The White Virgin

“That’ll do, boy. Now about the other matter. You know I make use of my eyes a good deal.”

“Yes,” said the young man anxiously.

“Then, to put it rather brutally and plainly, boy, I don’t like the look of the old dad.”

“Doctor Praed!” cried the young man in a voice full of agony, as he turned and gazed anxiously into the drawing-room, where Grantham Reed, one of the best known floaters of mining projects in the City, sat back in his chair, holding Janet Praed’s hand, and patting it gently, as he evidently listened to something his elder son was relating. “Why, what nonsense! I never saw him look better in my life.”

“Perhaps not – you didn’t,” said the Doctor drily.

“I beg your pardon. But has he complained?”

“No; he has nothing to complain of, poor fellow; but all the same, we doctors see things sometimes which tell us sad tales. Look here, Clive, my boy. I speak to you like a son, because you are going to be my son. I can’t talk to your brother, though he is the elder, and ought to stand first. I don’t like Jessop.”

“Jess is a very good fellow when you know him as I do,” said Clive coldly.

“I’m very glad to hear it, boy,” said the Doctor. “But look here; your father’s in a very bad way, and he ought to be told.”

“But are you sure, sir?” said Clive, in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes, I am sure,” said the Doctor. “I have been watching him for the past six months in doubt. Now I know. Will you tell him, or shall I?”

“Tell him!” faltered Clive.

“Yes; a man in his position must have so much to do about his money affairs – winding up matters, while his mind is still strong and clear.”

“But he is well and happy,” said Clive. “How could I go to him and say – ”

“Here, where’s that Doctor?” came from within, in a strong voice. “Oh, there you are! It’s going on for ten, and I must have one rubber before you start.”

Five minutes later four people were seated at a card-table, one of whom was Clive Reed, whose hands were cold and damp, as he felt as if he were playing for his father’s life in some great game of chance, while in the farther drawing-room Janet Praed was singing a ballad in a low, sweet voice, and Clive’s sharp-looking, keen-eyed brother was turning over the music leaves and passing compliments, at which his sister-in-law elect uttered from time to time in the intervals of the song a half-pained, half-contemptuous laugh.

Chapter Two.

Arch-Plotters

“Hullo, my noble! what brings you here?”

Jessop Reed took off his glossy, fashionable hat, laid a gold-headed malacca cane across it as he placed it upon the table, and then shot his cuffs out of the sleeves of his City garments, cut in the newest style, and apparently fresh that day. Tie, collar, sleeve-links, pin, chain, tightly-cut trousers, spats, and patent shoes betokened the dandy of the Stock Exchange, and the cigar-case he took out was evidently the last new thing of its kind.

“Cigar?” he said, opening and offering it to the dark, sallow, youngish man seated at an office table, for he had not risen when his visitor to the office in New Inn entered.

“Eh? Well, I don’t mind. Yours are always so good.”

He selected one, declined a patent cutter, preferring to use a very keen penknife which lay on the table, but he accepted the match which his visitor extracted from the interior of a little Japanese owl, and deftly lit by rubbing it along his leg. The next minute the two men sat smoking and gazing in each other’s eyes.

“Well, my brilliant, my jasper and sardine stone, what brings you through grimy Wych Street to these shades?”

“You’re pretty chippy this morning, Wrigley. Been doing somebody?”

“No, my boy; hadn’t a chance. Have you come to be done?”

“Yes; gently. Short bill on moderate terms.”

“What! You don’t mean to say that you, my hero on ’Change, who are turning over money, as it were, with a pitchfork, are coming to me?”

“I am, though, so no humbug.”

“’Pon my word! A fellow with a dad like a Rothschild and a brother that – here, why don’t you ask the noble Clive?”

“Hang Clive!” snapped out Jessop.

“Certainly, my dear fellow, if you wish it,” said John Wrigley. “Hang Clive! Will that do?”

“I don’t care about worrying the old man, and there’s a little thing on in Argentines this morning. I want a hundred at once.”

“In paper?”

“Look here, Wrigley, if you won’t let me have the stuff, say so, and I’ll go to some one else.”

“And pay twice as much as I shall charge, my dear boy. Don’t be so peppery. Most happy to oblige you, and without consulting my friend in the City, who will have to sell out at a loss, eh? A hundred, eh?”

“Yes, neat.”

“All right!”

A slip of blue stamped paper was taken out of a drawer, filled up, passed over for signature, and as Jessop now took up a pen he uttered a loud growl.

“Hundred and twenty in four months! Sixty per cent. Bah! what a blood-sucker you are!”

“Yes, aren’t I?” said the other cheerily. “Don’t take my interest first, though, and give you a cheque for eighty, eh?”

He took the bill, glanced at it, and thrust it in a plain morocco case, which he replaced in a drawer, took out a cheque-book, quickly wrote a cheque, signed it, and looked up.

“Cross it?” he said.

“Yes. I shall pay it in. Thanks!”

“There you see the value of a good reputation, my dear Reed; but you oughtn’t to be paying for money through the nose like that.”

“No,” said the visitor, with a snarl, “I oughtn’t to be, but I do. If the dear brother wants any amount, there it, is; but if I want it – cold shoulder.”

“So it is, my dear fellow; some are favourites for a time, some are not: Let me see. He’s engaged to the rich doctor’s daughter, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes, bless me,” said Jessop. “All the fat and gravy of life come to him.”

The young lawyer threw one leg over the other and clasped his hands about his knee.

“Ah! yes,” he said seriously, “the distribution of money and honour in this world is very unequal. Clive is on that mine, isn’t he?”