THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR OF THE TITLE.
NEXT morning was Paul’s twenty-first birthday. For that important occasion he had hurried home to England three days before his term at Oxford began; for Mr. Solomons was anxious to bind him down firmly at the earliest possible moment to repay all the sums borrowed on his account by his father during his infancy from the very beginning. To be sure, they had all been expended on necessaries, and if the sturdy infant himself would not pay, it would always be possible to fall back upon his father. But then, what use was that as a security, Mr. Solomons asked himself. No, no; he wanted Paul’s own hand and seal to all the documents hereinafter recapitulated, on the date of his coming of age, as a guarantee for future repayment.
The occasion, indeed, was properly celebrated in the Gascoyne household with all due solemnity. The baronet himself wore his Sunday best, with the carefully brushed tall hat in which he always drove summer visitors to church in the Hillborough season, and at ten of the clock precisely he and Paul repaired, with a church-going air, as is the habit of their class (viewed not as a baronet, but as petite bourgeoisie) whenever a legal function has to be performed, to the dingy, stingy, gloomy-looking house where Mr. Solomons abode in the High Street of Hillborough.
Mr. Solomons, too, for his part, had risen in every way to the dignity of the occasion. He had to do business with a real live baronet and his eldest son; and he had prepared to receive his distinguished guests and clients with becoming hospitality. A decanter of brown sherry and a plate of plain cake stood upon the table by the dusty window of the estate agent’s office; a bouquet of laurestinus and early forced wallflowers adorned the one vase on the wooden chimney-piece, and a fancy waistcoat of the most ornate design decorated Mr. Solomons’ own portly person. Mr. Lionel, too, had come down from town to act as witness and general adviser, and to watch the case, so to speak, on his own behalf, as next-of-kin and heir-in-law to the person most interested in the whole proceeding. Mr. Lionel’s hair was about as curly and as oleaginous as usual, but the flower in his button hole was even nobler in proportions than was his wont on weekdays, and the perfume that exhaled from the silk pocket-handkerchief was more redolent than ever of that fervid musk which is dear to the Oriental nervous organization.
“Come in, Sir Emery,” Mr. Solomons observed, rubbing his hands with great unction, as the cabdriver paused for a second respectfully at his creditor’s door. Mr. Solomons called his distinguished client plain Gascoyne on ordinary occasions when they met on terms of employer and cabman, but whenever these solemn functions of high finance had to be performed he allowed himself the inexpensive luxury of rolling that superfluous title as for a special treat on his appreciative palate as a connoisseur rolls a good glass of Burgundy.
Paul grew hot in the face at the unwelcome sound — for to Paul that hateful baronetcy had grown into a perfect bête noire — but Sir Emery advanced by shuffling steps with a diffident air into the middle of the room, finding obvious difficulties as to the carriage of his hands, and then observed, in a sheepish tone, as he bowed awkardly:
“Good-day, Mr. Solomons, sir. Fine mornin’, Mr. Lionel.”
“It is a fine morning,” Mr. Lionel condescended to observe in reply, with a distant nod; “but devilish cold, aint it?” Then extending his sleek white hand to Paul with a more gracious salute, “How de do, Gascoyne? Had a jolly time over yonder at Mentone?”
For Mr. Lionel never forgot that Paul Gascoyne had been to Oxford and was heir to a baronetcy, and that, therefore, social capital might, as likely as not, hereafter be made out of him.
“Thank you,” Paul answered, with a slight inclination of his head and a marked tone of distaste, “I enjoyed myself very much on the Riviera. It’s a beautiful place, and the people were so very kind to me.”
For Paul on his side had always a curious double feeling toward Lionel Solomons. On the one hand, he never forgot that Lionel was his uncle’s nephew, and that once upon a time, when he played as a child in his father’s yard, he used to regard Lionel as a very grand young gentleman indeed. And on the other hand, he couldn’t conceal from himself the patent fact, especially since he had mixed in the society of gentlemen on equal terms at Oxford, that Lionel Solomons was a peculiarly offensive kind of snob — the snob about town who thinks he knows a thing or two as to the world at large, and talks with glib familiarity about everyone everywhere whose name is bandied about in the shrill mouths of London gossip.
Mr. Solomons motioned Sir Emery graciously into a chair. “Sit down, Paul,” he said, turning to his younger client. “A glass of wine this cold morning, Sir Emery?”
“I thank you kindly, sir,” the baronet responded, taking it up as he spoke. “‘Ere’s your very good ‘ealth, Mr. Solomons, an’ my respex to Mr. Lionel.”
Mr. Solomons poured out a glass for Paul, and then two more, in solemn silence, for himself and his nephew. The drinking of wine has a sort of serious ceremonial importance with certain persons of Mr. Solomons’ character. After that he plunged for a while into general conversation on the atmospheric conditions and the meteorological probabilities for the immediate future — a subject which led round naturally by graceful steps to the political state of this kingdom, and the chances of a defeat for the existing ministry over the bill for the county government of Dublin. Mr. Solomons considered it becoming on these State occasions not to start too abruptly on the question of business: a certain subdued delicacy of consideration for his clients’ feelings made him begin the interview on the broader and, so to speak, neutral basis of a meeting between gentlemen.
At last, however, when the sherry and the ministry were both comfortably disposed of, and Sir Emery had signified his satisfaction and acquiescence in either process, Mr. Solomons dexterously and gracefully introduced the real subject before the house with a small set speech. “I think, Sir Emery,” he said, putting his square bullet-head a little on one side, “you intimated just now that you wished to confer with me on a matter of business?”
“Yes, sir,” the cabdriver answered, growing suddenly hot, and speaking with a visible effort of eloquence. “My son, Paul, as you know, sir, have come of age to-day, and it’s our desire, Mr. Solomons, if-so-be-as it’s ekally convenient to you, to go together over them there little advances you’ve been kind enough to make from time to time for Paul’s eddication, if I may so term it, an’ to set ’em all right and straight, in the manner o’ speakin’, by givin’ Paul’s own acknowledgment for ’em in black an’ white, now he’s no longer a minor but his own master.”
It was a great triumph for the British baronet to stumble through so long a sentence unhurt, without a single halt, or a lapse of consciousness, and he felt justly proud when he got fairly to the end of it. Frequently as he had rehearsed it to himself in bed the night before, he never thought that when the moment for firing it off in actual practice really arrived he would have got pat through it all with such distinguished success.
Mr. Solomons smiled a smile of grateful recognition, and bowed, with one hand spread carelessly over his ample and expansive waistcoat. “If I’ve been of any service to you and your son, Sir Emery,” he answered with humility, not untempered by conscious rectitude and the sense of a generous action well performed (at twenty per cent, interest and incidentals) “I’m more than repaid, I’m sure, for all my time and trouble.”
“And now,” Mr. Lionel remarked, with a curl of his full Oriental lips under the budding mustache, “let’s get to business.”
To business Mr. Solomons thereupon at once addressed himself with congenial speed. He brought out from their pigeon-hole in the safe (with a decorous show of having to hunt for them first among his multifarious papers, though he had put them handy before his client entered) the bundle of acknowledgments tied up in pink tape, and duly signed, sealed, and delivered by Paul and his father. “These,” he said, unfolding them with studious care, and recapitulating them one by one, “are the documents in the case. If you please, Mr. Paul” — he had never called him Mr. Paul before, but he was a free man now, and this was business—” we’ll go over them together and check their correctness.”
“I have the figures all down here in my pocket-book,” Paul answered hastily, for he was anxious to shorten this unpleasant interview as much as possible, “will you just glance at their numbers and see if they’re accurate?”
But Mr. Solomons was not to be so put off. For his part, indeed, he was quite otherwise minded. This ceremony was to him a vastly agreeable one, and he was anxious rather to prolong it, and to increase his sense of its deep importance by every conceivable legal detail in his power.
“Excuse me,” he said blandly, taking up the paper and laying it open with ostentatious scrupulousness. “This is law, and we must be strictly lawyer-like. Will you kindly look over the contents of this document and see whether it tallies with your recollection?”
Paul took it up and resigned himself with a sigh to the unpleasant ordeal. “Quite right,” he answered, handing it back again formally.
“Will you be so good as to initial it on the back, then, with date assigned?” Mr. Solomons asked.
Paul did as he was bid, in wondering silence.
Mr. Solomons took up the next in order, and then the third, and after that the fourth, and so on through all that hateful series of bills and renewals. Every item Paul acknowledged in solemn form, and each was duly handed over for the inspection as he did so of Mr. Lionel, who also initialed them in his quality of witness.
At last, the whole lot was fairly disposed of, and the dreadful total alone now stared Paul in the face with its blank insolvency. Then Mr. Solomons took from his desk yet another paper — this time a solemn document in due legal form, which he proceeded to read aloud in a serious tone and with deep impressiveness. Of “this indenture” and its contents Paul could only remember afterward that it contained many allusions to Sir Emery Gascoyne, of Plowden’s Court, Hillborough, in the County of Surrey, baronet, and Paul Gascoyne, of Christ Church, in the University of Oxford, gentleman, of the first part, as well as to Judah Prince Solomons, of High street, Hillborough aforesaid, auctioneer and estate agent of the second part; and that it purported to witness, with many unnecessary circumlocutions and subterfuges of the usual legal sort, to the simple fact that the two persons of the first part agreed and consented, jointly and severally, to pay the person of the second part a certain gross lump-sum, which so far as human probability went they had no sort of prospect or reasonable chance of ever paying. However, it was perfectly useless to say so to Mr. Solomons at that exact moment; for the pleasure which he derived from the perusal of the bond was too intense to permit the intervention of any other feeling. So when the document had been duly read and digested, Paul took up the pen and did as he was bid, signing opposite a small red wafer on the face of the instrument, and then remarking, as he handed it back to Mr. Solomons, with his finger on the wafer, in accordance with instructions, “I deliver this as my act and deed” — a sentence which seemed to afford the person of the second part the profoundest and most obviously heartfelt enjoyment.
And well it might indeed, for no loophole of escape was left to Paul and his father anywhere. They had bound themselves down, body and soul, to be Mr. Solomons’ slaves and journeyman hands till they had paid him in full for every stiver of the amount to the uttermost farthing.
When all the other signing and witnessing had been done, and Paul had covenanted by solemn attestations never to plead infancy, error, or non-indebtedness, Mr, Solornons sighed a sigh of mingled regret and relief as he observed once more, “And now, Paul, you owe the seven-and-six for the stamp you’ll notice.”
Paul pulled out his purse and paid the sum demanded without a passing murmur. He had been so long accustomed to these constant petty exactions that he took them now almost for granted, and hardly even reflected upon the curious fact that the sum in which he was now indebted amounted to more than double the original lump he had actually received, without counting these perpetual minor drawbacks.
Mr. Solomons folded up the document carefully, and replaced it in its pigeon-hole in the iron safe.
“That finishes the past,” he said; “there we’ve got our security, Leo. And for the future, Mr. Paul, is there any temporary assistance you need just now to return to Oxford with?”
A terrible light burst across Paul’s soul. How on earth was he to live till he took his degree? Now that he had fully made up his mind that he couldn’t and wouldn’t marry an heiress, how could he go on accepting money from Mr. Solomons, which was really advanced on the remote security of that supposed contingency? Clearly, to do so would be dishonest and unjust. And yet, if he didn’t accept it how could he ever take his degree at all? And if he didn’t take his degree how could he possibly hope to earn anything anywhere, either to keep himself alive or repay Mr. Solomons?
Strange to say, this terrible dilemma had never before occurred to his youthful intelligence. He had to meet it, and solved it off-hand now, without a single minute for consideration.
It would not have been surprising, with the training he had had, if Paul, accustomed to live upon Mr. Solomons’ loans, as most young men live upon their father’s resources, had salved his conscience by this clear plea of necessity, and had decided that to take his degree anyhow was of the first importance both for himself and Mr. Solomons.
But he didn’t. In an instant he had thought all these things over, and, being now a man and a free agent, had decided in a flash what course of action his freedom imposed upon him.
With trembling lips he answered firmly, “No, thank you, Mr. Solomons; I’ve enough in hand for my needs for the present.” And then he relapsed into troubled silence.
What followed he hardly noticed much. There was more political talk, and more sherry all round, with plum cake accompaniment and serious faces. And then they rose to leave: Paul thinking to himself that now the crisis had come at last, and he could never return to his beloved Oxford. Those three years of his life would all be thrown away. He must miss his degree — and break his father’s heart with the disappointment.
But Sir Emery observed as he reached the open air, rubbing his hands together in the profundity of his admiration, “‘E’s a rare clever chap, to be sure, Mr. Solomons. Barr and Wilkie aint nothin’ by the side of him. Why, ’e read them documents out aloud so as no lawyer couldn’t ‘a’ drawed ’em up better.”
And Mr. Lionel, within, was observing to his uncle, “Well, you are a simple one, and no mistake, to let that fellow Gascoyne see where you keep his acknowledgments! For my part, I wouldn’t trust any man alive to know where I keep any papers of importance.”