV (HOLLAND) AND 27 SHOE LANK. LONDON. E.C. To ONE DEAR WOMAN WHOM I LOVE THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED. CONTENTS I HAPTKR PAGE I. WHICH TELLS OF A HOME-COMING — AND A STRANGE LIKENESS — AND SOME DREAMS n. OF A RADIANT H4.IRY — AND A WONDROUS TEA-DRINK- ING — AND AN INTERRUPTION 1 6 III. OF SOME HIGH WORDS — AND SOME LOW MOTIVES — AND A PHILOSOPHER . 33 IV. WITH MORE OF THE PHILOSOPHER — AND A GLIMPSE OF TATTERLEY — AND A TRAGEDY 4; V. OF A RESOLVE — AND A GRUESOME BUSINESS — AND A CHANGELING OF DEATH 66 VI. OF CERTAIN RELATIVES — AND SOME PLAIN SPEAKING AND A FAREWELL VISIT 78 VU. OF THE NEW TATTERLEY — AND SOME SHOPPING — AND SOME TEARS 95 VIII.

OF A DINNER-PARTY — AND A WAITING AT TABLE — AND A MATTER OF SERVICE II3 IX. WITH MORE OF SERVICE — AND THE RADIANT FAIRY — AND A MATCHMAKER 1 35 X. OF CERTAIN ENCHANTED STREETS — AND A WONDROUS STORY — AND A CHURCH CONTENTS PAH V.

CHAPTER XI WITH SOMETHING OF LONELINESS

Chapter I. Which Tells Of

A HOME-COMING— AND A STRANGE LIKENESS — AND SOME DREAMS. Caleb Fry was coming home from the City. Not as other men came home, with the dust of its worn pavements shaken from their feet, for a few hours at least; with the mental vision before them of childish faces that smiled, and childish voices that gave them shrill welcome; with the blessed hope of rest upon them, before the toil began again. Caleb Fry was not one of these; he went home from the City because it was necessary to shut the dull old office sometimes — because there were none left to do business with. But, like the old man of TATTERLEY. 2 the nursery tale, he carried his burden with him always ; and, while he bent beneath it, furrowed his brow with thoughts of how he might increase it. On and on, through the winter streets, Caleb Fry went homewards from the City, even as he had done these many years past.

The hurrying throng that poured out from innumerable counting-houses, to swell the exodus, jostled and thrust him aside ; office-boys — cigarette-puffing and wan-faced — darted in front of him, with shriU whistlings and clattering of feet. He had an eye for many things, and a cynical creasing of the mouth, and a grunt, for some of them. But, through it aU, he carried his burden, and his thoughts tended always in one direction — how he might increase it. Caleb Fry always walked home ; he had walked home for more years than he cared to count, and he was scarcely the man to change any habit now. PunctuaUy at half-past six o'clock he locked up the smaU room which served him as an office; punc tuaUy at a few minutes after seven o'clock he let himseU" into the house in one of the duU streets in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury, and cHmbed doggedly to the topmost floor — and was at home.

Punctually, too, at a quarter past seven, his dinner was brought up from the basement by his landlady, and set out on a smaU round table near the fire. It was characteristic of the man, and his mode of life, that his landlady had scarcely ever seen him, during aU the years that he had lived there. For she simply prepared his meals, and those of his servant, and handed them to the servant at the appointed times. The simple domestic arrangements were aU made through this servant, who, in money matters, acted as the go-between for his master. Probably Caleb Fry liked to keep up this air of mystery; it gave him a certain importance — caused him to be spoken of in whispers. There may have been a more simple reason — the desire that was always upon him that men should fear him — that he should hold a power over them, of which they did not know the full extent.

Be that as it may, he was a lonely man from choice — a man who spoke only to his servant, outside the City, and only then in the briefest and most necessary TATTERLEY. sentences — a man whose few communications to his few relations, were made through this servant. The rooms were grey, and pinched, and silent, like the man; the sitting-room had a high, gaunt old mantel-piece, upon which no careless arm could by any possibihty have rested ; the chairs were high-backed, and narrow-seated, and forbidding — the sort of chairs upon which no man would have thought of lounging, or of sitting in any but the most erect and matter-of-fact attitude. The bedroom only contained the most necessary articles; a narrow, attenuated bedstead ; a couple of hard seated chairs; a portable wash-stand in one corner.

Of the two remaining rooms on the floor, one was devoted to the use of the servant, and the other — a long narrow room, without a fireplace — was used for the storage of such odd lumber as belonged to Caleb Fry's smaU household. The servant was, perhaps, as peculiar, in a way, as his master. Like his master, he was silent and dry — using no more words, on any occasion, than were absolutely necessary. Caleb Fry had no friends, and no acquaintances outside the City; but it had been whispered that the master and servant had been together all their lives— that they had shared the same desk in school, in the far-off days when the City had not ground the master hard. Rumour even murmured that the turn of Fortune's wheel which sent Caleb up had whirled the other down, and left him dazed, and giddy, and useless, so far as further struggle was concerned; that Caleb had picked him up, and shaken him, and bound him to himself by some tie of abject gratitude, and so held him, ever since.

Tatterley — that was the man's name — was as silent on the subject as his master; only sometimes, in his eyes, a keen observer — had there been one present — would have surprised a sudden look of wistfulness, which might have had its birth in some old-time remembrance, or in a gratitude which dared express itself in no other fashion. For the rest, he was simply Tatterley to the few with whom he came in contact ; Tatterley — with out prefix or softening adjective of any kind. He appeared a man whose very identity and personality TATTERLEY. had become merged in that of the stronger man whom he served, and without whom he was nothing. He wore Caleb's cast-off clothes, — and they fitted him to a nicety; he arranged his scanty hair in the fashion in which Caleb wore his own ; his shoulders were bent in the same way; his manner— his very voice — were the Caleb manner and voice, somewhat softened.

It may have been that he was a man of such weak purpose and character that it was a necessary part of him that he should model himself on some one ; it may have been that, in his long association with the other, he had caught the trick of it all — the more from the fact that he met no other man with whom he held converse. It has been observed that those who are much together grow singularly alike in features, as time goes on. Caleb Fry's face was by no means an extraordinary or uncommon one ; its chief characteristic was its expression of dogged obstinacy. Thus it happened that Tatterley's features — originally not unlike those of his master —grew more and more Hke them as the years passed; the wearing of clothes which the other had worn, and the little tricks of manner, helped the likeness.

There was no one to remark this, as they were never seen together ; Tatterley never went near the City, and the two men met only in the solitude of the dull old rooms, at the top of the house in Bloomsbury. There was one distinguishing mark which separated them, had any such distinguishing mark been necessary. Tatterley had — in the years which had been left so far behind — met with an accident, which had deprived him of the sight of one eye, and over that eye he wore at all times a faded black patch, fast ened round his head by a strip of elastic. It gave to his face a strangely sinister expression it might not otherwise have worn. Caleb Fry sat in his grey and sombre rooms for a long time that night, in a strange and thoughtful mood. Once, he stretched out his hands suddenly to the blaze, as though in wistful search of some warmer touch to his thin hands than the flames could give.

And the corners of his mouth were drawn down, in a smile which had great bitterness in it. He started up at last, and paced the floor — walk- TATTERLEY. ing with jerky, uneven steps— even stopping now and then, as though listening, and putting his hand unsteadily on articles of furniture he passed. Then he went to the door, and called in harsh, impatient tones : " Tatterley ! Tatterley ! " There was a sound of the pushing aside of a chair—a shuffling of feet — and Tatterley came in slowly. As they stood there — the master with bent head, and eyes glancing round at the man furtively — the man looking deprecatingly at the master — they were very alike indeed, save for that one distinguishing mark. " Tatterley — I — -I am not well — not at all well to-night. I — I'm nervous. There are sounds — ghostly sounds — about the place.

I — I've only heard them once before — only once, Tatterley. Do you — do you remember? I told you." They did not move, or look at each other, except in the same furtive manner. "You told me," said Tatterley, in a voice which sounded like the echo of his master's. " It was when she died — the night before she died, Tatterley. It must be ten — twelve years since — eh?" "Yes— twelve years," said Tatterley, again in the same tones. " Ah ! we won't talk of it, Tatterley ; we won't think of it. It's — it's all long ago— all done with — eh? I — I'm not well to-night, Tatterley — not at aU well." He walked across to the fireplace, and spread his hands to the tiny blaze, and seated himself slowly in his chair. " Do you remember how she wrote to me, Tat terley ? " he went on, speaking as if to himself, and in words which called for no reply.

"Do you remember how she scrawled it with her trembling fingers, and told them to send for me? And she died — in my arms. She would not have anyone else near her — she only wanted me. If — if she had lived, Tatterley— if she had Uved, I — " He broke off, and looked round, with his hand to his fore head, and saw Tatterley standing there, in the same position, except that his one eye was turned full upon his master. TATTERLEY. 10 " There— there— never mind, Tatterley.— I— I've been dreaming, I think. Go to bed, Tatterley— go to bed." Caleb sat perfectly still, staring at the coals, until the shuffling steps had died away; then he rose, and went across the room to a cabinet which stood between the windows. He unlocked it, and took out a packet, wrapped about in brown paper, and brought it across to the firelight, and sat down, with the packet resting on his knees, and with his thin hands almost covering it.

"Twelve years ! " he muttered. " What a dull, long stretch of time, to be sure ! " He unfastened the knots of the string, and spread the packet open on his knees. Only some old letters were there, and a couple of faded portraits ; yet the face of Caleb Fry was a softer, more human face as it bent above them, and the soul of the man was far away from the marts of men, and from the daily drudgery of his life. Once, as he glanced round the room, he seemed to come back, with a start, to the harder and more practical things of life ; he gave a momentary gesture of impatience, and made as if to throw the packet from him. But he wrapped it up again, and sat before the fire, brooding heavily. " I remember telling her — years ago — that I should be rich; I remember that she sighed, and shook her head, and said something — something about happiness.

Happiness! Bah! — there is no such thing; there is power— which is better — best of all, in fact. Men nudge each other as I pass, and bend their heads together, and whisper; flunkeys and messengers touch their hats. Men hesitate to deal until they know what Fry is doing — -Fry, who says nothing, and only acts at the right moment. That's power — that's your truest and best happiness. " He bent forward, rocking himself over the fire, with his lips drawn into a tight, hard line, and his nervous hands clutching the package. But he glanced at the package again, with a momentary softening of the face, and then looked round the room, and his voice fell to a whisper. "What did she say — that night when she lay in my arms, dying? 'Not riches — not power — not the TATTERLEY. 12 fear that men shall carry in their hearts for you; not that, Caleb— never that.

There is something better, and brighter, and sweeter than all that, Caleb — something that we learn through bitterness, and much sorrow — something that comes to us, perchance, only at the last, when our eyes are closing, when our tired hands are loosing aU things we have tried to hold. Its memory shall be with us then, like a star — even if we have never found it before.' Yes — she said that ; I remember every word — every word. But she was wrong — poor little sister, she was always wrong. I wonder if she found the sweeter things of which she dreamed. I wonder. " The memory was strong upon the hard old man this night — the memory of the sister who had died in his arms, twelve long years before. He had been proud of her — proud of her beauty. Even when he had been a lonely boy at school, with only Tatterley as a humble friend, he had been proud of her — proud to think that certain soft hearted boys (long dead now, perhaps, or the respectable fathers of families) sighed for her smile, and worshipped her from afar, on the occasion of her rare visits to him.

When he had grown into a money-grubber, and was spoken of as a smart young man, sure to make his way — even then he was proud of her, and loved her ; she was his star — the brightest and holiest his life knew. TUen the star set, and left his way dark. Caleb had never been quite near her, after her marriage. He knew little of such things, but he had a vague idea that she was not wholly happy; that there was something wanting in her life. That she gave to her husband a passionate worship that never diminished ; that she loved her little child, and dreamed dreams of its future — all that he dimly understood. But he did not know that the husband was careless and neglectful — that he lived in a world in which his gentle wife had small part. Only when, some few years after the death of the mother, the father disappeared — taking his own aimless way out into the world, with a splendid disregard of the child, did Caleb come to recognise something of what the man had been.

TATTERLEY. 14 Well— it was all done with, long since; Caleb wondered why he thought of it to-night. There had been a dim feeling in his mind that, if she had lived, life might have been a different thing for him— but that was all done with too. Then there was the boy — the child she had left behind her. He had been at school then; now he was a young man ; he must be twenty-two, at least. And Caleb was his guardian, and sole trustee of the small property he possessed from his mother. Caleb got up hurriedly when he thought of that, and put the package back in the cabinet, and locked it, and came back to the fireplace. "I've looked after the boy," he muttered; "he's never wanted for anything — never. How much was it? I forget — I forget. She placed it all in my hands, and I was to pay him— what was it?

So much for this — so much for that. Bah ! I made better use of the money; I can always do that. The young dog would only have wasted it — spent it in riotous Uving. I'll let him have it all some day — and he'll be grateful to me. If I've kept him short — weU, it's been good for him. He'll thank me for it some day. Besides, who's to know? It was only verbal — a woman's whispered wishes." He glanced round behind him with a sudden start. " I — I'm nervous to-night ; all the place is fuU of ghosts. I'll go to bed."

Chapter II. Of

A RADIANT FAIRY — AND A WONDROUS TEA- DRINKING— AND AN INTERRUPTION. In one of the smaUer Inns in the neighbourhood of the Temple — quite a little out-of-the-way court — and in a room which was lighted by a high window, almost like a sky-light, Mr. Donald Brett was sup posed to be hard at work. A number of sketches, in various conditions of progress, were standing about against the waUs ; otUers littered a table which stood in the middle of the room. But Mr. Donald Brett was not working. He stopped irresolutely now and then before an easel; but his time appeared to be mostly employed in examining his watch, and carefully comparing it with the smaU clock which ticked on the mantelx6 shelf, and in softly opening the door of the room, and craning his neck over the iron railing of the staircase.

The room about which he walked so impatiently held but a smaU amount of furniture — a sort of throne, occupied by a lay figure in a most ridiculous attitude, with a fisherman's wooUen nigHtcap on its head — a long, chintz-covered ottoman, which was obviously a box, and on which some cheap cush ions were thrown — a table, an easel, and a few jchairs, in various stages of dilapidation. There was a boyish atmosphere about the rooms — in the very sketches; even in the pipes upon the mantel-shelf; they were the pipes which a very young man would be^ Hkely to smoke — a young man wUo had not long had his full liberty. The boyish element was most observable in the occupier of the place. His friends said that he had the habit of blushing, in the most unexpected fashion; one lady declared that he did it 'divinely'.

It was not that he was afflicted with shyness; it was rather a feeling of diffidence in regard to his powers. He found himself sometimes talking about TATTERLEY. himself— probably because any growing personality he may have possessed was a new and dawning delight to him — and blushed when he found others listening to him. It was a somewhat rare charm, in comparison with the self-assertive youth of the day, and people liked him for it. For the rest, he was simply a straight-limbed young Englishman, with certain large dreams he had scarcely yet defined, and gifted with a latent chivalry and a power of worship which might, perchance, shipwreck him, in the commercial sense, or even in the moral sense, but which tended to make him very lovable, in the best and sweetest way. Quick steps on the staircase at last, and the soft rustle of a woman's skirts.

He set the door wide, and went back into the room, drawing himself up in a certain stiff fashion, and looking straight before him — a habit of his when he felt nervous. A sudden quick flush on his face announced the advent of his visitor, more surely even than her hesitating Httle knock on. the panel of the open door. " May I come in ! Are you very busy ? Please — please send me away, if I am in the way; I know how terribly hard you must be working." She was in the room by this time, and he was holding her hand, and looking into her eyes, with the blush coming and going aU over His face. Of course he had thought of all sorts of things he was to say to her — apropos of her being late, and the weather, and other things of an equally light and entertaining nature. He had even rehearsed how he would take her hand, and lead her across to the box-ottoman, and seat himself beside her, and talk easily and naturally ; he had arranged the cushions there, with an artistic eye to the best effect.

But he could not have done it now, to save his life. She looked so very pretty, and so very fragile ; and there was such a wonderful depth in the eyes into which he looked ; and there were so many soft and delicate little ribbons, and laces, and general undefinable prettinesses about her, and it seemed such a wonderful thing for him to be so near that gentle bosom, rising and falling with her nervousness and hurry — such an awe-inspiring thing, in fact — that he could only hold her hand, until she gently TATTERLEY. 20 released it; he could only say, in somewhat stiff and jerky tones, how good it was of her to come, and how glad he was to see her. Then he remembered that the door was stiU standing open, and went to shut it. But they got on much better afterwards. For she fluttered round the room, doubtfully and wonderingly touching this article and that, and interesting herself in his surroundings, and in the things which were so familiar in his eyes — things which henceforth were to take on a new beauty ,. because she had smiled at, and praised them.

She even picked up his pipes, and laughed about them, and made delicious little wry grimaces when she smelt them. And finally she seated herself upon the ottoman, with all her wonderful draperies disposed about her, and he could not have seated himself beside her, under any consideration. But he was rescued by the remembrance that she had come to tea, and that there were certain wonderful things hidden away in the very ottoman upon which she was seated — some of which had been specially bought for the occasion. It seemed a disgraceful thing to do, to disturb her; but it had to be done, and he set about it diplomaticaUy. He strolled across to his easel, in the most casual fashion, and pretended to examine the canvas. "Have you seen this, Miss Tarrant?" he said, glancing round at her. Of course she sprang up at once, and came beside Him to look at it — standing so closely to him that her light sleeve brushed his arm.

It was only the absolute necessity for opening that box-ottoman which enabled him to move away. He had the lid raised, and was hurriedly diving into it, and bringing miscellaneous articles to the surface, when he heard her speak. " Oh ! Mr. Brett— I think this is splendid— the best you have done — and what a beautiful " She glanced round at him, and ran over to where he was kneeHng on the floor; he let the lid drop Hurriedly, and knelt there, looking up at her, and blushing. " Oh ! I had no idea that it opened, Mr. Brett. How clever! And do you keep aU your bachelor things in there? — Do let me look — please! Do let me Help you ! " TATTERLEY. 22 SUe was down on her knees beside him, before he had had time to recover himself, and they raised the lid together, and bent their heads forward, side by side.

" You see," he explained, " they don't give a fellow many cupboards in these old rooms, and so I " "But this is ever so much more delightful. Any one can have cupboards — quite ordinary people, you know, but — did you really think of this yourself? " She leaned further over, and peered into the box. "A kettle; we shaU want that, and " " Oh ! really, Miss Tarrant, " he expostulated, as she was about to take it out. " AUow me — you'll make your hands — your gloves, you know — awfully dirty." He pulled the kettle into sight, and recklessly set it down on the carpet. " Please let me take off my gloves ; I want to help you. May I ? " She was tugging at them as she spoke, and the eyes she turned to him so anxiously were sparkling with delight at the prospect of all the strange and unexpected things opening up before her.

"Of course, if you would like to do so " he began. But she interrupted him quickly. "Yes — yes; it's much nicer — if you are sure you don't mind, Mr. Brett. I don't want to sit still, and let you wait on me. It's much better fun if we both help." There was no resisting her, and he laughingly shewed her where the different things were kept, and slipped into his bedroom to fiU the kettle. But, in absent-minded fashion, he set it down on the hearth, and stood watching her admiringly, while she fluttered about the room, until she reminded him that it could not possibly be expected to boil if he left it there. Then he blushed again, and set it on the fire. She seemed to know where everything was kept, and exactly what was wanted. She had delight ful little cooing expressions of admiration for even the commonest things amongst his misceUaneous cUina.

She drew a roar of boyish laughter from him when she paused before the ridiculous lay figure, and gravely shook one of its limp hands. All that she did seemed so fresh, and innocent, and nat ural ; it was such a wondrous thing to see her in that shabby room — to hear her happy laughter in the place. TATTERLEY. 24 " Ton my word, it's awfully good of you to come here to see me like this, you know," he said, presently, when they were seated opposite to each other, with the small table— delightfuUy, cosily small— between them. "I've always thought these rooms so dreadfuUy duU; I shaU never feel so again." She blushed, and looked up quickly at the hand some, boyish, eager face before her — glancing down again the next moment at the spoon she held so delicately. " It is nice of you to say tHat — although I shouldn't caU tUis place dull; I sHould never get tired of looking at it; I shouldn't want to do any work at aU — I am sure I should not."

She looked up, and smiled. "But what I mean is this," he stammered, looking at the Httle hand that was twisting the spoon round and round, and at the blue veins of the slender wrist— "that — I — I shall remember how you came here, and where you sat, and — and what you said — and — and it wiU help me : it wiU indeed. THat sort of thing always helps a feUow." "Does it?" " OH ! yes — I'm sure of it. I — I can't exactly explain how it helps a fellow — but it does. You've helped me — tremendously — you've no idea. Do you remember when we first met?" "At the school — yes. I'm afraid I was crying." He almost touched the little hand — in his eagerness to console her — across the small table. " It was enough to make anyone cry," he said, sturdily — "that old Paley is such an awful buUy, you know." " Yes — it's very kind of you to say so — but my drawing was awful.

THe model could have brought a successful action for libel against me — on account of the legs alone. I felt so stupid that day." He looked deprecatingly contradictory, but she shook her head, and laughed. "Oh! it's quite true, I assure you. And then you — you came up, and were kind to me, and helped me. Ah ! you don't know how grateful I felt." " Anyone would have done the same, under similar circumstances," he observed. " Oh ! no — not everyone. At all events — no one else did. And then — let me see — then " She glanced up at him, in the most innocent fashion, TATTERLEY. with brow puckered, and one finger set against her rosy lips. " What happened then ? " " Ah ! yes — of course, " she cried — her face clear ing — " and then we found that we'd got a lot of ideas in common — and — and. believed in the same things — and — and liked the same sort of people.