Only Human. A novel

Front matter

H IROvel. P.Y JOHN STRANGE WINTER, — As Author of "BOOTLES' BABY." "MIGNON'S SECRET," "ON MARCH," "ARMY SOCIETY," "GARRISON GOSSIP," "MIGNON'S HUSBAND," "MY POOR DICK," "BOOTLES' CHILDREN," "GOOD-BYE," "LUMLEY THE PAINTER," EtC. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : F. V. WHITE & CO., 31, SOUTHAMPTON STKEET, STEAND, W.C. 1892. PRINTED BY KELLY AND CO. LIMITED, GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.I. AND MIDDLF MILL, KINQSTON-ON-THAMES. CONTENTS CHAP. ' PAGE I. — Elder and Younger .... 1 II.— Midge 12 III. — A Desperate Errand .... 22 IV. — Sir James Craddock ... 32 V.— Stop ! 43 VI.— Too Late! 56 VII. — Atchafalaya ..... 67 VIII.— A Gleam! 81 IX.— Waiting! 95 X.— Ten Years! 105 XI. — Between Life and Death! . . 116 XII.— Aggie 127 XIII. — Mrs. Broughton's Anxiety . . . 142 XIV.— Pin-Pricks 151 XV. — Mischief-Making . . . .165 XVI. — Mrs. Charles Kilmaney . . 175 XVII. — A Dead Level of Duty! . . . 187 XVIIL — BIagar and Ishmael . . . 199 XIX. — A Change of Front .... 210 XX.— A New Terror ! . . . . 223 XXI.— Rest!

Chapter I. Elder And Younger

John Broughton, the elder, was a lawyer, the head of a firm of long-standing, which wrote Lincoln's Inn Fields at the top of its note paper, and was reputed to be very very respectable indeed. From father to son the business had gone down for several generations, and those who knew were wont to say of the Broughtons that their word was their bond and thenkeeping was as safe as the Bank — meaning the Bank of England — which among hard working, hard-headed business men is about the highest compliment that can be paid to anyone. It was said too that there were more deeds and such-like securities of value vol. I. in the Broughtons' strong-room than those in the outside world would readily believe and for the matter of that, it was well known that the Broughtons' strong-room was not at their offices but had been constructed specially for them in the cellars of the bank which transacted all their money-matters.

Time had been when the style of Broughton and Sons had included four or five partners, but when John Broughton was five-and-forty years old he was the sole head and represen tative of the old house. He had then been married twenty years, and had three sons and three daughters. The eldest had been called after him, John — which had been naturally enough short ened into Jack — then came two girls Agnes and Maud, then George, then Florence, and, last of all, the little Benjamin of the family, Philip. Between the first five there was a difference of nearly two years in each case, but the baby Phil was five years younger than Florence and had therefore been born tAvelve years later than Jack. They lived — the Broughtons — in a large old-fashioned house standing; in its own grounds and situate at Brompton — and Brompton was then, let me tell you, little more than a suburb and not the overgrown mass of bricks and mortar that it is now They lived — and I am speaking of six-andtwenty years ago, mind — more like substantial landed gentry than like Town-bred folk, and were known for their charming gardenparties, their excellent dinners and their irreproachable wines.

Their sons were sent to the best public schools — young Jack began the scholastic traditions of that branch of the family by going to Eton — their girls had foreign nurses, expensive governesses and the best masters. Mrs. Broughton had her neat brougham and her natty open carriage, her butler and footman, and all the surroundings of a rich man's wife. In short the Brough tons lived at the rate of some six or seven 1* thousand a year at a time when extravagance and show were not the order of the day, as they are now. So the young Broughtons grew up accustomed from their birth to all the advantages of being comfortably wealthy, and Jack being the eldest son — in a measure the heir — invariably thought of himself and was thought of by others, as a young man who had the world at his feet. Well — Jack Broughton left Eton when he was eighteen and was at once articled to his father, that he in turn might become the head of the business in Lincoln's Inn Fields.

There had never been any question as to what Jack's profession should be — he was arranged for as a matter of course, as much so as if his profession had been a birth-right. Left to himself, it is probable that he would have been a soldier by choice, but all the same, the boy had no particular objection to the course which his father had laid down for him. " When you have got through your articles," John Broughton said to his son on the day that he came of age — " I should like you to go on for three months as you are — and then I will take you into partner ship. I have seen so many instances of trouble in old firms owing to delay in taking in new blood, that I have always determined to give my sons a margin of three months between their articles and partnerships — junior partnerships, of course, Jack."

" Oh ! of course, sir," answered Jack readily. So time went on — the five j*ears of Jack's articles sped by and he was admitted an attorney-at-law, and true to his word after three months had gone by, Jack became a partner in the old firm and his father fixed his portion at five hundred a year. By this time Jack Broughton was getting on for four-and-twenty, and was as handsome a young fellow as you could wish to meet in a day's march. Tall and broad-shouldered he was, with close-cut brown hair and dancing blue eyes that looked somewhat out of keeping with the sombre rooms in which he passed the business hours of the day. But Jack was a good man of business — " The boy is no fool, Annabel," John Brough ton said to his wife one day when Jack had successfully carried through a tough bit of business — "A little reckless but none the worse for that perhaps ; we don't want to put old heads on to young shoulders."

" No — no," she replied — " I have no fear about Jack — he will always be able to make his way." " I hope he will," said John Broughton, with what was almost a sigh. Mrs. Broughton looked up in some sur prise — " Why, John," she exclaimed — " is anything wrong ? Are you keeping anything back from me ? Don't you feel well ? What is it ? " John Broughton pulled himself up instantly •"No, Annabel, my dear," he said hurriedly. "I'm a little overAvorked — that is all. It makes me a shade gloomy at times — I shall be glad when Jack gets a good firm grip on the business and then we will take a good long holiday together — just you and I." But John Broughton and his wife never did take a good long holiday together "just you and I " as he had put it. That autumn they had a house up the river and John came into Town nearly every day for business ; and before another holiday time had come round, he was peacefully taking that long long holi day which will come to all of us one day, for on the 27th of the following June, John Broughton died.

Nobody quite knew how it was. He had been dull though not actually ailing, since the early part of the year, and his wife had been anxious and uneasy about him, without quite knowing why. " John, I am sure something is wrong," — she said to him more than once — " do confide in me, dear. Are we spending too much money ? " But each time that she had spoken of money, John Broughton had determinedly put the subject aside and had afterwards in creased rather than decreased their ex penditure, for a day or two after the first time that she had broached the subject he put something into her hand when he came in at dinner-time. " I haven't given you a present for a long time, Annabel," he said tenderly — " I hope you will like this." She did like it, any woman would have liked it, for within the case was a magnificent diamond star.

" Why John ! " she said. She was so surprised. " I see you like it," he said smiling at her. " You women are all alike." Another time it was a new piano that he bought for Maudie, who was music-mad and had long been dissatisfied with the old Broad wood grand that had been one of her mother's wedding-presents. And another day he had given Aggie a cheque for twenty pounds in a casual way, as a little extra to her ample dress-allowance. By these means Mrs. Broughton's mind had been quite set at rest as to expenses, indeed in all her life she had never had to think about them at all. And then Avhen the end came quite quietly and unexpectedly from a sort of failure of the heart's action and everything else, Mrs. Broughton set all these things down to the score of his failing health rather than to what was in truth the real cause, which she did not indeed know.

With much pomp and ceremony — as was the custom of those days — the greatly respected lawyer was laid in his last resting place, and afterwards the family returned to the Monk's House to luncheon — also a fashion of twenty years ago — and then met in the library, where they were joined by the widoAV who had not appeared at table, that they might hear the will read. It Avas very simple. To Jack was left the business in Lincoln's Inn Fields with a pro vision that he should take his father's place in giving his tAvo brothers their articles, unless they should strongly desire to adopt other professions. That they should, if they had duly served their articles, be taken into part nership having a certain share for five years and an equal share after that time. To his dear wife, Annabel, was left the absolute guardianship of the younger children, the Monk's House and furniture, the testator's other houses, lands, carriages and entire property, to be divided by her at her death as she should think most proper among their children.

To each of his executors, of Avhom Jack was one, was left the sum of five hun dred pounds. And that eA'enin« Jack Brousrhton told his mother a secret, a secret concerning himself — the neAvs that the very evening before his father had slipped so suddenly and quietly from among them, he had settled his fate in life and had asked the girl he loved to marry him. " I know it's not a time to be talking of marriages," he said in apologetic tones when he saw the tears in his mother's eyes — " but I should have told you both that night if you had been up when I got in ; and the next day I never had a chance or indeed a thought of saying a word. But now I feel as if you ought to know about it." " My dear boy," — ■ said Mrs. Broughton tenderly — " if you are half as happy as your father and I have been, I shall be satisfied.

I am glad you have told me now. I hope she is nice and good — and — and — you won't ask me to see her very soon, will you ? " " Certainly not — of course not," cried Jack putting his arm protectingly round her. "And her name ?" asked Mrs. Broughton. " Is Mary Featherstone," Jack replied.

Chapter II. Midge

When John Broughton's affairs came to be looked into and wound up, there was not so much money as had been expected by those who knew him best. As a matter of fact, there was something under thirty thousand pounds, on the income of which Mrs. Brough ton had to live, bring up, educate, and possibly put out into the Avorld her two younger sons and her three daughters, none of whom were married. Of course, as her trustees obligingly told her, it is impossible to eat your cake and have it ! Jack, after all, would get the lion's share and if she and John had been content to live at half the expense at AAdiich they had lived ever since they were married, why she would MIDGE, 13 have been rich enough, now that he was dead, to have gone on without making any differ ence in her way of living. Instead of this, however, they had lived at a rate of six or seven thousand a year and the wonder was that John Broughton had been able to leave his widow so substantial a fortune as he had done.

But to Mrs. Broughton it seemed that she was come down into quite straitened circumstances. She could not possibly remain at the Monk's House, Avhich was large and needed at least eight indoor servants to keep up properly. She had to think of Phil's schools and of Flossie's masters, and how was she to send Phil to Eton as his brothers had gone before him, on an income of but twelve hundred a year? Certainly the very first thing to do would be to let the Monk's House and to move into a much less costly one. Then young Jack stepped in with a new idea. Whv should she not let the Monk's House to him and after she had taken aAvay enough furniture for her new house, hand over all that was left to him at a valuation ? And to this Mrs. Broughton agreed. Eventually she took a house about ten minutes' walk from her old home, transferred to it quite the best of the furniture, pictures, plate and bric-a-brac, and left Jack in posses sion of the Monk's House and all that remained.

And when Jack married Mary Featherstone, who was well-born and exceed ingly pretty but who had not a penny in the world to call her OAvn, and after a delightful honeymoon brought her back to the Monk's House to, as he put it, " camp out " while they got the place put into order, he found that a great share of the furniture that was left was neither more nor less than absolute rubbish, and — as is nearly always the case when you begin patching up an old thing — he made away with this and got rid of the other to such an extent, that, at last, the Monk's House was simply refurnished from top to MIDGE, 15 bottom and on a scale of magnificence that had not existed before. Nobody saw anything wrong. Mrs. Broughton sighed as she looked round, and compared the spacious rooms, which had been her home for five-and-twenty years, very unfavourably with the cramped propor tions of her new abode ; but — Jack had come into a business, or I ought to say a practice, worth eight or nine thousand a year and he could afford to furnish his house properly while he was about it.

The girls envied their new sister-in-laAV her pretty frocks and furs and ornaments, not unkindly but as girls will, especially as she was wearing colours and they were still in mourning for their father. But nobody thought Jack to blame for in dulging his pretty young wife in all those pleasures which he was now able to give her ; and Mary herself thought her new life a perfect paradise. "You know, Jack," she ,said one day to him about a vear after his father's death — " I do think it hard your sisters can't go out more — they are shut up, poor things, as if — well, as if they would never want to get married at all." "Little match maker," Jack laughed. "Not at all," she returned seriously — "I hate and detest match-making. But they are getting on — Aggie is twenty-three, and she ought to have a chance of getting settled.

But when I ever want to take them anywhere, your mother always says they have nothing to wear — which is true — and that she can't afford to dress three girls well and send Phil to Eton too." " I daresay it's true enough," Jack admitted gravely. " You know, Midge, Avhen you've had six or seven thousand a year and you come down to twelve hundred, it must be a tight pinch. I daresay my mother feels it so. But why don't you giA7e the girls a frock or two ? " " Jack ! " she burst out indignantly — "What do you take me for? Is it likely MIDGE, 17 that I — a girl without a penny — would insult them by buying them clothes — with your money, with their own brother's money ? " " By Jove, what a head you have — i" never thought of all that," he said. " But what do you want me to do ? What do you propose ?

" Mrs. Jack looked down then at him with undisguised admiration, he was so big and broad, so debonair. He had such an easy way of settling money-matters, just a wave of the hand and a lordly pat — as if a word was enough, which it generally was. Of a truth Mrs. Jack, who had all her life been as poor as a church mouse and as proud as Lucifer, was completely dazzled by her husband's lordly manner. " Well ? " he said interrogatively "Well, Jack, could not you tell yonr mother that you will pay Phil's Eton bills ? " " Yes. I might," half doubtfully. " Would they be very much ? " " Yes — a good bit — still I think you are VOL. I. right, Midge, and I'll do that. And I think we must make things a bit gayer for the girls — we might have a dance or two." Mrs. Jack was nothing loth, and entered into the idea with such right good earnest that the invitations were soon out and all the arrangements satisfactorily in train.

And what a lot of money that dance did cost ! Nor was it the last. Mrs. Jack took to spending five thousand a year as readily as a duck takes to water. Having given one dance, she wanted to give more. Having once used her influence with Jack to help his mother in the matter of Phil's Eton bills, she very soon got into a habit of persuading Jack to put his hand in his pocket for everything that the family required. Nor did she forget to ask him for everything that she wished for herself. " Jack, I do wish you'd buy me a diamond necklace," she said coaxingly to him one afternoon when she had fetched him from the office a little earlier than usual. MIDGE. 19 "A diamond necklace, Midge," he cried, with a burst of laughter — "Why, what in the world do you want a diamond necklace for ? " " What do I Avant it for ?

Why to wear, of course," she answered. " Why, last night at Lady Crosshampton's, I was almost the only woman in the room without one." "And you were a deuced sight prettier than any other woman there," Jack declared. "Ah! but think how much prettier I should be in a diamond necklace, Jack," she urged. " Indeed I do want one — I don't see how I'm to get on any longer without one." " By Jove, Midge, but you are getting on all the same," he cried with a burst of admiration. Mrs. Jack turned her head away — "I think you're very unkind, Jack," she said frowning. Now Jack could not bear to see his wife frown, so he got hold of her hand under 2* cover of the fur carriage-rug and held it fast. "Nay, I didn't mean to vex you, my darling," he said tenderly. "If a diamond necklace is essential to your happiness, you must have it.

What sort of a one do you want ? " Mrs. Jack's frown faded immediately — " Oh, you dear old Jack," she exclaimed — "how I do love you ! Well — I saw such a beauty at Denver's this morning — it was only five hundred guineas." He did start perceptibly as she named the price, but all the same he went with her to Denver's and bought the necklace, which Mrs. Jack carried home in triumph. "I can't pay for it," he said jokingly — " I had no idea you were bringing me on this errand, and I don't carry five hundred pounds loose in my pocket." "That will be all right, sir," said the jeweller suavely. " Will it ? Then you can send down to my MIDGE, 21 office about twelve o'clock to-morrow," Jack said easily. So it was arranged and as they drove home and Mrs. Jack kept taking peeps within the case, Jack uttered just one word of warning.

" You won't want any more diamonds for a good bit, will you ? " he said. " No — of course not, Jack ! Oughtn't I to have had these ? " she asked, half ashamed. " Oh ! Yes — yes — only there's an end to one's money, Midge, that's all," he said fondly. ■^Xo-f^^-eT^^ CHAPTER m. A DESPERATE ERRAND ! John Broughton had been dead more than five years. At the Monk's House Jack and his wife still lived as gaily as they had done during the first year of their reign. Two of Jack's sisters were well-married, thanks chiefly to Mrs. Jack's good offices — Flossie, the youngest girl, was engaged, and of the two younger boys, George had long ago gone to his ruin and was at present earning a precarious living in the States by the noble profession of loafing, while Phil. who had resoluteby scouted the idea of becoming a lawyer, had chosen the army as his future and was now in a Line Regiment on an allowance of two hundred a year, which his mother and Jack supplied between them.

A DESPERATE ERRAND! 23 For a long time Master Phil had stoutly held out for a commission in a cavalry regiment, but finding that neither mother nor brother were in the least moved by his arguments in favour thereof and that it would be the Line or nothing, he put his prejudices into his pocket and somewhat ungraciously consented to become what he had before contemptuously called " a dirty mud crusher." So Mrs. Broughton and Flossie were alone together in the modern house which they had so hated at first but which was amply large for them now. Mrs. Broughton had started a brougham again and felt more like her old self in consequence than she had done at any time since her husband's death. It is true that the brougham and horse were kept in Jack's stables at the Monk's House, but then Mrs. Broughton always paid the coach man's wages and the rest was a detail about which she did not trouble herself, since Jack did not do so.

In one respect Jack and his wife had been fortunate — they had not a large family. In fact the}- had only one child, a little girl, to rase the roomy nursery which had been large enough for six in Mr. Broughton's time. And little Marjory was a strong and winsome child, who had never been the smallest trouble to anybody and whose advent had not in any way stemmed the tide of gaiety which her father and mother so unconcernedly made their every-day life. Then all at once there came a change, a change which was as sudden in its way as the death of Jack's father had been. It happened at the end of May, that Mrs. Jack had been at a great lunch-party, she had then paid several visits and on reaching home, rested in her boudoir for half-an-hour before she allowed herself to be dressed for dinner. She was very well contented with herself a.nd her surroundings !

More than once she looked round the room and compared it A DESPERATE EERAND ! 25 with some of those into which she had been that day. Yes, it was a pretty room, the windows hung with palest blue silken hang ings and the furniture Avas of satin-wood, cushioned with rich brocade matching in colour the drapings of the windows. The walls were cream-tinted — the pictures had slight gold frames and broad margins and there was of good deal of creamy lace about the room, edging the large silken cushions, draping the windows, falling from the mantel-border, gathered on the backs of the low chairs and held in place by small bows of blue ribbon. Yes, a pretty room as was the fashion of nearly twenty years ago. We should call it frightful now. And Mrs. Jack, who had thrown off her walking-gown for a loose robe of a darker blue than the hanginc-s of the room, sat before the fire resting ; a pretty woman, nay, more, a lovely woman she was !

She had been very pretty at the time of her marriage, fair and a little cold, with proud serene eyes, dove-gray and rather haughty. Now the pale face with its masses of fair hair, not golden in any sense but of a pure blonde tint, was less cold than it had been then. She looked as she was, happy and content, and her eyes and lips smiled in unison. She dressed for dinner in good time, making a careful toilette, for they were going to two important parties afterwards. She wore the diamond necklace which Jack had bought for her at Denver's, a tiara, one of his later gifts, twinkled among the masses of her fair hair, and a set of fine diamond stars shone in the berthe of her white gown. And when she was ready she looked in the glass and knew that she was lovely. Jack was late. The clock struck half-past seven but he had not come — Mrs. Jack went down to the boudoir and waited.

Eight o'clock — no Jack ! Half-past eight — still he did not come ! What could be keeping him ? Never had she known him to do this before — What could it mean ? A DESPERATE ERRAND 27 At nearly nine came a telegram — " Detained in City — don't wait." So with a sigh of relief, Mrs. Jack sat down alone to the noAv nearly ruined dinner. About half-past ten Jack came. " Oh, Jack ! " she cried — for she saw by his white face that something terrible had happened — " What is it ? " " Midge," he gasped — " I'm ruined. That's what's the matter." " Oh, Jack ! " She shrunk away from him with a scared white face — Jack laughed aloud, a hard fiendish laugh. " What ! " he cried roughly — " are you afraid of me ? By Jove — you've helped me to make the money fly and now — now — ha, ha " " Oh, Jack ! " she cried piteously.

The sound of tears in her sweet voice broke him down at once. "Forgive me, Midge — I'm beside myself. I — I don't know what I'm talking about. If — listen, Midge, I must get out of this — I got into a corner and I used securities which didn't belong to me — I thought I should put them back and nobody would know. And they wouldn't have done only they've been asked for. I'm in a devil of a mess, Midge, and I must get out of the country at once. Do you understand ? " She stared at him like one fascinated, looked round the pretty luxurious room and a sob rose in her throat. " Look here, Midge," Jack went on — " you must back me up. Get me all your jewels, all you don't want to make a show with to-night — I will make a bolt of it. You go to your parties and join me in Paris when the coast is clear."

" Go to parties ! " she echoed, hardly understanding. " Yes — and get that scared look out of your eyes, put rouge on your face — laugh — flirt — none can do that better than you can — any thing to put them off the scent for a few days or hours — Ah, what's that ? " " There was a sound of parleying at the A DESPERATE ERRAND! 29 door, a distinct " In the Queen's name," — then footsteps crossing the hall. Jack uttered an exclamation — " Too late, the dogs are loose already," — and the next moment the police were in the room. " Best to go quietly, Mr. Broughton," said the chief man civilly, " it's very unpleasant for us, sir, but we must do our duty." " Oh ; yes — yes — I'm not going to make a fuss. I must speak to my wife though." The men feU back — Jack turned to his wife, " I may get over this, Midge," he said doubtfully—" but if I don't " " Jack !