The Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated). Редьярд Киплинг
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are you going to do?"
"Going away, of course. What should I stay for?"
"But you can't look after yourself?"
"I can do anything. I didn't realise it before, but I can. I've done a great deal already. Resolution shall be treated to one kiss if Bessie doesn't object." Strangely enough, Bessie objected and Dick laughed. "I suppose you're right. Well, come at nine the day after tomorrow and you'll get your money."
"Shall I sure?"
"I don't bilk, and you won't know whether I do or not unless you come. Oh, but it's long and long to wait! Good-bye, Bessie,—send Beeton here as you go out."
The housekeeper came.
"What are all the fittings of my rooms worth?" said Dick, imperiously.
"'Tisn't for me to say, sir. Some things is very pretty and some is wore out dreadful."
"I'm insured for two hundred and seventy."
"Insurance policies is no criterion, though I don't say——"
"Oh, damn your longwindedness! You've made your pickings out of me and the other tenants. Why, you talked of retiring and buying a public-house the other day. Give a straight answer to a straight question."
"Fifty," said Mr. Beeton, without a moment's hesitation.
"Double it; or I'll break up half my sticks and burn the rest."
He felt his way to a bookstand that supported a pile of sketch-books, and wrenched out one of the mahogany pillars.
"That's sinful, sir," said the housekeeper, alarmed.
"It's my own. One hundred or——"
"One hundred it is. It'll cost me three and six to get that there pilaster mended."
"I thought so. What an out and out swindler you must have been to spring that price at once!"
"I hope I've done nothing to dissatisfy any of the tenants, least of all you, sir."
"Never mind that. Get me the money tomorrow, and see that all my clothes are packed in the little brown bullock-trunk. I'm going."
"But the quarter's notice?"
"I'll pay forfeit. Look after the packing and leave me alone."
Mr. Beeton discussed this new departure with his wife, who decided that Bessie was at the bottom of it all. Her husband took a more charitable view.
"It's very sudden—but then he was always sudden in his ways. Listen to him now!"
There was a sound of chanting from Dick's room.
"We'll never come back any more, boys, We'll never come back no more; We'll go to the deuce on any excuse, And never come back no more! Oh say we're afloat or ashore, boys, Oh say we're afloat or ashore; But we'll never come back any more, boys, We'll never come back no more!"
"Mr. Beeton! Mr. Beeton! Where the deuce is my pistol?"
"Quick, he's going to shoot himself 'avin' gone mad!" said Mrs. Beeton.
Mr. Beeton addressed Dick soothingly, but it was some time before the latter, threshing up and down his bedroom, could realise the intention of the promises to 'find everything tomorrow, sir.'
"Oh, you copper-nosed old fool—you impotent Academician!" he shouted at last. "Do you suppose I want to shoot myself? Take the pistol in your silly shaking hand then. If you touch it, it will go off, because it's loaded. It's among my campaign-kit somewhere—in the parcel at the bottom of the trunk."
Long ago Dick had carefully possessed himself of a forty-pound weight field-equipment constructed by the knowledge of his own experience. It was this put-away treasure that he was trying to find and rehandle. Mr. Beeton whipped the revolver out of its place on the top of the package, and Dick drove his hand among the khaki coat and breeches, the blue cloth leg-bands, and the heavy flannel shirts doubled over a pair of swan-neck spurs. Under these and the water-bottle lay a sketch-book and a pigskin case of stationery.
"These we don't want; you can have them, Mr. Beeton. Everything else I'll keep. Pack 'em on the top right-hand side of my trunk. When you've done that come into the studio with your wife. I want you both. Wait a minute; get me a pen and a sheet of notepaper."
It is not an easy thing to write when you cannot see, and Dick had particular reasons for wishing that his work should be clear. So he began, following his right hand with his left: "The badness of this writing is because I am blind and cannot see my pen." H'mph!—even a lawyer can't mistake that. It must be signed, I suppose, but it needn't be witnessed. Now an inch lower—why did I never learn to use a type-writer?—"This is the last will and testament of me, Richard Heldar. I am in sound bodily and mental health, and there is no previous will to revoke."—That's all right. Damn the pen! Whereabouts on the paper was I?—" "I leave everything that I possess in the world, including four thousand pounds, and two thousand seven hundred and twenty eight pounds held for me—oh, I can't get this straight." He tore off half the sheet and began again with the caution about the handwriting. Then: "I leave all the money I possess in the world to"—here followed Maisie's name, and the names of the two banks that held the money.
"It mayn't be quite regular, but no one has a shadow of a right to dispute it, and I've given Maisie's address. Come in, Mr. Beeton. This is my signature; I want you and your wife to witness it. Thanks. Tomorrow you must take me to the landlord and I'll pay forfeit for leaving without notice, and I'll lodge this paper with him in case anything happens while I'm away. Now we're going to light up the studio stove. Stay with me, and give me my papers as I want 'em."
No one knows until he has tried how fine a blaze a year's accumulation of bills, letters, and dockets can make. Dick stuffed into the stove every document in the studio—saving only three unopened letters; destroyed sketch-books, rough note-books, new and half-finished canvases alike.
"What a lot of rubbish a tenant gets about him if he stays long enough in one place, to be sure," said Mr. Beeton, at last.
"He does. Is there anything more left?" Dick felt round the walls.
"Not a thing, and the stove's nigh red-hot."
"Excellent, and you've lost about a thousand pounds' worth of sketches. Ho! ho! Quite a thousand pounds' worth, if I can remember what I used to be."
"Yes, sir," politely. Mr. Beeton was quite sure that Dick had gone mad, otherwise he would have never parted with his excellent furniture for a song. The canvas things took up storage room and were much better out of the way.
There remained only to leave the little will in safe hands: that could not be accomplished til tomorrow. Dick groped about the floor picking up the last pieces of paper, assured himself again and again that there remained no written word or sign of his past life in drawer or desk, and sat down before the stove till the fire died out and the contracting iron cracked in the silence of the night.
Chapter XV
With a heart of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander;
With a burning spear and a horse of air,
To the wilderness I wander.
With a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summoned am to tourney—
Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end,
Methinks it is no journey.
—Tom o' Bedlam's Song
"Goodbye, Bess; I promised you fifty. Here's a hundred—all that I got for my furniture from Beeton. That will keep you in pretty frocks for some time. You've been a good little girl, all things considered, but you've given me and Torpenhow a fair amount of trouble."