The Lost Heir. Henty George Alfred
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else, so as to make up an even number."
A month later Mr. Simcoe had become an intimate of General Mathieson's house. It had always been a matter of deep regret to the General that he had been unable to thank the man who at terrible risk to his life had saved him from death, and that feeling was heightened when the news came that his preserver had been drowned, and that the opportunity of doing so was forever lost. He now spared no pains to further his wishes. He constantly invited him to lunch or dinner at his club, introduced him to all his friends in terms of the highest eulogium, and repeated over and over again the story of his heroic action. As his own club was a military one he could not propose him there, but he had no difficulty in getting friends to propose and support him for two other clubs of good standing.
Several of the officers to whom he introduced Simcoe had been at Benares at the time he was hurt. These he recognized at once, and was able to chat with them of their mutual acquaintances, and indeed surprised them by his knowledge of matters at the station that they would hardly have thought would be known to one who had made but a short stay there. One of them said as much, but Simcoe said, laughing, "You forget that I was laid up for a month. Everyone was very good to me, and I had generally one or two men sitting with me, and the amount of gossip I picked up about the station was wonderful. Of course there was nothing else to talk about; and as I have a good memory, I think I could tell you something about the private affairs of pretty nearly every civilian and military man on the station."
Everyone agreed that Simcoe was a very pleasant and amusing companion. He was full of anecdotes of the wild people that he had lived among and of the adventures and escapes he had gone through. Although none of the Benares friends of the General recognized Simcoe when they first met him, they speedily recalled his features. His instant recognition of them, his acquaintance with persons and scenes at and around Benares was such that they never for a moment doubted his identity, and as their remembrance of the General's visitor returned they even wondered that their recognition of him had not been as instant as his of them. As to his means, not even to the General had Simcoe explained his exact position. He had taken good apartments in Jermyn Street, gave excellent little dinners there, kept undeniably good wine and equally excellent cigars, dressed well, and was regarded as being a thoroughly good fellow.
The General was not a close observer. Had he been so, he would speedily have noticed that his niece, although always polite and courteous to Mr. Simcoe, did not receive him with the warmth and pleasure with which she greeted those who were her favorites. On his part the visitor spared no pains to make himself agreeable to her; he would at once volunteer to execute any commission for her if she happened to mention in his presence anything that she wanted. One evening when she was going to a ball he sent her an expensive bouquet of flowers. The next day when she saw him she said:
"I am very much obliged to you for those lovely flowers, and I carried the bouquet last night, but please do not send any more. I don't think that it is quite nice to accept presents from anyone except very near relations. It was very kind of you to think of it, but I would really rather that you did not do it again. Uncle gives me carte blanche in the way of flowers, but I do not avail myself of it very largely, for the scent is apt to make me feel faint, and beyond the smallest spray I seldom carry any. I made an exception last night, for those you sent me were most lovely. You don't mind my saying that, do you?"
"Not at all, Miss Covington; and I quite understand what you mean. It seemed natural to me to send you some flowers. Out in the Pacific Islands, especially at Samoa and Tahiti, and, indeed, more or less everywhere, women wear a profusion of flowers in their hair, and no present is so acceptable to them."
"I fancy flowers do not cost so much there as they do here, Mr. Simcoe?"
"No," the latter laughed; "for half a dollar one can get enough to render a girl the envy of all others."
"I think you were right to ask Mr. Simcoe not to repeat his present, Hilda," the General said. "I particularly noticed the bouquet that you carried last night."
"Yes, uncle, there was nothing equal to it in the room; it must have cost three or four guineas."
"I don't think that you quite like him; do you, Hilda?"
"I like him, uncle, because he saved your life; but in other respects I do not know that I do like him particularly. He is very pleasant and very amusing, but I don't feel that I quite understand him."
"How do you mean that you don't understand him?"
"I cannot quite explain, uncle. To begin with, I don't seem to get any nearer to him – I mean to what he really is. I know more of his adventures and his life than I did, but I know no more of him himself than I did three months ago when I first met him at dinner."
"At any rate you know that he is brave," the General said, somewhat gravely.
"Yes, I know that, of course; but a man can be brave, exceptionally brave, and yet not possess all other good qualities. He did behave like a hero in your case, and I need not say that I feel deeply grateful to him for the service that he rendered you; still, that is the only side of his nature that I feel certain about."
"Pooh! pooh! Hilda," the General said, with some irritation. "What do you know about nine-tenths of the men you meet? You cannot even tell that they are brave."
"No, uncle; I know only the side they choose to present to me, which is a pleasant side, and I do not care to know more. But it is different in this case. Mr. Simcoe is here nearly every day; he has become one of our inner circle; you are naturally deeply interested in him, and I am, therefore, interested in him also, and want to know more of him than I have got to know. He is brave and pleasant; is he also honest and honorable? Is he a man of thoroughly good principles? We know what he tells us of his life and his adventures, but he only tells us what he chooses."
The General shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear child, you may say the same thing of pretty nearly every unmarried man you meet. When a man marries and sets up a household one does get to know something about him. There are his wife's relations, who, as a rule, speak with much frankness concerning a man who has married their daughter, sister, or cousin. But as to bachelors, as a rule one has to take them at their own valuation. Of course, I know no more than you do as to whether Simcoe is in all respects an honorable gentleman. It is quite sufficient that he saved my life, almost at the sacrifice of his own, and whatever the life he may have led since is no business of mine. He is distinctly popular among those I have introduced him to, and is not likely in any way to discredit that introduction."
That Hilda was not entirely satisfied was evident by the letter she wrote when her uncle had, as usual, gone up one afternoon to his club.
"My Dear Netta: I have told you several times about the Mr. Simcoe who saved uncle's life out in India, and who is so intimate at the house. I can't say that either my acquaintance with or my liking for him increases. He does not stand the test of the system, and the more I watch his lips the less I understand him. He talks fluently and quickly, and yet somehow I feel that there is a hesitation in his speech, and that his lips are repeating what they have learned, and not speaking spontaneously. You know that we have noticed the same thing among those who have learned to speak by the system but are not yet perfect in it, so I need not explain further what I mean, as you will understand it. For example, I can always tell at a public meeting, or when listening to a preacher, whether he is speaking absolutely extemporarily or whether he has learned his speech by heart beforehand.
"I really strongly misdoubt the man. Of course I know that he saved my uncle's life; beyond that I know nothing of him, and it is this very feeling that I do know nothing that disquiets me. I can no more see into him than I can into a stone wall. I can quite understand that it is of very great importance to him to stand well with the General. He came here a stranger with a queer history. He knew no one; he had money and wanted to get into society. Through my uncle he has done so; he has been elected to two clubs, has made a great number of acquaintances, goes to the Row, the Royal Academy, the theaters, and so on, and is, at any rate, on nodding terms with a very large number of people. All this he owes to my uncle, and I fail to see what else he can wish for. It would be natural with so many other engagements that he should not come to us so often as he used to do, but there is no falling off in that respect. He is the tame cat of the