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The Firm of Girdlestone
THE FIRM OF GIRDLESTONE.
A. CONAN DOYLE
TO MY OLD FRIEND
PROFESSOR WILLIAM K. BURTON,
OF THE IMPERIAL UNIVERSITY, TOKYO,
WHO FIRST ENCOURAGED ME, YEARS AGO, TO PROCEED WITH
THIS LITTLE STORY,
I DESIRE AFFECTIONATELY TO
DEDICATE IT.
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE
I cannot let this small romance go to press without prefacing it with
a word of cordial thanks to Mr. P. G. Houlgrave, of 28, Millman
Street, Bedford Row. To this gentleman I owe the accuracy of my
African chapters, and I am much indebted to him for the copious
details with which he furnished me.
A. CONAN DOYLE.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER.
I. MR. JOHN HARSTON KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT.
II. CHARITY A LA MODE.
III. THOMAS GILRAY MAKES AN INVESTMENT.
IV. CAPTAIN HAMILTON MIGGS OF THE "BLACK EAGLE".
V. MODERN ATHENIANS.
VI. A RECTORIAL ELECTION.
VII. ENGLAND VERSUS SCOTLAND.
VIII. A FIRST PROFESSIONAL.
IX. A NASTY CROPPER.
X. DWELLERS IN BOHEMIA.
XI. SENIOR AND JUNIOR.
XII. A CORNER IN DIAMONDS.
XIII. SHADOW AND LIGHT.
XIV. A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING
XV. AN ADDITION TO THE HOUSE.
XVI. THE FIRST STEP.
XVII. THE LAND OF DIAMONDS.
XVIII. MAJOR TOBIAS CLUTTERBUCK COMES IN FOR A THOUSAND POUNDS.
XIX. NEWS FROM THE URALS.
XX. MR. HECTOR O'FLAHERTY FINDS SOMETHING IN THE PAPER.
XXI. AN UNEXPECTED BLOW.
XXII. ROBBERS AND ROBBED.
XXIII. A MOMENTOUS RESOLUTION.
XXIV. A DANGEROUS PROMISE.
XXV. A CHANGE OF FRONT.
XXVI. BREAKING GROUND.
XXVII. MRS. SCULLY OF MORRISON'S.
XXVIII. BACK IN BOHEMIA.
XXIX. THE GREAT DANCE AT MORRISON'S.
XXX. AT THE "COCK AND COWSLIP".
XXXI. A CRISIS AT ECCLESTON SQUARE.
XXXII. A CONVERSATION IN THE ECCLESTON SQUARE LIBRARY.
XXXIII. THE JOURNEY TO THE PRIORY.
XXXIV. THE MAN WITH THE CAMP-STOOL.
XXXV. A TALK ON THE LAWN.
XXXVI. THE INCIDENT OF THE CORRIDOR.
XXXVII. A CHASE AND A BRAWL.
XXXVIII. GIRDLESTONE SENDS FOR THE DOCTOR.
XXXIX. A GLEAM OF LIGHT.
XL. THE MAJOR HAS A LETTER.
XLI. THE CLOUDS GROW DARKER.
XLII. THE THREE FACES AT THE WINDOW.
XLIII. THE BAIT ON THE HOOK.
XLIV. THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
XLV THE INVASION OF HAMPSHIRE.
XLVI. A MIDNIGHT CRUISE.
XLVII LAW AND ORDER.
XLVIII. CAPTAIN HAMILTON MIGGS SEES A VISION.
XLIX. A VOYAGE IN A COFFIN SHIP.
L. WINDS UP THE THREAD AND TIES TWO KNOTS AT THE END.
THE FIRM OF GIRDLESTONE.
CHAPTER I.
MR. JOHN HARSTON KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT.
The approach to the offices of Girdlestone and Co. was not a very
dignified one, nor would the uninitiated who traversed it form any
conception of the commercial prosperity of the firm in question. Close
to the corner of a broad and busy street, within a couple of hundred
yards of Fenchurch Street Station, a narrow doorway opens into a long
whitewashed passage. On one side of this is a brass plate with the
inscription "Girdlestone and Co., African Merchants," and above it a
curious hieroglyphic supposed to represent a human hand in the act of
pointing. Following the guidance of this somewhat ghostly emblem, the
wayfarer finds himself in a small square yard surrounded by doors,
upon one of which the name of the firm reappears in large white
letters, with the word "Push" printed beneath it. If he follows this
laconic invitation he will make his way into a long, low apartment,
which is the counting-house of the African traders.
On the afternoon of which we speak things were quiet at the offices.
The line of pigeon-holes in the wire curtain was deserted by the
public, though the linoleum-covered floor bore abundant traces of a
busy morning. Misty London light shone hazily through the glazed
windows and cast dark shadows in the corners. On a high perch in the
background a weary-faced, elderly man, with muttering lips and tapping
fingers, cast up endless lines of figures. Beneath him, in front of
two long shining mahogany desks, half a score of young men, with bent
heads and stooping shoulders, appeared to be riding furiously, neck
and neck, in the race of life. Any _habitue_ of a London office might
have deduced from their relentless energy and incorruptible diligence
that they were under the eyes of some member of the firm.
The member in question was a broad-shouldered, bull-necked young man,
who leaned against the marble mantel-piece, turning over the pages of
an almanac, and taking from time to time a stealthy peep over the top
of it at the toilers around him. Command was imprinted in every line
of his strong, square-set face and erect, powerful frame. Above the
medium size, with a vast spread of shoulder, a broad aggressive jaw,
and bright bold glance, his whole pose and expression spoke of
resolution pushed to the verge of obstinacy. There was something
classical in the regular olive-tinted features and black, crisp,
curling hair fitting tightly to the well-rounded head. Yet, though
classical, there was an absence of spirituality. It was rather the
profile of one of those Roman emperors, splendid in its animal
strength, but lacking those subtle softnesses of eye and mouth which
speak of an inner life. The heavy gold chain across the waistcoat and
the bright stone which blazed upon the finger were the natural
complement of the sensuous lip and curving chin. Such was Ezra, only
child of John Girdlestone, and heir to the whole of his vast business.
Little wonder that those who had an eye to the future bent over their
ledgers and worked with a vigour calculated to attract the attention
of the junior partner, and to impress him with a due sense of their
enthusiastic regard for the interests of the firm.
It was speedily apparent, however, that the young gentleman's
estimate of their services was not entirely based upon their present
performance. With his eyes still fixed upon the almanac and a sardonic
smile upon his dark face, he uttered a single word--
"Parker!"
A flaxen-haired clerk, perched at the further end of the high
glistening desk, gave a violent start, and looked up with a scared
face.
"Well, Parker, who won?" asked the junior partner.
"Won, sir!" the youth stammered.
"Yes, who won?" repeated his employer.
"I hardly understand you, sir," the clerk said, growing very red and
confused.
"Oh yes, you do, Parker," young Girdlestone remarked, tapping his
almanac sharply with the paper-knife. "You were playing odd man out
with Robson and Perkins when I came in from lunch. As I presume you
were at it all the time I was away, I have a natural curiosity to know
who won."
The three unhappy clerks fixed their eyes upon their ledgers to avoid
the sarcastic gaze of their employer. He went on in the same quiet
tones--
"You gentlemen draw about thirty shillings a week from the firm. I
believe I am right in my figures, Mr. Gilray?" addressing the senior
clerk seated at the high solitary desk apart from the others. "Yes, I
thought so. Now, odd man out is, no doubt, a very harmless and
fascinating game, but you can hardly expect us to encourage it so far
as to pay so much an hour for the privilege of having it played in our
counting-house. I shall therefore recommend my father to deduct five
shillings from the sum which each of you will receive upon Saturday.
That will cover the time which you have devoted to your own amusements
during the week."
He paused, and the three culprits were beginning to cool down and
congratulate themselves, when he began again.
"You will see, Mr. Gilray, that this deduction is made," he said, "and
at the same time I beg that you will deduct ten shillings from your
own salary, since, as senior clerk, the responsibility of keeping
order in this room in the absence of your employers rests with you,
and you appear to have neglected it. I trust you will look to this,
Mr. Gilray."
"Yes, sir," the senior clerk answered meekly. He was an elderly man
with a large family, and the lost ten shillings would make a
difference to the Sunday dinner. There was nothing for it but to bow
to the inevitable, and his little pinched face assumed an expression
of gentle resignation. How to keep his ten young subordinates in
order, however, was a problem which vexed him sorely.
The junior partner was silent, and the remaining clerks were working
uneasily, not exactly knowing whether they might not presently be
included in the indictment. Their fears were terminated, however, by
the sharp sound of a table-gong and the appearance of a boy with the
announcement that Mr. Girdlestone would like a moment's conversation
with Mr. Ezra. The latter gave a keen glance at his subjects and
withdrew into the back office, a disappearance which was hailed by ten
pens being thrown into the air and deftly caught again, while as many
derisive and triumphant young men mocked at the imploring efforts of
old Gilray in the interests of law and order.
The sanctum of Mr. John Girdlestone was approached by two doors, one
of oak with ground-glass panels, and the other covered with green
baize. The room itself was small, but lofty, and the walls were
ornamented by numerous sections of ships stuck upon long flat boards,
very much as the remains of fossil fish are exhibited in museums,
together with maps, charts, photographs, and lists of sailings
innumerable. Above the fire-place was a large water-colour painting
of the barque _Belinda_ as she appeared when on a reef to the north of
Cape Palmas. An inscription beneath this work of art announced that
it had been painted by the second officer and presented by him to the
head of the firm. It was generally rumoured that the merchants had
lost heavily over this disaster, and there were some who quoted it as
an instance of Girdlestone's habitual strength of mind that he should
decorate his wall with so melancholy a souvenir. This view of the
matter did not appear to commend itself to a flippant member of
Lloyd's agency, who contrived to intimate, by a dexterous use of his
left eyelid and right forefinger, that the vessel may not have been so
much under-insured, nor the loss to the firm so enormous as was
commonly reported.
John Girdlestone, as he sat at his square office-table waiting for his
son, was undeniably a remarkable-looking man. For good or for evil no
weak character lay beneath that hard angular face, with the strongly
marked features and deep-set eyes. He was clean shaven, save for an
iron-grey fringe of ragged whisker under each ear, which blended with
the grizzled hair above. So self-contained, hard-set, and immutable
was his expression that it was impossible to read anything from it
except sternness and resolution, qualities which are as likely to be
associated with the highest natures as with the most dangerous. It
may have been on account of this ambiguity of expression that the
world's estimate of the old merchant was a very varying one. He was
known to be a fanatic in religion, a purist in morals, and a man of
the strictest commercial integrity. Yet there were some few who
looked askance at him, and none, save one, who could apply the word
"friend" to him.
He rose and stood with his back to the fire-place as his son entered.
He was so tall that he towered above the younger man, but the latter's
square and compact frame made him, apart from the difference of age,
the stronger man.
The young man had dropped the air of sarcasm which he found was most
effective with the clerks, and had resumed his natural manner, which
was harsh and brusque.
"What's up!" he asked, dropping back into a chair, and jingling the
loose coins in his trouser pockets.
"I have had news of the _Black Eagle_," his father answered. "She is
reported from Madeira."
"Ah!" cried the junior partner eagerly. "What luck?"
"She is full, or nearly so, according to Captain Hamilton Miggs'
report."
"I wonder Miggs was able to send a report at all, and I wonder still
more that you should put any faith in it," his son said impatiently.
"The fellow is never sober."
"Miggs is a good seaman, and popular on the coast. He may indulge at
times, but we all have our failings. Here is the list as vouched for
by our agent. 'Six hundred barrels of palm oil'--"
"Oil is down to-day," the other interrupted.
"It will rise before the _Black Eagle_ arrives," the merchant rejoined
confidently. "Then he has palm nuts in bulk, gum, ebony, skins,
cochineal, and ivory."
The young man gave a whistle of satisfaction. "Not bad for old
Miggs!" he said. "Ivory is at a fancy figure."
"We are sorely in need of a few good voyages," Girdlestone remarked,
"for things have been very slack of late. There is one very sad piece
of intelligence here which takes away the satisfaction which we might
otherwise feel. Three of the crew have died of fever. He does not
mention the names."
"The devil!" said Ezra. "We know very well what that means. Three
women, each with an armful of brats, besieging the office and
clamouring for a pension. Why are seamen such improvident dogs?"
His father held up his white hand deprecatingly. "I wish," he said,
"that you would treat these subjects with more reverence. What could
be sadder than that the bread-winner of a family should be cut off?
It has grieved me more than I can tell."
"Then you intend to pension the wives?" Ezra said, with a sly smile.
"By no means," his father returned with decision. "Girdlestone and
Co. are not an insurance office. The labourer is worthy of his hire,
but when his work in this world is over, his family must fall back
upon what has been saved by his industry and thrift. It would be a
dangerous precedent for us to allow pensions to the wives of these
sailors, for it would deprive the others of all motive for laying
their money by, and would indirectly encourage vice and dissipation."
Ezra laughed, and continued to rattle his silver and keys.
"It is not upon this matter that I desired to speak to you,"
Girdlestone continued. "It has, however, always been my practice to
prefer matters of business to private affairs, however pressing. John
Harston is said to be dying, and he has sent a message to me saying
that he wishes to see me. It is inconvenient for me to leave the
office, but I feel that it is my Christian duty to obey such a
summons. I wish you, therefore, to look after things until I return."
"I can hardly believe that the news is true," Ezra said, in
astonishment. "There must be some mistake. Why, I spoke to him on
'Change last Monday."
"It is very sudden," his father answered, taking his broad-brimmed hat
from a peg. "There is no doubt about the fact, however. The doctor
says that there is very little hope that he will survive until
evening. It is a case of malignant typhoid."
"You are very old friends?" Ezra remarked, looking thoughtfully at his
father.
"I have known him since we were boys together," the other replied,
with a slight dry cough, which was the highest note of his limited
emotional gamut. "Your mother, Ezra, died upon the very day that
Harston's wife gave birth to this daughter of his, seventeen years
ago. Mrs. Harston only survived a few days. I have heard him say
that, perhaps, we should also go together. We are in the hands of a
higher Power, however, and it seems that one shall be taken and
another left."
"How will the money go if the doctors are right?" Ezra asked keenly.
"Every penny to the girl. She will be an heiress. There are no other
relations that I know of, except the Dimsdales, and they have a fair
fortune of their own. But I must go."
"By the way, malignant typhoid is very catching, is it not?"
"So they say," the merchant said quietly, and strode off through the
counting-house.
Ezra Girdlestone remained behind, stretching his legs In front of the
empty grate. "The governor is a hard nail," he soliloquized, as he
stared down at the shining steel bars. "Depend upon it, though, he
feels this more than he shows. Why, it's the only friend he ever had
in the world--or ever will have, in all probability. However, it's no
business of mine," with which comforting reflection he began to
whistle as he turned over the pages of the private day-book of the
firm.
It is possible that his son's surmise was right, and that the gaunt,
unemotional African merchant felt an unwonted heartache as he hailed a
hansom and drove out to his friend's house at Fulham. He and Harston
had been charity schoolboys together, had roughed it together, risen
together, and prospered together. When John Girdlestone was a
raw-boned lad and Harston a chubby-faced urchin, the latter had come
to look upon the other as his champion and guide. There are some
minds which are parasitic in their nature. Alone they have little
vitality, but they love to settle upon some stronger intellect, from
which they may borrow their emotions and conclusions at second-hand.
A strong, vigorous brain collects around it in time many others, whose
mental processes are a feeble imitation of its own. Thus it came to
pass that, as the years rolled on, Harston learned to lean more and
more upon his old school-fellow, grafting many of his stern
peculiarities upon his own simple vacuous nature, until he became a
strange parody of the original. To him Girdlestone was the ideal man,
Girdlestone's ways the correct ways, and Girdlestone's opinions the
weightiest of all opinions. Forty years of this undeviating fidelity
must, however he might conceal it, have made an impression upon the
feelings of the elder man.
Harston, by incessant attention to business and extreme parsimony, had
succeeded in founding an export trading concern. In this he had
followed the example of his friend. There was no fear of their
interests ever coming into collision, as his operations were confined
to the Mediterranean. The firm grew and prospered, until Harston
began to be looked upon as a warm man in the City circles. His only
child was Kate, a girl of seventeen. There were no other near
relatives, save Dr. Dimsdale, a prosperous West-end physician. No
wonder that Ezra Girdlestone's active business mind, and perhaps that
of his father too, should speculate as to the disposal of the fortune
of the dying man.
Girdlestone pushed open the iron gate and strode down the gravel walk
which led to his friend's house. A bright autumn sun shining out of a
cloudless heaven bathed the green lawn and the many-coloured
flower-beds in its golden light. The air, the leaves, the birds, all
spoke of life. It was hard to think that death was closing its grip
upon him who owned them all. A plump little gentleman in black was
just descending the steps.
"Well, doctor," the merchant asked, "how is your patient?"
"You've not come with the intention of seeing him, have you?" the
doctor asked, glancing up with some curiosity at the grey face and
overhanging eyebrows of the merchant.
"Yes, I am going up to him now."
"It is a most virulent case of typhoid. He may die in an hour or he
may live until nightfall, but nothing can save him. He will hardly
recognize you, I fear, and you can do him no good. It is most
infectious, and you are incurring a needless danger. I should
strongly recommend you not to go."
"Why, you've only just come down from him yourself, doctor."
"Ah, I'm there in the way of duty."
"So am I," said the visitor decisively, and passing up the stone steps
of the entrance strode into the hall. There was a large sitting-room
upon the ground floor, through the open door of which the visitor saw
a sight which arrested him for a moment. A young girl was sitting in
a recess near the window, with her lithe, supple figure bent forward,
and her hands clasped at the back of her head, while her elbows rested
upon a small table in front of her. Her superb brown hair fell in a
thick wave on either side over her white round arms, and the graceful
curve of her beautiful neck might have furnished a sculptor with a
study for a mourning Madonna. The doctor had just broken his sad
tidings to her, and she was still in the first paroxysm of her
grief--a grief too acute, as was evident even to the unsentimental
mind of the merchant, to allow of any attempt at consolation. A
greyhound appeared to think differently, for he had placed his
fore-paws upon his young mistress's lap, and was attempting to thrust
his lean muzzle between her arms and to lick her face in token of
canine sympathy. The merchant paused irresolutely for a moment, and
then ascending the broad staircase he pushed open the door of
Harston's room and entered.
The blinds were drawn down and the chamber was very dark. A pungent
whiff of disinfectants issued from it, mingled with the dank, heavy
smell of disease. The bed was in a far corner. Without seeing him,
Girdlestone could hear the fast laboured breathing of the invalid. A
trimly dressed nurse who had been sitting by the bedside rose, and,
recognizing the visitor, whispered a few words to him and left the
room. He pulled the cord of the Venetian blind so as to admit a few
rays of daylight. The great chamber looked dreary and bare, as carpet
and hangings had been removed to lessen the chance of future
infection. John Girdlestone stepped softly across to the bedside and
sat down by his dying friend.
The sufferer was lying on his back, apparently unconscious of all
around him. His glazed eyes were turned upwards towards the ceiling,
and his parched lips were parted, while the breath came in quick,
spasmodic gasps. Even the unskilled eye of the merchant could tell
that the angel of death was hovering very near him. With an ungainly
attempt at tenderness, which had something pathetic in it, he
moistened a sponge and passed it over the sick man's feverish brow.
The latter turned his restless head round, and a gleam of recognition
and gratitude came into his eyes.
"I knew that you would come," he said.
"Yes. I came the moment that I got your message."
"I am glad that you are here," the sufferer continued with a sigh of
relief. From the brightened expression upon his pinched face, it
seemed as if, even now in the jaws of death, he leaned upon his old
schoolfellow and looked to him for assistance. He put a wasted hand
above the counterpane and laid it upon Girdlestone's.
"I wish to speak to you, John," he said. "I am very weak. Can you
hear what I say?"
"Yes, I hear you."
"Give me a spoonful from that bottle. It clears my mind for a time. I
have been making my will, John."
"Yes," said the merchant, replacing the medicine bottle.
"The lawyer made it this morning. Stoop your head and you will hear
me better. I have less than fifty thousand. I should have done
better had I retired years ago."
"I told you so," the other broke in gruffly.
"You did--you did. But I acted for the best. Forty thousand I leave
to my dear daughter Kate."
A look of interest came over Girdlestone's face. "And the balance?"
he asked.
"I leave that to be equally divided among the various London
institutions for educating the poor. We were both poor boys
ourselves, John, and we know the value of such schools."
Girdlestone looked perhaps a trifle disappointed. The sick man went
on very slowly and painfully--
"My daughter will have forty thousand pounds. But it is so tied up
that she can neither touch it herself nor enable any one else to do so
until she is of age. She has no friends, John, and no relations, save
only my cousin, Dr. George Dimsdale. Never was a girl left more
lonely and unprotected. Take her, I beg of you, and bring her up
under your own eye. Treat her as though she were your child. Guard
her above all from those who would wreck her young life in order to
share her fortune. Do this, old friend, and make me happy on my
deathbed."
The merchant made no answer. His heavy eyebrows were drawn down, and
his forehead all puckered with thought.
"You are the one man," continued the sufferer, "whom I know to be just
and upright. Give me the water, for my mouth is dry. Should, which
God forbid, my dear girl perish before she marries, then--" His breath
failed him for a moment, and he paused to recover it.
"Well, what then?"
"Then, old friend, her fortune reverts to you, for there is none who
will use it so well. Those are the terms of the will. But you will
guard her and care for her, as I would myself. She is a tender plant,
John, too weak to grow alone. Promise me that you will do right by
her--promise it?"
"I do promise it," John Girdlestone answered in a deep voice. He was
standing up now, and leaning over to catch the words of the dying man.
Harston was sinking rapidly. With a feeble motion he pointed to a
brown-backed volume upon the table.
"Take up the book," he said.
The merchant picked it up.
"Now, repeat after me, I swear and solemnly pledge myself--"
"I swear and solemnly pledge myself--
"To treasure and guard as if she were my own--" came the tremulous
voice from the bed.
"To treasure and guard as if she were my own--" in the deep bass of
the merchant.
"Kate Harston, the daughter of my deceased friend--"
"Kate Harston, the daughter of my deceased friend--"
"And as I treat her, so may my own flesh and blood treat me!"
"And as I treat her, so may my own flesh and blood treat me!"
The sick man's head fell back exhausted upon his pillow. "Thank God!"
he muttered, "now I can die in peace."
"Turn your mind away from the vanities and dross of this world," John
Girdlestone said sternly, "and fix it upon that which is eternal, and
can never die."
"Are you going?" the invalid asked sadly, for he had taken up his hat
and stick.
"Yes, I must go; I have an appointment in the City at six, which I
must not miss."
"And I have an appointment which I must not miss," the dying man said
with a feeble smile.
"I shall send up the nurse as I go down," Girdlestone said.
"Good-bye!"
"Good-bye! God bless you, John!"
The firm, strong hand of the hale man enclosed for a moment the
feeble, burning one of the sufferer. Then John Girdlestone plodded
heavily down the stair, and these friends of forty years' standing had
said their last adieu.
The African merchant kept his appointment in the City, but long
before he reached it John Harston had gone also to keep that last
terrible appointment of which the messenger is death.