The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан
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the big glass courtyard. And I verily believe that courier was really Colonel Clay himself in one of his disguises.
But perhaps we were beginning to suspect him everywhere.
Colonel Clay in THE EPISODE OF THE OLD MASTER, by Grant Allen
Like most South Africans, Sir Charles Vandrift is anything but sedentary. He hates sitting down. He must always “trek.” He cannot live without moving about freely. Six weeks in Mayfair at a time is as much as he can stand. Then he must run away incontinently for rest and change to Scotland, Homburg, Monte Carlo, Biarritz. “I won’t be a limpet on the rock,” he says. Thus it came to pass that in the early autumn we found ourselves stopping at the Métropole at Brighton. We were the accustomed nice little family party—Sir Charles and Amelia, myself and Isabel, with the suite as usual.
On the first Sunday morning after our arrival we strolled out, Charles and I—I regret to say during the hours allotted for Divine service—on to the King’s Road, to get a whiff of fresh air, and a glimpse of the waves that were churning the Channel. The two ladies (with their bonnets) had gone to church; but Sir Charles had risen late, fatigued from the week’s toil, while I myself was suffering from a matutinal headache, which I attributed to the close air in the billiard-room overnight, combined, perhaps, with the insidious effect of a brand of soda-water to which I was little accustomed; I had used it to dilute my evening whisky. We were to meet our wives afterwards at the church parade—an institution to which I believe both Amelia and Isabel attach even greater importance than to the sermon which precedes it.
We sat down on a glass seat. Charles gazed inquiringly up and down the King’s Road, on the look-out for a boy with Sunday papers. At last one passed. “Observer,” my brother-in-law called out laconically.
“Ain’t got none,” the boy answered, brandishing his bundle in our faces. “’Ave a Referee or a Pink ’Un?”
Charles, however, is not a Refereader, while as to the Pink ’Un, he considers it unsuitable for public perusal on Sunday morning. It may be read indoors, but in the open air its blush betrays it. So he shook his head, and muttered, “If you pass an Observer, send him on here at once to me.”
A polite stranger who sat close to us turned round with a pleasant smile. “Would you allow me to offer you one?” he said, drawing a copy from his pocket. “I fancy I bought the last. There’s a run on them today, you see. Important news this morning from the Transvaal.”
Charles raised his eyebrows, and accepted it, as I thought, just a trifle grumpily. So, to remove the false impression his surliness might produce on so benevolent a mind, I entered into conversation with the polite stranger. He was a man of middle age, and medium height, with a cultivated air, and a pair of gold pince-nez; his eyes were sharp; his voice was refined; he dropped into talk before long about distinguished people just then in Brighton. It was clear at once that he was hand in glove with many of the very best kind. We compared notes as to Nice, Rome, Florence, Cairo. Our new acquaintance had scores of friends in common with us, it seemed; indeed, our circles so largely coincided, that I wondered we had never happened till then to knock up against one another.
“And Sir Charles Vandrift, the great African millionaire,” he said at last, “do you know anything of him? I’m told he’s at present down here at the Métropole.”
I waved my hand towards the person in question.
“This is Sir Charles Vandrift,” I answered, with proprietary pride; “and I am his brother-in-law, Mr. Seymour Wentworth.”
“Oh, indeed!” the stranger answered, with a curious air of drawing in his horns. I wondered whether he had just been going to pretend he knew Sir Charles, or whether perchance he was on the point of saying something highly uncomplimentary, and was glad to have escaped it.
By this time, however, Charles laid down the paper and chimed into our conversation. I could see at once from his mollified tone that the news from the Transvaal was favourable to his operations in Cloetedorp Golcondas. He was therefore in a friendly and affable temper. His whole manner changed at once. He grew polite in return to the polite stranger. Besides, we knew the man moved in the best society; he had acquaintances whom Amelia was most anxious to secure for her “At Homes” in Mayfair—young Faith, the novelist, and Sir Richard Montrose, the great Arctic traveller. As for the painters, it was clear that he was sworn friends with the whole lot of them. He dined with Academicians, and gave weekly breakfasts to the members of the Institute. Now, Amelia is particularly desirous that her salon should not be considered too exclusively financial and political in character: with a solid basis of M.P.’s and millionaires, she loves a delicate under-current of literature, art, and the musical glasses. Our new acquaintance was extremely communicative: “Knows his place in society, Sey,” Sir Charles said to me afterwards, “and is therefore not afraid of talking freely, as so many people are who have doubts about their position.” We exchanged cards before we rose. Our new friend’s name turned out to be Dr. Edward Polperro.
“In practice here?” I inquired, though his garb belied it.
“Oh, not medical,” he answered. “I am an LL.D. don’t you know. I interest myself in art, and buy to some extent for the National Gallery.”
The very man for Amelia’s “At Homes”! Sir Charles snapped at him instantly. “I’ve brought my four-in-hand down here with me,” he said, in his best friendly manner, “and we think of tooling over tomorrow to Lewes. If you’d care to take a seat I’m sure Lady Vandrift would be charmed to see you.”
“You’re very kind,” the Doctor said, “on so casual an introduction. I’m sure I shall be delighted.”
“We start from the Métropole at ten-thirty,” Charles went on.
“I shall be there. Good morning!” And, with a satisfied smile, he rose and left us, nodding.
We returned to the lawn, to Amelia and Isabel. Our new friend passed us once or twice. Charles stopped him and introduced him. He was walking with two ladies, most elegantly dressed in rather peculiar artistic dresses. Amelia was taken at first sight by his manner. “One could see at a glance,” she said, “he was a person of culture and of real distinction. I wonder whether he could bring the P.R.A. to my Parliamentary ‘At Home’ on Wednesday fortnight?”
Next day, at ten-thirty, we started on our drive. Our team has been considered the best in Sussex. Charles is an excellent, though somewhat anxious—or, might I say better, somewhat careful?—whip. He finds the management of two leaders and two wheelers fills his hands for the moment, both literally and figuratively, leaving very little time for general conversation. Lady Belleisle of Beacon bloomed beside him on the box (her bloom is perennial, and applied by her maid); Dr. Polperro occupied the seat just behind with myself and Amelia. The Doctor talked most of the time to Lady Vandrift: his discourse was of picture-galleries, which Amelia detests, but in which she thinks it incumbent upon her, as Sir Charles’s wife, to affect now and then a cultivated interest. Noblesse oblige; and the walls of Castle Seldon, our place in Ross-shire, are almost covered now with Leaders and with Orchardsons. This result was first arrived at by a singular accident. Sir Charles wanted a leader—for his coach, you understand—and told an artistic friend so. The artistic friend brought him a Leader next week with a capital L; and Sir Charles was so taken aback that he felt ashamed to confess the error. So he was turned unawares into a patron of painting.
Dr. Polperro, in spite of his too pronouncedly artistic talk, proved on closer view a most agreeable companion. He diversified his art cleverly with anecdotes and scandals; he told us exactly which famous painters had married their cooks, and which had only married their models; and otherwise showed himself a most diverting talker. Among other things, however, he happened to mention once that he had recently discovered a genuine Rembrandt—a quite undoubted Rembrandt, which had remained for years in the keeping of a certain obscure Dutch family. It had always been allowed to be a masterpiece of the painter, but it had seldom been seen for the last half-century save by a few intimate acquaintances. It was a portrait of one Maria Vanrenen of Haarlem, and he had bought it of her descendants at Gouda, in