24. The Model Millionaire

Hughie and Laura have fallen in love with each other, but neither of them, though good-looking, is earning enough money to make a living, so Laura's father wont give his consent to their marriage unless Hughie has ten thousand pounds. With a bit of luck, Hughie unexpectedly gets the money and marries Laura!

Unless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow. The poor should be practical and ordinary. It is better to have plenty of money than to be attractive. These are the great truths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never realized. Poor Hughie! In mind, we must admit, he was not of much importance. He never said a clever or even an ill-natured thing in his life. But then he was wonderfully good-looking, with his brown hair, his clear-cut face, and his grey eyes. He was as popular with men as he was with women, and he had every quality except that of making money. His father, on his death, had left him his sword and a History of the Peninsular War in fifteen books. Hughie hung the first over his looking-glass, put the second on a shelf, and lived on two hundred pounds a year that an old aunt allowed him. He had tried everything. He had bought and sold shares for six months; but how could he succeed among experienced men? He had been a tea-merchant for a little longer, but he had soon tired of that. Then he had tried selling drink, but that was of no use. At last he became nothing; a delightful, useless young man with a perfect face and no profession.

To make matters worse, he was in love. The girl he loved was Laura Merton, the daughter of a retired army officer who had lost his temper and his health in India, and had never found either of them again. Laura loved him and he was ready to kiss her shoestrings. They were the best-looking couple in London, and had not a penny between them. Her father was very fond of Hughie, but would not hear of any engagement.

"Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds of your own, and we will see about it," he used to say; and Hughie looked very miserable in those days, and had to go to Laura for comfort.

One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where the Mertons lived, he went in to see a great friend of his, Alan Trevor. Trevor was a painter. Indeed, few people are not nowadays. But he was also an artist, and artists are rather rare. Personally he was a strange rough fellow, with a spotted face and a red, rough beard. However, when he took up the brush he was a real master, and his pictures were eagerly sought after. He had been very much attracted by Hughie at first, it must be admitted, entirely because of his personal charm. "The only people a painter should know," he used to say, "are people who are beautiful, people who are an artistic pleasure to look at, and restful to talk to. Men who are well-dressed and women who are lovely rule the world, at least they should do so." However, after he got to know Hughie better, he liked him quite as much for his bright, cheerful spirits, and his generous, careless nature, and had asked him to come to see him whenever he liked.

When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches to a wonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man. The beggar himself was standing on a raised part of the floor like a stage in a corner of the room. He was a dried-up old man with a lined face and a sad expression. Over his shoulder was thrown a rough brown coat, all torn and full of holes; his thick boots were old and mended, and with one hand he leant on a rough stick, while with the other he held out his ancient hat for money.

"What an astonishing model!" whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with his friend.

"An astonishing model!" shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; "I should think so! Such beggars are not met with every day. Good heavens! What a picture Rembrandt would have made of him!"

"Poor old fellow!" said Hughie, "How miserable he looks! But I suppose, to you painters, his face is valuable."

"Certainly," replied Trevor, "You don't want a beggar to look happy, do you?"

"How much does a model get for being painted?" asked Hughie, as he found himself a comfortable seat.

"A shilling an hour."

"And how much do you get for your picture, Alan"

"Oh, for this I get two thousand."

"Pounds?"

"Guineas. Painters, poets and doctors always get guineas."

"Well, I think the model should have a percentage," cried Hughie, laughing; "they work quite as hard as you do."

"Nonsense, nonsense! Why, look at the trouble of laying on the paint alone, and standing all day in front of the picture! It's easy, Hughie, for you to talk, but I tell you that there are moments when Art almost reaches the importance of manual work. But you mustn't talk; I'm very busy. Smoke a cigarette, and keep quiet."

After some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that the frame-maker wanted to speak to him.

"Don't run away, Hughie," he said, as he went out, "I will be back in a moment."

The old beggar-man took advantage of Trevor's absence to rest for a moment on a wooden seat that was behind him. He looked so miserable that Hughie pitied him, and felt in his pockets to see what money he had. All he could find was a pound and some pennies. "Poor old fellow," he thought to himself, "he wants it more than I do, but I shan't have much money myself for a week or two," and he walked across the room and slipped the pound into the beggar's hand.

The old man jumped, and a faint smile passed across his old lips. "Thank you, sir," he said, "thank you."

Then Trevor arrived, and Hughie left, a little red in the face at what he had done. He spent the day with Laura, was charmingly blamed for giving away a pound, and had to walk home.

That night he went to the Palette club about eleven o'clock, and found Trevor sitting by himself in the smoking-room.

"Well, Alan, did you finish the picture all right?" he said, as he lit his cigarette.

"Finished and framed, my boy!" answered Trevor; "and, by the way, that old model you saw has become very fond of you. I had to tell him all about you—who you are, where you live, what money you have, what hopes you have—"

"My dear Alan," cried Hughie, "I shall probably find him waiting for me when I go home. But, of course, you are only joking. Poor old fellow! I wish I could do something for him. I think it is terrible that any one should be so miserable. I have got heaps of old clothes at home—do you think he would care for any of them? His clothes were falling to bits."

"But he looks splendid in them," said Trevor. "I should never want to paint him in good clothes. However, I'll tell him of your offer."

"Alan," said Hughie seriously, "you painters are a cruel lot."

"An artist's heart is his head," replied Trevor; "and besides, our business is to realize the world as we see it, not to make it better. And now tell me how Laura is. The old model was quite interested in her."

"You don't mean to say you talked to him about her?" said Hughie.

"Certainly I did. He knows all about the cruel father, the lovely Laura, and the ten thousand pounds."

"You told the old beggar all about my private affairs?" cried Hughie, looking very red and angry.

"My dear boy," said Trevor, smiling, "that old beggar, as you call him, is one of the richest men in Europe. He could buy all London to-morrow. He has a house in every capital, has his dinner off a gold plate, and can prevent Russian going to war when he wishes."

"What on earth do you mean?" cried Hughie.

"What I say," said Trevor. "The old man you saw to-day was Baron Hausberg. He is a great friend of mine, buys all my pictures and that sort of thing, and asked me a month ago to paint him as a beggar. What do you expect? You know these rich men. And I must say he looked fine in his old clothes."

"Baron Hausberg!" cried Hughie. "Good heavens! I gave him a pound!" And he sank into his big chair shocked and astonished.

"Gave him a pound!" shouted Trevor and he burst into a roar of laughter. "My dear boy, you'll never see it again."

"I think you ought to have told me, Alan," said Hughie in a bad temper, "and not have let me make such a fool of myself."

"Well, to begin with, Hughie," said Trevor, "I never thought that you went about giving money away in that careless manner. I can understand your kissing a pretty model, but your giving money to an ugly one—no! Besides, when you came in I didn't know whether Hausberg would like his name mentioned. You know he wasn't dressed very well!"

"How stupid he must think me!" said Hughie.

"Not at all. He was in the highest spirits after you left; kept laughing to himself and rubbing his old hands together. I couldn't understand why he was so interested to know all about you; but I see it all now. He'll use your money, Hughie, pay you something for its use every month, and have a wonderful story to tell after dinner."

"I am an unlucky devil," said Hughie. "The best thing I can do is to go to bed; and, my dear Alan, you mustn't tell any one. I shouldn't dare to show my face if people knew."

"Nonsense! It shows your kindness of spirit, Hughie. And don't run away. Have another cigarette, and you can talk about Laura as much as you like."

However, Hughie wouldn't stay, but walked home, feeling very unhappy, and leaving Alan Trevor overcome with laughter.

The next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant brought him a card on which was written, "Monsieur Gustave Naudin, for Mile Baron Hausberg." "I suppose he has come for an apology," said Hughie to himself; and he told the servant to bring the visitor in.

An old gentleman with gold glasses and grey hair came into the room and said, "Have I the honour of speaking to Monsieur Erskine?"

Hughie bowed.

"I have come from Baron Hausberg," he continued. "The Baron—"

"I beg, sir, that you will offer him my sincerest apologies," said Hughie.

"The Baron," said the old gentleman with a smile, "has asked me to bring you this letter," and he held out an envelope.

On the outside was written, "A wedding present to Hugh Erskine and Laura Merton, from an old beggar," and inside was a cheque for ten thousand pounds.

When they were married the Baron made a speech at the wedding breakfast.

From Outstanding Short Stories.