save his own it must needs give rise to wonder if not suspicion.
It would astonish anyone who knew Arthur Conway to read that
he had left 20,000Z. behind him ; but even that would be more easy
to believe than that he had been mad when he executed the will.

On the last day of their journey. Major Ross and Peimicuick
had left the boat, to walk for a few miles across the country and
rejoin it at a certain place, while Milbmna remained on board
writing letters. Ealph had changed his coat for a lighter one, and
not till he had gone some distance did he remember that he had
forgotten to take out the will which was left in the pocket of the
coat in the cabin. Suppose Milbm-n should look in the coat
and read the will ! No apprehension of course could have
been more wild and gToundless ; but the guilty are frightened
at a shadow. Milburn was a gentleman and a man of honour ;
but the young are proverbially curious, and if such a thing were to
happen, he, being Conway's friend and admirer, would be of all men
the most dangerous to be possessed of such a secret. He had also
actually made inquiry as to what the dead man was likely to
have left behind him. The moralist who said that lying should be
avoided because it was ' such a strain upon the memory,' might



248 BY PROXY.



have extended his warning to all crimes on the ground of their
exacting nature. The criminal must needs be always vigilant, yet
always suspicious ; he ca;n never take precautions enough, nor be too
prudent in his very precautions. The risks he runs may be infini-
tesimally small, but the danger, if discovery should occur, magnifies
them to colossal proportions.

Up to that hour it had seemed to Pennicuick that the de-
struction of the will would have secured him complete immunity,
but from henceforth this was far from being the case. If he now
destroyed the will, or failed to produce it, it might be that that
very circumstance would at least to one man in the world be a
proof of his villany. The fear of exposure was so terrible to him,
that it almost drove him back into the path of honesty which even
yet lay open to him. He would still be a rich man, even if he did
disburse that 20,000^. ; but then it was such a large sum, and
money was so dear to him, not only for what it commanded, but
for its own sake. Moreover, though it was true he might still be
honest, Koss and Milburn would think it at least strange that he
should not only have kept secret his friend's testamentary instruc-
tions, but also led them to imagine that they were right in sup-
posing he had died poor. Thus silence itself was fraught with
danger ; while speech — admission of any kind — absolutely bristled
with it. And yet to speak, to answer questions, to supply explana-
tions, was now become so necessary !

As to the mere narrative — the statement of what had happened
at the temple and the prison — that was easy enough. In a great
law case in our own country, during which there had been a more
than usual amount of perjury, it was observed that no fewer than
eight persons gave a coherent account of a certain dinner at which



THE BEGINNINGS OF BASENESS. 249

the defendant was said to have been entertained, and on which feet
hung a most important issue ; they all described the afifair in
detail, and all the particulars tallied with one another so accurately
that it was impossible to believe (what was, however, the actual feet)
that not one of these witnesses had ever before set eyes on the man
in question. This miracle was managed by the attorney for the
defence, who gave a dinner to these eight witnesses with himself in
the chair, and all they had to do was to associate all that was done
and said, not with him, but with his client. The formula was pre-
cisely the same ; they had only to put A for B. Thus, in Penni-
cuick's case, he had but to substitute Conway for himself, and there
was no fear of his story containing any contradictions. Even its
inconsistencies were not of fact — though there were inconsistencies.
1^0 one who knew Conway, for example, could understand how he
could have committed such an act as the stealing of the Shay-le.
To have done that, it would be justly argued, a man must be pos-
sessed of the spirit of recklessness — or he must be malicious. Now,
Conway, though an agreeable companion and a general favourite,
was by no means of a rollicking disposition ; his beha^iour was
quiet, his spirits, if equable, were never high ; and, indeed, it was
understood that the poor fellow 'pulled a very heavy boat' as
respected domestic and pecuniary matters, and had enough
to trouble him. He was prudent, too, notwithstanding that he
had a weakness for cards and horses, and never ran any risk
that could be avoided. How, then, could he have risked — and lost
— his life in the indulgence of a mischievous whim ?

Then, as to malice, never was man more devoid of it. Those
who knew him best, too, were aware that, though by no means a
religious man himself, he respected religion, of whatever kind, in



2SO BY PROXY.



others, and it was to the last degree unlikely that he should have
committed an offence that was an outrage on the feelings of our
entire nation.

These were objections which Ralph Pennicuick had to meet on
all sides upon his arrival at Shanghae, but which he made no
effort to combat. After a severe mental struggle, he had destroyed
the will, and so far ' burned his boats.' No retreat lay open to
him along the broad straight road of honour, though it was still
in his power to make restitution for the wrong he had committed
by putting Conway's wishes into effect. Every hour, however,
made this more difficult ; since, after looking into his friend's
affairs, he must needs say whether he died rich or poor, and act
accordingly. He could scarcely make over 20,000L to the widow
and her daughter as a free gift, even if they would have accepted
it. Such hypocrisy would have been almost as abominable as the
contemplated robbery itself, and there would also be the loss of
the money. That of course was the keystone of the whole edifice
of fraud and crime that Pennicuick was building up, and which
-every day grew larger and larger, as is usual with such buildings ;
an outwork of lies had to be thrown out here, and another there, to
defend the citadel, till at last he could scarcely emerge from the
work of his own hands to draw a breath of fresh air. His specious
excuses to himself, his reasons for his wrong, were all moonshine —
or rather limelight, for there was nothing natural about them ; the
main fact was, that he could not bring himself to part with the
money, since there was none to compel him, or reproach him for
keeping it.

It is not to be supposed, however, though he had escaped from
the hands of his enemies with a whole skin and a comparatively



THE BEGINNINGS OE BASENESS. 251

undiminished purse, that Ealph Pennicuick felt triumphant or even
satisfied. A man can be selfish, greedy, and even altogether bad,
without such a consciousness of the fact as is disturbing to his mind ;
but he cannot be a scoundrel without knowing it : and this know-
ledge is — just at first, at all events — exceedingly disturbing.

Moreover, Pennicuick's sensibilities were still alive. Every re-
ference to Conway's fate was painful to him, to an extreme degree.
Great pangs of remorse shot through him on each occasion of
them ; and the pain he could not conceal was set down by those
who observed it to tenderness and friendship, which made their
sympathy intolerable.

It was agreed on all sides— even by Milburn himself, who did
not like him — that Pennicuick had behaved ' deuced well about
poor Conway.' He had paid his money right and left to ensure
his comfort in prison ; had spared no trouble or expense to obtain
his pardon ; and had done all he could, when his friend was dead,
to do honour to his memory. It was quite understood that he
would never look to the widow for any of these expenses ; and,
though he was rich, he was known to ' stick to his money,' so that
his generosity was the more commendable. The miUtary gentle-
men who were addicted to sport did not forget, too, that Penni-
cuick's expedition up the country had been cut short by his friend's
misfortune, and all the fun he had promised himself turned into
misery, which they said was ' rather rough ' on Pennicuick, who,
instead of shooting 'a jolly lot of game among the hills,' had now
to concern himself with business afi'airs in relation to his dead
friend. In one particular, however, Conway's friends were not in-
clined to approve of Pennicuick's conduct. He was not so solicitous
as they thought he ought to be to ' make a row at the embassy '



252 BY PROXY.



about what had happened. The British minister ought to be urged
to communicate with his government, who should require Conway's
murderers to be given up to justice. If this was refused, then let
there be war. To this Pennicuick replied that he was the best
judge of his own responsibility in the matter ; and that, while he
lamented what had occurred as deeply as any man, he could not
bring himself to state that murder had been done. Conway had
fallen a victim, it is true, to Chinese superstition, but everything-
had been done in course of law. He could not in honesty give
such evidence as might be made a casus belli.

' But, at all events, these beggars should be made to give com-
pensation to the widow,' urged the gentlemen of the mess-table.

' As to that,' said Pennicuick modestly, ' I will myself take
care that she at least suffers no pecuniary loss from the misfortune
that has befallen her.' This assurance earned him golden opinions ;
and when, after a very few days, it was found that Arthur Conway
had died worth next to nothing, everyone took comfort because of
this friend that had the power and will to serve the dear ones he
had left behind. It could even be said that those who knew most
about Ealph Pennicuick at Shanghae had the best opinion of
him. But then only very few people had any personal knowledge
of him : while a good many — indeed, the whole English-speaking
population — had heard something of his adventures. On the oc-
casion of his first return to Shanghae, however, so little had been
known for certain about the matter, that a rumour had got about
— and, as we have seen, had reached Hong Kong — that it was
Pennicuick and not Conway who had been put to death. It was
easily accounted for enough, since the two names were mentioned
together, and those who knew Conway took it for granted that the



THE BEGINNINGS OF BASENESS. 253

other man must have been the one in the scrape; but the error
was a great annoyance to the real survivor. Just as a criminal
is sometimes convicted by help of a piece of evidence that
happens to be in itself false, so by a mere accident Pennicuick
found that part imputed to him in the catastrophe which he had
actually played ; and though his own reappearance in the flesh
soon set the matter right at Shanghae, the other story had by that
time gone elsewhere, beyond the reach of such personal contradic-
tion, and had received the usual additions and exaggerations on its
way. Worse than all, as he discovered on his arrival at Hong Kong,
this rumour had actually been telegraphed to England ; and, had
they not taken great pains to ascertain the truth before replying to
Eaymond's inquiry, his own bankers might have confirmed the first
report, so strongly were they assured on all sides of its correctness.

The terms of Ealph Pennicuick's telegram to his son had been,
as we have seen, concise and cold enough ; he was, in fact, greatly
troubled at the error that had taken place, to the probable effects of
which, in the way of gossip and scandal, he was keenly alive ; and,
moreover, he felt the extreme need of caution. He had nut yet
shaped out for himself the course to be adopted in relation to Mrs.
Conway and her daughter, when he should return to En gland, though
he had vague ideas of being very patronising and munificent. The
breach of faith he had committed began itself, indeed, already to
sit more lightly on his conscience ; but there were matters in con-
nection with it that he had not considered — a few weeks ago, in
fact, he would have thought them beneath consideration — but
which now gave him great annoyance, and even distress of mind.

Everything that had relation to the dead man was a source of
mental trouble to him. It had been painful to him, as we have



254 ^y PROXY.



seen, to describe, even after his own fashion, the details of Conway's
misadventure and death ; and, though his actual remorse showed
signs of mitigation, this feeling by no means wore out with time ;
it weighed, too, upon his mind like lead that he would have to go
over the whole matter again when he reached England, and, what
was worse than all, to Mrs. Conway herself. Though he had tele-
graphed curtly, ' Break it to the family,' he thought of the task he
had thus imposed upon his son for many an hour. He pictured
to himself again and again Nelly's silent agony, and her mother's
artificial composure, under which would be even sharper pangs at
work than in her daughter's case. He had the sagacity to com-
prehend how much worse would these fatal tidings fall upon their
ears from the circumstance of their having already received the
false report. Ealph Pennicuick entertained no ' illusions ' respect-
ing either himself or his fellow-creatures. It must have been an
uncommonly good piece of news to Mrs. Conway and the girl to
hear that he was dead and gone : that woman had always hated
him, and had probably not even taken pains to conceal her satis-
faction at his fate. Nelly would have said ' How shocking ! ' and
then they would have both set to work to discuss what money he
had left behind him, and how long Eaymond would wait out of
decent respect till he came to see them — and propose. He had
been so wrapt up in self, and so little observant of his son's be-
haviour, that he had guessed nothing of the attachment between
the young people, till Conway's last request had suggested it to
his mind ; but now he perceived how his death would have made
the course of true love run smooth, and how his being alive must
be resented as an obstacle to it. In picturing all this, he showed
great acumen ; and if he failed altogether in representing to him-



THE BEGINNINGS OF BASENESS. 255

self the feelings of his son, it was not for want of cleverness. He
prided himself on his ability to ' put himself in the place of other
people ' — in quite another sense from that wherein he had just
given proof of his powers in poor Conway's case — but he could
not penetrate Raymond's nature, the dutiful simplicity of which
was altogether unintelligible to him. He saw his son wearing a
mask of sorrow, but in reality congratulating himself that he was
his own master, and had come into his father's kingdom ; and
though he allowed that this state of things was natural, he re-
sented it.

He was coming home, in short, in a bad humour with himself
and everybody else, and also, for the first time in his life, in bad
health. For what could it be but some touch of indigestion, or
other vulgar malady, that had rendered him of late so nervous ?

' Xerves ' had been heretofore a thing unknown to him — now
the least thing sudden or unexpected startled him. When he
was in Conway's quarters at Shanghae, for example, packing up
some of his dead friend's little ' belongings ' — a few books, half-a-
dozen drawings, &c. — the following circumstance had occurred.
He had been looking at a sketch which called to mind some scene
upon the fatal journey they had taken together, and was just
placing it along with the rest, when he suddenly became conscious
that some one was standing behind him. It was, in fact, Conway's
servant, whose entrance had not attracted his observation, and
nothing was less extraordinary than his being there. Yet it was
full a minute before Ralph Pennicuick could bring himself to turn
round and look the man in the face. He did not believe that
dead men rose even in the other world, and much less therefore in
this and yet — well, of course it was only liver, but these ridi-



256 BY PROXY.



culous apprehensions were recurrent. He spoke to the regimental
surgeon on the matter, in a guarded manner and without men-
tioning names, and that gentleman had affirmed that he was ' a
cup too low,' and recommended a little stimulant. Pennicuick,
always moderate in his mode of life, because enjoyment was a
science with him, had accordingly begun to take a few drops of
brandy. But even this did not effect a complete cure. When he
went into his cabin on board the steamer, the first thing he saw
there was a coffin with ' Arthur Conway ' upon it. An absurd
delusion enough, since it was only poor Conway's black portmanteau
which had been placed there by mistake instead of his own ; but
the same weird terror had seized him as on the previous occasion,
and he acknowledged to himself that Ealph Pennicuick was not
the man he had been. ' That infernal climate ' had no doubt
.affected him, and a few days at sea would make all right.



A MAN OF BUSINESS. 257



CHAPTER XXII.

A MAN OF BUSINESS.

Whatever may be said of woman's disadvantages, she possesses
the great gift, denied to the male, of believing or disbelieving
certain things according to her own desires. The evidence of her
own senses, and of all human and even divine testimony, goes for
next to nothing when she once takes a thing into her head. ' If
an angel from heaven were to tell me so-and-so,' she says (it
generally relates to her husband), ' I should not believe him ; '
and there is little doubt but that she would not. INIan, weak
creature, gives up his illusions when experience has proved them
baseless— there are examples of his having even parted with his
prejudices ; but woman, like a rock amid a world of waters, is deaf
to the universal voice — whether it come in lap or roar — and
remains immovable. Even if her belief is undermined by the
incessant beat of the wave, the result as respects others is the
same, since she never confesses it.

Now, Mrs. Conway had made up her mind — it was a small
parcel, but exceedingly compact — that her husband was not dead.
Her chief reason (though, in truth, reason had very little to do
with it) was, that the news came from Ralph Pennicuick, who
n(so she put it to herself without circumlocution) was a liar.

VOL. I. s



258 BY PROXY.



She would have believed, if it had been possible, that Pennicuick
was dead ; she wanted to believe it very much, and she had
believed it — both excellent causes for an immutable faith. But
since he had apparently telegraphed to his son in person, and was
coming home in the next steamer, she was obliged to give way in
that one particular. All the more steadily, however, did she
cling to her other fixed idea. Pennicuick would return to England
with a lie in his mouth about her husband. His statement that
his friend was dead was almost evidence to her that he was alive ;
and as to this story of his having been put to death for an outrage
upon Chinese religious feeling, if the sun had turned black in
corroboration of such an assertion, she would only have concluded
that Pennicuick had found means to apply tar or caustic to the
sun. While poor Nelly, therefore, was overwhelmed with grief and
pity for the loss of her father, her mother maintained an inviolable
calm which was set down by the little world around her as proof
of her want of feeling.

' All we can say is,' said the more charitable, ' that it is better
than hypocrisy, since it is certain she never cared for her husband.'

But even these persons allowed that such conduct was indecent.
For many days she would not even go into mourning, and, when
persuaded so to do by her daughter, assumed her widow's weeds
under protest.

' I tell you, your father is alive, child ; nor should I give up
my conviction to your importunities, but that it suits me to wear
mourning, because of other things that have happened.'

Nelly was well aware that her mother referred to her disap-
pointment about Ealph Pennicuick, and to the change in her own
fortunes brought about by that gentleman's being still in the flesh.



A MAN OF BUSrNESS.



259



For it was one thing to poor Xellj to have had her grief on
account of the loss that had befallen her lover mitigated by the
thought of their assured union ; and quite another to have her
wretchedness on her fathers account enhanced bv the knowledofe
that Eaymond was removed from her still more completely than
before. And yet in both cases she strove her best to be unselfish.
She wept for her parent's fate upon its own account, and only
thought of her own in relation to him. She was miserable because
she was never to see him more ; never to know how the dear
bronzed face was changed from that whose likeness hung in the
drawing-room, and a copy of which she had taken for her own
little room. It had been the dream of her young life to welcome
him to England, and to effect a reconciliation between him and
her mother, so that his home should be home indeed. She had
fancied there were misconstructions, misunderstandings, between
her parents, that her eyes, quickened by Love, might penetrate, and
which she might smooth away, and that they might all be, one
day, happy together ; and all this was over now. The kind heart,
that, though so far away, had beaten, she knew, in sympathy with
her own, was pulseless ; the father would never clasp his child to
his arms ; the husband was dead, and the breach between him and
the woman he had sworn to love and cherish was not to be healed
in this world.

It was not quite so bad for Nelly as for some bereaved ones,
whom everything about them reminds of their calamity. There
were not those unmistakable links between her father's memory and
the ordinary life at home which exist in most cases, and the snapping
of each of which costs a sharp pang ; but such few things as were
connected with him had from their very rarity an unusual signi-

s 2



26o BY PROXY.



ficance. His letters were sacred treasures, and the perusal of any
of them now carried her beyond the hounds of ordinary sorrow ;
she perceived, for the first time with distinctness, how the dead
man had been bound up in that distant daughter of his, and what
unaccustomed pains he had taken to show his love for her, and to ask
her confidence. How strange it was that he, a soldier, among such
stirring and alien scenes, should have striven to enter into her childish
thoughts, and interest himself in her homely wishes 1 What a gentle
heart must this man have had who, reaching his brown hand as it
were across the world, took her own little palm in his and pressed
it so tenderly ! In particular, it struck her, how generous was the
nature that never took advantage of the love it had evoked for
itself, to persuade her to take his side in the domestic quarrel.
He could not write to her, as fathers should do, of her mother, but
he never used an expression that could be construed as one of dis-
respect. Yet Nelly's sense of justice prevented her even now from
iDeing her father's partisan. 8he understood how the very love he
had shown for her must have been gall and wormwood to her
mother, for whom he had expressed none, and yet she herself had
never suffered for it. Her mother had never betrayed a spark of
jealousy, though bitter things had escaped her lips upon her own
account. And her silence now had an immense significance. Its
meaning was, in spite of her reiterated assurances that she knew
herself to be no widow,- that she had in truth a secret doubt about
it. Kalph Pennicuick might have lied to her as to the circum-
stances of her husband's death, and yet have told the truth as to
the fact. And in time there was confirmation of this. The
scanty income of Mrs. Conway and her daughter was paid through
an army agent at certain dates, and an instalment became pre-



A MAN OF BUSINESS. 261

sently due. As it did not arrive, the widow wrote to the agent,
and his reply was that his esteemed client Captain Conway was
dead, and that there would be no more remittances. He probably
thought that the widow's application for the money was either the
most impudent proceeding that had been ever heard of west of
Temple Bar, or that it afforded the strongest proof within his ex-
perience of the ignorance of the female mind respecting business
matters.

Mrs. Conway put the letter into her daughter's hand, and ob-