Month by month I realized that it was more
and more difficult to get the brokers to renew my bills, or to cash any
further post-obits upon an unentailed property. Ruin lay right across my
path, and every day I saw it clearer, nearer, and more absolutely
unavoidable. What made me feel my own poverty the more was that, apart from the great
wealth of Lord Southerton, all my other relations were fairly
well-to-do. The nearest of these was Everard King, my father’s nephew
and my own first cousin, who had spent an adventurous life in Brazil,
and had now returned to this country to settle down on his fortune. We
never knew how he made his money, but he appeared to have plenty of it,
for he bought the estate of Greylands, near Clipton-on-the-Marsh, in
Suffolk. For the first year of his residence in England he took no more
notice of me than my miserly uncle; but at last one summer morning, to
my very great relief and joy, I received a letter asking me to come down
that very day and spend a short visit at Greylands Court. I was
expecting a rather long visit to Bankruptcy Court at the time, and this
interruption seemed almost providential. If I could only get on terms
with this unknown relative of mine, I might pull through yet. For the
family credit he could not let me go entirely to the wall. I ordered my
valet to pack my valise, and I set off the same evening for
Clipton-on-the-Marsh. After changing at Ipswich, a little local train deposited me at a small,
deserted station lying amidst a rolling grassy country, with a sluggish
and winding river curving in and out amidst the valleys, between high,
silted banks, which showed that we were within reach of the tide. No
carriage was awaiting me (I found afterwards that my telegram had been
delayed), so I hired a dog-cart at the local inn. The driver, an
excellent fellow, was full of my relative’s praises, and I learned from
him that Mr. Everard King was already a name to conjure with in that
part of the country. He had entertained the school-children, he had
thrown his grounds open to visitors, he had subscribed to charities—in
short, his benevolence had been so universal that my driver could only
account for it on the supposition that he had Parliamentary ambitions. My attention was drawn away from my driver’s panegyric by the appearance
of a very beautiful bird which settled on a telegraph-post beside the
road. At first I thought that it was a jay, but it was larger, with a
brighter plumage. The driver accounted for its presence at once by
saying that it belonged to the very man whom we were about to visit. It
seems that the acclimatization of foreign creatures was one of his
hobbies, and that he had brought with him from Brazil a number of birds
and beasts which he was endeavouring to rear in England. When once we
had passed the gates of Greylands Park we had ample evidence of this
taste of his. Some small spotted deer, a curious wild pig known, I
believe, as a peccary, a gorgeously feathered oriole, some sort of
armadillo, and a singular lumbering intoed beast like a very fat badger,
were among the creatures which I observed as we drove along the winding
avenue. Mr. Everard King, my unknown cousin, was standing in person upon the
steps of his house, for he had seen us in the distance, and guessed that
it was I. His appearance was very homely and benevolent, short and
stout, forty-five years old perhaps, with a round, good-humoured face,
burned brown with the tropical sun, and shot with a thousand wrinkles. He wore white linen clothes, in true planter style, with a cigar between
his lips, and a large Panama hat upon the back of his head. It was such
a figure as one associates with a verandahed bungalow, and it looked
curiously out of place in front of this broad, stone English mansion,
with its solid wings and its Palladio pillars before the doorway. “My dear!” he cried, glancing over his shoulder; “my dear, here is our
guest! Welcome, welcome to Greylands! I am delighted to make your
acquaintance, Cousin Marshall, and I take it as a great compliment that
you should honour this sleepy little country place with your presence.”

Nothing could be more hearty than his manner, and he set me at my ease
in an instant. But it needed all his cordiality to atone for the
frigidity and even rudeness of his wife, a tall, haggard woman, who came
forward at his summons. She was, I believe, of Brazilian extraction,
though she spoke excellent English, and I excused her manners on the
score of her ignorance of our customs. She did not attempt to conceal,
however, either then or afterwards, that I was no very welcome visitor
at Greylands Court. Her actual words were, as a rule, courteous, but she
was the possessor of a pair of particularly expressive dark eyes, and I
read in them very clearly from the first that she heartily wished me
back in London once more. However, my debts were too pressing and my designs upon my wealthy
relative were too vital for me to allow them to be upset by the
ill-temper of his wife, so I disregarded her coldness and reciprocated
the extreme cordiality of his welcome. No pains had been spared by him
to make me comfortable. My room was a charming one. He implored me to
tell him anything which could add to my happiness. It was on the tip of
my tongue to inform him that a blank cheque would materially help
towards that end, but I felt that it might be premature in the present
state of our acquaintance. The dinner was excellent, and as we sat
together afterwards over his Havanas and coffee, which latter he told me
was specially prepared upon his own plantation, it seemed to me that all
my driver’s eulogies were justified, and that I had never met a more
large-hearted and hospitable man. But, in spite of his cheery good nature, he was a man with a strong will
and a fiery temper of his own. Of this I had an example upon the
following morning. The curious aversion which Mrs. Everard King had
conceived towards me was so strong, that her manner at breakfast was
almost offensive. But her meaning became unmistakable when her husband
had quitted the room. “The best train in the day is at twelve fifteen,” said she. “But I was not thinking of going to-day,” I answered, frankly—perhaps
even defiantly, for I was determined not to be driven out by this woman. “Oh, if it rests with you——” said she, and stopped, with a most insolent
expression in her eyes. “I am sure,” I answered “that Mr. Everard King would tell me if I were
outstaying my welcome.”

“What’s this? What’s this?” said a voice, and there he was in the room. He had overheard my last words, and a glance at our faces had told him
the rest. In an instant his chubby, cheery face set into an expression
of absolute ferocity. “Might I trouble you to walk outside, Marshall,” said he. (I may mention
that my own name is Marshall King.) He closed the door behind me, and then, for an instant, I heard him
talking in a low voice of concentrated passion to his wife.