The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ® - Морис Леблан

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that he had found a lode of high-grade ore on an estate unnamed, which he would particularise on promise of certain contingent claims to founder’s shares; and the old lord jumped at it. Charles sold at grouse-moor prices; and the consequence is that the capital of the Eldorados is yielding at present very fair returns, even after allowing for expenses of promotion—while Charles has been done out of a good thing in gold-mines!

      But, remembering “the position and duties of a private secretary,” I refrained from pointing out to him at the time that this loss was due to a fixed idea—though as a matter of fact it depended upon Charles’s strange preconception that the man with the wig, whoever he might be, was trying to diddle him.

      “Sey,” my brother-in-law said next spring, “I’m sick and tired of London! Let’s shoulder our wallets at once, and I will to some distant land, where no man doth me know.”

      “Mars or Mercury?” I inquired; “for, in our own particular planet, I’m afraid you’ll find it just a trifle difficult for Sir Charles Vandrift to hide his light under a bushel.”

      “Oh, I’ll manage it,” Charles answered. “What’s the good of being a millionaire, I should like to know, if you’re always obliged to ‘behave as sich’? I shall travel incog. I’m dog-tired of being dogged by these endless impostors.”

      And, indeed, we had passed through a most painful winter. Colonel Clay had stopped away for some months, it is true, and for my own part, I will confess, since it wasn’t my place to pay the piper, I rather missed the wonted excitement than otherwise. But Charles had grown horribly and morbidly suspicious. He carried out his principle of “distrusting everybody and disbelieving everything,” till life was a burden to him. He spotted impossible Colonel Clays under a thousand disguises; he was quite convinced he had frightened his enemy away at least a dozen times over, beneath the varying garb of a fat club waiter, a tall policeman, a washerwoman’s boy, a solicitor’s clerk, the Bank of England beadle, and the collector of water-rates. He saw him as constantly, and in as changeful forms, as mediæval saints used to see the devil. Amelia and I really began to fear for the stability of that splendid intellect; we foresaw that unless the Colonel Clay nuisance could be abated somehow, Charles might sink by degrees to the mental level of a common or ordinary Stock-Exchange plunger.

      So, when my brother-in-law announced his intention of going away incog. to parts unknown, on the succeeding Saturday, Amelia and I felt a flush of relief from long-continued tension. Especially Amelia—who was not going with him.

      “For rest and quiet,” he said to us at breakfast, laying down the Morning Post, “give me the deck of an Atlantic liner! No letters; no telegrams. No stocks; no shares. No Times; no Saturday. I’m sick of these papers!”

      “The World is too much with us,” I assented cheerfully. I regret to say, nobody appreciated the point of my quotation.

      Charles took infinite pains, I must admit, to ensure perfect secrecy. He made me write and secure the best state-rooms—main deck, amidships—under my own name, without mentioning his, in the Etruria, for New York, on her very next voyage. He spoke of his destination to nobody but Amelia; and Amelia warned Césarine, under pains and penalties, on no account to betray it to the other servants. Further to secure his incog., Charles assumed the style and title of Mr. Peter Porter, and booked as such in the Etruria at Liverpool.

      The day before starting, however, he went down with me to the City for an interview with his brokers in Adam’s Court, Old Broad Street. Finglemore, the senior partner, hastened, of course, to receive us. As we entered his private room a good-looking young man rose and lounged out. “Halloa, Finglemore,” Charles said, “that’s that scamp of a brother of yours! I thought you had shipped him off years and years ago to China?”

      “So I did, Sir Charles,” Finglemore answered, rubbing his hands somewhat nervously. “But he never went there. Being an idle young dog, with a taste for amusement, he got for the time no further than Paris. Since then, he’s hung about a bit, here, there, and everywhere, and done no particular good for himself or his family. But about three or four years ago he somehow ‘struck ile’: he went to South Africa, poaching on your preserves; and now he’s back again—rich, married, and respectable. His wife, a nice little woman, has reformed him. Well, what can I do for you this morning?”

      Charles has large interests in America, in Santa Fé and Topekas, and other big concerns; and he insisted on taking out several documents and vouchers connected in various ways with his widespread ventures there. He meant to go, he said, for complete rest and change, on a general tour of private inquiry—New York, Chicago, Colorado, the mining districts. It was a millionaire’s holiday. So he took all these valuables in a black japanned dispatch-box, which he guarded like a child with absurd precautions. He never allowed that box out of his sight one moment; and he gave me no peace as to its safety and integrity. It was a perfect fetish. “We must be cautious,” he said, “Sey, cautious! Especially in travelling. Recollect how that little curate spirited the diamonds out of Amelia’s jewel-case! I shall not let this box out of my sight. I shall stick to it myself, if we go to the bottom.”

      We did not go to the bottom. It is the proud boast of the Cunard Company that it has “never lost a passenger’s life”; and the captain would not consent to send the Etruria to Davy Jones’s locker, merely in order to give Charles a chance of sticking to his dispatch-box under trying circumstances. On the contrary, we had a delightful and uneventful passage; and we found our fellow-passengers most agreeable people. Charles, as Mr. Peter Porter, being freed for the moment from his terror of Colonel Clay, would have felt really happy, I believe—had it not been for the dispatch-box. He made friends from the first hour (quite after the fearless old fashion of the days before Colonel Clay had begun to embitter life for him) with a nice American doctor and his charming wife, on their way back to Kentucky. Dr. Elihu Quackenboss—that was his characteristically American name—had been studying medicine for a year in Vienna, and was now returning to his native State with a brain close crammed with all the latest bacteriological and antiseptic discoveries. His wife, a pretty and piquant little American, with a tip-tilted nose and the quaint sharpness of her countrywomen, amused Charles not a little. The funny way in which she would make room for him by her side on the bench on deck, and say, with a sweet smile, “You sit right here, Mr. Porter; the sun’s just elegant,” delighted and flattered him. He was proud to find out that female attention was not always due to his wealth and title; and that plain Mr. Porter could command on his merits the same amount of blandishments as Sir Charles Vandrift, the famous millionaire, on his South African celebrity.

      During the whole of that voyage, it was Mrs. Quackenboss here, and Mrs. Quackenboss there, and Mrs. Quackenboss the other place, till, for Amelia’s sake, I was glad she was not on board to witness it. Long before we sighted Sandy Hook, I will admit, I was fairly sick of Charles’s two-stringed harp—Mrs. Quackenboss and the dispatch-box.

      Mrs. Quackenboss, it turned out, was an amateur artist, and she painted Sir Charles, on calm days on deck, in all possible attitudes. She seemed to find him a most attractive model.

      The doctor, too, was a precious clever fellow. He knew something of chemistry—and of most other subjects, including, as I gathered, the human character. For he talked to Charles about various ideas of his, with which he wished to “liven up folks in Kentucky a bit,” on his return, till Charles conceived the highest possible regard for his intelligence and enterprise. “That’s a go-ahead fellow, Sey!” he remarked to me one day. “Has the right sort of grit in him! Those Americans are the men. Wish I had a round hundred of them on my works in South Africa!”

      That idea seemed to grow upon him. He was immensely taken with it. He had lately dismissed one of his chief superintendents at the Cloetedorp mine, and he seriously debated whether or not he should offer the post to the smart Kentuckian. For my own part, I am inclined to connect this fact with his expressed determination to visit his South African undertakings for three months yearly in future; and I am driven to suspect he felt life at Cloetedorp would be rendered much more tolerable by the agreeable society of a quaint

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