The Spoils to the Victor

TO THE

HE man of law, bland, courtly, old-world mannered, tilted back his chair, put the tips of his fingers together and smiled at the grey-haired, hard-featured man who sat, grim and silent, on the other side of his desk.

“My dear Mr. Nelthorp!” he said, in the tones of one pronouncing a final judgment. “It doesn’t matter a yard of that tape what either Sutton or his solicitors say. We know—know, mind!—that it is utterly impossible for him to take up the mortgages. He is at your mercy.”

Martin Nelthorp stared hard at Mr. Postlethwaite’s smiling face—somewhere far back in his mental consciousness he was wondering why Postlethwaite always smiled in that bland, suave manner when he dispensed advice from his elbow chair. It was a smile that seemed to be always on hand when wanted, and it was never so sweet as when disagreeable things were to be dealt with. It seemed to Martin Nelthorp that there was nothing to smile at in the matter they were discussing—certainly there was no humour or pleasure in the situation for the immediate subject of discussion, Richard Sutton. But Mr. Postlethwaite continued to smile and to hold his head a little on one side, watching his client from between half-closed eyelids.

“At your mercy,” he repeated softly. “Ab-so-lute-ly at your mercy.”

Martin Nelthorp shook his great frame a little—as a mastiff might if suddenly stirred into activity. He was a big man, and his burly figure seemed to fill the office; his voice, when he spoke, was very deep and strong.

“What you mean,” he said, fixing his keen grey eyes on the solicitor, “what you mean is that if I like I can ruin him?”

Mr. Postlethwaite smiled and bowed,

“You apprehend my meaning exactly, my dear sir,” he said blandly. “Ruin is the word.”

“It’s not a very nice word to hear or to use in connection with any man,” said Martin Nelthorp.

Mr. Postlethwaite coughed. But the smile remained round his clean-shaven lips.

“The ruin of most men, my dear friend,” he said oracularly, “is brought about by themselves.”

“Just so,” said Martin Nelthorp. “All the same, the finishing touch is generally put to things by somebody else. You’re sure Sutton’s as badly off as what you make out?”

Mr. Postlethwaite fingered some papers and turned to some memoranda. He scribbled some figures on a scrap of paper and faced his client.

“The position, my dear Mr. Nelthorp,” he said, “is exactly this. You hold a first and second mortgage on Sutton’s flour mill and on his house and land—in fact, on his entire property, and the sum you have advanced represents every penny of the full value. You are now wanting, principal and interest, exactly nine thousand seven hundred and fifty-three pounds, ten shillings, and fourpence. He cannot pay this money—indeed, I question if he could by any chance find one-fourth of it, and you are in a position to foreclose at once.”

“You mean that I can sell him up?” said Martin Neithorp bluntly.

“Lock, stock, and barrel!” replied Mr. Postlethwaite.

Martin Nelthorp rubbed his chin.

“It’s no very nice thing to ruin a man—and his family with him,” he remarked.

Mr. Postlethwaite again coughed. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses and affected to exercise great care in polishing them.

“Is there any particular reason why you should consider Sutton before considering yourself?” he said softly.

Martin Nelthorp’s face darkened, and a hard, almost vindictive look came into his eyes. The hand which held his ash-plant stick tightened about it.

“No!” he said. “That there isn’t! On the contrary”

“Aye, just so, just so!” said the solicitor. “Of course, that’s an old tale now, but old wounds will rankle, my dear sir, old wounds will rankle!”

Martin Nelthorp stared hard at Mr. Postlethwaite from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows. He got up slowly, and buttoned his great driving-coat and put on his broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, still staring at the man of law.

“Well, I’ll bid you good day,” he said. “It’s time I was getting home, and I’ve still to meet a man at the George and Dragon. Do no more in that matter till you see me again—of course, Sutton doesn’t know that I bought up the two mortgages?”

“He hasn’t an idea of it, my dear sir,” answered the solicitor.

Martin Nelthorp hesitated a moment, then nodded as if to emphasise what he had just said, and again exchanging farewells with Mr. Postlethwaite, went out into the market-place of the little country town, now relapsing into somnolence at the end of an October day. He stood at the foot of Mr. Postlethwaite’s steps for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and then moved slowly off in the direction of the George and Dragon. The man whom he expected to meet there had not yet arrived; he sat down in the parlour, empty of any presence but his own, and gave himself up to reflection.

At his mercy—at last!—after nearly thirty years of waiting, at his mercy! The only enemy he had ever known, the only man he had ever had cause to hate with a bitter, undying hatred, was now by the decrees of destiny, by the whirling of fortune’s wheel, brought within his power. If he pleased, he, Martin Nelthorp, could ruin Richard Sutton, could turn him out of the old place in which the Suttons had lived for generations, could sell every yard of land, every stick of furniture that he possessed, could leave him and his—beggars.

And as he sat there in the gloomy parlour, staring with brooding eyes into the fire, he said to himself—Why not? After all, it had been said in a long distant age—An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth! Again he said to himself—Why not, now that the hour and the opportunity had come?

Nelthorp let his mind go back. He was now nearly sixty, a hale, hearty man, the biggest and cleverest farmer in those parts, rich, respected, made much of by the great folk, looked up to by the little; a man of influence and power. He was going down into the valley of life under a fine sunset and soft evening airs, and there were few who did not envy him a prosperous career and the prospect of a green old age. But Martin Nelthorp had always carried a trouble, a rankling sorrow in his breast, and he was thinking of it as he sat staring with sombre eyes at the dull red glare of the sullen cinders in the grate. It was the worst sort of sorrow that could befall a man of his type of character, for he was both sensitive and proud, quick to feel an injury or a slight, slow to let the memory of either pass from him. It is said of a Yorkshireman that he will carry a stone in his pocket for ten years in expectation of meeting an enemy, and turn it at the end of that time if the enemy has not chanced along. Martin Nelthorp might have turned his stone twice, but he would have done so with no feeling of vindictiveness. There was nothing vindictive about him, but he had a stern, Israelitish belief in justice and in retribution.

The incidents—mean, ignoble—of his wrong came up before him as he sat there waiting, and their colours were as fresh as ever. Five-and-twenty years before he had been on the verge of marriage with Lavinia Deane, celebrated all the countryside over for her beauty and her vivacity. Everything was arranged; the wedding-day was fixed; the guests invited; the bride’s finery sent home. Suddenly came news that made women weep and men smile. Almost on the eve of the wedding Lavinia ran away with Richard Sutton, and was married to him in a distant town. It was a bad business, said everybody, for Richard Sutton had been Martin Neithorp’s bosom friend from childhood, and was to have been his best man at the wedding. Nobody could conceive how the thing had come about; the girl had always seemed to be in love with Martin, and had never been seen in company with Sutton. But there the facts were—they were married, and Martin Nelthorp was a bitterly disappointed and wronged man. The man who broke the ill news to him would never speak of how he received that news, of what passed between them, or of what he said on hearing of the falseness of his sweetheart and the treachery of his friend, but it was commonly rumoured that he swore some dreadful oath of vengeance on the man and woman who had wrecked his life. And the neighbours and the people of the district watched eagerly to see what would happen.

But years went on and nothing happened. Richard Sutton and his wife stayed away from the village for some time; there was no necessity for their immediate return, for Sutton had a fine business as a corn-miller and could afford to appoint a capable manager in his absence. But they came back at last, and as Martin Nelthorp’s farm was within a mile of the mill, the busybodies wondered how things would go when the two men met. Somehow they never did meet—at least, no one ever heard of their meeting. Nelthorp kept himself to his farm; Sutton to his mill. Years went by, and things resolved themselves into a state of quiescence or indifferentism: the men passed each other in the market-place or on the highroad and took no heed. But keen-eyed observers used to note that when they passed in this way Sutton used to go by with averted head and downcast eye, while Nelthorp strode or rode on with his head in the air and his eye fixed straight before him.

Whether there had been a curse put upon them or not, Sutton and his wife did not thrive. Almost from the time of their marriage the business went down. In his grandfather’s and father’s days there had been little competition; the opening up of the countryside by railways made a great difference to Sutton’s trade. His machinery became out of date, and he neglected to replace it with new until much of his business had slipped away from him. One way and another things went from bad to worse; he had to borrow, and to borrow again, always hoping for a turn in the tide which never came. And eventually, through the instrumentality of Mr. Postlethwaite, everything that he had was mortgaged to Martin Nelthorp.

Martin, during these years, had prospered exceedingly. He had been fortunate in everything in his life, except his love affair. He had money to begin with—plenty and to spare of it—and he knew how to lay it out to the best advantage. He was one of the first to see the importance of labour-saving machinery and to introduce it on his land in good time. Again, there was nothing to distract his attention from his land. He put all thought of marriage out of his head when Lavinia proved false to him; indeed, he was never afterwards known to speak to a woman except on business. For some years he lived alone in the old farmhouse in which he had been born. Then his only sister lost her husband, and came to live with Martin, bringing with her her one child, a boy, who had been named after his uncle. Very soon she, too, died, and the boy henceforward formed Martin’s one human interest. He devoted himself to him; educated him; taught him all that he himself knew of farming, and let it be known that when his time came his nephew would step into his shoes. The two were inseparable; now, when the boy had come to man’s age and the man had grown grey, they were known for many a mile round as Old Martin and Young Martin.

Old Martin knew, as he sat by the parlour fire, that the old feeling of hatred against Richard Sutton was by no means dead within him. He had robbed him of the woman he loved, the only woman he ever could love, and, as the solicitor had said, the old wound still rankled. Well, it was in his power now to take his revenge—his enemy was at his feet. But—the woman? She, too, would be ruined, she would be a beggar, an outcast. It would be turning her out on the road. Well—his face grew stern and his eyes hard as he thought of it—had she not once turned him out on a road, longer, harder to tread than that? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth....

It never occurred to him to ask himself if there were any children who might be affected.

The man who presently came in to keep his appointment with Martin remarked afterwards that he had never known Mr. Nelthorp so hard and determined in bargaining as he was that evening.

When the bargaining was done Martin Nelthorp got on his horse and rode home to his comfortable fireside. It was always a pleasure to him to get under his own roof-tree after a long day on the land or an afternoon at market or auction. There was the evening meal in company with his nephew; the easy chair and the newspaper afterwards; the pipe of tobacco and the glass of toddy before going to bed. And Old Martin and Young Martin, as most folk thereabouts were well aware, were more like companions than uncle and nephew; they had many tastes in common—hunting, shooting, sport in general, and the younger man was as keen a farmer as the elder. There was therefore no lack of company nor of conversation round the parlour fire at the Manor Farm.

But on this particular night, for the first time since either of them could remember, there was an unusual silence and restraint round the supper-table. Both men as a rule were good trenchermen—a life in the open-air helped them to hearty and never-failing appetite. This night neither ate much, and neither seemed disposed to talk much. Old Martin knew why he himself was silent, and why he was not inclined to food—he was too full of the Sutton affair. But he wondered what made his nephew so quiet, and why he did not replenish his plate after his usual fashion. As for Young Martin he had his own thoughts to occupy him, but he, too, wondered what made the elder so obviously thoughtful.

Old Martin remained quiet and meditative all the evening. He held the newspaper in his hands, but he was not always reading it. He had his favourite pipe between his lips, but he let it go out more than once. Young Martin was similarly preoccupied. He affected to read the “Mark Lane Express,” but he was more often staring at the ceiling than at the printed page. It was not until after nine o’clock, at which hour they generally began to think of bed, that any conversation arose between them. Young Martin started it, and with obvious confusion and diffidence.

“There’s a matter I wanted to mention to you to-night, Uncle Martin,” he said. “Of course, I won’t speak of it if you've aught serious to be thinking of, but you know I never keep aught back from you, and a”

“What is it, my lad?” asked the elder man. “Speak out—I was only just studying about a business matter—it’s naught.”

Young Martin’s diffidence increased. He shuffled his feet, became very red, and opened and shut his mouth several times before he could speak.

“It’s like this,” he said at last. “If you’ve no objection I should like to get married.”

Old Martin started as if he had been shot. He stared at his nephew as though he had said that he was going to fly.

“Married!” he exclaimed. “Why, my lad—goodness be on us, you’re naught but a youngster yet!”

“Tm twenty-six, uncle,” said Young Martin.

“Twenty-six! Nay, nay—God bless my soul, well, I suppose you are. Time goes on so fast. Twenty-six! Aye, of course,” said Old Martin. “Aye, you must be, my lad. Well, but who’s the girl?”

Young Martin became more diffident than ever. It seemed an age to him before he could find his tongue. But at last he blurted the name out, all in a jerk.

“Lavinia Sutton!”

Martin Nelthorp dropped his pipe and his paper. He clutched the arms of his elbow-chair and stared at his nephew as he might have stared at a ghost. When he spoke his own voice seemed to him to be a long, long way off.

“Lavinia Sutton?”-he said hoarsely. “What—Sutton of the mill’s daughter?”

“Yes,” answered Young Martin. Then he added in a firm voice: “She’s a good girl, Uncle Martin, and we love each other true.”

Old Martin made no immediate answer. He was more taken aback, more acutely distressed, than his nephew knew. To cover his confusion he got up from his chair and busied himself in mixing a glass of toddy. A minute or two passed before he spoke; when he did speak his voice was not as steady as usual.

“He’s a poor man, is Sutton, my lad,” he said.

“I know that,” said Young Martin stoutly. “But it’s Lavinia I want—not aught from him.”

“He’s in a very bad way indeed,” remarked the elder man. “Very bad.”

Young Martin made no reply. Old Martin took a long pull at the contents of his glass and sat down.

“I didn’t know Sutton had children,” he said absently.

“There’s only Lavinia,” said his nephew.

Lavinia! The reiteration of the name cut him like a knife: the sound of it sent him back nearly thirty years. Lavinia! And no doubt the girl would be like her mother.

“You’re no doubt aware, my lad,” he said, after another period of silence, during which his nephew sat watching him, “you’re no doubt aware that me and the Suttons is anything but friends. They—the man and his wife—wronged me. Never mind how. They wronged me—cruel!”

Young Martin knew all about it, but he was not going to say that he did.

“That was not Lavinia’s fault, uncle,” he said softly. “Lavinia—she wouldn’t wrong anybody.”

Old Martin thought of the time when he had faith in women. He sighed, and drinking off his toddy, rose heavily, as if some weight had been put on him.

“Well, my lad,” he said, “this is one of those things in which a man has to choose for himself. I shouldn’t like to have it on my conscience that I ever came between a man and a woman that cared for each other. But we’ll talk about it to-morrow. I’m tired, and I’ve got to look round yet.”

Then he went out to fulfil his nightly task, never neglected, never devolved to anyone else, of looking round the farmstead before retiring to rest. His nephew noticed that he walked wearily.

Outside, in the fold around which horses and cattle were resting or asleep in stall or byre, Martin Nelthorp stood and stared at the stars glittering high above him in a sky made clear by October frost. He was wondering what it was that had brought this thing upon him—that the only thing he cared for in the world should seek alliance with the enemies of his life who now, by the ordinance of God, lay in his power. He had given Young Martin all the love that had been crushed down and crushed out; he was as proud of him as if the lad had been his own son by the woman he cared for; he meant to leave him all that he had; he was ambitious for him, and knowing that he would be a rich man he had some dreams of his nephew? s figuring in the doings of the county, as councillor or magistrate—honours which he himself had persistently refused. And it had never once come within his scheme of things that the boy should fix his affections on the daughter of the enemy—it had been a surprise to him to find out that he even knew her.

Martin Nelthorp walked up and down his fold and his stack-yard for some time, staring persistently at the stars. Though he did not say so to himself, he knew that that astute old attorney, Postlethwaite, was right when he said that old wounds rankle. He knew, too, that however much a man may strive to put away the thought from himself, there is still enough of the primitive savage left in all of us to make revenge sweet. And he had suffered through these people—suffered as he had never thought to suffer. He looked back and remembered what life had been to him up to the day when the news of a man’s treachery and a woman’s weakness had been brought to him, and he clenched his fists and set his teeth, and all the old black hatred came welling up in his heart.

“He shan’t have her!” he said. “He shan’t have her! A good girl!—what good could come of stock like that?”

Then he went indoors and up to his chamber, and Young Martin heard him walking up and down half the night. When he himself got down next morning his uncle had gone out—the housekeeper, greatly upset by the fact, seeing that such a thing had never happened within her fifteen years’ experience of him—said that the master had had no more breakfast than a glass of milk and a crust of bread, and she hoped he was not sickening for an illness.

At that moment Martin Nelthorp was riding along the russet lanes towards the market town. There had been a strong frost in the night, and the sky above him was clear as only an autumn sky can be. All about him were patches of red and yellow and purple, for the foliage was changing fast, and in the hedgerows there were delicate webs of gossamer. Usually, as a great lover of Nature, he would have seen these things—on this morning he rode straight on, grim and determined.

He was so early at Mr. Postlethwaite’s office that he had to wait nearly half an hour for the arrival of that gentleman. But when Mr. Postlethwaite came his client lost no time in going straight to his point.

“I want all papers of mine relating to that Sutton affair,” he said. “Before I settle what I shall do I must read through ’em myself. Give me the lot.”

Mr. Postlethwaite made some would-be facetious remark as to legal phraseology, but Martin Nelthorp paid no attention to it. He carried the papers away with him in a big envelope, and riding straight home at a smart pace, took them into the little room which he used as an office, and went carefully through them merely to see that they were all there. That done, he tore certain of them in half, and enclosing everything in another cover, he addressed it to Richard Sutton.

Old Martin went into the parlour and found Young Martin there, cleaning a gun. He clapped him on the shoulder, and the young man, looking up, saw that something had gone out of his elder’s eyes and face.

“Now, my lad!” said Old Martin cheerily. “You can marry the girl—and you can go and make the arrangements this morning. And while you’re there you can give this packet to Richard Sutton—he’ll understand what it is..” Then, before his nephew could find his tongue, Martin Nelthorp strode over to the kitchen door and called lustily for his breakfast.