CHAPTER IV.

_"A COUNTER-PROPOSAL."_

HARVEY had not so much to say as usual during dinner, which, by-the-by, was well served, with all the particularity of a bachelor household. His thoughts were much occupied still with Mr. Detroit.

But Gabrielle and Campion allowed few conversational gaps, and his occasional abstraction was hardly noticed.

Gabrielle was a well-read and well-informed girl, quite able to hold her own in touch with another's mind; and the graceful union of girlish freshness with womanly thought fascinated Campion. He had never come across anybody like her before.

Somewhat later in the evening Harvey's absence of mind became more marked. They had returned to the drawing-room, and Campion jested him on a prolonged fit of silence, demanding the cause.

"I was speculating at that moment," Harvey answered, "as to what you or I would do if fifty thousand pounds came suddenly into our hands."

"Shouldn't have the slightest objection," Campion said lightly.

Gabrielle's face took a serious set.

"Would you be puzzled what to do with the money, Ted?"

"I might be. The case I am supposing is of money left to one in trust, to be used wisely for others."

"H'm, that alters the case materially."

"I know what 'I' would do," Gabrielle said, with her pretty girlish decisiveness. "I would build a hospital for Portminster. It is needed so terribly. I do think that ought to come first in our charities. Able-bodied men may know what it is to be poor and have trouble, but they can work; they are not helpless. It is when illness comes that want is most dreadful; and I don't see how one can expect to do good to them—to their minds and hearts—unless one does good to their bodies first. Isn't that the Christ-like way? I would build and endow a hospital, and would give free admission to anybody or everybody in real need—not, of course, to stingy well-to-do people, who just want to save their shillings for their own pleasures."

"Why, Gabrielle, you are eloquent," her brother remarked, smiling.

"I think I could supplement Miss Harvey's hospital with something not less needed," Campion said, falling into Gabrielle's line of thought. "I should like to start a country or seaside home, to lessen the number of the hospital patients. No, not a convalescent home, but a place where one might send the worn-out city poor at little or no cost—the deserving poor, I mean. Hardworking fathers and toiling mothers, for instance, just to give them the change they need before they break down."

"I like that idea," murmured Gabrielle.

"Hospitals and convalescent homes are well enough, but they come after the breakdown," pursued Campion, warmed by her sympathy. "I would try in some cases to forestall the need for either. There are poor fellows whom I know at this moment, going on hard and fast for a crash. They can't get away, can't afford journeys or lodgings. A fortnight in the country might set them up for months, and they can't have it. Just the old story, you know—the bread-winner failing, everything depending on him, and nothing to be done."

Harvey sat in thought as the others talked. A new idea had dawned upon him.

Next day, he found his way once more to the bedroom of Mr. Detroit, and was greeted with the abrupt observation—

"My mind is still made up. I hope you have no objection to offer."

Harvey shook hands, asked after the old man's health, sat down, and presently said:—

"I am going to make a counter-proposal. Will you leave the money to Campion and me jointly, to be used in such a manner as may seem best to us both? I should prefer this to the sole responsibility."

"Campion! Campion! Why Campion particularly? But I don't know that I have anything to urge against the plan, if you wish it. Campion will do well enough, jointly with yourself. Yes—if you like."

The matter was arranged thus. The will was in due time drawn up—not, of course, by Harvey himself—signed, and witnessed. With the exception of a few small legacies, the whole sum which lay at Mr. Detroit's disposal was left between Edmund Harvey and Arthur Campion, to be employed by them as their united wisdom should dictate. "For charitable purposes" was rather implied than stated, and rather by Harvey's wish than by Mr. Detroit's.

But after all these preliminaries, Mr. Detroit did not die.

Whether from the removal of a weight from his mind, whether from the medicine he had consented to "try," or whether from his native force of constitution, instead of getting worse, he began to improve.

At first he refused to believe in the possibility of a change for the better. Having doggedly made up his mind that death was inevitable, he hardly cared to be disturbed in the belief. It upset his plans, so to speak. Nevertheless, as days went on, there could be no denial of the fact. He was stronger, he suffered less, he had a better appetite. By-and-by he could leave his room; then he was able to drive out. And at length, he might once more be seen in his counting-house, or hovering about the regions of the Stock Exchange.

He was not, of course, sorry to come back to life. Few men are, even when they have treasure in another world; and Mr. Detroit had no treasure there. Had he gone, he would have left behind him all that he cared for. Perhaps this fact dawned upon him faintly; at all events, as he became stronger, his love of life returned.

Mr. Marson, his head-manager, a thin, worn, gentle-mannered man, was glad to see his employer back, though Mr. Detroit bestowed upon him no kind words or looks. Long experience had taught him to expect none. Yet his face showed pleasure when he congratulated the old man on recovery. The clerks ventured upon no such congratulations. In Mr. Detroit's eyes, they were merely a set of human scribbling machines. He would have been very much astonished at any show of feeling on their part.