The Hepsworth Millions

Front matter

a IRecent fiction, op Mrs. F. H. Burnett's New Novel. HIS QRACE OF OSMONDE. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s. 'All the indefinable charm of Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett's treatment of women and children appears again in this volume of hers. She fascinates us from the first pages. — The Daily Telegraph. Mr. R. si. Sows' New Novel. JOHN GILBERT, YEOMAN. A Romance of the Commonwealth. By R. G. Soans. With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo.,rcloth, 6s. 1 The author has produced a story which will bear comparison with the best historical fiction of modern writers. It is far above an immense mass of novels sentout recently ; it is what may be described as a strong story, containing nothing flimsy or trivial, and in certain features it even recalls the romances of Scott.' — Scotsman. Mr. Silas K. Hocking' s New Novel.

IN SPITE OF FATE. By Silas K. Hocking. Illustrated by F. Reason. Fourth edition, crown 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d. 1 His stories have grit in them ; there is something about them — a tenderness, a subtle pathos, a genuine human interest—that allures one on, and leaves one at last in a condition of mental satisfaction.' — Daily Mail. ' This is distinctly one of the best books of the season. The story itself is a good one, and is exceptionally well told. ' — Standard. 11 II Miss Masters' New Novel. THE WORLD'S COARSE THUMB. By C. Masters. With Original Illustrations by Lancelot Speed. Crown 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d. ' Brian Arkwright is in every respect a living, breathing, human being. We follow his fortunes with interest from start to finish, as we should follow the fortunes of someone we knew and loved.'— Blackburn Times. 1 An excellent piece of fiction.

The interests are natural, and human sympathy and vigour enter into the characterization.' — Dundee Advertiser. ISSUED BY London FREDERICK WARNE & CO., .nd New York. The Hepsworth Millions HER HEART GAVE ONE GREAT LEAl* AND THEN SEEMED TO STAND STILL. See page 335. The Hepsworth Millions UY CHRISTIAN LYS "T^- AUTHOR of 'the doctor's idol,' 'the dunthorpes of westleigh' ' suspicion,' etc. etc. LONDON FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1898 [All rights reserved] Edinburgh : T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty Contents CHAPTER PACK I. THE TACITURN BOARDER 9 II. A LITTLE MAN AND A COWARD . . . . l6 III. LADY HEPSWORTH'S NEPHEW 25 IV. MR. SIMPSEY SPINDLER 36 V. MR. SPINDLER'S PROTEGEE 47 vi. sir Michael's heir 53 VII. A DEALER IN PRECIOUS STONES .... 62 VIII. LADY HEPSWORTH BECOMES DETERMINED . . 72 IX.

Chapter II

A LITTLE MAN AND A COWARD THE traffic was chiefly westwards, men being on pleasure bent, but the man leaning back in the corner of the hansom was broken-hearted, and had no thought of pleasure. He had a set purpose before him, and the journey seemed to have been of short duration when the cab drew up to the pavement at the corner of Commercial Road. ' You 're sure you 're not going back ? ' said the driver, as he pocketed his money. ' I 'd wait a bit' 'Quite sure. Good night.' The pavement was damp, but the rain had stopped, and the man hurried down the street as though he were afraid of being seen. It was an absurd fear. Nobody knew him, nobody cared anything about him. He passed unnoticed, as unknown to them as they and the locality were to him. His hurrying did not warm him ; and although the evening was not cold, a chill, which had a sensation of sickness in it, struck into his bones.

It made him angry, and he shook himself to pull his courage together. ' It must have turned colder,' he said, excusing himself; and the half-open door of a public-house tempted him. The brandy, which he drank almost neat, sent a glow through him, and he went on again eastwards. The neighbourhood was quite unknown to him ; but he knew that the object of his search should not be hard to find. He left the main road presently, and plunged into a labyrinth of small streets, careless of which street he took, so long as his general direction was at right angles to the way he had come. The narrow, half-lighted streets were dirty, but he trudged on, heedless of his surroundings. A few people looked at him, unaccustomed to see such as he was in that quarter at that time of night. A policeman said ' Good night ! ' and the man answered him and hurried onwards, as if he were afraid the policeman would guess his purpose, and prevent his carrying it out.

He turned into a street dirtier than the others, and then he hurried no more. Before him lay the river. He caught sight of a gliding light between the buildings of the wharves, and the broad river below bridges was his destination. At the end of the street a road ran at right angles, a road torn by the heavily laden wagons which passed to and from the wharves. Down this the man picked his steps, keeping in the shadow, and glanced down every opening that led to the water's edge. More than once he stopped, and then went on again, not satisfied with the place. The excitement of what he was doing brought his courage back, or, at least, what he took for courage — the desperation which has made heroes of men, or cowards, according to the circumstances and the point of view. Enough, he did not feel afraid.

At last he turned from the roadway into a muddy B little alley between two wharves. The buildings were deserted, and the river was lapping softly over the mud and amongst the piers. On one side was a timber wharf, and the man climbed on to the staging and looked round. The rapid swish of the tide, which was only just past the full, sang in his ears. There was the sound of straining cordage on some barge out in the stream yonder, and voices across the river, their coarseness mellowed by the journey over the water. Lights danced upon the opposite bank, the long red singers of their reflection broken and quivering. A few lights moved uneasily as the boats swung with the tide, and at intervals there was the sound of a heavy weight falling, from a wharf where men were working late. The timber wharf was high, and seeing that the water ran some distance up the muddy alley, the man judged that the water below him was deep — deep enough for his purpose. ' The tide runs out,' he thought. ' I am glad.

I shall go down seawards towards freedom.' He sat down on some stacked timber close to the edge of the staging. The dancing reflections and the unfamiliar sounds unsteadied him a little. He had not too much faith in his own courage. 'Who knows! I might suddenly conceive a love of life, and strike back to safety and misery like a coward. I will make return impossible.' He must have thought of this possibility before. He took the piece of cord from his pocket and bound it round his ankles, testing the strength of the knots thoroughly. Then he bound his handkerchief as well as he could round his wrists, and was tying the end with his teeth, when he was startled. 'What are you doing?' asked an inquiring little voice close behind him. He turned round sharply to face a small boy who, with his hands in his pockets, had evidently been an interested spectator of the proceedings. 'What are you tying yourself up like that for? asked the boy, when he received no answer to his first question. ' I shouldn't like my arms and legs tied like that.

Doesn't it hurt ? ' ' No,' answered the man, angry at the interruption. ' You run away. It 's too late for a youngster like you to be out' ' Very likely, but I 've got nowhere to run to.' There was no whining in his voice. He simply stated a fact. ' Don't you live near here ? ' asked the man, with some interest. ' I don't live anywhere.' The man looked at him. He knew well enough that there were hundreds in London who had no place they could call home, who were glad enough if they could lay some sort of claim against their fellows to a secluded corner where the policeman would not, or could not, find them ; but this boy was not one of these. He was a short, sturdy little fellow of six or seven, was well dressed, and he spoke in educated fashion. 'You don't live anywhere?' said the man. ' No, not in this country.' ' Then how did you get here, on this wharf? ' It 's a long story,' answered the boy, sitting down beside him ; ' but I '11 tell you if you like.

I wish you 'd undo that handkerchief. I feel almost as if I were tied up myself seeing you like that. What did you do it for ? ' 'Never you mind that. You get on with your story.' But he began to unbind his wrists as he spoke. Tied up, he felt rather foolish, even before this youngster. 'Three days ago,' said the boy — 'no, it must be four days — we got off the ship which brought us here.' ' We ? How many of you ? ' < Two — me and Mr. Swingle. You don't know Mr. Swingle, perhaps ? ' 'No.' ' We came from India. I was born out there. My name is Scrutton — Robert Scrutton, but I'm always called Bobbie for short. Mr. Swingle took charge of me to bring me to some friends of my father's in England. My father is dead, you know. We did have a fine time coming here.' 'But where is this Mr. Swingle now? ' asked the man. 'That's just what I don't know.

I 'm waiting for him.' ' Oh, he 's coming back to fetch you, is he ? ' ' He said so, but I 've been waiting a long time. The absolute lack of fear about the lad was astonishing. ' How long have you been waiting ? ' ' Since yesterday. The first day we went to an hotel, and Mr. Swingle left me there, as he had got a lot of business to do ; and the next day he left me alone, but when he came back in the evening, he said he was going to take me to my friends next day. You see he hasn't taken me to them yet. Yesterday we got into a cab, and had a long drive. We got out somewhere just near here, and he told me to wait for him a minute, and went away. I never moved for a long time, just waited, and I'm waiting still. I slept here amongst the wood last night. I expect he 's forgotten where he left me.' The man was silent.

It looked very much as if Mr. Swingle did not intend to come back. 'I can't make it out,' the lad continued, 'because he 's always been very particular not to lose sight of me. The night before last he was angry, though.' ' With you ? ' ' I don't know ; that 's what I can't make out. He came to see me after I was in bed, and he seemed to be angry because I had got a snake on my arm.' ' A what ! ' ' A snake. Don't you know what a snake is ? I 've seen lots of them. It isn't a live one I 've got on my arm. It's the picture of one all curled up. I don't suppose you can see it now,' he said, pulling up his coat-sleeve. ' No ; it 's too dark. But it 's there. Tattooed, they call it, and having it done hurts awfully. I don't remember that ; I was too young.' 'And if Mr. Swingle does not find you, what shall you do ? ' 'Go back to India,' was the prompt answer. ' But that costs money.' ' Wouldn't they take me if I went and told them that Mr. Swingle had lost me?

They were very fond of me on the ship.' ' I am afraid they will not take you back for nothing.' The boy pulled out a shilling and a few coppers from his pocket. •That wouldn't be enough, I suppose? I shall have to think of what I shall do. You see, that's really why you found me here to-night, or why I found you. You disturbed me.' 'Did I?' said the man. He smiled at the little fellow's old-fashioned manner. 'I should think you did. I began to think Mr. Swingle wouldn't come back before to-morrow, so climbed up here to go to sleep in that corner over there, where I slept last night. When you came I thought the place belonged to you.' 'You have wonderful pluck, youngster,' said the man, as he began to untie the cord round his ankles. 'Ah, I thought that would begin to hurt before long. Why do you say I have pluck?

Pluck is doing something dangerous which you needn't do unless you like. I 'm only lost, and I 've got to do the best I can.' ' I don't know what you are going to do.' ' I don't know yet. Perhaps I shall think of some thing by to-morrow morning.' ' Are you hungry ? ' asked the man suddenly, as the rope fell loose from his ankles. ' I am rather, but it 's no use thinking about it. You see, I didn't like to go far away in case Mr. Swingle should come back ; but I spent some of my money on cake and milk.' 'Are you tired?' ' I was until I saw you, and I had just settled down in my corner over there when you came. I saw you a long time before I spoke. What did you come for ? Haven't you got a home ? Of course you 're too old to be lost, aren't you ? ' ' I ought to be, youngster, but I 'm not. I haven't any home, I haven't any money, and ' ' And you came in here to sleep the same as I did ?

That is funny, isn't it ? ' ' Not quite the same as you did,' answered the man gravely. ' No, I haven't got your courage.' ' Is that why you tied yourself up ? ' Yes.' 'But you weren't going to sleep like that, were you ?' 'You have taught me a lesson,' said the man, taking hold of the boy's arm, ' a lesson I shall never forget. You 're only a youngster, but you are old for your years, and you may understand. I was going to sleep to-night there, in the river, to sleep securely so that I should not wake to-morrow. I was tired of my life, hopeless and miserable.' ' You were going to drown yourself?' ' Yes.' ' I shouldn't do that,' said the lad, not shocked at the man's admission. ' It 's rather like running away from a boy who wants to fight you, isn't it ? ' ' I did not see it in that light half an hour ago.' ' Why don't you work for money ?

You look pretty strong.' ' I would if I could get work,' answered the man eagerly, almost as if it were in this boy's power to help him. Somehow, everything did not appear so hopeless as it had done a little while ago. 'For weeks I have been looking for work. It isn't easy to get in London.' ' You might try somewhere else.' ' I must.' ' I like you ! ' said the boy, moving nearer to him. ' It must be hard for a man not to have any money ; it doesn't matter for a boy like me. Are you hungry ? because I 've got a shilling you can have.' All his store was about eighteenpence. ' And I like you, lad,' said the man, taking both the boy's hands in his. It was too dark for the youngster to see the tears in his eyes. 'I've got more money than you have, sufficient to get us a bed and some supper. Shall we go together?

If Mr. Swingle should not find you to-morrow, perhaps we '11 leave London and look for work.' - ' I don't know what I can do,' said the boy reflec tively. ' I 'm pretty strong, you know, but ' 'Never mind that, we'll get along somehow. If we can't get what we want, we must take what we can get, and be brave. You have taught me that lesson. We will keep a roof over us somehow or other.' ' I like you even better than I did at first.' The man laughed almost boisterously. The boy had given life's gloom a silver lining. ' You have saved a fool from his folly. The fool will thank you to the end of his days. There goes the bit of rope,' and he threw it far out into the stream. ' It may go down seawards ; but you and I will struggle up against the tide, and we'll win, lad, we '11 win ! ' Hand-in-hand they left the wharf.

Hand-in-hand they threaded a maze of squalid streets, bent on supper and a bed. Hand-in-hand they were lost in the great tide of humanity that flows steadily and ever towards the future.

Chapter III Lady Hepsworth's Nephew

Coventry Square lies off Knightsbridge, and those who live in it choose to consider it aristocratic, which it is not However, it is close to regions which are, and the fact is a great consolation to those residents who wish to be thought in Society's swim. The Square is a dismal one. The houses are tall and gaunt, stone-faced, with deep areas guarded by stone copings, and with forbidding-looking front-doors and vicious-looking knockers. In the centre of the Square there is a garden protected by a high iron railing, the gates of which are constantly closed. Nobody ever thinks of going into the garden, except the gardener occasionally. There is little to attract in it, for the trees are stunted, and seldom very green, the paths are damp and weedy, and the rains of many winters have rotted the seats.

If one house in Coventry Square looked more dismal than its fellows, that one was Number Six. The stone facings sadly required a coat or two of paint, and the varnish on the front-door was blistered. The windows were dirty, and a large piece was broken off the area coping. Those who were particularly interested in their neighbours' affairs knew that few callers ever troubled the knocker of Number Six, and that the inhabitants seldom came out On a particularly bright morning— bright enough to make even Coventry Square look almost cheerful —a man entered the Square from the road which joins it to Knightsbridge, and stood at the corner, looking round with something of that interest for uninteresting objects in his face which foreigners have when endeavouring to do London with the help of a guide-book.

He waited at the corner until a policeman from the opposite side of the Square approached him. It was characteristic of the man. Why journey round three sides of the Square when the place he sought might be close to him ? ' Can you tell me which is Sir Michael Hepsworth's house ? ' ' Number six, sir. ' Thank you.' He tucked his stick under his arm, and sauntered along the pavement, looking at each house critically. There was an air of discovery about him. Before Number Six he stopped, glanced at the dirty windows and the broken coping, evidently surprised. He looked at the number again to make quite certain that he was right. 'The end of the journey,' he said, as he ascended the half-dozen stone steps which led to the front door. He knocked and rang, as directed to do by a little plate on the door, and the bell jangled away in the depths of the building, telling of stone passages below.

A servant looked out of the kitchen window before commencing the journey to the hall, probably to ascertain if it were worth performing the journey at all. The man was just going to knock and ring again when the door was opened. ' Is Lady Hepsworth at home ? ' ' I don't know, but I '11 see. What name ? The man hesitated a moment, and then handed the servant a card. He was shown across a somewhat bare hall, and into a room which looked out at the. back of the house. As the servant closed the door, the man gave vent to a low whistle, and looked round the room with some astonishment. The bare hall, the very fact that a woman instead of a man-servant had answered the door struck him as curious, but this room was not disappointing. In it there was the stamp of wealth and of luxury, handsome furniture, pictures and bric-a-brac which looked valuable, and trophies and curios which mingled the East with the West, and brought the four corners of the globe together. ' There is the trail of the old traveller here, at any rate,' he said, looking particularly at some quaint bronzes on the mantelpiece. ' I know these articles are difficult to come by.

They are the real things, and cannot be picked up in a second-hand shop in London. The outside of the house and the hall are not convincing ; but placed in this room, I could swear to Sir Michael Hepsworth, millionaire and ' He broke off with a little dry laugh it was difficult to translate. Then he examined himself in a glass, and pulled his moustache reflectively. He was a good-looking man, and knew it. His face had been a point in his favour more than once in his life. ' It is time something was done,' he said, addressing his image, which answered with a knowing smile : ' It was necessary to trust a woman, and like a woman, I suppose, she has forgotten to be faithful. It is quite time I came to alter things a little.' He appeared to have no misgivings as to his ability to do so. Self-confidence sat upon his lips and looked out of his dark eyes.

There was, too, a squareness about his chin which told of determination. He was evidently not accustomed to defeat in any matter he took in hand. He turned from the glass quickly as the room door opened and a woman entered. If determination was in the man's face, no less was it in the woman's. For a moment, perhaps, the man doubted his ability to bring matters to a satisfactory issue so easily. She held his card in her hand, her mouth was firmly closed, and there was a suspicion of defiance in her eyes. ' Mr. Swingle,' she said frigidly, yet politely. She looked steadily at him as she spoke. He bent his head, almost with mock courtesy ; and if he had expected her to shake hands with him, he did not show that he was surprised she did not do so. 'You wished to see me,' she went on, dropping his card into a bowl upon the table, and motioning him to be seated.

She sat down herself with a studied air of in difference. 'You seem to have forgotten me, Lady Heps worth.' ' Oh no. I remember you.' 'That saves the necessity of my explaining my visit. I arrived in England two or three weeks ago, but, not knowing that you had become Lady Heps worth, had some difficulty in finding you.' ' I dare say. Still, my marriage was no secret' ' In London, perhaps not ; we did not hear of it in India. News travels slowly sometimes, and doubt less you have not had an opportunity of communi cating with us.' ' I can hardly make that excuse,' returned Lady Hepsworth. ' No, I certainly have had ample opportunity.' ' May I ask, then, why we were left in ignorance ? ' said Swingle. ' Certainly.' And she looked straight into his face. ' I saw no necessity for giving the information.' 'But the change in your position is an important factor in the case,' said Swingle.

He began to understand her, but was very respectful. ' It is,' she answered laconically. ' I am afraid we do not understand each other,' Swingle said, after a pause. ' Pardon me, I understand very well.' ' I can only say then, Lady Hepsworth, you take up a very dangerous position. Have you forgotten a certain night in Northern India not so very long ago ? If I recollect rightly you were rather frightened at the situation ? ' ' I was then,' she admitted. 'And now you will find it no light matter to defy those who sat round the table that night' Lady Hepsworth laughed. ' When I use defiance, it shall be for living men, not for dead ones,' she said. ' I live,' he said quietly. 'And I am Sir Michael Hepsworth's wife,' was the quick answer. ' I think that is checkmate, Reuben Swingle.' He looked at her and smiled.

Lady Hepsworth would have felt easier had he lost his temper. ' A very good game, excellently played, but not won — yet. On the night I speak of I became a partner in the game.' ' Forced yourself into it. The work for others, the reward for you,' said Lady Hepsworth. 'Well, perhaps that does describe the situation fairly well,' Swingle returned, ' and, under the circumstances, it would, perhaps, not be seemly to remind you that at that time you were pleased — shall I say very pleased ? — to have me in the secret. Still, we have both changed since then, but the fact remains that I have not yet retired from the partnership.' ' Indeed ! ' * And I have come to England to ask a question, Lady Hepsworth. How goes this business ? ' ' Excellently, since I am Sir Michael's wife.' ' But for me ? ' ' Badly, I fear, Mr. Swingle ! ' ' And for Richard Scrutton ? ' ' He is dead.' ' But he left a son, Lady Hepsworth.' Swingle leaned forward in his chair as he spoke, a little smile playing about his mouth, the smile of an expert fencer who parries a clever thrust, and lunges dangerously near his opponent in return.

Lady Hepsworth started, but so slightly that a stranger would not have noticed it. ' A son ! I was not aware that he had a son ! ' ' An unpleasant surprise ; still, it is true. The Fates would not allow the feud to end with Richard Scrutton, unfortunately for some people, very fortu nately for others.' ' I should like to see this son,' said Lady Heps worth. ' You probably will.' Lady Hepsworth shook her head. ' You were not always famous for telling the exact truth, Mr. Swingle.' She spoke politely, as if she were paying him a compliment, and he laughed good-naturedly. 'My dear Lady Hepsworth, no one could be a better judge of that than yourself. That remark is the first real evidence you have given me that I am not forgotten. It is like a refreshing breath upon my cheeks. You are quite right.

I am afraid truth has not sat so gracefully upon my lips as it might have done, but then we have been brought up in a bad school, you and I.' She was going to speak, but did not. She was not quite so practised a fencer as her companion. ' When truth will ruin you, it is difficult to stick to it. In this case, however, I am speaking the truth, and I admit that I was not too pleased to find out the existence of this son.' ' He can only be a boy.' ' Exactly ; but dangerous. The old battle-ground was India, and we cannot deny that we got the worst of it. The new battle-ground will be here in London, and I intend to win.' • You seem confident' ' I am. I should hardly be here now unless I were. Young Scrutton came to England with me, and is in London now.' There was no doubt about Lady Hepsworth's agitation this time. ' I should hardly make such a statement unless it were true, Lady Hepsworth, should I ? ' said Swingle, pulling his moustache. ' But there is something more.

Young Scrutton is a dangerous ally, but as an enemy he is more dangerous still.' 'A mere boy, Mr. Swingle — what nonsense !' ' Pardon me, the boy is the keystone of the business. When Richard Scrutton died, the child was taken care of by some friends of his father's — at least, presumably friends. I have brought him to England to other friends, and I have made a discovery. Young Scrutton bears upon him the sign ofthe twisted snake. No wonder you are surprised ! I fail to see how the fact of your being Sir Michael's wife is going to help you.' 'The boy does not know me,' she said, and was conscious of having made a false move the next moment. ' No, but I do,' said Swingle ; ' that is why I know the game is not won yet. That is why I am here to-day.' ' I do not understand.' Mr. Swingle lowered his voice. ' It comes to this ; are we to be friends or foes ?