Geoffrey Hampstead: A Novel

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  GEOFFREY HAMPSTEAD

  _A NOVEL_

  BY THOMAS STINSON JARVIS

  Consider the work of God: for who can make that straight, which he hath made crooked?

  _Ecclesiastes vii, 13._

  NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

  1890

  COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

  GEOFFREY HAMPSTEAD.

  CHAPTER I.

  I do not think So fair an outward, and such stuff within, Endows a man but he.

  _Cymbeline._

  The Victoria Bank, Toronto, is on the corner of Bay and Front Streets,where it overlooks a part of the harbor large enough to gladden the eyesof the bank-clerks who are aquatic in their habits and have time to lookout of the windows. Young gentlemen in tattered and ink-stained coats,but irreproachable in the matter of trousers and linen, had been knownto gaze longingly and wearily down toward that strip of shining waterwhen hard fate in the shape of bank duty apparently remained indifferentto the fact that an interesting race was being rowed or sailed. This,sometimes, was rather a bad thing for the race; for the Victoria Bankhad, immured within its cut stone and plate glass, some good specimensof muscular gentility; and in contests of different kinds, the V. B. hada way (discomforting to other banks) of producing winners. The amount ofmuscle some of them could apply to a main-sheet was creditable, while,as to rowing, there were few who did not cultivate a back and thighaction which, if not productive of so much speed as Hanlan's, wascertainly, to the uninitiated, quite as pleasant to look upon; so that,in sports generally, there was a decided call for the Vics.; not onlyamong men on account of their skill, but also in the ranks of a gentlercommunity whose interest in a contest seemed to be more personal thansporting. The Vics. had adopted as their own a particular color, ofwhich they would wear at least a small spot on any "big day"; and, whenthey were contesting, this color would be prevalent in gatherings ofthose interested personally. And who would inquire the reasons for thisfavoritism? "Reasons! explanations!--why are men so curious? Is it notenough that those most competent to decide have decided? What will you?Go to!" Indeed, the sex is very divine. It is a large part of theirdivinity to be obscure.

  Perhaps these young men danced with the ease and self-satisfaction ofdervishes. Perhaps their prowess was unconsciously admired by those whoformerly required defenders. But the most compelling reason, on thisimportant point, was that "ours" of the Victoria Bank had establishedthemselves socially as "quite the right sort" and "good form"--and thusdesirable to the Toronto maiden, and, if not so much so to her morematch-making mother, the fact that they were considered _chic_ provideda feminine argument in their favor which had, as usual, the advantage ofbeing, from its vagueness, difficult to answer; so that the moremercantile mother grew to consider that a "detrimental" who was _chic_was not, after all, as bad as a "det." without leaven.

  It has been said that bank-clerks are all the same; but, while admittingthat, in regard to their faultless trousers and immaculate linen, theredoes exist a pleasing general resemblance, rather military, it must beinsisted that there are different sorts of them; that they are completein their way, and need not be idealized. The old barbaric love forwonderful story-telling is still the harvest-ground of those who liveby the propagation of ideas, but must we always demand the unreal?

  There was nothing unreal about Jack Cresswell. As he stood poring overcolumns of figures in a great book, one glance at him was sufficient todispel all hope of mystery. He was inclosed in the usual box orstall--quite large enough for him to stand up in, which was all herequired (sitting ruins trousers)--and his office coat was all abank-clerk could desire. The right armpit had "carried away," and theleft arm was merely attached to the body by a few ligaments--remindingone of railway accidents. The right side of the front and the left armhad been used for years as a pen-wiper. A metallic clasp for a patentpencil was clinched through the left breast. The holes for the pocketsmight be traced with care even at this epoch, but they had become somerged in surrounding tears as to almost lose identity with the originaldesign.

  The bank doors had been closed for some time, after three o'clock, onthis particular day in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundredand blank, and Jack Cresswell had been puzzling his brains over figureswith but poor success. Whether his head was dull, or whether it wasoccupied by other things, it is hard to say--probably both; so, onhearing Geoffrey Hampstead, the paying-teller, getting ready to go away,he leaned over the partition and said, in an aggrieved tone:

  "Look here, Geoffrey, I'm three cents out in my balance."

  A strong, well-toned voice answered carelessly, "That is becoming apretty old story with you, Jack. You're always out. However, makeyourself comfortable, dear boy, as you will doubtless be at it a goodwhile." Then, as he put on his hat and sauntered away, Geoffrey added alittle more comfort. "If you really intend to bring it out right, youhad better arrange to guard the bank to-night. You can do both at once,you know, and get your pay as well, while you work on comfortably tillmorning."

  "I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll get these three cents right forme, I'll stand the dinners."

  "Much obliged. Mr. Hampstead has the pleasure of regretting. Priorengagement. Has asked Mr. Maurice Rankin to dine with him at the club.But perhaps, even without your handsome reward, we might get thesefigures straightened out for you." Then, taking off his coat, "You hadbetter take a bite with us if we can finish this in time."

  Geoffrey came up to the books and "took hold," while Jack, now inre-established good humor, amused himself by keeping up a running fireof comments. "Aha! me noble lord condescends to dine the poor legalscribe. I wonder, now, what led you to ask Maurice Rankin to dine withyou. You can't make anything out of Morry. He hasn't got a cent in theworld, unless he got that police-court case. Not a red shekel has he,and me noble lord asks him to dinner--which is the humor of it! Now, Iwould like to know what you want with Rankin. You know you never doanything without some motive. You see I know you pretty well. Gad! Ido."

  Geoffrey was working away under this harangue, with one ear open, like atelegraph operator, for Jack's remarks. He said: "Can not a fellow do adecent thing once in a way without hearing from you?"

  "Not you," cried Jack, "not you. I'll never believe you ever did adecent thing in your life without some underground motive."

  Geoffrey smiled over the books, where he was adding three columns offigures at once, lost the addition, and had to begin at the bottomagain; and Jack, who thought that never man breathed like Geoffrey,looked a little fondly and very admiringly at the way his friend's backtowered up from the waist to the massive shoulders--and smiled too.

  Jack's smile was expansive and contagious. It lighted up the wholeman--some said the whole room--but never more brightly than when withHampstead. Geoffrey had a fascination for him, and his admiration hadreached such a climax after nearly two years' intercourse that he nowthought there was but little within the reach of man that Geoffrey couldnot accomplish if he wished. It was not merely that he was good lookingand had an easy way with him and was in a general way a favorite--notmerely that he seemed to make more of Jack than of others. Hampstead hada power of some kind about him that harnessed others besides Jack to hischariot-wheels; and, much as Cresswell liked to exhibit Geoffrey's seamyside to him when he thought he discovered flaws, he nevertheless had
admitted to an outsider that the reason he liked Hampstead was that hewas "such an altogether solid man--solid in his sports, solid in hiswork, solid in his virtues, and, as to the other way--well, enoughsaid." But the chief reason lay in the great mental and bodily vigorthat nearly always emanated from Geoffrey, casting its spell, more orless effectively, for good or evil. With most people it was impossibleto ignore his presence; and his figure was prepossessing from theextraordinary power, grace, and capacity for speed which his everymovement interpreted.

  It was his face that bothered observant loungers in the clubs. Forstatuary, a sculptor could utilize it to represent the face of an angelor a devil with equal facility--but no second-class devil or angel. Itspermanent expression was that which a man exhibits when exercising hiswill-power. The tenacious long jaw had a squareness underneath it thatseemed to be in keeping with the length of the upper lip. The high, longnose made its usual suggestions, two furrows between the thick eyebrowscould ordinarily be seen, and the protuberant bumps over the eyes gaveadditional strength. The eyes were light blue or steel gray, accordingto the lights or the humor he was in. An intellectual forehead, beveledoff under the low-growing hair, might suggest that the higher moralaspirations would not so frequently call for the assistance of thedetermination depicted in the face as would the other qualities shown inthe width and weight of head behind the ears.

  But Jack did not believe what he said in his tirades, and his good-willmakes him lax in condemnation of things which in others he would havedenounced. What Geoffrey said or did, so far as Jack knew, met, at hishands, with an easy indifference if culpable, and a kindling admirationif apparently virtuous. The two had lived together for a long time, andno one knew better than Geoffrey how trustworthy Jack was. Consequently,he sometimes entered into little confidences concerning his experiences,which he glossed over with a certain amount of excuse, so that the morallaxity in them did not fully appear; and what with the intensity of hisspeech, his word painting, and enthusiastic face, a greater stoic thanpoor Jack might have caught the fire, and perhaps condoned the offense.

  Jack thought he knew Hampstead pretty well.

  On the other side, Hampstead, though keen at discerning character,confessed to himself that Jack was the only person he could say he knew.