CHAPTER V.

_THE PROGRESS OF EVENTS._

IT became evident that Mr. Detroit was a good deal changed by his illness. His hair was whiter, and the furrows on his face had deepened. Moreover, he walked with a somewhat trembling gait, and seemed altogether unstrung—not so entirely master of himself as he wished always to appear.

In another respect also there was a marked alteration. He grew more chatty, more garrulous, more disposed to let slip whatever happened to be in his mind.

Mr. Marson was the first to remark upon the new phase of affairs. A quiet man, given to few needless words, scrupulously exact and honourable in all his dealings, Marson was just one of those toiling and worn-out fathers who might be benefited by such a scheme as the one Campion had suggested to Gabrielle. He had an invalid wife, one daughter, and numerous boys.

During many years he had not been out of the City, except for a day. How should he? Prolonged and hopeless ill-health in his wife was a ceaseless drag upon his resources, and the needs of his young growing family seemed never to be satisfied. Although Marson's position under Mr. Detroit was a responsible one, involving heavy work, the salary he received was by no means large. Mr. Detroit habitually ground down his subordinates to the lowest possible terms.

"What did they want with more?" he sometimes asked.

And though of late, when seemingly about to quit this world, Mr. Detroit had found a difficulty in settling what to do with his wealth, yet now that he had come back to a measure of strength, he showed himself as keen as ever in business, as eager to amass more money, as resolutely bent upon saving. "The ruling passion" would be strong even in death with him.

"I had a curious talk with Mr. Detroit this afternoon," Mr. Marson observed one evening to his daughter. They were together in the shabby small drawing-room of a small house.

The younger boys were in bed; the elder boys were learning their lessons elsewhere. Mrs. Marson could seldom come downstairs. All the cares of housekeeping and of nursing devolved upon the shoulders of this slim pale girl with large wistful eyes—grey eyes, not unlike those of Gabrielle in colour and size, but how different in expression! Ella was only seventeen, a whole year younger than the fair and light-hearted Gabrielle. She might have been ten years older, if one judged by her prematurely burdened and serious look.

"With Mr. Detroit?" she repeated, looking up from the child's sock over which her fingers were busy.

"He kept me quite a long while, chatting about his own affairs. Mr. Detroit never used to be so communicative."

"What was it all about?" Ella asked, and then she flushed up for a moment, the bright colour fading quickly. "If he thought rather more about your affairs, father, it wouldn't be so very surprising, after all these years."

She could be resentful for others under the long pressure of daily life, and she had not attained to her father's enduring patience.

"My dear, Mr. Detroit counts me amply repaid for all my services. He has said as much to me. But it was curious," Mr. Marson continued, unheeding a slight exclamation from Ella, "very curious. He spoke of his illness, and of the extreme perplexity he had felt as to the disposal of his money. The matter seems really to have weighed upon him. After a good deal of hesitation, he decided to leave the whole to Mr. Harvey and Mr. Campion, with the exception of a few small legacies. You see he has no near relatives—no relatives at all, some say—and has made his own fortune. He is, of course, perfectly free. But the decision struck me as—well, rather singular."

"I know who has made a great deal of his fortune for him!"

"I have tried to do my duty, Ella; that is all."

"And he has not done his; so that ought not to be all!"

"It is well that we are alone," Matson observed. "But you would not say this to another. Mr. Detroit has kept strictly to the original agreement. I have no just cause for complaint. Some in his place, prospering as he has prospered, might perhaps—but I see no use in suppositions. If I were a younger man, I should press for an increase of salary. As things are now, I hardly dare to venture. Many an unencumbered man would gladly step into my place on my present terms; and if I lost the work, it might be hard to find another opening equally good. I am not the man that I was."

"If not, it is work for Mr. Detroit that has worn you out, father."

"Come—I shall be sorry that I have told you so much. I did not mean to excite you. My dear, this must not go any further. Mr. Detroit made no mention of secrecy: still it ought not to become known through us."

Ella promised silence, and kept her word. The thing did become known, however—not through the Marsons, but through Mr. Detroit's own new-born talkativeness. He went about telling everybody of his will-making, his difficulty and its solution, his lack of relatives and his chosen heirs, till the story became a leading topic of conversation among his acquaintances. Certain needy individuals of the "sharper" class, whose tie of consanguinity with Mr. Detroit existed probably in Japhet, began thereupon to prick up their ears.

Many months had slipped by since Mr. Detroit's illness, and it happened that for about a quarter of a year Harvey had held no intercourse with the old gentleman. He had been very busy; time had gone fast; and he had no especial call in that direction.

One murky February afternoon, as he passed rapidly along the crowded pavement of Cornhill, and turned down a side street, blocked with huge vans and patient dray-horses, Harvey narrowly escaped "colliding" with his friend Campion. Each exclaimed "Hallo!" and each recoiled.

"The very person I wanted to see!" burst simultaneously from two mouths.

"You first," Harvey said, smiling. "Mine is not business—merely about—But go on."

Campion wore a disturbed look.

"Merely about—? Yes. Pray tell me. I hope—I hope your sister is well."

"Mary? Oh, perfectly well. I'll tell her you kindly made enquiries. What had you to say?"

Campion seemed for a moment to have forgotten. "Do you know that Matson is ill?" he asked, after a pause.

"No; poor fellow."

"I don't know what is the matter. Over-work and under-feeding, I suspect. And how on earth they are to get on, I don't know either. Mrs. Marson has been worse lately—suffers terribly. And that poor girl—it's enough to kill her."

"I'll look in and see them. Something ought to be done. I have a great respect for Marson."

"There's something else. Mr. Detroit has broken down again."

"Seriously?"

"Hopelessly, I am told. Not many weeks to live."

Harvey was pursuing his way along the quieter side street, Campion having turned to accompany him.

"When did you hear?" asked the former.

"Two days since. Met the old housekeeper. The breakdown seems to have been unexpected, but from her account, he evidently hasn't been himself for a month or so. Sparks is turned off, and a new man installed. The old woman is very indignant, of course."

"H'm!" said Harvey.

Campion lowered his voice.

"If I were you, I would look up the poor old fellow. I hear from another source that a set of harpies are after his money, getting him to make a new will. Nephews and cousins innumerable have suddenly turned up, and he believes it all. A regular organised attack. He won't see a doctor, so there's nobody to interfere—except you."

"He has no nephews, and no cousins within four or five degrees."

"There may be cousins of the fiftieth degree. They are laying claim to some sort of connection—so I am told. You had better test the truth of the report, and see that the poor old chap isn't swindled out of everything he has. They would find him a tough enough customer in health, but things are different now. I have no more to tell you. What had you to say?"

"Nothing much. My sister is coming again."

"Your sister—ah!—the eldest, of course?"

"No; Gabrielle."

"O indeed!" and Campion endeavoured not to seem too delighted.

"Mary is your favourite, no doubt—that stands to reason. She is such a good deserving creature. I like her to be appreciated; and Gabrielle is a mere chicken. My dear fellow, don't look so furious. You are coming out of your way, I'm afraid. Don't take another step. I'll tell you all about Gabrielle another day. You must come to meet her—though she isn't Mary!—and meantime Mary shall be sure to hear of your kind inquiries. I'll write to fix an evening. Good-bye."

Harvey walked laughingly off in one direction, and Campion strolled dreamily in the other. Business, noise, crowds, murky sky—all were forgotten. He walked through light and trod upon air the rest of the day.