The Sorrows of Satan (Horror Classic). Marie Corelli
satisfaction in discoursing of disease and unsavoury medical matters generally. And in the Liver Brigade you see at a glance all those interesting fellows who have sold themselves to the devil for the sake of the flesh-pots of Egypt,—men who eat till they are well-nigh bursting, and then prance up and down on good horses,—much too respectable beasts by the way to bear such bestial burdens—in the hope of getting out of their poisoned blood the evil they have themselves put in. They think me one of them, but I am not.”
He patted his mare and the groom led her away, the foam of her hard ride still flecking her glossy chest and forelegs.
“Why do you join the procession then?” I asked him, laughing and glancing at him with undisguised approval as I spoke, for he seemed more admirably built than ever in his well-fitting riding gear—“You are a fraud!”
“I am!” he responded lightly—“And do you know I am not the only one in London! Where are you off to?”
“To those lawyers who wrote to me last night;—Bentham and Ellis is the name of the firm. The sooner I interview them the better,—don’t you think so?”
“Yes—but see here,”—and he drew me aside—“You must have some ready cash. It doesn’t look well to apply at once for advances,—and there is really no necessity to explain to these legal men that you were on the verge of starvation when their letter arrived. Take this pocket-book,—remember you promised to let me be your banker,—and on your way you might go to some well-reputed tailor and get properly rigged out. Ta-ta!”
He moved off at a rapid pace,—I hurried after him, touched to the quick by his kindness.
“But wait—I say—Lucio!” And I called him thus by his familiar name for the first time. He stopped at once and stood quite still.
“Well?” he said, regarding me with an attentive smile.
“You don’t give me time to speak”—I answered in a low voice, for we were standing in one of the public corridors of the hotel—“The fact is I have some money, or rather I can get it directly,—Carrington sent me a draft for fifty pounds in his letter—I forgot to tell you about it. It was very good of him to lend it to me,—you had better have it as security for this pocket-book,—by-the-bye how much is there inside it?”
“Five hundred, in bank notes of tens and twenties,”—he responded with business-like brevity.
“Five hundred! My dear fellow, I don’t want all that. It’s too much!”
“Better have too much than too little nowadays,”—he retorted with a laugh—“My dear Tempest, don’t make such a business of it. Five hundred pounds is really nothing. You can spend it all on a dressing-case for example. Better send back John Carrington’s draft,—I don’t think much of his generosity considering that he came into a mine worth a hundred thousand pounds sterling, a few days before I left Australia.”
I heard this with great surprise, and, I must admit with a slight feeling of resentment too. The frank and generous character of my old chum ‘Boffles’ seemed to darken suddenly in my eyes,—why could he not have told me of his good fortune in his letter? Was he afraid I might trouble him for further loans? I suppose my looks expressed my thoughts, for Rimânez, who had observed me intently, presently added—
“Did he not tell you of his luck? That was not very friendly of him—but as I remarked last night, money often spoils a man.”
“Oh I daresay he meant no slight by the omission,” I said hurriedly, forcing a smile—“No doubt he will make it the subject of his next letter. Now as to this five hundred”—
“Keep it, man, keep it”—he interposed impatiently—“What do you talk about security for? Haven’t I got you as security?”
I laughed. “Well, I am fairly reliable now”—I said—“And I’m not going to run away.”
“From me?” he queried, with a half cold half kind glance; “No,—I fancy not!”
He waved his hand lightly and left me, and I, putting the leather case of notes in my inner breast-pocket, hailed a hansom and was driven off rapidly to Basinghall Street where my solicitors awaited me.
Arrived at my destination, I sent up my name, and was received at once with the utmost respect by two small chips of men in rusty black who represented ‘the firm.’ At my request they sent down their clerk to pay and dismiss my cab, while I, opening Lucio’s pocket book, asked them to change me a ten-pound note into gold and silver which they did with ready good-will. Then we went into business together. My deceased relative, whom I had never seen as far as I myself remembered, but who had seen me as a motherless baby in my nurse’s arms, had left me everything he possessed unconditionally, including several rare collections of pictures, jewels and curios. His will was so concisely and clearly worded that there were no possibilities of any legal hair-splitting over it,—and I was informed that in a week or ten days at the utmost everything would be in order and at my sole disposition.
“You are a very fortunate man Mr Tempest;”—said the senior partner Mr Bentham, as he folded up the last of the papers we had been looking through and put it by—“At your age this princely inheritance may be either a great boon to you or a great curse,—one never knows. The possession of such enormous wealth involves great responsibilities.”
I was amused at what I considered the impertinence of this mere servant of the law in presuming to moralize on my luck.
“Many people would be glad to accept such responsibilities and change places with me”—I said with a flippant air—“You yourself, for example?”
I knew this remark was not in good taste, but I made it wilfully, feeling that he had no business to preach to me as it were on the responsibilities of wealth. He took no offence however,—he merely gave me an observant side-glance like that of some meditative crow.
“No Mr Tempest, no”—he said drily—“I do not think I should at all be disposed to change places with you. I feel very well satisfied as I am. My brain is my bank, and brings me in quite sufficient interest to live upon, which is all that I desire. To be comfortable, and pay one’s way honestly is enough for me. I have never envied the wealthy.”
“Mr Bentham is a philosopher,”—interposed his partner, Mr Ellis smiling—“In our profession Mr Tempest, we see so many ups and downs of life, that in watching the variable fortunes of our clients, we ourselves learn the lesson of content.”
“Ah, it is a lesson that I have never mastered till now!” I responded merrily—“But at the present moment I confess myself satisfied.”
They each gave me a formal little bow, and Mr Bentham shook hands.
“Business being concluded, allow me to congratulate you,” he said politely—“Of course, if you should wish at any time to entrust your legal affairs to other hands, my partner and myself are perfectly willing to withdraw. Your deceased relative had the highest confidence in us....”
“As I have also, I assure you,”—I interrupted quickly—“Pray do me the favour to continue managing things for me as you did for my relative, and be assured of my gratitude in advance.”
Both little men bowed again, and this time Mr Ellis shook hands.
“We shall do our best for you, Mr Tempest, shall we not Bentham?” Bentham nodded gravely. “And now what do you say—shall we mention it Bentham?—or shall we not mention it?”
“Perhaps,” responded Bentham sententiously—“it would be as well to mention it.”
I glanced from one to the other, not understanding what they meant. Mr Ellis rubbed his hands and smiled deprecatingly.
“The fact is Mr Tempest, your deceased relative had one very curious idea—he was a shrewd man and a clever one, but he certainly had one very curious idea—and perhaps if he had followed it up to any extent, it might—yes, it might have landed