The Accountant

Front matter

BY F. H. MEL REMINGTON & CO., LIMITED 15, KING STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON AND SYDNEY 1894 AU Rights Reserved To My Wife CONTENTS. Chapter Page i. Revelations i ii. Nurse Norah g in. The Hero - . - - 16 iv. The Will - - - - 24 v. Work - - - - -32 vi. The Messieurs Pettifer - - 41 vn. Consternation - - - 54 viii. Dr. Pierrepoint's Diary - - 68 ix. The Problem - - - - 77 x. The Chariot at Hand - - 88 xi. Surrender - - - 96 xn. From Lincoln's Inn to Bayswater - 102 xni. Norah accepts the Certificates - 107 xiv. Introduces the Bookmaker - - 113 xv. At Silvermere - - - 122 xvi. Progress - 136 xvii. Trials _..'.. 144 xvm. The Ambassador - - contents. Chapter PaH' xix. Repulse - - - - J56 xx. Buckling on the Armour - - 165 xxi. The Struggle - - - :72 xxn. Gladys' Wedding - - - 19° xxm. Snubbed .... 202 xxiv.

The Accountant's Father - - 214 xxv. Norah's Will - 224 xxvi. Norah's Last Days - - - 234 xxvn. Open Quarrel - - - 243 xxvm. Popkins and Co. - - - 253 xxix. On the Bookmaker's Track - - 262 xxx. A Discovery - 272 xxxi. The Outside of the Box - - 281 xxxn. The Inside of the Box - - 290 xxxm. Compromise - 298 xxxiv. One-Sided Platonism - - - 308 xxxv. Dr. Cruickshank's Prescription - 313 xxxvi. Its Results .... 329 xxxvii. The Bookmaker's End - - 332 xxxvm. Final -

Chapter I

revelations. Dr. Pierrepoint was dying ! There was no doubt about that. Of course, everyone must die sooner or later, even doctors ; and perhaps it does not much matter to any of us where the termination of our sublunary ex istence occurs ; but few Englishmen would wish to die in Scotland ; and if they found that was inevitable, still fewer perhaps would choose Montrose as the place from which to start upon the unknown journey. Not that there is much to be said against Montrose. In the Summer time, when the sands are shining yellow, and the kindly easterly breezes are sending the little ripples dancing up the river, past the mouth of the har bour, and under the bridges into the great basin beyond ; when the white plumage of the sea-birds flecks the whole horizon, and the bare-legged fisher girls from Ferry Den run races along the beach in the pure delight of living, Montrose boasts many charms.

And in the Autumn, B when the foliage is changing upon the hills towards St. Cyrus, when the links are dotted with red-coated golfers, and when during the long evenings the thrifty inhabitants combine pleasure with house-keeping in whiffing for pollacks, until the tide runs down and leaves their boats almost stranded, Montrose is still very support able. But in the dead of Winter, when the hills on every side, as far as the eye can reach, are covered with snow ; when the basin is encrusted with ice, defying the efforts of the eager sea-fowl to obtain their accustomed succulent food, and they rise, wheeling with weird screams of dis appointment around its vast circuit; when the waves on the river are as dull as the skies above them, and only here and there show sharp, jagged edges, as if the lead of which they appear to be composed had been hacked and hewn with a blunt knife ; when the links are deserted, and the Ferry Den girls cower over the peat fires in their cottages, and grumble in a most unintelligible dialect at the bell which summons them to their daily toil ; then indeed Montrose must be pronounced most unattractive.

And Dr. Pierrepoint was an Englishman ! Doubly unattractive, therefore, would one have thought that the place would appear to him, accustomed to the milder and rounder effects of English rural scenery ; and there was no immediately apparent reason for his choice. He had retired from the active practice of his profession and was in easy circumstances. His nieces and their old nurse, who lived with him, wondered much at his selection of a residence. In truth, it would not have been easy for the doctor himself to explain his reasons ; but REVELATIONS. 3 there were associations in his old life connected with the town of Montrose, which, indeed, he never by any chance referred to, but which gave the place, for him, an irresistible attraction, although not of a pleasurable kind. For, in the hinterland of his memory loomed oc casionally mysterious forms and scenes, which had long lost their signification for him, but which yet had some intimate, though almost unrecognisable, connection with his past history.

Dr. Pierrepoint was a strange man, and had led a strange life. When young, his extravagance and dissi pation had been so great as to make him the pet of a certain form of Society, and a by-word and reproach to the more decent portion of it. Then a serious dog-cart accident, causing injury to the brain, had brought on a blank, when Nature had claimed payment of the drafts which he had made upon his constitution and intellect ; and a condition somewhat approaching idiocy had super vened. It was during his recovery from that attack that he had first visited Montrose, having been sent there by friends, partly to be under the care of a celebrated medical man, the predecessor of Dr. Cruickshank, who was attending him now in his last illness, and partly because of the life-giving qualities of the air for which the town is so justly celebrated.

After his recovery, by a somewhat unusual phenomenon, his intellect and judgment shone brighter than ever, and he was engaged comparatively few years in amassing a competence in his profession. One faculty, and one alone, he never fully recovered. His memory was paralysed. Not dead : for there were B — many things which he remembered with surprising clearness ; but crippled and dulled for the most part. Especially dim to him were the events of the few years of his life, which had immediately preceded his ac cident ; and, through some peculiarity of brainlesion, certain events which had undoubtedly occurred in his life, had become utterly blank to him, so much so that if any of his friends endeavoured to recall them to him, he would indignantly, but most posi tively, deny that they had ever taken place.

But, with this exception, no trace remained of the terrible injuries which he had sustained : and few of those who had not known him before his illness were ever aware of his infirmity. Least of all were his nieces, whose earliest recollections of him were when he was at his best. But shortly before our story opens he had decided to retire from practice, feeling that his energies were again becoming exhausted, and had bethought himself of the place which had worked such marvels for him in the past ; and thus it is that we find him at Mon trose. Certainly there was no lack of ozone in the atmos phere ; and if it had not been for the eternal snow, the air would have been dry enough, as well as the ground beneath it ; and just for the first few days of his visit, when Nature had appeared to be in one of her holiday moods, the doctor and his nieces had become quite charmed with their surroundings.

But, with her proverbial fickleness, Nature had soon disappointed them ; and now the leaden clouds every day discharged more and yet more snow, to contrast strangely with their own REVELATIONS 5 murky colouring, as it covered the surface of the earth with its blinding whiteness. And in the midst of such influences, and perhaps under them, the doctor's health had failed more and more rapidly, and now he was dying. He lay propped up in bed. His medical attendant, a most worthy, but somewhat opinionated, Scot, harassed by his querulousness, and conscious that under medical etiquette his services must be gratuitous, and could in no event be availing, was calmly waiting for the end to come, that he might get home to his dinner. The hired nurse, equally anxious for the end of her labours, for her engagement with a lady would commence on the morrow, and she knew that in such cases it was more than her place and reputation were worth to be away after the appointed time, was surreptitiously concealing a yawn ; and two girls standing together by the foot of the bed awaited sadly the passing of one whose kindness had provided for them the only home which they had ever known.

They stood locked together, with half-parted lips, watching for the signs of the impending change — signs new to them, though well understood by their com panions, but each of which for them had an unknown but sinister significance. Suddenly, with an accession of strength which could scarcely have been expected of him, the dying man raised himself upon his pillows, and beckoned eagerly for the withdrawal of the professional attendants. At first, his fellow practitioner hesitated and demurred, but, at a second and more imperious gesture, he thought it better to humour his departing patient, and therefore silently signed to the nurse, and the two, together, left the apartment. The eyes of the moribund expressed his impatient desire that the girls should come nearer. It was clear to both of them that he had some revelation to make : and wonderingly, and half-shudderingly, they obeyed him.

Wonderingly — because Dr. Pierrepoint had always been so open and frank about all his affairs, that many had even blamed him for want of proper prudence in that respect, and they could not, therefore, imagine for one moment what it might be that required secrecy now ; half-shuddering — as all will do in the immediate pre sence of the awful mystery. The doctor beckoned them nearer and nearer, until their faces almost touched his. At length he spoke, in a hoarse whisper, which showed how much the effort cost him ; but his eyes were intensely bright, so bright as to arouse a suspicion of an aberration of intellect, and there was a sort of smile, half of triumph, half of mock ery, upon his wan lips. " I have kept my secret to the end," he said. "No one has ever guessed it — not even you two. They say that women are curious, but you have never shown it.

Has it never occurred to you to ask who was your father, and who was your mother ? " The girls shrank closer together, and clasped each other's hands, tightly. It certainly had occurred to them many times to ask, but Dr. Pierrepoint had never volun teered any information on the subject, and any little fishing question which they had put, with simply-devised REVELATIONS. 7 cunning, had always been turned aside by a merry jest, or by a change of subject just apparent enough to show them that their enquiries were unwelcome. The smile was dying rapidly. "Yes, I have kept the secret well," he continued; " and even now I would not tell it, but that I must. It is the old story, my dears, and one that, in your passage through the world, you must often hear ; but I wish it were not to come to you from my lips, and concerning yourselves.

It is the story of a woman's weakness and a man's wickedness. I was the man — your mother was the woman. You have always believed that you were my nieces ; I have always wished it so, because I could not proclaim you my daughters in the light of day. Your mother you never knew. Would that I had mar ried her ! I do not remember whether I ever loved her : my memory plays me strange tricks. You were born when she was with me in her native Devonshire, where she died after giving you birth. I brought you home to London, giving out that you were the twin daughters of a dead brother, and so you have always passed. But now that I am called upon to leave you, it is right that you should know your true parentage, if only to explain to you the provisions of the will which I have made. The will itself is with my lawyers, Messrs. Pettifer and Son, in London.

In it you will find yourselves not named as my daughters, or perhaps I should hardly have had the courage to tell you even now. You will find that I have left you considerable property, more perhaps than most people would believe the struggling doctor could have amassed ; but I have not obtained it all in my profession. I have had some very lucky speculations, in which my friend Greig helped me considerably. If you should want advice, go to him at once. There is young Greig — you know what I think of him ; it has always been my dearest wish " but before the unfortunate man could explain further what his wish had been, his jaw suddenly dropped, his head fell back upon the pillow, and the affrighted girls knew that they were alone in the world. The doctor and nurse were instantly summoned, but saw at once that their attentions could be of no avail ; and only a few minutes later the two girls were in their darkened room, still hand in hand, sobbing together as though their hearts would break, at the loss of him who had always taken the place of a father to them, but whom they knew now, for the first time, to have been indeed their father after the flesh ; and sobbing also for the reputation of the dead mother, whom they had never known, and whose memory they could never more respect.

Chapter II. Nurse Norah

We believe on good authority that the fountain of tears is sometimes inexhaustible, but that is surely only with aged people, or those who have seen much suffering. For with the young, sorrow seems to burn itself out by its very violence, and although it may leave lasting effects, yet they are generally hidden at first, and it is only with increasing years that its scars become visible. Gladys and Hilda Pierrepoint, therefore, had ceased sobbing long before old Norah ; and Norah was not slow to remind them of that fact. The girls did not know how long she had been in their father's service, or anything of her history ; but she was certainly a very privileged person, and had been with Dr. Pierrepoint as long as they could remember. They understood, indeed, that she had been nurse to their mother, the lady who had been so cruelly used by him, and whose death was in great part attributable to the shock occasioned by his accident and its terrible consequences.

Afterwards she had remained with the doctor, and had virtually had the sole charge of them during their childhood. When she found, therefore, that their sobs had ceased (although their long-drawn breathing attested the violence of the pain which they had suffered), whilst she was still capable of copious floods of tears and propor tionate ejaculations of grief, she upbraided them roundly for what she considered their want of feeling. " And is it dacent," she demanded, indignantly, " that ye should be cuddlin' like a pair of turtle doves, whilst the spirit of him that begat ye, for all ye know, has not yet reached Heaven ? Shure and faith, it's ashamed I'd be of meself to be so unfeeling ! If it was poor old Norah as had been taken away from ye, ye could not have sorrowed less ; and indade and indade it may well be that ye would have sorrowed more, for, shure, she has been as much a mother to ye as he has been a father, any day.

It's little ye know of the life that he led, and sorrow a bit shall old Norah tell ye of it. It's not fitting that young girls should hear such things." "Stop, Norah!" said Gladys, the elder of the two sisters, the colour rising on her cheek. " We cannot hear you speak like that. It is surely much worse for you to reproach our father's memory, than for us to cease to weep for him." " An' be aisy, my jewel," came the reply of the warm hearted old Irishwoman; "sure, and it's all wrong I am, and I have no call to spake so, but isn't it just my fondness for my darlin's that makes me angry with him that's gone, bless him, for that he never told them their proper station till it was too late ? " Hilda looked up " And did you know then, Norah ? " she asked NURSE NORAH. 11 " Wasn't I with your blessed mother, who is now a saint in Heaven, when she was tuk away becase of ye ?

" was the reply. " And haven't I many and many a time told the master that it was a burnin' shame that he should miscall his own dead brother in saying that ye were childer of his, when he knew all along that it was a lie in his mouth ? Many and many a time have I prayed him by the Blessed Virgin Mary to confess the same to the praist, and receive absolu tion before all the world; and now he is gone, ochone, where he'll niver be able to spake the truth any more! " " But — but — Norah, he did tell us before he died," said Gladys, " and you must help us to keep the dreadful secret." " And is it Norah Mulvaney that iver spake a word that did not belong to her ? " was the reply. " Aye, my darlins', I may be keenin' now for him that's gone, because he was good to me, and I may be spakin' out of my full heart to you as should have been telled sooner, but niver could anyone say that old Norah could not kape a sacret, no, not though her heart's blood was the price of it."

The colloquy ended, therefore, as colloquies between old and attached servants and those who for many years have been their charges generally do, with protestations of undying affection on the one side and on the other, and with expressions of mutual sympathy and promises of mutual support. And then it became necessary to consider what was to be done next. Old Norah took the peculiar prosessional pride, so often found associated with her countrywomen, in laying out the corpse, and " making it dacent," as she expressed it, " for the Blessed Redeemer." But having done that, she was at her wits' ends. The girls, who had not had even her dreadful resource, were thoroughly worn out by exhaustion and sorrow, and found themselves absolutely incapable of making plans, even for the immediately pressing future.

They were virtually strangers in Montrose ; and the only person upon whose advice and assistance they could rely was Dr. Cruickshank, who had attended their father in his last illness. It so happened that they could not have made a better choice. Under a somewhat rough and forbidding exterior, the doctor possessed, as so many Scotch doctors do, a truly feeling heart ; and he was much touched with the position of the two girls. He expressed his sympathy uncouthly enough, no doubt ; but in so genuine a manner as gained for him their thorough confidence ; and, with a wisdom beyond their years, they decided to tell him all they knew, and to ask for his assistance. It was a difficult and delicate task for two young and friendless girls; but somehow they managed to make him understand, and then the doctor's kindness knew no bounds.

Poor and hard-working as he was, and feeling that every hour spent away from his practice meant a loss to him which he could ill afford, he took upon him self the entire arrangements for the simple funeral, with the result that it was accomplished with far less unpleasantness than the girls had dreaded. He even arranged with a few of his friends and patients that NURSE NORAH. 13 they should attend in order to make a show of respect for the dead man. This was a concession to human weakness far from genial to his own ideas and feelings ; but it really was some sort of solace to Gladys and Hilda, and was a source of unfeigned pride and satis faction to Norah. " And it is I that was fearing that he would go down to the grave without a tear beyond yours an' mine," she said to the girls, applying to her red eyelids the corner of a black silk apron which had been donned for the occasion.

" And shure, it's grateful that I am to that Dr. Cruickshank — dissenter and heretic though he is — that he has had so much dacency in his com position." And so all parties were satisfied, and the doctor's body was left in peace under the rowan trees in the cemetery. Long was the consultation held that evening as to the next step to be taken in the lives of the girls. Dr. Cruickshank's shrewdness and Norah's ready wit both agreed that change of scene and air were most desirable for Gladys and Hilda ; and the doctor strongly urged that their father's wishes should be carried out, and that they should consult with Mr. Greig as soon as possible. " I will be loth to lose ye, lassies," said the kind hearted man of science, " but Montrose is no the place for ye now. It's a puir place at the best, and ye must just gang oot into the world and seek your fortunes like other leddies.

" Your father says that he has left ye siller eno' ; I hope it may prove so. Puir man ! he was a doctor like mysel', and I dinna see how he could have made a hantle. He was always wastefu' and extravagant, and he laughed at ithers who were more provident than him self. Weel I mind walking through the meadows with him one day before he grew so ill, when he went oot to gie me his opinion on a case of mine. We came to a gate, and he tried to open it by pushing it from him. ' Pu' it tae ye ! mon,' I cried, wishful to improve the occasion. ' In this world pu' a' things tae ye ! ' I mind weel how he laughed, and called me a typical Scotch man, as if I was not proud of being that same. Eh ! but he was full of fun then. I mind another time when he was speaking aboot yonder lawyer man in London of whom he thocht so much. ' I am thinking he will be cheating ye,' I said, 'if ye gie him sae full confidence.' ' Na, na,' he answered, ' he'll no cheat me, but, maybe, I'll cheat him !' ' Mon,' I replied, ' and him a lawyer !

Sure, it would be fair eno', but ye canna dee't ! ' Aye, he was always for laughing and daffing. " But, now, lassies, I'm thinking ye will dee better with the mon Greig, than with the London lawyer ; so tak' my advice and send for him here at once, in order that we may know what to dee with ye afterwards. If it is true that ye hae sae much siller as I understand, it is all the more reason against keeping ye in this town of Montrose. For hae not I that long-leggit loon of an Andy hanging aboot, and will I ever hae it said that he was after one of ye for your money ? Na, na, it will grieve me sair to pairt with ye, but ye must just put your trust in Providence, and, maybe, it will steer ye straight." NURSE NORAH. 15 " Surely it will," answered Gladys, looking up. " Weel, lassie, I trust so ; " was the reply, " but it is always well to be careful, and ye should treat your confidence like eggs ; dinna put ower mony in ae basket."

The next day, therefore, a letter was despatched to Mr. Greig, in the joint names of the sisters, begging him to come to Montrose at once. The days that followed, before his reply was received, were full of dreary suspense, enlightened only by the kindness, bearish though it was at times, of Dr. Cruickshank. And great indeed was the disappointment when, at length, it came. It took the shape of a letter from Mr. Cosmo Greig, the son of the gentleman upon whom Dr. Pierrepoint had relied so much. It stated that his father's age and infirmities prevented his taking the journey to Scotland at that time of the year, but that he, the writer, would reach Montrose on the morrow, having beforehand had an interview with Messrs. Pettifer and Son, the lawyers who had charge of the will, and having ascertained from his father, as far as the latter was aware, of what the dead man's estate consisted.

Chapter III. The Hero

Gladys was perhaps the handsomer of the twins, although there was very little to choose between them in point of beauty. Probably the belles of Montrose would have insisted that a little higher colour, and a little more decision of outline were necessary to perfect beauty, in the case of either, but even they could not deny that the Misses Pierrepoint were " well-looking," as they ex pressed it. There was not the traditional difference between the twins which is so often found in works of fiction, where the one has always raven tresses, and eyes as black as jet, and the other is of a milky-white skin, with auburn hair, and soft, blue eyes ; nor was there even a very perceptible difference in their height and figures. They were both just well-grown English girls, with every evidence of health and happiness about them, and only a slight refinement of dress and manner to distinguish them in any way from the many pretty lasses of Montrose.

Even in habit and tastes they were very much alike. although while there was occasionally a sparkle in Gladys' eye, which was wanting in that of Hilda, and which gave warning that under the placid exterior might be potentialities of passion or of stern decision, there was a sweetness of curve in Hilda's lip which betokened a very lovable and feminine disposition. Gladys was usually taken to be the elder of the two. Her hair was, perhaps, a shade darker than Hilda's, and her features a trifle sharper. Certainly she was the taller, and her figure was more matured. But there were not wanting many who preferred the lithe gracefulness of Hilda's form, and the pensive sweetness of her expression, to her sister's more opulent beauty; and some of those who knew them best, ventured to prophesy that as time went on Gladys' somewhat haughty nature would harden her expression, and render her less attractive than the other.

Up to the present, however, nothing had happened to ruffle the even tenour of their lives ; and the two girls, who were sincerely fond of each other, although, no doubt, they had from time to time those sisterly tiffs which are the " sauce piquante " of true affection, on the whole had rather cause to complain of the monotony of existence than of its storms. With the death of Dr. Pierrepoint, and his revelation of their parentage, had come their first great shock. Gladys bore it best ; Hilda was just a little inclined to murmur. But the excitement of having to rely upon their own resources superseded all other feelings, and they looked forward with no small curiosity to the advent of Mr. Cosmo Greig, and to the news as to their material positions, which he would announce to them. Notwithstanding their great anxiety, however, they C decided, after a debate, in which Norah freely gave her opinion, that it would not be proper for them to meet him at the station; and that they must leave him to find his way to the house in which they lived, alone.

In common with many Montrose residences, the entrance was situated in a close, or wynd, so that a stranger to the town would have some little difficulty in finding it. But the windows overlooked the High Street ; and, on the morning appointed, the two girls impatiently beheld a visitor, whom they intuitively knew to be the one whom they were expecting, walking up and down in an unde cided manner, scanning the houses on each side interro gatively, and evidently in vain trying to make himself understood by the natives. All things come to them that wait, however ; and at length Mr. Greig was fortu nate enough to obtain directions as to the house, and he was seen by the sisters to approach it with a brighter and more resolute air. Since the tale is to be called " The Accountant," and takes its title from this particular gentleman, it is, per haps, only fair to our readers that he should be presented at once.

At first sight, he was certainly disappointing. Small in stature, almost to the point of being diminutive, he had rather the appearance of a precocious child than of a man. But upon more deliberate examination, the lack of childhood's, or even boyhood's attributes, became almost painfully apparent. The angular, sloping-shoul dered figure, and the sallow, whiskerless face, told of care or study, or perhaps both ; whilst the large, solemn, brown eyes promised a depth of nature beyond that of early youth. " What a mean-looking little creature he is ! " said Hilda, who had probably pictured a man with so roman tic a prenomen as entirely different from the common run of mankind. " Oh! I don't think so at all," answered Gladys ; " he looks a man of business, and what more can we expect ? In fact, that is much more than I expected.