VIII
Fate and a Family Council
Where for?" asked the guard. "Nymph Aurelia," I replied. "Change at Great Wivelton," he commented. The door was banged, the whistle sounded, and the important-looking train drew slowly along the platform.
All that I knew about Nymph Aurelia could have been written on the back of a postage stamp. Five years previously I was living at Woollambo just clearing expenses. I should perhaps explain that Woollambo is a rather out-of-the-way spot in the Mount Valkyria district of Western Australia. I was prospecting one day when a scrap of paper, blown from heaven knows where, came skimming along the ground. I secured it and found that it was a page from an English railway guide; all that the sun and rain had left on it were the words, "Nymph Aurelia (347). See trains to Great Wivelton and thence twice daily."
Your gold-seeker is necessarily something of a gambler, and therefore, I take it, more or less a creature of superstition. Probably I did not expect anything, but I released the paper again, pegged the exact direction it took, and then made 347 paces down the line. That incident marked the discovery of the celebrated Golden Nymph mine.
You will understand now why I was making a pilgrimage, as it were, to Nymph Aurelia. I was curious and not ungrateful. When I had seen the place I would present it with a free library, a breakwater, a clocktower, a motor fire-engine, or anything of that kind that constituted its most pressing want, provided that the thing could be done anonymously and without any fuss.
At least that had been my intention when I took a ticket at Waterloo. But as the train began to find its way round the undulating Surrey commons, to cross deep shady lanes, and to explore pine woods that had seemed in the distance to be designed for the Noah's Ark of some giant's nursery, it suddenly came upon me that here was the England which I had come nine thousand miles to see. London, where I had been waited on by a Swiss, valeted by a Frenchman, served at the bank by a German, and sung to on the patriotic subject of Motherland by an Italian, had not, to be frank, struck me as being quite homelike. Nymph Aurelia, for all I knew, might be equally disappointing; but I felt strangely drawn to the quiet sunlit country through which I was being carried.
According to the time-table the first stop was yet fifty miles away, but the charm and friendliness of the woodland grew irresistible. A notice in the carriage informed me, as I hastily assumed, that I could stop the train in return for the payment of a fine of five pounds. I understood that it was a business offer, but this I have since learned was not so. However, that is by the way. I pulled the cord, took down my light portmanteau from the rack, got five sovereigns in readiness and waited.
Had the train stopped where I wished and where I think it ought to have done, I should have stepped directly from the line into the depths of a fern-carpeted dell. As a matter of fact, however, it drew up along the more commonplace platform of a country station. An official of some kind came forward as I alighted. As I wished him a cheerful good-afternoon and dropped the five coins into his hesitating palm I could not fail to observe that the proceeding struck him as exceptional in some way. But he remained speechless, and with a brisk step I passed over the bridge that spanned the line.
A large private motor-car was waiting in the otherwise deserted station-yard, the driver in his place, and, as a casual glance showed me, someone seated inside. I was passing, giving it no further attention, when my own name, called out by the occupant of the car, pulled me up.
"Hullo, Staples, here we are," was the greeting. "How the deuce did you come down?"
Now, as I have indicated, this was my name—Frank Staples. But the extraordinary thing was that I did not know a soul in England, while the man in the motor-car seemed to have been positively expecting me.
I approached the door to investigate when I became aware of the presence of a second occupant.
For years I had had in my mind a fairly well-defined portrait of a woman's face. The features were small and regular, the poise of the head imperious, the expression wayward and piquant, and the whole set with a dark and brilliant beauty. I scarcely expected ever to see in the flesh this image that had unconsciously formed itself; nor did I until I stood at the door of the motor-car confronted by a girl whose vivid face was sufficiently like my ideal to startle me into an astonished silence.
"Your train isn't due for ten minutes yet," continued the man. "How did the express come to stop?"
"I stopped it," I replied mechanically, without taking my eyes off the extraordinarily vivacious face before me. "I wanted to get out here."
"The deuce you did!" he exclaimed, forcing himself on me through my preoccupation by the vigour of his personality. "Do you mean to say you pulled the cord?"
It was scarcely necessary to reply. The platform at the other side of the station was beginning to hum with official activity. A porter appeared on the bridge running and gesticulating as he ran. To me the excitement I had raised seemed ridiculously out of proportion, but the man in the car took in the situation with a single glance.
"Jump in, you scamp," he commanded. "I'm not going to pay for another of your pranks."
"If Frank is going to ride," exclaimed the lady with sudden decision, "I am going to walk."
"Then why the Harry did you come to meet him?" demanded my new old friend with considerable warmth.
"It was necessary for me to see him before I could make up my mind," she replied with dignity. "Now I have seen him."
This did not put me on any better terms with the situation.
"You had better let me explain," I began.
"Hilda, don't be an idiot. Frank, don't be an ass. John, home." All these injunctions operating simultaneously, I found myself sitting down violently opposite the lady as the car leapt forward.
So far I had been an entirely innocent impostor, if an impostor at all. A man can have no better excuse for his presence, I take it, than to be greeted familiarly by name and pressed into the company. I was Frank Staples, securely conscious of my identity, and the mistake, whatever it was, rested with them; but at this point, influenced, need I confess? by the scornful beauty's presence, and by my increasing desire to make her further acquaintance, I entered upon a course of active dissimulation.
We were scarcely clear of the yard when a thought seemed to strike my friend with sharp surprise.
"Where is Boosey, by the way?" he said, leaning across to me.
I accepted the inauspicious omen of the gentleman's name as my only clue.
"Probably drunk by this time," I replied with an indifferent shrug.
He stared hard at me for a moment and then nodded once or twice, almost sympathetically it seemed.
"You are prepared to go on without him?" he asked.
"Up to a certain point," I replied guardedly.
"Then I know your line as well as you do yourself," he announced triumphantly.
"That's extremely likely," I admitted, and we relapsed into silence again.
At the distance of about two miles from the station the car turned off from the road, passing through a pair of fine old wrought-iron gates into private grounds of some pretensions. Another minute brought us to the house, a substantial white mansion, to my eyes about a couple of centuries old. Here everything was in readiness for the occasion, whatever it might be, and without any explanation or introduction we all crossed the hall and entered a spacious room which proved to be the library.
I had recognised the unlikelihood of being able to keep up the deception very long, but the moment I passed inside the room I saw exposure lurking ahead in every word. The extent of my ambition was to effect a dignified capitulation; to be allowed to pass out—or, better still, to stay in—with the honours of war. Seated about the room were nearly a score of people, and from their manner and attitude I at once understood that they were assembled for some specific purpose and had been awaiting our arrival. For the most part they were men of mature age, but among them were two or three ladies and one quite venerable couple. I passed round the room, taking my cue from the greetings I received. With most I shook hands; here and there a bow sufficed. The aged dame startled me by kissing me affectionately upon the cheek, but I gathered that on the whole I was not popular.
"Five years in America seems scarcely to have changed you, young man," remarked a smug-looking individual with a significance that at once put him among the unfriendlies.
"Not in the least," I replied cheerfully; and as I had evidently been in need of change my callousness was established.
These courtesies took up very little time. A general movement on the part of the men was made towards the table. Under someone's indication I took one end, while a legal-looking gentleman fronted by a deed-box and writing material occupied the other. The ladies and the grandparental couple remained outside the conclave.
I thought that matters had gone as far as I could decently let them.
"Before you begin," I said, "I have to make a personal explanation. My presence here"
"A moment, Mr. Staples," interposed the leader of the hostile section. "Is he entitled"—turning to the legal headpiece—"is he entitled to make a personal statement that may possibly prejudice the opinions—or the views—of others?"
"It is a debatable point," replied the authority, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "I think that on the whole, Mr. Staples, we had perhaps better stick to the exact letter of the conditions."
"Oh, all right," I said. "Only remember that I made the offer."
"If Frank has anything in the nature of a claim regarding his immediate position to advance," put in a friendly, "I think that in view of his isolated situation it ought to be considered."
That gave me a wild idea. The beautiful creature for whose sake I was more or less making a conspicuous ass of myself and courting much obloquy had selected a chair exactly behind me, to my continued discomfiture.
"Yes, I have," I declared recklessly. "I claim to have Hilda sitting next to me during the proceedings." She would be furious, of course, but she was that already, and I had a lively anticipation that she would be even more so shortly.
Very much to my surprise, no one seemed to regard this outrageous demand as anything exceptional. There was some laughter, and even a little applause from the friendlies. Another chair was brought up and the disdainful young lady was persuaded to occupy a place by my side. She said nothing, but her expressive eyes left me in no doubt as to the nature of her feelings.
The lawyer-man rose to address us and we seemed to be getting to the root of the mystery at last. "Today being the 20th of August, 1910," he began, we are met here according to arrangement to fulfil the conditions of the rather remarkable agreement entered into by the late Henry Montgomery Staples and the late Frederick Basset. As that agreement with its many contingent clauses is a lengthy and elaborate document, and as you are all perfectly well acquainted with its essential features, I propose to take it as read, merely remarking that, in spite of the doubt thrown upon its validity from interested quarters"—here most of the unfriendlies wagged their heads weightily—"we have the highest authority for believing it to be a perfectly legal instrument.
"I beg to differ, Mr. Frobisher," rapped out a prominent unfriendly.
"I shall at once proceed to lodge a caveat," announced another defiantly.
"I put in a formal protest," declared a third.
"Quite so, gentlemen; I note your objections," continued the lawyer imperturbably. "Now, Mr. Frank," taking up a paper which appeared to contain half-a-dozen paragraphs, "are you prepared to adopt by deed poll the name of Basset?"
"Certainly not," I replied. "I don't see why on earth I should adopt the name of Basset. There is nothing particularly attractive about it. My own is quite"
"There is no need for you to disparage my name, Frank," exclaimed the girl indignantly. "It is one to which you have been materially indebted in the past."
That was the worst of my position. On the others also my reply had a remarkable effect. For some reason every friendly at once became hostile and every unfriendly adopted a sympathetic attitude. Numerically I gained, but I preferred the old allies.
"As Mr. Staples repudiates that condition" struck in an ex-unfriendly.
"We will nevertheless go on," replied the lawyer grimly. "Will you, Mr. Staples, in the event of your benefiting, continue the Basset claim to the Thorneywood estate?"
A great deal seemed to hang on that, by the breathless interest with which my reply was awaited. I had to answer one way or the other. I took what seemed to be the simplest course.
"No, I won't," I replied. And to cut discussion short I added, "I decline to state my reasons."
Despair and satisfaction again swept over the contending forces, but which lot I had pleased and which offended I cannot say. A ferocious little man, whispering across the table to me in tones of suppressed passion, took all my attention.
"You decline to give you reasons, Frank Staples, but I can see through them well enough," he declared. "You think you will be able to make it right with the Coppinghams, buy out the Priory mortgagee, and at the same time conciliate Aunt Harriet. Let me tell you, sir, you are playing a dangerous game!"
"I quite feel that," I admitted.
"For supposing the Brandon boundary decision is reversed, where will you be then?"
"That's the weak spot," I agreed. "Where, indeed? What would you advise?"
"You can hardly expect me to advise you at this point," he replied, becoming more amiable, "but mark this: you will bitterly repent putting any reliance on your Uncle Tapping's promises. I can see that he is behind you in this, but he is only using you for his own ends. You will soon find out that he isn’t what you think he is."
"No, no," I replied. "I can't believe that. I am sure old Uncle Tapping is all right. He is much more likely to find out soon that I am not what he thinks I am."
Mr. Frobisher's formal voice broke off this agreeable conversation.
"I now have to put a crucial question to you, Mr. Staples," he was saying. And then it came: "Do you agree to marry Hilda Basset?"
I suppose that I might have been prepared for the ridiculous family agreement leading up to something of this sort, but, as a matter of fact, I couldn't have been more completely taken by surprise. In my indignation I clean forgot that I was merely an involuntary proxy. I was also conscious of going as red as a lobster and as wild as a scalded cat.
"What the blazes do you mean by asking such a question?" I demanded hotly. "You don't suppose that I am ass enough to imagine that Miss Basset would marry me, do you? If you really want to know, from the first moment I saw"
The remarkable effect of my outburst saved me from saying any more. Hitherto my replies had gained me one party at the expense of alienating the other. This time I simply succeeded in sheerly astonishing everyone into speechless, breathless bewilderment. I don't think I ever witnessed a more curious spectacle than that of some eighteen dumb, open-mouthed, petrified people. How they would have come round naturally I don't know, but Hilda broke the spell. She, with the rest, had been staring point-blank into my face. What she saw there, or what she missed there, I have yet to learn, but suddenly she sat back in her chair and went off into peal after peal of uncontrollable laughter. This was the moment chosen by a family retainer to open the door, step two paces into the room, and solemnly announce:
"Mr. Frank Staples; Mr. Boosey."
Hilda—it is scarcely worth while beginning to call her Miss Basset now—has since declared that the resemblance between the two Frank Stapleses is superficial and illusory. Nevertheless it was enough to make the eighteen friendlies and unfriendlies—who were having a day of shocks—look from one to the other of us in amazement, while they opened and closed their mouths in silent unison.
For the third time that eventful day I offered to make an explanation, and on this occasion no one objected. They hung on to my every word indeed.
"This is certainly very remarkable,” said the man who had brought me in the car. "Very remarkable, indeed, but, given one coincidence, not altogether incredible. The question is: Who are you? Who are you?"
"I am Frank Armitage Staples, of course," I replied.
"Yes, yes," he said irritably; "no one is going to doubt that, with your features. But what Frank Staples? That's the point."
"So far as I am concerned," I replied modestly, "I have always been accustomed in Woollambo to regard myself as the Frank Staples."
I saw a questioning glance pass from face to face among some who sat at the table.
"Would you inform us as to your father's name?" asked one politely.
"It was Frank Rupert Staples. He is dead."
"And his father?"
"He possessed the more unusual name of Cedric Oliver."
"Cedric Oliver Staples," slowly and deliberately pronounced the patriarch from the armchair. "Tried at Guildford in the spring of 1826 on a charge of forgery. Found guilty and sentenced to transportation for life. He was my uncle."
"Possibly, sir," I remarked, turning round to face him, "but, so far as I am aware, he never claimed the kinship, nor referred to any of his relations. And in Australia it is not considered etiquette to inquire into the family history of those who come of the early settler stock."
"Look here, this is all very jolly and convivial," put in the other Frank restlessly, "but old Boosey says he must get back by the 5.30, and I'm not keen on staying myself. Frosty sort of welcome it seems to me offhand. Not even a milk-cart to be had at the station, and some silly ass had stopped the express, so they say, and held up our train for ten minutes."
"But you can't run away like that," expostulated the master of the house. "There is the agreement"
"Oh, don't you worry about that, Toppy, old man," said my namesake in the easiest manner. "I have put in a formal appearance and Boosey will look into the thing and see if there is anything coming to me out of the wreck. I'm afraid it will be rather a back-hander for you, Hilda, but I'm out of the running for the double now."
"You don't mean to say?" exclaimed all the friendlies, who had begun to pick up hope again.
"Yes, married already," admitted the gentleman complacently. "Met the lady in Brooklyn three months ago. She is what you might call flossy—distinctly flossy. She can put her heels against a chalked line on the stage, and without moving bend back till she picks up a nickel with her teeth. You shouldn't always have been so jolly stiff, Hilda, you know."
"I am delighted that you have found a lady who seems to be quite the reverse," replied Hilda pleasantly.
Thus had fate, in the shape of Nymph Aurelia again, been pulling benevolently at the reins of my destiny.
"For a practical young man, brought up in a new country, you seem to be strangely fanciful," remarked Hilda a week later, when I told her about these things.
"It is true," I admitted. "I am always having visions, seeing fairies, hearing voices, and touching posts. From the first moment I saw you"
The instant I said the words we both remembered the occasion when they were last spoken. Hilda turned away with rising colour. I was struck by a sudden fear that I had spoiled the thing.
"I knew that we should be friends," I concluded lamely.
I caught a glimpse of her face, and across it there swept a look that reminded me then of the sun leaving a landscape.
"What I just said is utterly false, Hilda, only I was so horribly afraid," I said facing her. "I have never even thought of you in friendship. From the first moment I saw you I knew that, whoever you were, you were the woman who had been growing in my heart ever since my world began."
The sunshine returned radiantly. That is how we come to be spending our honeymoon at Nymph Aurelia.
Ravenscourt Park, 1909.