Spanish Gold. George A. Birmingham
for the day of the races, the old reprobate. He'll poison half the county with the stuff he sells as whisky in those tents of his. Then nothing would do the chestnut filly but to cut her near hind leg on the barbed wire, and she had to be seen to. Then Jemmy Doyle came over with some stranger who wanted to hire the Spindrift. As if I'd lend my boat to a man I've never set eyes on before—a fellow in a fur coat, who most likely knows no more about sailing than I do about midwifery. And now it's you, J. J. But sit down and light your pipe. I suppose you want a drink. There's whisky and a syphon of soda on the side-board."
"I want a lemon," said the curate, "and a big tumbler."
"Well, then, you'll have to ring the bell. The housekeeper will get them for you. When you've settled yourself you may as well give me a hand with the job I'm at."
"I'll go out to the kitchen and get what I want," said Meldon. "That'll be quicker and easier than ringing bells."
He secured his lemon and concocted for himself the drink he desired. With the tumbler on the floor beside him, he stretched himself in a deep chair and lit his pipe.
"Now, Major," he said, "I'm ready. What can I do for you?"
"Can you read Latin and Greek?" said the Major.
"Of course I can. I'm a B.A. of Trinity College, Dublin, and that means that I've read a heap of Latin and Greek in my day. At the same time, Major, I warn you fairly, that if you want me to sit here translating Plato or Aristotle to you all the evening, I'm not on. The weather's too hot."
"What are you talking about?" said the Major. "Who wants you to translate Plato? When I asked if you could read Latin and Greek what I meant was, can you read lawyer's English?"
"Oh, you meant that, did you? Well, I can read lawyer's English or any other kind of English for that matter. I tell you, Major, a man who has been through the Divinity School of T.C.D. and read Pearson on the Creed isn't likely to be beaten by anything a lawyer could write. What's your difficulty?"
"Old Sir Giles Buckley's dead," said the Major.
"I know that. The rector's in a fine fizz over losing his subscription to the church. The old boy hasn't been near the place this twenty years, but he paid up like a man. Now the property has gone to a nephew, who means to sell it, I hear, as soon as he can, and who doesn't care a rap about the church. By the way, isn't there a son somewhere?"
"There is. A bad lot—and always was a bad lot. Cards, women, horses, and the devil. The Lord alone knows where he is now. He got the baronetcy, of course, and the house and demesne, which were entailed. But that's all. Old Sir Giles didn't leave him a penny nor an acre more than he could help. But that's no affair of mine. The point for me is this. My grandfather got the land I hold now from old Sir Giles's father. He got it for services rendered in '98, when the French landed at Killala. He was a sailor, a naval man——"
"I know," said Meldon. "'Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,' and all that sort of thing."
"The Sir Giles of that day got into a panic when the French landed. It appears that he wasn't particularly popular in the county, and he didn't feel quite sure what the people might do to him."
"They might have done several things. They might, for instance, have hanged him."
"So he seemed to think. Well, my grandfather took him off in his sloop, which happened to be lying in the bay at the time, and kept him safe till the business was over. In return he got the land out of old Buckley, and here we are, father and son, three generations of us, ever since, the Kents of Portsmouth Lodge. Now that this new man is going to sell the estate, the question comes up what kind of title have I?"
"That'll be all right," said Meldon. "Don't you worry about the matter. I'll see you through. Just you hand me over those papers. You trot off and do anything you think you have to do before dinner. I'll get the meaning out of the papers for you and have a clear statement of the case ready when you get back. Give me the whole bundle. There's a little brown book left on your desk. Hand it over with the rest."
"It's of no importance."
"Is it private? No? Then pass it over. What you think of no importance is just as likely as not to be the vital document. It's always the papers that seem unimportant to the mere amateur which turn out to contain the clue in these cases of disputed inheritance, and so forth. You don't read many novels, I know, Major, but you must have noticed that fact."
"But this little book is nothing but an old diary of my grandfather's."
"Quite so," said Meldon. "That's just the sort of thing I want to get at. Now do you be off and leave me in peace."
"I'll go down and have a look at the Spindrift," said the Major. "I'm having her overhauled and fitted out for a cruise. What do you say, J. J.? Will you come with me for a week? We might go off to Inishgowlan and shoot seals."
"Are there seals on Inishgowlan?"
"There are, I believe. When do you get your holiday?"
"June," said Meldon. "The rector's taking July and a bit of August. I don't care to put off till September. But I can't go with you. I'm booked. I promised to spend a week with my old governor and the rest of the time with my little girl in Rathmines."
"Bother your little girl."
"You wouldn't say that if you saw her. She's a remarkably nice little girl, nicer than any you've ever seen. I have her photo here——" He put his hand into his breast pocket.
"Thanks," said the Major. "You've shown me her photo before."
"This is a different photo. It's a new one, done by a first-rate man. Look here."
"Keep it till after dinner. I must be off to take a look at the Spindrift."
"Very well then, go. But you may whistle for the photo after dinner. I won't show it to you. No man shall say I rammed my little girl down his throat. You may be a callous old mysogynist, Major——"
"A what? I wish you wouldn't use that sort of language out of the pulpit, J. J."
"A mysogynist. It means a sort of curmudgeon who doesn't care to look at the photo of a pretty girl when he gets the chance."
"A mysogynist shows some sense then," chuckled the Major.
"You may think so; but I can tell you a mysogynist is the exact opposite kind of man to what Solomon was, and he is generally given credit for not being quite a fool."
CHAPTER II
MAJOR KENT returned at half-past six o'clock, well satisfied with the condition of the Spindrift. He found Meldon absorbed in the little brown book, the diary of the Kent who was a sea captain and flourished in 1798.
"Have you worked through the papers?" asked the Major.
"Haven't looked at one of them," said Meldon, "and don't mean to. I've got something here worth Portsmouth Lodge and your whole footy little property along with it."
"I don't believe you."
"Very well, then, don't. Be an incredulous Jew, if you like. But I can tell you you'll open your eyes when you hear what I've found."
"Hurry up, then, and tell me. It's time for me to go and dress for dinner."
"Go on. Get into your starched shirt and your silk-lined coat. After dinner I'll tell you all about it."
"Wouldn't you like a wash yourself, J. J.?"
"No," said the curate, "I'm a busy man. I can't spend hours and hours every day washing and dressing myself. I've something else to do. At present I have to run through this log of your grandfather's again and copy out a few of the most important bits."
Major Kent dressed quietly. He dined with a good appetite and without hurry.