twenty years, with all their manifold changes, have come and gone since isabel pengarvon was found one december night lying in the snow in front of the great door at broome; and the course of our narrative now takes us to ashdown, a thriving town in the midlands, of some twenty-five to thirty thousand inhabitants.
everybody in ashdown knew avison's bank, and could have directed a stranger to it. it had been established for nearly three-quarters of a century, and no bank stood higher in the estimation of the manufacturers and tradespeople of the town or of the farmers round about. mr. avison, senior, owing to his great age and infirmities, had retired from any active direction of the business some years ago. mr. avison, junior, who was himself a middle-aged man, had been abroad, with the exception of a week or two now and then, for the last year or more, in search of the health which his native country denied him. now, however, he was coming back--was, in fact, expected almost immediately, and was once more going to try a winter at home.
since the retirement of the elder partner, and during the absence of the younger, the entire management of the business had devolved upon mr. hazeldine, the chief cashier, and no one more capable of sustaining the burthen could have been found. he had been with the firm since boyhood, and in process of time had risen from one grade to another till it was impossible for him to rise any higher, unless he were made a partner; a contingency which had been discussed more than once between the two mr. avisons. although of obscure origin, mr. hazeldine, early in life, had married a young lady of some standing in ashdown society, who brought with her a fortune of three thousand pounds, and had thereby at once raised himself considerably in the social scale. two sons and one daughter had been born of the marriage, all of whom were now grown up. edward, the elder son, was in business as a brewer at beecham, which might almost be called a suburb of ashdown, although it was in another parish. he was a keen, hard-headed business man, eager to push his way in the world, and ambitious after a fashion which no one but himself was aware of.
the younger son, clement, was in practice as a surgeon. after gaining experience for three or four years as assistant to a popular london doctor, his father had bought for him what remained of the practice of old doctor diprose. clement had thereupon removed his quarters to ashdown, and was at present fighting the uphill fight of a young doctor in a small provincial town. fanny, mr. hazeldine's daughter, was unmarried, and lived at home with her parents.
it was customary at avison's bank for mr. hazeldine, or his chief clerk, john brancker (generally the latter) to go up to london by train every thursday and there change a thousand or twelve hundred pounds' worth of notes for gold, in order to meet the requirements of the bank's numerous small customers on market-day. on this particular thursday on which we make his acquaintance, mr. hazeldine himself was on his way to london to change the usual amount of notes for gold. in the netting of the carriage overhead was the black bag, now empty, in which he would bring the money back. as he sits there in the train with folded arms and shut eyes, to all appearance asleep, but in reality as wideawake as ever he had been in his life, and with his mind pondering a thousand questions, let us endeavor, with a few touches, to bring him more definitely before the reader.
james hazeldine at this time was fifty-four years old. he was closely shaven, except for two small side-whiskers, so that there was nothing to hide his square, clear-cut jaw, his thin lips, and firm-set mouth. in color his hair and whiskers, once nearly black, were now an iron-grey. he had a prominent, well-cut nose, and cold, resolute, steel-grey eyes. the predominant expression of his face was determination; you felt that here was a man with a masterful spirit who would not readily be moved from any course, whether for good or evil, which he had once made up his mind to follow. mingled with this expression was the keen, shrewd look of the experienced man of business--the look of one who in his time had chaffered and bargained with many men. in his dress mr. hazeldine was somewhat old-fashioned and precise; possibly it was part of his policy to be so. he wore a black tail-coat and waistcoat, and pepper-and-salt continuations. he wore a starched checked cravat, high-pointed collars and broad-toed shoes with drab gaiters. with the addition of an overcoat in winter, his dress was the same all the year round.
to-day, however, mr. hazeldine was not looking in his usual health. there was a worn and anxious expression on his face like that of a man who had been much worried of late. his eyes, too, looked sunken and dull, but his mouth was as firm-set as ever. only a few days ago his daughter fanny had said to her mother:
"have you noticed how fast papa's hair has been turning grey of late?"
but mrs. hazeldine, whose eyesight was no longer as good as it had once been, had noticed nothing.
mr. hazeldine roused himself from his reverie with a sigh when the train stopped for the collection of tickets. at the terminus he engaged a hansom and was driven direct to the bank of england. there he exchanged notes to the value of twelve hundred pounds for gold, which sum he locked up in the bag he had brought with him.
on leaving the bank, he made his way into throgmorton street, where he plunged into a maze of narrow and tortuous courts and passages, nearly all of which have been swept away within the last few years.
threading his way like one who held the clue, he presently dived into the semi-dark entry of one of the oldest houses; the numerous names painted on the door-posts betokening that it was split up into sundry suites of offices. ascending slowly to the first floor, with feet which seemed weighted with lead, mr. hazeldine turned the handle of a certain door, and went in. he found himself in an outer office occupied by two clerks.
"is mr. barker within and disengaged?" he asked.
"what name, sir?" queried one of the clerks, thereby answering the double question.
"mr. james," was the reply.
the clerk was scarcely gone a moment. holding open the door of the inner office, he said:
"mr. barker will see you, sir."
mr. james went in, and the door was shut behind him.
at a square table, with his back to the fire, sat mr. barker, a stout, bald-headed, foxy-looking man, dressed in a blue frock coat and white waistcoat, with a flower in his buttonhole, and a rather conspicuous display of jewelry. he nodded familiarly to "mr. james" as to an old acquaintance.
"i rather thought you might call in the course of the day," he said. "come to settle up, eh?"
"yes, come to settle up," was the answer, with a faint sigh. "perhaps you won't mind taking the greater part in gold; your doing so will oblige me."
"i shall have no objection at all, mr. james. it don't matter to me--ha! ha!--in what form it comes, so long as i get hold of it. what nice weather we have been having of late."
mr. james opened his bag and drew therefrom twelve small canvas bags containing one hundred sovereigns each. "be good enough to count these," he said.
mr. barker emptied one bag on the table and counted its contents into little piles of twenty sovereigns each.
"i won't detain you, mr. james, while i count the rest," he said. "i have no doubt i shall find them quite correct."
"there are twelve there," said mr. james, indicating the bags. then he drew a roll of notes from his breast-pocket. "these will make up the seventeen."
mr. barker took the notes, wetted his forefinger, and counted them one by one.
"right you are, sir, and i'm very much obliged to you," was his comment when he had done. then he went to a safe in one corner, and having deposited the notes and gold in it, he drew from a receptacle containing several other documents of a similar kind, a long, narrow strip of bluish paper, which he handed to his visitor. "all ready and prepared, you see," he said, with a smile.
mr. james just glanced at the document, then he crumpled it up, and flinging it into the fire, watched it till nothing was left of it but ashes.
mr. barker laughed.
"have a glass of sherry. you are not looking over-bright to-day," he said, heartily.
"thanks; i never drink before dinner," was the answer. "i have been worried a little in business matters lately, that is all," he added. "but i am going to take a long holiday presently."
"nothing like it when you're fagged out, or when the machinery gets a bit out of gear," responded mr. barker. "can't keep the bow always bent, you know. sha'n't see you again for some time, then? south of france--italian lakes--eh?"
"well, i hardly know yet where i am bound for," said mr. james, with a curious, pallid smile. then he took up his hat and brushed it round with his sleeve in a hesitating way very unusual with him. "nothing you see or hear ever surprises you, does it, mr. barker?" he asked.
"well, no, mr. james. i'm rather too old a bird to be surprised at anything."
"then you won't be surprised at anything you may read in the papers in the course of the next few days."
mr. barker winked and laid a finger against one side of his nose. as an action it was vulgar, but expressive.
mr. james nodded and smiled the same curious smile.
"good-morning, mr. barker," he said. "good-morning. i'll leave this empty bag till next time i call."
"which i hope will be before very long, eh, mr. james? always happy to accommodate you, you know."
"we shall see what we shall see. and so, once more, good-morning." he went without another word, closing the green baize door behind him. a minute later he found himself in the street.
mr. james hazeldine walked on till he was overtaken by an empty cab. this he hailed, and was driven westward. although he had told mr. barker that he never drank before dinner, he now went into a tavern in the strand, and called for a tumbler of hot brandy and water and then for another, both of which he drank in less than five minutes. in truth, he looked very haggard and ill. during the next half hour he wandered up and down the strand in a purposeless sort of way, staring into the shop windows, but having no thought or interest in anything he saw there. more than once he took a letter out of the breast pocket of his coat, read the address over to himself, and then put it back again. at length, spying a pillar-box in a side street, he walked slowly up to it and again took out the letter. it was directed as under:
"edward hazeldine, esq.,
"the brewery,
"beecham by ashdown,
"midlandshire."
he dropped the letter into the box.
"that settles everything," he muttered. "there can be no turning back now. edward will get it by the first post to-morrow."
why was mr. hazeldine posting a letter to his son, whom he would probably see in the course of the evening?
he turned back into the strand, and entering a restaurant, called for a basin of soup. he ate about half of it, finished up with a glass of sherry, and then ordered a cab and was driven to the terminus.
going into the cloak-room at the station, he there redeemed a black bag, precisely similar in size and appearance to the empty bag he had left in mr. barker's office. this bag, which apparently contained something heavy, he took with him into the carriage and placed it in the netting over his head.
there were other passengers in the compartment, but he spoke to no one. he pulled up the collar of his coat and shut his eyes, and, to all appearance, went fast asleep. the clocks were striking seven as he walked out of ashdown station, carrying his bag in one hand and his umbrella in the other.
mr. hazeldine's house was not far from the station. he let himself in by means of his latchkey, and walked straight into the drawing-room, where he found his wife and daughter.
"you are late this evening, dear," said mrs. hazeldine, languidly, as if his being so were a matter of no moment.
"yes, i had some special business to transact, and could not get done in time to catch the two o'clock train."
and yet he had spent nearly an hour mooning about the strand!
he sat down in his easy-chair with an air of weariness.
"we did not wait dinner for you, not knowing how late you would be," resumed his wife. "will you have a steak cooked, or what shall i order for you?"
"i had some dinner in town; all i want is a cup of tea."
his daughter rang the bell, and presently a tea equipage was brought in.
"you are not looking at all well, papa," said fanny, as she handed him a cup. "i hope you are not going back to that horrid bank to-night."
"i am quite well, my dear," he said. "a little tired with my journey; that's all. i must go to the bank for a couple of hours." he drew her face down to his own and kissed it.
"there now, you have disarranged my collar, you dear old bear," she said, turning to survey herself in the glass over the chimney-piece.
"you scarcely ever spend an evening at home nowadays, james," said mrs. hazeldine, in the complaining tone to which her husband was well used. "you seem to care for nothing but the bank. instead of taking things easy as you get older, you seem to have to work harder every year that you live."
"i hope we shall see more of you at home when mr. avison gets back," remarked fanny.
mr. hazeldine shivered, and then he sipped at his tea.
"do you know what i am going to do?" he asked, presently. "i am going to take a long, long holiday."
"oh, papa! when--when?" cried fanny the excitable.
"almost immediately."
"you darling old crocodile! i'm languishing to visit switzerland again. but, of course, one can't go there at this time of year. the riviera, and then on to rome, would be delightful. i am dying to see rome."
"give me paris, either in winter or summer," said mrs. hazeldine, with the air of a person who knows her own mind. "i care nothing for a parcel of mouldy ruins, but i do love nice shops; and there are no shops in the world equal to those of paris."
