Tales and Fantasies, by Robert Louis Stevenson (2024)

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Tales and Fantasies, by Robert Louis StevensonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Tales and FantasiesAuthor: Robert Louis StevensonRelease Date: January 28, 2013 [eBook #426][This file was first posted on December 23, 1995]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES AND FANTASIES***

Transcribed from the 1905 Chatto & Windus edition by DavidPrice, email ccx074@pglaf.org

BY

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

LONDON

CHATTO & WINDUS
1905

p.vCONTENTS

THE MISADVENTURES OF JOHN NICHOLSON

p. 1CHAPTERI—IN WHICH JOHN SOWS THE WIND

John Varey Nicholson was stupid;yet, stupider men than he are now sprawling in Parliament, andlauding themselves as the authors of their own distinction.He was of a fat habit, even from boyhood, and inclined to acheerful and cursory reading of the face of life; and possiblythis attitude of mind was the original cause of hismisfortunes. Beyond this hint philosophy is silent on hiscareer, and superstition steps in with the more ready explanationthat he was detested of the gods.

His father—that iron gentleman—had long agoenthroned himself on the heights of the DisruptionPrinciples. What these are (and in spite of their grim namethey are quite innocent) no array of terms would render thinkableto the merely English intelligence; but to the Scot they oftenprove unctuously nourishing, and Mr. Nicholson found in them themilk of lions. About the period when the churches conveneat Edinburgh in their annual assemblies, he was to be seendescending the Mound in the company of divers red-headedclergymen: these voluble, he only contributing oracular nods,brief negatives, and the austere spectacle of his stretched upperlip. The names of Candlish and Begg were frequent in theseinterviews, and occasionally the talk ran on the ResiduaryEstablishment and the doings of one Lee. A stranger to thetight little theological kingdom of Scotland might have listenedand gathered literally nothing. And Mr. Nicholson (who wasnot a dull man) knew this, and raged at it. He knew therewas a vast world outside, to whom Disruption Principles were asthe chatter of tree-top apes; the paper brought him chill whiffsfrom it; he had met Englishmen who had asked lightly if he didnot belong to the Church of Scotland, and then had failed to bemuch interested by his elucidation of that nice point; it was anevil, wild, rebellious world, lying sunk in dozenedness,for nothing short of a Scots word will paint thisScotsman’s feelings. And when he entered into his ownhouse in Randolph Crescent (south side), and shut the door behindhim, his heart swelled with security. Here, at least, was acitadel impregnable by right-hand defections or left-handextremes. Here was a family where prayers came at the samehour, where the Sabbath literature was unimpeachably selected,where the guest who should have leaned to any false opinion wasinstantly set down, and over which there reigned all week, andgrew denser on Sundays, a silence that was agreeable to his ear,and a gloom that he found comfortable.

Mrs. Nicholson had died about thirty, and left him with threechildren: a daughter two years, and a son about eight yearsyounger than John; and John himself, the unlucky bearer of a nameinfamous in English history. The daughter, Maria, was agood girl—dutiful, pious, dull, but so easily startled thatto speak to her was quite a perilous enterprise. ‘Idon’t think I care to talk about that, if youplease,’ she would say, and strike the boldest speechlessby her unmistakable pain; this upon all topics—dress,pleasure, morality, politics, in which the formula was changed to‘my papa thinks otherwise,’ and even religion, unlessit was approached with a particular whining tone of voice.Alexander, the younger brother, was sickly, clever, fond of booksand drawing, and full of satirical remarks. In the midst ofthese, imagine that natural, clumsy, unintelligent, and mirthfulanimal, John; mighty well-behaved in comparison with other lads,although not up to the mark of the house in Randolph Crescent;full of a sort of blundering affection, full of caresses, whichwere never very warmly received; full of sudden and loud laughterwhich rang out in that still house like curses. Mr.Nicholson himself had a great fund of humour, of the Scotsorder—intellectual, turning on the observation of men; hisown character, for instance—if he could have seen it inanother—would have been a rare feast to him; but hisson’s empty guffaws over a broken plate, and empty, almostlight-hearted remarks, struck him with pain as the indices of aweak mind.

Outside the family John had early attached himself (much as adog may follow a marquis) to the steps of Alan Houston, a ladabout a year older than himself, idle, a trifle wild, the heir toa good estate which was still in the hands of a rigorous trustee,and so royally content with himself that he took John’sdevotion as a thing of course. The intimacy was gall to Mr.Nicholson; it took his son from the house, and he was a jealousparent; it kept him from the office, and he was a martinet;lastly, Mr. Nicholson was ambitious for his family (in which, andthe Disruption Principles, he entirely lived), and he hated tosee a son of his play second fiddle to an idler. After somehesitation, he ordered that the friendship should cease—anunfair command, though seemingly inspired by the spirit ofprophecy; and John, saying nothing, continued to disobey theorder under the rose.

John was nearly nineteen when he was one day dismissed ratherearlier than usual from his father’s office, where he wasstudying the practice of the law. It was Saturday; andexcept that he had a matter of four hundred pounds in his pocketwhich it was his duty to hand over to the British LinenCompany’s Bank, he had the whole afternoon at hisdisposal. He went by Princes Street enjoying the mildsunshine, and the little thrill of easterly wind that tossed theflags along that terrace of palaces, and tumbled the green treesin the garden. The band was playing down in the valleyunder the castle; and when it came to the turn of the pipers, heheard their wild sounds with a stirring of the blood.Something distantly martial woke in him; and he thought of MissMackenzie, whom he was to meet that day at dinner.

Now, it is undeniable that he should have gone directly to thebank, but right in the way stood the billiard-room of the hotelwhere Alan was almost certain to be found; and the temptationproved too strong. He entered the billiard-room, and wasinstantly greeted by his friend, cue in hand.

‘Nicholson,’ said he, ‘I want you to lend mea pound or two till Monday.’

‘You’ve come to the right shop, haven’tyou?’ returned John. ‘I havetwopence.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Alan. ‘You can getsome. Go and borrow at your tailor’s; they all doit. Or I’ll tell you what: pop your watch.’

‘Oh, yes, I dare say,’ said John. ‘Andhow about my father?’

‘How is he to know? He doesn’t wind it upfor you at night, does he?’ inquired Alan, at which Johnguffawed. ‘No, seriously; I am in a fix,’continued the tempter. ‘I have lost some money to aman here. I’ll give it you to-night, and you can getthe heir-loom out again on Monday. Come; it’s a smallservice, after all. I would do a good deal more foryou.’

Whereupon John went forth, and pawned his gold watch under theassumed name of John Froggs, 85 Pleasance. But thenervousness that assailed him at the door of that inglorioushaunt—a pawnshop—and the effort necessary to inventthe pseudonym (which, somehow, seemed to him a necessary part ofthe procedure), had taken more time than he imagined: and when hereturned to the billiard-room with the spoils, the bank hadalready closed its doors.

This was a shrewd knock. ‘A piece of business hadbeen neglected.’ He heard these words in hisfather’s trenchant voice, and trembled, and then dodged thethought. After all, who was to know? He must carryfour hundred pounds about with him till Monday, when the neglectcould be surreptitiously repaired; and meanwhile, he was free topass the afternoon on the encircling divan of the billiard-room,smoking his pipe, sipping a pint of ale, and enjoying to themasthead the modest pleasures of admiration.

None can admire like a young man. Of all youth’spassions and pleasures, this is the most common and leastalloyed; and every flash of Alan’s black eyes; every aspectof his curly head; every graceful reach, every easy, stand-offattitude of waiting; ay, and down to his shirt-sleeves andwrist-links, were seen by John through a luxurious glory.He valued himself by the possession of that royal friend, huggedhimself upon the thought, and swam in warm azure; his owndefects, like vanquished difficulties, becoming things on whichto plume himself. Only when he thought of Miss Mackenziethere fell upon his mind a shadow of regret; that young lady wasworthy of better things than plain John Nicholson, still knownamong schoolmates by the derisive name of ‘Fatty’;and he felt, if he could chalk a cue, or stand at ease, with sucha careless grace as Alan, he could approach the object of hissentiments with a less crushing sense of inferiority.

Before they parted, Alan made a proposal that was startling inthe extreme. He would be at Colette’s that nightabout twelve, he said. Why should not John come there andget the money? To go to Colette’s was to see life,indeed; it was wrong; it was against the laws; it partook, in avery dingy manner, of adventure. Were it known, it was thesort of exploit that disconsidered a young man for good with themore serious classes, but gave him a standing with theriotous. And yet Colette’s was not a hell; it couldnot come, without vaulting hyperbole, under the rubric of agilded saloon; and, if it was a sin to go there, the sin wasmerely local and municipal. Colette (whose name I do notknow how to spell, for I was never in epistolary communicationwith that hospitable outlaw) was simply an unlicensed publican,who gave suppers after eleven at night, the Edinburgh hour ofclosing. If you belonged to a club, you could get a muchbetter supper at the same hour, and lose not a jot in publicesteem. But if you lacked that qualification, and were anhungered, or inclined toward conviviality at unlawful hours,Colette’s was your only port. You were veryill-supplied. The company was not recruited from the Senateor the Church, though the Bar was very well represented on theonly occasion on which I flew in the face of my country’slaws, and, taking my reputation in my hand, penetrated into thatgrim supper-house. And Colette’s frequenters,thrillingly conscious of wrong-doing and ‘that two-handedengine (the policeman) at the door,’ were perhaps inclinedto somewhat feverish excess. But the place was in no sensea very bad one; and it is somewhat strange to me, at thisdistance of time, how it had acquired its dangerous repute.

In precisely the same spirit as a man may debate a project toascend the Matterhorn or to cross Africa, John consideredAlan’s proposal, and, greatly daring, accepted it. Ashe walked home, the thoughts of this excursion out of the safeplaces of life into the wild and arduous, stirred and struggledin his imagination with the image of MissMackenzie—incongruous and yet kindred thoughts, for did noteach imply unusual tightening of the pegs of resolution? did noteach woo him forth and warn him back again into himself?

Between these two considerations, at least, he was more thanusually moved; and when he got to Randolph Crescent, he quiteforgot the four hundred pounds in the inner pocket of hisgreatcoat, hung up the coat, with its rich freight, upon hisparticular pin of the hatstand; and in the very action sealed hisdoom.

p.10CHAPTER II—IN WHICH JOHN REAPS THE WHIRLWIND

About half-past ten it wasJohn’s brave good fortune to offer his arm to MissMackenzie, and escort her home. The night was chill andstarry; all the way eastward the trees of the different gardensrustled and looked black. Up the stone gully of Leith Walk,when they came to cross it, the breeze made a rush and set theflames of the street-lamps quavering; and when at last they hadmounted to the Royal Terrace, where Captain Mackenzie lived, agreat salt freshness came in their faces from the sea.These phases of the walk remained written on John’s memory,each emphasised by the touch of that light hand on his arm; andbehind all these aspects of the nocturnal city he saw, in hismind’s-eye, a picture of the lighted drawing-room at homewhere he had sat talking with Flora; and his father, from theother end, had looked on with a kind and ironical smile.John had read the significance of that smile, which might haveescaped a stranger. Mr. Nicholson had remarked hisson’s entanglement with satisfaction, tinged by humour; andhis smile, if it still was a thought contemptuous, had impliedconsent.

At the captain’s door the girl held out her hand, with acertain emphasis; and John took it and kept it a little longer,and said, ‘Good-night, Flora, dear,’ and wasinstantly thrown into much fear by his presumption. But sheonly laughed, ran up the steps, and rang the bell; and while shewas waiting for the door to open, kept close in the porch, andtalked to him from that point as out of a fortification.She had a knitted shawl over her head; her blue Highland eyestook the light from the neighbouring street-lamp and sparkled;and when the door opened and closed upon her, John felt cruellyalone.

He proceeded slowly back along the terrace in a tender glow;and when he came to Greenside Church, he halted in a doubtfulmind. Over the crown of the Calton Hill, to his left, laythe way to Colette’s, where Alan would soon be looking forhis arrival, and where he would now have no more consented to gothan he would have wilfully wallowed in a bog; the touch of thegirl’s hand on his sleeve, and the kindly light in hisfather’s eyes, both loudly forbidding. But rightbefore him was the way home, which pointed only to bed, a placeof little ease for one whose fancy was strung to the lyricalpitch, and whose not very ardent heart was just then tumultuouslymoved. The hilltop, the cool air of the night, the companyof the great monuments, the sight of the city under his feet,with its hills and valleys and crossing files of lamps, drew himby all he had of the poetic, and he turned that way; and by thatquite innocent deflection, ripened the crop of his venial errorsfor the sickle of destiny.

On a seat on the hill above Greenside he sat for perhaps halfan hour, looking down upon the lamps of Edinburgh, and up at thelamps of heaven. Wonderful were the resolves he formed;beautiful and kindly were the vistas of future life that spedbefore him. He uttered to himself the name of Flora in somany touching and dramatic keys, that he became at length fairlymelted with tenderness, and could have sung aloud. At thatjuncture a certain creasing in his greatcoat caught hisear. He put his hand into his pocket, pulled forth theenvelope that held the money, and sat stupefied. The CaltonHill, about this period, had an ill name of nights; and to besitting there with four hundred pounds that did not belong to himwas hardly wise. He looked up. There was a man in avery bad hat a little on one side of him, apparently looking atthe scenery; from a little on the other a second night-walker wasdrawing very quietly near. Up jumped John. Theenvelope fell from his hands; he stooped to get it, and at thesame moment both men ran in and closed with him.

A little after, he got to his feet very sore and shaken, thepoorer by a purse which contained exactly one pennypostage-stamp, by a cambric handkerchief, and by theall-important envelope.

Here was a young man on whom, at the highest point of lovelyexaltation, there had fallen a blow too sharp to be supportedalone; and not many hundred yards away his greatest friend wassitting at supper—ay, and even expecting him. Was itnot in the nature of man that he should run there? He wentin quest of sympathy—in quest of that droll article that weall suppose ourselves to want when in a strait, and have agreedto call advice; and he went, besides, with vague but rathersplendid expectations of relief. Alan was rich, or would beso when he came of age. By a stroke of the pen he mightremedy this misfortune, and avert that dreaded interview with Mr.Nicholson, from which John now shrunk in imagination as the handdraws back from fire.

Close under the Calton Hill there runs a certain narrowavenue, part street, part by-road. The head of it faces thedoors of the prison; its tail descends into the sunless slums ofthe Low Calton. On one hand it is overhung by the crags ofthe hill, on the other by an old graveyard. Between thesetwo the roadway runs in a trench, sparsely lighted at night,sparsely frequented by day, and bordered, when it was cleared theplace of tombs, by dingy and ambiguous houses. One of thesewas the house of Colette; and at his door our ill-starred Johnwas presently beating for admittance. In an evil hour hesatisfied the jealous inquiries of the contraband hotel-keeper;in an evil hour he penetrated into the somewhat unsavouryinterior. Alan, to be sure, was there, seated in a roomlighted by noisy gas-jets, beside a dirty table-cloth, engaged ona coarse meal, and in the company of several tipsy members of thejunior bar. But Alan was not sober; he had lost a thousandpounds upon a horse-race, had received the news at dinner-time,and was now, in default of any possible means of extrication,drowning the memory of his predicament. He to helpJohn! The thing was impossible; he couldn’t helphimself.

‘If you have a beast of a father,’ said he,‘I can tell you I have a brute of a trustee.’

‘I’m not going to hear my father called abeast,’ said John with a beating heart, feeling that herisked the last sound rivet of the chain that bound him tolife.

But Alan was quite good-natured.

‘All right, old fellow,’ said he.‘Mos’ respec’able man your father.’And he introduced his friend to his companions as ‘oldNicholson the what-d’ye-call-um’s son.’

John sat in dumb agony. Colette’s foul walls andmaculate table-linen, and even down to Colette’s villainouscasters, seemed like objects in a nightmare. And just thenthere came a knock and a scurrying; the police, so lamentablyabsent from the Calton Hill, appeared upon the scene; and theparty, taken flagrante delicto, with their glasses attheir elbow, were seized, marched up to the police office, andall duly summoned to appear as witnesses in the consequent caseagainst that arch-shebeener, Colette.

It was a sorrowful and a mightily sobered company that cameforth again. The vague terror of public opinion weighedgenerally on them all; but there were private and particularhorrors on the minds of individuals. Alan stood in dread ofhis trustee, already sorely tried. One of the group was theson of a country minister, another of a judge; John, theunhappiest of all, had David Nicholson to father, the idea offacing whom on such a scandalous subject was physicallysickening. They stood awhile consulting under thebuttresses of Saint Giles; thence they adjourned to the lodgingsof one of the number in North Castle Street, where (for thatmatter) they might have had quite as good a supper, and farbetter drink, than in the dangerous paradise from which they hadbeen routed. There, over an almost tearful glass, theydebated their position. Each explained he had the world tolose if the affair went on, and he appeared as a witness.It was remarkable what bright prospects were just then in thevery act of opening before each of that little company of youths,and what pious consideration for the feelings of their familiesbegan now to well from them. Each, moreover, was in an oddstate of destitution. Not one could bear his share of thefine; not one but evinced a wonderful twinkle of hope that eachof the others (in succession) was the very man who could step into make good the deficit. One took a high hand; he couldnot pay his share; if it went to a trial, he should bolt; he hadalways felt the English Bar to be his true sphere. Anotherbranched out into touching details about his family, and was notlistened to. John, in the midst of this disorderlycompetition of poverty and meanness, sat stunned, contemplatingthe mountain bulk of his misfortunes.

At last, upon a pledge that each should apply to his familywith a common frankness, this convention of unhappy young assesbroke up, went down the common stair, and in the grey of thespring morning, with the streets lying dead empty all about them,the lamps burning on into the daylight in diminished lustre, andthe birds beginning to sound premonitory notes from the groves ofthe town gardens, went each his own way with bowed head andechoing footfall.

The rooks were awake in Randolph Crescent; but the windowslooked down, discreetly blinded, on the return of theprodigal. John’s pass-key was a recent privilege;this was the first time it had been used; and, oh! with what asickening sense of his unworthiness he now inserted it into thewell-oiled lock and entered that citadel of theproprieties! All slept; the gas in the hall had been leftfaintly burning to light his return; a dreadful stillnessreigned, broken by the deep ticking of the eight-day clock.He put the gas out, and sat on a chair in the hall, waiting andcounting the minutes, longing for any human countenance.But when at last he heard the alarm spring its rattle in thelower story, and the servants begin to be about, he instantlylost heart, and fled to his own room, where he threw himself uponthe bed.

p.18CHAPTER III—IN WHICH JOHN ENJOYS THE HARVESTHOME

Shortly after breakfast, at whichhe assisted with a highly tragical countenance, John sought hisfather where he sat, presumably in religious meditation, on theSabbath mornings. The old gentleman looked up with thatsour, inquisitive expression that came so near to smiling and wasso different in effect.

‘This is a time when I do not like to bedisturbed,’ he said.

‘I know that,’ returned John; ‘but Ihave—I want—I’ve made a dreadful mess ofit,’ he broke out, and turned to the window.

Mr. Nicholson sat silent for an appreciable time, while hisunhappy son surveyed the poles in the back green, and a certainyellow cat that was perched upon the wall. Despair sat uponJohn as he gazed; and he raged to think of the dreadful series ofhis misdeeds, and the essential innocence that lay behindthem.

‘Well,’ said the father, with an obvious effort,but in very quiet tones, ‘what is it?’

‘Maclean gave me four hundred pounds to put in the bank,sir,’ began John; ‘and I’m sorry to say thatI’ve been robbed of it!’

‘Robbed of it?’ cried Mr. Nicholson, with a strongrising inflection. ‘Robbed? Be careful what yousay, John!’

‘I can’t say anything else, sir; I was just robbedof it,’ said John, in desperation, sullenly.

‘And where and when did this extraordinary event takeplace?’ inquired the father.

‘On the Calton Hill about twelve last night.’

‘The Calton Hill?’ repeated Mr. Nicholson.‘And what were you doing there at such a time of thenight?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ says John.

Mr. Nicholson drew in his breath.

‘And how came the money in your hands at twelve lastnight?’ he asked, sharply.

‘I neglected that piece of business,’ said John,anticipating comment; and then in his own dialect: ‘I cleanforgot all about it.’

‘Well,’ said his father, ‘it’s a mostextraordinary story. Have you communicated with thepolice?’

‘I have,’ answered poor John, the blood leaping tohis face. ‘They think they know the men that didit. I dare say the money will be recovered, if that wasall,’ said he, with a desperate indifference, which hisfather set down to levity; but which sprung from theconsciousness of worse behind.

‘Your mother’s watch, too?’ asked Mr.Nicholson.

‘Oh, the watch is all right!’ cried John.‘At least, I mean I was coming to the watch—the factis, I am ashamed to say, I—I had pawned the watchbefore. Here is the ticket; they didn’t find that;the watch can be redeemed; they don’t sellpledges.’ The lad panted out these phrases, one afteranother, like minute guns; but at the last word, which rang inthat stately chamber like an oath, his heart failed him utterly;and the dreaded silence settled on father and son.

It was broken by Mr. Nicholson picking up the pawn-ticket:‘John Froggs, 85 Pleasance,’ he read; and thenturning upon John, with a brief flash of passion and disgust,‘Who is John Froggs?’ he cried.

‘Nobody,’ said John. ‘It was just aname.’

‘An alias,’ his father commented.

‘Oh! I think scarcely quite that,’ said theculprit; ‘it’s a form, they all do it, the man seemedto understand, we had a great deal of fun over thename—’

He paused at that, for he saw his father wince at the picturelike a man physically struck; and again there was silence.

‘I do not think,’ said Mr. Nicholson, at last,‘that I am an ungenerous father. I have never grudgedyou money within reason, for any avowable purpose; you had justto come to me and speak. And now I find that you haveforgotten all decency and all natural feeling, and actuallypawned—pawned—your mother’s watch. Youmust have had some temptation; I will do you the justice tosuppose it was a strong one. What did you want with thismoney?’

‘I would rather not tell you, sir,’ saidJohn. ‘It will only make you angry.’

‘I will not be fenced with,’ cried hisfather. ‘There must be an end of disingenuousanswers. What did you want with this money?’

‘To lend it to Houston, sir,’ says John.

‘I thought I had forbidden you to speak to that youngman?’ asked the father.

‘Yes, sir,’ said John; ‘but I only methim.’

‘Where?’ came the deadly question.

And ‘In a billiard-room’ was the damninganswer. Thus, had John’s single departure from thetruth brought instant punishment. For no other purpose butto see Alan would he have entered a billiard-room; but he haddesired to palliate the fact of his disobedience, and now itappeared that he frequented these disreputable haunts upon hisown account.

Once more Mr. Nicholson digested the vile tidings in silence,and when John stole a glance at his father’s countenance,he was abashed to see the marks of suffering.

‘Well,’ said the old gentleman, at last, ‘Icannot pretend not to be simply bowed down. I rose thismorning what the world calls a happy man—happy, at least,in a son of whom I thought I could be reasonablyproud—’

But it was beyond human nature to endure this longer, and Johninterrupted almost with a scream. ‘Oh, wheest!’he cried, ‘that’s not all, that’s not the worstof it—it’s nothing! How could I tell you wereproud of me? Oh! I wish, I wish that I had known; butyou always said I was such a disgrace! And the dreadfulthing is this: we were all taken up last night, and we have topay Colette’s fine among the six, or we’ll be had upfor evidence—shebeening it is. They made me swear totell you; but for my part,’ he cried, bursting into tears,‘I just wish that I was dead!’ And he fell onhis knees before a chair and hid his face.

Whether his father spoke, or whether he remained long in theroom or at once departed, are points lost to history. Ahorrid turmoil of mind and body; bursting sobs; broken, vanishingthoughts, now of indignation, now of remorse; broken elementarywhiffs of consciousness, of the smell of the horse-hair on thechair bottom, of the jangling of church bells that now began tomake day horrible throughout the confines of the city, of thehard floor that bruised his knees, of the taste of tears thatfound their way into his mouth: for a period of time, theduration of which I cannot guess, while I refuse to dwell longeron its agony, these were the whole of God’s world for JohnNicholson.

When at last, as by the touching of a spring, he returnedagain to clearness of consciousness and even a measure ofcomposure, the bells had but just done ringing, and the Sabbathsilence was still marred by the patter of belated feet. Bythe clock above the fire, as well as by these more speakingsigns, the service had not long begun; and the unhappy sinner, ifhis father had really gone to church, might count on near twohours of only comparative unhappiness. With his father, thesuperlative degree returned infallibly. He knew it by everyshrinking fibre in his body, he knew it by the sudden dizzywhirling of his brain, at the mere thought of thatcalamity. An hour and a half, perhaps an hour andthree-quarters, if the doctor was long-winded, and then wouldbegin again that active agony from which, even in the dull acheof the present, he shrunk as from the bite of fire. He saw,in a vision, the family pew, the somnolent cushions, the Bibles,the psalm-books, Maria with her smelling-salts, his fathersitting spectacled and critical; and at once he was struck withindignation, not unjustly. It was inhuman to go off tochurch, and leave a sinner in suspense, unpunished,unforgiven. And at the very touch of criticism, thepaternal sanctity was lessened; yet the paternal terror onlygrew; and the two strands of feeling pushed him in the samedirection.

And suddenly there came upon him a mad fear lest his fathershould have locked him in. The notion had no ground insense; it was probably no more than a reminiscence of similarcalamities in childhood, for his father’s room had alwaysbeen the chamber of inquisition and the scene of punishment; butit stuck so rigorously in his mind that he must instantlyapproach the door and prove its untruth. As he went, hestruck upon a drawer left open in the business table. Itwas the money-drawer, a measure of his father’s disarray:the money-drawer—perhaps a pointing providence! Whois to decide, when even divines differ between a providence and atemptation? or who, sitting calmly under his own vine, is to passa judgment on the doings of a poor, hunted dog, slavishly afraid,slavishly rebellious, like John Nicholson on that particularSunday? His hand was in the drawer, almost before his mindhad conceived the hope; and rising to his new situation, hewrote, sitting in his father’s chair and using hisfather’s blotting-pad, his pitiful apology andfarewell:—

‘My dearFather,—I have taken the money, but I will pay itback as soon as I am able. You will never hear of meagain. I did not mean any harm by anything, so I hope youwill try and forgive me. I wish you would say good-bye toAlexander and Maria, but not if you don’t want to. Icould not wait to see you, really. Please try to forgiveme. Your affectionate son,

JohnNicholson.’

The coins abstracted and the missive written, he could not begone too soon from the scene of these transgressions; andremembering how his father had once returned from church, on someslight illness, in the middle of the second psalm, he durst noteven make a packet of a change of clothes. Attired as hewas, he slipped from the paternal doors, and found himself in thecool spring air, the thin spring sunshine, and the great Sabbathquiet of the city, which was now only pointed by the cawing ofthe rooks. There was not a soul in Randolph Crescent, nor asoul in Queensferry Street; in this outdoor privacy and the senseof escape, John took heart again; and with a pathetic sense ofleave-taking, he even ventured up the lane and stood awhile, astrange peri at the gates of a quaint paradise, by the west endof St. George’s Church. They were singing within; andby a strange chance, the tune was ‘St. George’s,Edinburgh,’ which bears the name, and was first sung in thechoir of that church. ‘Who is this King ofGlory?’ went the voices from within; and, to John, this waslike the end of all Christian observances, for he was now to be awild man like Ishmael, and his life was to be cast in homelessplaces and with godless people.

It was thus, with no rising sense of the adventurous, but inmere desolation and despair, that he turned his back on hisnative city, and set out on foot for California, with a moreimmediate eye to Glasgow.

p.27CHAPTER IV—THE SECOND SOWING

It is no part of mine to narratethe adventures of John Nicholson, which were many, but simply hismore momentous misadventures, which were more than he desired,and, by human standards, more than he deserved; how he reachedCalifornia, how he was rooked, and robbed, and beaten, andstarved; how he was at last taken up by charitable folk, restoredto some degree of self-complacency, and installed as a clerk in abank in San Francisco, it would take too long to tell; nor inthese episodes were there any marks of the peculiar Nicholsonicdestiny, for they were just such matters as befell some thousandsof other young adventurers in the same days and places. Butonce posted in the bank, he fell for a time into a high degree ofgood fortune, which, as it was only a longer way about to freshdisaster, it behooves me to explain.

It was his luck to meet a young man in what is technicallycalled a ‘dive,’ and thanks to his monthly wages, toextricate this new acquaintance from a position of presentdisgrace and possible danger in the future. This young manwas the nephew of one of the Nob Hill magnates, who run the SanFrancisco Stock Exchange, much as more humble adventurers, in thecorner of some public park at home, may be seen to perform thesimple artifice of pea and thimble: for their own profit, that isto say, and the discouragement of public gambling. It wasthus in his power—and, as he was of grateful temper, it wasamong the things that he desired—to put John in the way ofgrowing rich; and thus, without thought or industry, or so muchas even understanding the game at which he played, but by simplybuying and selling what he was told to buy and sell, thatplaything of fortune was presently at the head of between elevenand twelve thousand pounds, or, as he reckoned it, of upward ofsixty thousand dollars.

How he had come to deserve this wealth, any more than how hehad formerly earned disgrace at home, was a problem beyond thereach of his philosophy. It was true that he had beenindustrious at the bank, but no more so than the cashier, who hadseven small children and was visibly sinking in decline.Nor was the step which had determined his advance—a visitto a dive with a month’s wages in his pocket—an actof such transcendent virtue, or even wisdom, as to seem to meritthe favour of the gods. From some sense of this, and of thedizzy see-saw—heaven-high, hell-deep—on which men sitclutching; or perhaps fearing that the sources of his fortunemight be insidiously traced to some root in the field of pettycash; he stuck to his work, said not a word of his newcircumstances, and kept his account with a bank in a differentquarter of the town. The concealment, innocent as it seems,was the first step in the second tragicomedy of John’sexistence.

Meanwhile, he had never written home. Whether fromdiffidence or shame, or a touch of anger, or mereprocrastination, or because (as we have seen) he had no skill inliterary arts, or because (as I am sometimes tempted to suppose)there is a law in human nature that prevents young men—nototherwise beasts—from the performance of this simple act ofpiety—months and years had gone by, and John had neverwritten. The habit of not writing, indeed, was alreadyfixed before he had begun to come into his fortune; and it wasonly the difficulty of breaking this long silence that withheldhim from an instant restitution of the money he had stolen or (ashe preferred to call it) borrowed. In vain he sat beforepaper, attending on inspiration; that heavenly nymph, beyondsuggesting the words ‘my dear father,’ remainedobstinately silent; and presently John would crumple up the sheetand decide, as soon as he had ‘a good chance,’ tocarry the money home in person. And this delay, which isindefensible, was his second step into the snares of fortune.

Ten years had passed, and John was drawing near tothirty. He had kept the promise of his boyhood, and was nowof a lusty frame, verging toward corpulence; good features, goodeyes, a genial manner, a ready laugh, a long pair of sandywhiskers, a dash of an American accent, a close familiarity withthe great American joke, and a certain likeness to a R-y-lP-rs-n-ge, who shall remain nameless for me, made up theman’s externals as he could be viewed in society.Inwardly, in spite of his gross body and highly masculinewhiskers, he was more like a maiden lady than a man oftwenty-nine.

It chanced one day, as he was strolling down Market Street onthe eve of his fortnight’s holiday, that his eye was caughtby certain railway bills, and in very idleness of mind hecalculated that he might be home for Christmas if he started onthe morrow. The fancy thrilled him with desire, and in onemoment he decided he would go.

There was much to be done: his portmanteau to be packed, acredit to be got from the bank where he was a wealthy customer,and certain offices to be transacted for that other bank in whichhe was an humble clerk; and it chanced, in conformity with humannature, that out of all this business it was the last that cameto be neglected. Night found him, not only equipped withmoney of his own, but once more (as on that former occasion)saddled with a considerable sum of other people’s.

Now it chanced there lived in the same boarding-house afellow-clerk of his, an honest fellow, with what is called aweakness for drink—though it might, in this case, have beencalled a strength, for the victim had been drunk for weekstogether without the briefest intermission. To thisunfortunate John intrusted a letter with an inclosure of bonds,addressed to the bank manager. Even as he did so he thoughthe perceived a certain haziness of eye and speech in his trustee;but he was too hopeful to be stayed, silenced the voice ofwarning in his bosom, and with one and the same gesture committedthe money to the clerk, and himself into the hands ofdestiny.

I dwell, even at the risk of tedium, on John’s minutesterrors, his case being so perplexing to the moralist; but we havedone with them now, the roll is closed, the reader has the worstof our poor hero, and I leave him to judge for himself whether heor John has been the less deserving. Henceforth we have tofollow the spectacle of a man who was a mere whip-top forcalamity; on whose unmerited misadventures not even the humouristcan look without pity, and not even the philosopher withoutalarm.

That same night the clerk entered upon a bout of drunkennessso consistent as to surprise even his intimateacquaintance. He was speedily ejected from theboarding-house; deposited his portmanteau with a perfectstranger, who did not even catch his name; wandered he knew notwhere, and was at last hove-to, all standing, in a hospital atSacramento. There, under the impenetrable alias ofthe number of his bed, the crapulous being lay for some more daysunconscious of all things, and of one thing in particular: thatthe police were after him. Two months had come and gonebefore the convalescent in the Sacramento hospital was identifiedwith Kirkman, the absconding San Francisco clerk; even then,there must elapse nearly a fortnight more till the perfectstranger could be hunted up, the portmanteau recovered, andJohn’s letter carried at length to its destination, theseal still unbroken, the inclosure still intact.

Meanwhile, John had gone upon his holidays without a word,which was irregular; and there had disappeared with him a certainsum of money, which was out of all bounds of palliation.But he was known to be careless, and believed to be honest; themanager besides had a regard for him; and little was said,although something was no doubt thought, until the fortnight wasfinally at an end, and the time had come for John toreappear. Then, indeed, the affair began to look black; andwhen inquiries were made, and the penniless clerk was found tohave amassed thousands of dollars, and kept them secretly in arival establishment, the stoutest of his friends abandoned him,the books were overhauled for traces of ancient and artful fraud,and though none were found, there still prevailed a generalimpression of loss. The telegraph was set in motion; andthe correspondent of the bank in Edinburgh, for which place itwas understood that John had armed himself with extensivecredits, was warned to communicate with the police.

Now this correspondent was a friend of Mr. Nicholson’s;he was well acquainted with the tale of John’s calamitousdisappearance from Edinburgh; and putting one thing with another,hasted with the first word of this scandal, not to the police,but to his friend. The old gentleman had long regarded hisson as one dead; John’s place had been taken, the memory ofhis faults had already fallen to be one of those old aches, whichawaken again indeed upon occasion, but which we can alwaysvanquish by an effort of the will; and to have the long lostresuscitated in a fresh disgrace was doubly bitter.

‘Macewen,’ said the old man, ‘this must behushed up, if possible. If I give you a cheek for this sum,about which they are certain, could you take it on yourself tolet the matter rest?’

‘I will,’ said Macewen. ‘I will takethe risk of it.’

‘You understand,’ resumed Mr. Nicholson, speakingprecisely, but with ashen lips, ‘I do this for my family,not for that unhappy young man. If it should turn out thatthese suspicions are correct, and he has embezzled large sums, hemust lie on his bed as he has made it.’ And thenlooking up at Macewen with a nod, and one of his strange smiles:‘Good-bye,’ said he, and Macewen, perceiving the caseto be too grave for consolation, took himself off, and blessedGod on his way home that he was childless.

p.35CHAPTER V—THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN

By a little after noon on the eveof Christmas, John had left his portmanteau in the cloak-room,and stepped forth into Princes Street with a wonderful expansionof the soul, such as men enjoy on the completion oflong-nourished schemes. He was at home again, incognito andrich; presently he could enter his father’s house by meansof the pass-key, which he had piously preserved through all hiswanderings; he would throw down the borrowed money; there wouldbe a reconciliation, the details of which he frequently arranged;and he saw himself, during the next month, made welcome in manystately houses at many frigid dinner-parties, taking his share inthe conversation with the freedom of the man and the traveller,and laying down the law upon finance with the authority of thesuccessful investor. But this programme was not to be begunbefore evening—not till just before dinner, indeed, atwhich meal the reassembled family were to sit roseate, and thebest wine, the modern fatted calf, should flow for theprodigal’s return.

Meanwhile he walked familiar streets, merry reminiscencescrowding round him, sad ones also, both with the same surprisingpathos. The keen frosty air; the low, rosy, wintry sun; thecastle, hailing him like an old acquaintance; the names offriends on door-plates; the sight of friends whom he seemed torecognise, and whom he eagerly avoided, in the streets; thepleasant chant of the north-country accent; the dome of St.George’s reminding him of his last penitential moments inthe lane, and of that King of Glory whose name had echoed eversince in the saddest corner of his memory; and the gutters wherehe had learned to slide, and the shop where he had bought hisskates, and the stones on which he had trod, and the railings inwhich he had rattled his clachan as he went to school; and allthose thousand and one nameless particulars, which the eye seeswithout noting, which the memory keeps indeed yet withoutknowing, and which, taken one with another, build up for us theaspect of the place that we call home: all these besieged him, ashe went, with both delight and sadness.

His first visit was for Houston, who had a house on RegentTerrace, kept for him in old days by an aunt. The door wasopened (to his surprise) upon the chain, and a voice asked himfrom within what he wanted.

‘I want Mr. Houston—Mr. Alan Houston,’ saidhe.

‘And who are ye?’ said the voice.

‘This is most extraordinary,’ thought John; andthen aloud he told his name.

‘No’ young Mr. John?’ cried the voice, witha sudden increase of Scotch accent, testifying to a friendlierfeeling.

‘The very same,’ said John.

And the old butler removed his defences, remarking only‘I thocht ye were that man.’ But his master wasnot there; he was staying, it appeared, at the house inMurrayfield; and though the butler would have been glad enough tohave taken his place and given all the news of the family, John,struck with a little chill, was eager to be gone. Only, thedoor was scarce closed again, before he regretted that he had notasked about ‘that man.’

He was to pay no more visits till he had seen his father andmade all well at home; Alan had been the only possible exception,and John had not time to go as far as Murrayfield. But herehe was on Regent Terrace; there was nothing to prevent him goinground the end of the hill, and looking from without on theMackenzies’ house. As he went, he reflected thatFlora must now be a woman of near his own age, and it was withinthe bounds of possibility that she was married; but thisdishonourable doubt he dammed down.

There was the house, sure enough; but the door was of anothercolour, and what was this—two door-plates? He drewnearer; the top one bore, with dignified simplicity, the words,‘Mr. Proudfoot’; the lower one was more explicit, andinformed the passer-by that here was likewise the abode of‘Mr. J. A. Dunlop Proudfoot, Advocate.’ TheProudfoots must be rich, for no advocate could look to have muchbusiness in so remote a quarter; and John hated them for theirwealth and for their name, and for the sake of the house theydesecrated with their presence. He remembered a Proudfoothe had seen at school, not known: a little, whey-faced urchin,the despicable member of some lower class. Could it be thisabortion that had climbed to be an advocate, and now lived in thebirthplace of Flora and the home of John’s tenderestmemories? The chill that had first seized upon him when heheard of Houston’s absence deepened and struckinward. For a moment, as he stood under the doors of thatestranged house, and looked east and west along the solitarypavement of the Royal Terrace, where not a cat was stirring, thesense of solitude and desolation took him by the throat, and hewished himself in San Francisco.

And then the figure he made, with his decent portliness, hiswhiskers, the money in his purse, the excellent cigar that he nowlighted, recurred to his mind in consolatory comparison with thatof a certain maddened lad who, on a certain spring Sunday tenyears before, and in the hour of church-time silence, had stolenfrom that city by the Glasgow road. In the face of thesechanges, it were impious to doubt fortune’s kindness.All would be well yet; the Mackenzies would be found, Flora,younger and lovelier and kinder than before; Alan would be found,and would have so nicely discriminated his behaviour as to havegrown, on the one hand, into a valued friend of Mr.Nicholson’s, and to have remained, upon the other, of thatexact shade of joviality which John desired in hiscompanions. And so, once more, John fell to workdiscounting the delightful future: his first appearance in thefamily pew; his first visit to his uncle Greig, who thoughthimself so great a financier, and on whose purblind Edinburgheyes John was to let in the dazzling daylight of the West; andthe details in general of that unrivalled transformation scene,in which he was to display to all Edinburgh a portly andsuccessful gentleman in the shoes of the derided fugitive.

The time began to draw near when his father would havereturned from the office, and it would be the prodigal’scue to enter. He strolled westward by Albany Street, facingthe sunset embers, pleased, he knew not why, to move in that coldair and indigo twilight, starred with street-lamps. Butthere was one more disenchantment waiting him by the way.

At the corner of Pitt Street he paused to light a fresh cigar;the vesta threw, as he did so, a strong light upon his features,and a man of about his own age stopped at sight of it.

‘I think your name must be Nicholson,’ said thestranger.

It was too late to avoid recognition; and besides, as John wasnow actually on the way home, it hardly mattered, and he gave wayto the impulse of his nature.

‘Great Scott!’ he cried, ‘Beatson!’and shook hands with warmth. It scarce seemed he was repaidin kind.

‘So you’re home again?’ said Beatson.‘Where have you been all this long time?’

‘In the States,’ saidJohn—‘California. I’ve made my pilethough; and it suddenly struck me it would be a noble scheme tocome home for Christmas.’

‘I see,’ said Beatson. ‘Well, I hopewe’ll see something of you now you’rehere.’

‘Oh, I guess so,’ said John, a little frozen.

‘Well, ta-ta,’ concluded Beatson, and he shookhands again and went.

This was a cruel first experience. It was idle to blinkfacts: here was John home again, and Beatson—OldBeatson—did not care a rush. He recalled Old Beatsonin the past—that merry and affectionate lad—and theirjoint adventures and mishaps, the window they had broken with acatapult in India Place, the escalade of the castle rock, andmany another inestimable bond of friendship; and his hurtsurprise grew deeper. Well, after all, it was only on aman’s own family that he could count; blood was thickerthan water, he remembered; and the net result of this encounterwas to bring him to the doorstep of his father’s house,with tenderer and softer feelings.

The night had come; the fanlight over the door shone bright;the two windows of the dining-room where the cloth was beinglaid, and the three windows of the drawing-room where Maria wouldbe waiting dinner, glowed softlier through yellow blinds.It was like a vision of the past. All this time of hisabsence life had gone forward with an equal foot, and the firesand the gas had been lighted, and the meals spread, at theaccustomed hours. At the accustomed hour, too, the bell hadsounded thrice to call the family to worship. And at thethought, a pang of regret for his demerit seized him; heremembered the things that were good and that he had neglected,and the things that were evil and that he had loved; and it waswith a prayer upon his lips that he mounted the steps and thrustthe key into the key-hole.

He stepped into the lighted hall, shut the door softly behindhim, and stood there fixed in wonder. No surprise ofstrangeness could equal the surprise of that completefamiliarity. There was the bust of Chalmers near thestair-railings, there was the clothes-brush in the accustomedplace; and there, on the hat-stand, hung hats and coats that mustsurely be the same as he remembered. Ten years dropped fromhis life, as a pin may slip between the fingers; and the oceanand the mountains, and the mines, and crowded marts and mingledraces of San Francisco, and his own fortune and his own disgrace,became, for that one moment, the figures of a dream that wasover.

He took off his hat, and moved mechanically toward the stand;and there he found a small change that was a great one tohim. The pin that had been his from boyhood, where he hadflung his balmoral when he loitered home from the Academy, andhis first hat when he came briskly back from college or theoffice—his pin was occupied. ‘They might haveat least respected my pin!’ he thought, and he was moved asby a slight, and began at once to recollect that he was here aninterloper, in a strange house, which he had entered almost by aburglary, and where at any moment he might be scandalouslychallenged.

He moved at once, his hat still in his hand, to the door ofhis father’s room, opened it, and entered. Mr.Nicholson sat in the same place and posture as on that lastSunday morning; only he was older, and greyer, and sterner; andas he now glanced up and caught the eye of his son, a strangecommotion and a dark flush sprung into his face.

‘Father,’ said John, steadily, and evencheerfully, for this was a moment against which he was long agoprepared, ‘father, here I am, and here is the money that Itook from you. I have come back to ask your forgiveness,and to stay Christmas with you and the children.’

‘Keep your money,’ said the father, ‘andgo!’

‘Father!’ cried John; ‘for God’s sakedon’t receive me this way. I’ve comefor—’

‘Understand me,’ interrupted Mr. Nicholson;‘you are no son of mine; and in the sight of God, I wash myhands of you. One last thing I will tell you; one warning Iwill give you; all is discovered, and you are being hunted foryour crimes; if you are still at large it is thanks to me; but Ihave done all that I mean to do; and from this time forth I wouldnot raise one finger—not one finger—to save you fromthe gallows! And now,’ with a low voice of absoluteauthority, and a single weighty gesture of the finger, ‘andnow—go!’

p.45CHAPTER VI—THE HOUSE AT MURRAYFIELD

How John passed the evening, inwhat windy confusion of mind, in what squalls of anger and lullsof sick collapse, in what pacing of streets and plunging intopublic-houses, it would profit little to relate. Hismisery, if it were not progressive, yet tended in no way todiminish; for in proportion as grief and indignation abated, fearbegan to take their place. At first, his father’smenacing words lay by in some safe drawer of memory, biding theirhour. At first, John was all thwarted affection andblighted hope; next bludgeoned vanity raised its head again, withtwenty mortal gashes: and the father was disowned even as he haddisowned the son. What was this regular course of life,that John should have admired it? what were these clock-workvirtues, from which love was absent? Kindness was the test,kindness the aim and soul; and judged by such a standard, thediscarded prodigal—now rapidly drowning his sorrows and hisreason in successive drams—was a creature of a loveliermorality than his self-righteous father. Yes, he was thebetter man; he felt it, glowed with the consciousness, andentering a public-house at the corner of Howard Place (whither hehad somehow wandered) he pledged his own virtues in aglass—perhaps the fourth since his dismissal. Of thathe knew nothing, keeping no account of what he did or where hewent; and in the general crashing hurry of his nerves,unconscious of the approach of intoxication. Indeed, it isa question whether he were really growing intoxicated, or whetherat first the spirits did not even sober him. For it waseven as he drained this last glass that his father’sambiguous and menacing words—popping from theirhiding-place in memory—startled him like a hand laid uponhis shoulder. ‘Crimes, hunted, thegallows.’ They were ugly words; in the ears of aninnocent man, perhaps all the uglier; for if some judicial errorwere in act against him, who should set a limit to its grossnessor to how far it might be pushed? Not John, indeed; he wasno believer in the powers of innocence, his cursed experiencepointing in quite other ways; and his fears, once wakened, grewwith every hour and hunted him about the city streets.

It was, perhaps, nearly nine at night; he had eaten nothingsince lunch, he had drunk a good deal, and he was exhausted byemotion, when the thought of Houston came into his head. Heturned, not merely to the man as a friend, but to his house as aplace of refuge. The danger that threatened him was stillso vague that he knew neither what to fear nor where he mightexpect it; but this much at least seemed undeniable, that aprivate house was safer than a public inn. Moved by thesecounsels, he turned at once to the Caledonian Station, passed(not without alarm) into the bright lights of the approach,redeemed his portmanteau from the cloak-room, and was soonwhirling in a cab along the Glasgow Road. The change ofmovement and position, the sight of the lamps twinkling to therear, and the smell of damp and mould and rotten straw whichclung about the vehicle, wrought in him strange alternations oflucidity and mortal giddiness.

‘I have been drinking,’ he discovered; ‘Imust go straight to bed, and sleep.’ And he thankedHeaven for the drowsiness that came upon his mind in waves.

From one of these spells he was wakened by the stoppage of thecab; and, getting down, found himself in quite a country road,the last lamp of the suburb shining some way below, and the highwalls of a garden rising before him in the dark. The Lodge(as the place was named), stood, indeed, very solitary. Tothe south it adjoined another house, but standing in so large agarden as to be well out of cry; on all other sides, open fieldsstretched upward to the woods of Corstorphine Hill, or backwardto the dells of Ravelston, or downward toward the valley of theLeith. The effect of seclusion was aided by the greatheight of the garden walls, which were, indeed, conventual, and,as John had tested in former days, defied the climbingschoolboy. The lamp of the cab threw a gleam upon the doorand the not brilliant handle of the bell.

‘Shall I ring for ye?’ said the cabman, who haddescended from his perch, and was slapping his chest, for thenight was bitter.

‘I wish you would,’ said John, putting his hand tohis brow in one of his accesses of giddiness.

The man pulled at the handle, and the clanking of the bellreplied from further in the garden; twice and thrice he did it,with sufficient intervals; in the great frosty silence of thenight the sounds fell sharp and small.

‘Does he expect ye?’ asked the driver, with thatmanner of familiar interest that well became his port-wine face;and when John had told him no, ‘Well, then,’ said thecabman, ‘if ye’ll tak’ my advice of it,we’ll just gang back. And that’s disinterested,mind ye, for my stables are in the Glesgie Road.’

‘The servants must hear,’ said John.

‘Hout!’ said the driver. ‘He keeps noservants here, man. They’re a’ in the townhouse; I drive him often; it’s just a kind of a hermitage,this.’

‘Give me the bell,’ said John; and he plucked atit like a man desperate.

The clamour had not yet subsided before they heard steps uponthe gravel, and a voice of singular nervous irritability cried tothem through the door, ‘Who are you, and what do youwant?’

‘Alan,’ said John, ‘it’sme—it’s Fatty—John, you know. I’mjust come home, and I’ve come to stay with you.’

There was no reply for a moment, and then the door wasopened.

‘Get the portmanteau down,’ said John to thedriver.

‘Do nothing of the kind,’ said Alan; and then toJohn, ‘Come in here a moment. I want to speak toyou.’

John entered the garden, and the door was closed behindhim. A candle stood on the gravel walk, winking a little inthe draughts; it threw inconstant sparkles on the clumped holly,struck the light and darkness to and fro like a veil onAlan’s features, and sent his shadow hovering behindhim. All beyond was inscrutable; and John’s dizzybrain rocked with the shadow. Yet even so, it struck himthat Alan was pale, and his voice, when he spoke, unnatural.

‘What brings you here to-night?’ he began.‘I don’t want, God knows, to seem unfriendly; but Icannot take you in, Nicholson; I cannot do it.’

‘Alan,’ said John, ‘you’ve just gotto! You don’t know the mess I’m in; thegovernor’s turned me out, and I daren’t show my facein an inn, because they’re down on me for murder orsomething!’

‘For what?’ cried Alan, starting.

‘Murder, I believe,’ says John.

‘Murder!’ repeated Alan, and passed his hand overhis eyes. ‘What was that you were saying?’ heasked again.

‘That they were down on me,’ said John.‘I’m accused of murder, by what I can make out; andI’ve really had a dreadful day of it, Alan, and Ican’t sleep on the roadside on a night like this—atleast, not with a portmanteau,’ he pleaded.

‘Hush!’ said Alan, with his head on one side; andthen, ‘Did you hear nothing?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said John, thrilling, he knew not why, withcommunicated terror. ‘No, I heard nothing;why?’ And then, as there was no answer, he revertedto his pleading: ‘But I say, Alan, you’ve just got totake me in. I’ll go right away to bed if you haveanything to do. I seem to have been drinking; I was thatknocked over. I wouldn’t turn you away, Alan, if youwere down on your luck.’

‘No?’ returned Alan. ‘Neither willyou, then. Come and let’s get yourportmanteau.’

The cabman was paid, and drove off down the long, lamp-lightedhill, and the two friends stood on the side-walk beside theportmanteau till the last rumble of the wheels had died insilence. It seemed to John as though Alan attachedimportance to this departure of the cab; and John, who was in nostate to criticise, shared profoundly in the feeling.

When the stillness was once more perfect, Alan shouldered theportmanteau, carried it in, and shut and locked the garden door;and then, once more, abstraction seemed to fall upon him, and hestood with his hand on the key, until the cold began to nibble atJohn’s fingers.

‘Why are we standing here?’ asked John.

‘Eh?’ said Alan, blankly.

‘Why, man, you don’t seem yourself,’ saidthe other.

‘No, I’m not myself,’ said Alan; and he satdown on the portmanteau and put his face in his hands.

John stood beside him swaying a little, and looking about himat the swaying shadows, the flitting sparkles, and the steadystars overhead, until the windless cold began to touch himthrough his clothes on the bare skin. Even in his bemusedintelligence, wonder began to awake.

‘I say, let’s come on to the house,’ he saidat last.

‘Yes, let’s come on to the house,’ repeatedAlan.

And he rose at once, reshouldered the portmanteau, and takingthe candle in his other hand, moved forward to the Lodge.This was a long, low building, smothered in creepers; and now,except for some chinks of light between the dining-room shutters,it was plunged in darkness and silence.

In the hall Alan lighted another candle, gave it to John, andopened the door of a bedroom.

‘Here,’ said he; ‘go to bed.Don’t mind me, John. You’ll be sorry for mewhen you know.’

‘Wait a bit,’ returned John; ‘I’ve gotso cold with all that standing about. Let’s go intothe dining-room a minute. Just one glass to warm me,Alan.’

On the table in the hall stood a glass, and a bottle with awhisky label on a tray. It was plain the bottle had beenjust opened, for the cork and corkscrew lay beside it.

‘Take that,’ said Alan, passing John the whisky,and then with a certain roughness pushed his friend into thebedroom, and closed the door behind him.

John stood amazed; then he shook the bottle, and, to hisfurther wonder, found it partly empty. Three or fourglasses were gone. Alan must have uncorked a bottle ofwhisky and drank three or four glasses one after the other,without sitting down, for there was no chair, and that in his owncold lobby on this freezing night! It fully explained hiseccentricities, John reflected sagely, as he mixed himself agrog. Poor Alan! He was drunk; and what a dreadfulthing was drink, and what a slave to it poor Alan was, to drinkin this unsociable, uncomfortable fashion! The man whowould drink alone, except for health’s sake—as Johnwas now doing—was a man utterly lost. He took thegrog out, and felt hazier, but warmer. It was hard workopening the portmanteau and finding his night things; and beforehe was undressed, the cold had struck home to him oncemore. ‘Well,’ said he; ‘just a dropmore. There’s no sense in getting ill with all thisother trouble.’ And presently dreamless slumberburied him.

When John awoke it was day. The low winter sun wasalready in the heavens, but his watch had stopped, and it wasimpossible to tell the hour exactly. Ten, he guessed it,and made haste to dress, dismal reflections crowding on hismind. But it was less from terror than from regret that henow suffered; and with his regret there were mingled cuttingpangs of penitence. There had fallen upon him a blow,cruel, indeed, but yet only the punishment of old misdoing; andhe had rebelled and plunged into fresh sin. The rod hadbeen used to chasten, and he had bit the chasteningfingers. His father was right; John had justified him; Johnwas no guest for decent people’s houses, and no fitassociate for decent people’s children. And had abroader hint been needed, there was the case of his oldfriend. John was no drunkard, though he could at timesexceed; and the picture of Houston drinking neat spirits at hishall-table struck him with something like disgust. He hungback from meeting his old friend. He could have wished hehad not come to him; and yet, even now, where else was he toturn?

These musings occupied him while he dressed, and accompaniedhim into the lobby of the house. The door stood open on thegarden; doubtless, Alan had stepped forth; and John did as hesupposed his friend had done. The ground was hard as iron,the frost still rigorous; as he brushed among the hollies,icicles jingled and glittered in their fall; and wherever hewent, a volley of eager sparrows followed him. Here wereChristmas weather and Christmas morning duly met, to the delightof children. This was the day of reunited families, the dayto which he had so long looked forward, thinking to awake in hisown bed in Randolph Crescent, reconciled with all men andrepeating the footprints of his youth; and here he was alone,pacing the alleys of a wintry garden and filled with penitentialthoughts.

And that reminded him: why was he alone? and where wasAlan? The thought of the festal morning and the duesalutations reawakened his desire for his friend, and he began tocall for him by name. As the sound of his voice died away,he was aware of the greatness of the silence that environedhim. But for the twittering of the sparrows and thecrunching of his own feet upon the frozen snow, the wholewindless world of air hung over him entranced, and the stillnessweighed upon his mind with a horror of solitude.

Still calling at intervals, but now with a moderated voice, hemade the hasty circuit of the garden, and finding neither man nortrace of man in all its evergreen coverts, turned at last to thehouse. About the house the silence seemed to deepenstrangely. The door, indeed, stood open as before; but thewindows were still shuttered, the chimneys breathed no stain intothe bright air, there sounded abroad none of that low stir(perhaps audible rather to the ear of the spirit than to the earof the flesh) by which a house announces and betrays its humanlodgers. And yet Alan must be there—Alan locked indrunken slumbers, forgetful of the return of day, of the holyseason, and of the friend whom he had so coldly received and wasnow so churlishly neglecting. John’s disgustredoubled at the thought, but hunger was beginning to growstronger than repulsion, and as a step to breakfast, if nothingelse, he must find and arouse this sleeper.

He made the circuit of the bedroom quarters. All, untilhe came to Alan’s chamber, were locked from without, andbore the marks of a prolonged disuse. But Alan’s wasa room in commission, filled with clothes, knickknacks, letters,books, and the conveniences of a solitary man. The fire hadbeen lighted; but it had long ago burned out, and the ashes werestone cold. The bed had been made, but it had not beenslept in.

Worse and worse, then; Alan must have fallen where he sat, andnow sprawled brutishly, no doubt, upon the dining-room floor.

The dining-room was a very long apartment, and was reachedthrough a passage; so that John, upon his entrance, brought butlittle light with him, and must move toward the windows withspread arms, groping and knocking on the furniture.Suddenly he tripped and fell his length over a prostratebody. It was what he had looked for, yet it shocked him;and he marvelled that so rough an impact should not have kicked agroan out of the drunkard. Men had killed themselves erenow in such excesses, a dreary and degraded end that made Johnshudder. What if Alan were dead? There would be aChristmas-day!

By this, John had his hand upon the shutters, and flingingthem back, beheld once again the blessed face of the day.Even by that light the room had a discomfortable air. Thechairs were scattered, and one had been overthrown; thetable-cloth, laid as if for dinner, was twitched upon one side,and some of the dishes had fallen to the floor. Behind thetable lay the drunkard, still unaroused, only one foot visible toJohn.

But now that light was in the room, the worst seemed over; itwas a disgusting business, but not more than disgusting; and itwas with no great apprehension that John proceeded to make thecircuit of the table: his last comparatively tranquil moment forthat day. No sooner had he turned the corner, no sooner hadhis eyes alighted on the body, than he gave a smothered,breathless cry, and fled out of the room and out of thehouse.

It was not Alan who lay there, but a man well up in years, ofstern countenance and iron-grey locks; and it was no drunkard,for the body lay in a black pool of blood, and the open eyesstared upon the ceiling.

To and fro walked John before the door. The extremesharpness of the air acted on his nerves like an astringent, andbraced them swiftly. Presently, he not relaxing in hisdisordered walk, the images began to come clearer and stay longerin his fancy; and next the power of thought came back to him, andthe horror and danger of his situation rooted him to theground.

He grasped his forehead, and staring on one spot of gravel,pieced together what he knew and what he suspected. Alanhad murdered some one: possibly ‘that man’ againstwhom the butler chained the door in Regent Terrace; possiblyanother; some one at least: a human soul, whom it was death toslay and whose blood lay spilled upon the floor. This wasthe reason of the whisky drinking in the passage, of hisunwillingness to welcome John, of his strange behaviour andbewildered words; this was why he had started at and harped uponthe name of murder; this was why he had stood and hearkened, orsat and covered his eyes, in the black night. And now hewas gone, now he had basely fled; and to all his perplexities anddangers John stood heir.

‘Let me think—let me think,’ he said, aloud,impatiently, even pleadingly, as if to some mercilessinterrupter. In the turmoil of his wits, a thousand hintsand hopes and threats and terrors dinning continuously in hisears, he was like one plunged in the hubbub of a crowd. Howwas he to remember—he, who had not a thought tospare—that he was himself the author, as well as thetheatre, of so much confusion? But in hours of trial thejunto of man’s nature is dissolved, and anarchysucceeds.

It was plain he must stay no longer where he was, for here wasa new Judicial Error in the very making. It was not soplain where he must go, for the old Judicial Error, vague as acloud, appeared to fill the habitable world; whatever it mightbe, it watched for him, full-grown, in Edinburgh; it must havehad its birth in San Francisco; it stood guard, no doubt, like adragon, at the bank where he should cash his credit; and thoughthere were doubtless many other places, who should say in whichof them it was not ambushed? No, he could not tell where hewas to go; he must not lose time on these insolubilities.Let him go back to the beginning. It was plain he must stayno longer where he was. It was plain, too, that he must notflee as he was, for he could not carry his portmanteau, and toflee and leave it was to plunge deeper in the mire. He mustgo, leave the house unguarded, find a cab, andreturn—return after an absence? Had he courage forthat?

And just then he spied a stain about a hand’s-breadth onhis trouser-leg, and reached his finger down to touch it.The finger was stained red: it was blood; he stared upon it withdisgust, and awe, and terror, and in the sharpness of the newsensation, fell instantly to act.

He cleansed his finger in the snow, returned into the house,drew near with hushed footsteps to the dining-room door, and shutand locked it. Then he breathed a little freer, for here atleast was an oaken barrier between himself and what hefeared. Next, he hastened to his room, tore off the spottedtrousers which seemed in his eyes a link to bind him to thegallows, flung them in a corner, donned another pair,breathlessly crammed his night things into his portmanteau,locked it, swung it with an effort from the ground, and with arush of relief, came forth again under the open heavens.

The portmanteau, being of occidental build, was nofeather-weight; it had distressed the powerful Alan; and as forJohn, he was crushed under its bulk, and the sweat broke upon himthickly. Twice he must set it down to rest before hereached the gate; and when he had come so far, he must do as Alandid, and take his seat upon one corner. Here then, he sat awhile and panted; but now his thoughts were sensibly lightened;now, with the trunk standing just inside the door, some part ofhis dissociation from the house of crime had been effected, andthe cabman need not pass the garden wall. It was wonderfulhow that relieved him; for the house, in his eyes, was a place tostrike the most cursory beholder with suspicion, as though thevery windows had cried murder.

But there was to be no remission of the strokes of fate.As he thus sat, taking breath in the shadow of the wall andhopped about by sparrows, it chanced that his eye roved to thefastening of the door; and what he saw plucked him to hisfeet. The thing locked with a spring; once the door wasclosed, the bolt shut of itself; and without a key, there was nomeans of entering from without.

He saw himself obliged to one of two distasteful and perilousalternatives; either to shut the door altogether and set hisportmanteau out upon the wayside, a wonder to all beholders; orto leave the door ajar, so that any thievish tramp or holidayschoolboy might stray in and stumble on the grisly secret.To the last, as the least desperate, his mind inclined; but hemust first insure himself that he was unobserved. He peeredout, and down the long road; it lay dead empty. He went tothe corner of the by-road that comes by way of Dean; there alsonot a passenger was stirring. Plainly it was, now or never,the high tide of his affairs; and he drew the door as close as hedurst, slipped a pebble in the chink, and made off downhill tofind a cab.

Half-way down a gate opened, and a troop of Christmas childrensallied forth in the most cheerful humour, followed more soberlyby a smiling mother.

‘And this is Christmas-day!’ thought John; andcould have laughed aloud in tragic bitterness of heart.

p.63CHAPTER VII—A TRAGI-COMEDY IN A CAB

In front of Donaldson’sHospital, John counted it good fortune to perceive a cab a greatway of, and by much shouting and waving of his arm, to catch thenotice of the driver. He counted it good fortune, for thetime was long to him till he should have done for ever with theLodge; and the further he must go to find a cab, the greater thechance that the inevitable discovery had taken place, and that heshould return to find the garden full of angry neighbours.Yet when the vehicle drew up he was sensibly chagrined torecognise the port-wine cabman of the night before.‘Here,’ he could not but reflect, ‘here isanother link in the Judicial Error.’

The driver, on the other hand, was pleased to drop again uponso liberal a fare; and as he was a man—the reader mustalready have perceived—of easy, not to say familiar,manners, he dropped at once into a vein of friendly talk,commenting on the weather, on the sacred season, which struck himchiefly in the light of a day of liberal gratuities, on thechance which had reunited him to a pleasing customer, and on thefact that John had been (as he was pleased to call it) visibly‘on the randan’ the night before.

‘And ye look dreidful bad the-day, sir, I must saythat,’ he continued. ‘There’s nothinglike a dram for ye—if ye’ll take my advice of it; andbein’ as it’s Christmas, I’m no’saying,’ he added, with a fatherly smile, ‘but what Iwould join ye mysel’.’

John had listened with a sick heart.

‘I’ll give you a dram when we’ve gotthrough,’ said he, affecting a sprightliness which sat onhim most unhandsomely, ‘and not a drop till then.Business first, and pleasure afterward.’

With this promise the jarvey was prevailed upon to clamber tohis place and drive, with hideous deliberation, to the door ofthe Lodge. There were no signs as yet of any publicemotion; only, two men stood not far off in talk, and theirpresence, seen from afar, set John’s pulses buzzing.He might have spared himself his fright, for the pair were lostin some dispute of a theological complexion, and with lengthenedupper lip and enumerating fingers, pursued the matter of theirdifference, and paid no heed to John.

But the cabman proved a thorn in the flesh.

Nothing would keep him on his perch; he must clamber down,comment upon the pebble in the door (which he regarded as aningenious but unsafe device), help John with the portmanteau, andenliven matters with a flow of speech, and especially ofquestions, which I thus condense:—

‘He’ll no’ be here himsel’, willhe? No? Well, he’s an eccentric man—afair oddity—if ye ken the expression. Great troublewith his tenants, they tell me. I’ve driven thefam’ly for years. I drove a cab at his father’swaddin’. What’ll your name be?—I shouldken your face. Baigrey, ye say? There were Baigreysabout Gilmerton; ye’ll be one of that lot? Thenthis’ll be a friend’s portmantie, like?Why? Because the name upon it’s Nucholson! Oh,if ye’re in a hurry, that’s another job.Waverley Brig? Are ye for away?’

So the friendly toper prated and questioned and keptJohn’s heart in a flutter. But to this also, as toother evils under the sun, there came a period; and the victim ofcircumstances began at last to rumble toward the railway terminusat Waverley Bridge. During the transit, he sat with raisedglasses in the frosty chill and mouldy fetor of his chariot, andglanced out sidelong on the holiday face of things, the shutteredshops, and the crowds along the pavement, much as the rider inthe Tyburn cart may have observed the concourse gathering to hisexecution.

At the station his spirits rose again; another stage of hisescape was fortunately ended—he began to spy bluewater. He called a railway porter, and bade him carry theportmanteau to the cloak-room: not that he had any notion ofdelay; flight, instant flight was his design, no matter whither;but he had determined to dismiss the cabman ere he named, or evenchose, his destination, thus possibly balking the Judicial Errorof another link. This was his cunning aim, and now with onefoot on the roadway, and one still on the coach-step, he madehaste to put the thing in practice, and plunged his hand into histrousers pocket.

There was nothing there!

Oh yes; this time he was to blame. He should haveremembered, and when he deserted his blood-stained pantaloons, heshould not have deserted along with them his purse. Makethe most of his error, and then compare it with thepunishment! Conceive his new position, for I lack words topicture it; conceive him condemned to return to that house, fromthe very thought of which his soul revolted, and once more toexpose himself to capture on the very scene of the misdeed:conceive him linked to the mouldy cab and the familiarcabman. John cursed the cabman silently, and then itoccurred to him that he must stop the incarceration of hisportmanteau; that, at least, he must keep close at hand, and heturned to recall the porter. But his reflections, brief asthey had appeared, must have occupied him longer than hesupposed, and there was the man already returning with thereceipt.

Well, that was settled; he had lost his portmanteau also; forthe sixpence with which he had paid the Murrayfield Toll was onethat had strayed alone into his waistcoat pocket, and unless heonce more successfully achieved the adventure of the house ofcrime, his portmanteau lay in the cloakroom in eternal pawn, forlack of a penny fee. And then he remembered the porter, whostood suggestively attentive, words of gratitude hanging on hislips.

John hunted right and left; he found a coin—prayed Godthat it was a sovereign—drew it out, beheld a halfpenny,and offered it to the porter.

The man’s jaw dropped.

‘It’s only a halfpenny!’ he said, startledout of railway decency.

‘I know that,’ said John, piteously.

And here the porter recovered the dignity of man.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said he, and would have returnedthe base gratuity. But John, too, would none of it; and asthey struggled, who must join in but the cabman?

‘Hoots, Mr. Baigrey,’ said he, ‘you surelyforget what day it is!’

‘I tell you I have no change!’ cried John.

‘Well,’ said the driver, ‘and whatthen? I would rather give a man a shillin’ on a daylike this than put him off with a derision like a bawbee.I’m surprised at the like of you, Mr. Baigrey!’

‘My name is not Baigrey!’ broke out John, in merechildish temper and distress.

‘Ye told me it was yoursel’,’ said thecabman.

‘I know I did; and what the devil right had you toask?’ cried the unhappy one.

‘Oh, very well,’ said the driver. ‘Iknow my place, if you know yours—if you know yours!’he repeated, as one who should imply grave doubt; and mutteredinarticulate thunders, in which the grand old name of gentlemanwas taken seemingly in vain.

Oh to have been able to discharge this monster, whom John nowperceived, with tardy clear-sightedness, to have begun betimesthe festivities of Christmas! But far from any such ray ofconsolation visiting the lost, he stood bare of help and helpers,his portmanteau sequestered in one place, his money deserted inanother and guarded by a corpse; himself, so sedulous of privacy,the cynosure of all men’s eyes about the station; and, asif these were not enough mischances, he was now fallen inill-blood with the beast to whom his poverty had linkedhim! In ill-blood, as he reflected dismally, with thewitness who perhaps might hang or save him! There was notime to be lost; he durst not linger any longer in that publicspot; and whether he had recourse to dignity or conciliation, theremedy must be applied at once. Some happily survivingelement of manhood moved him to the former.

‘Let us have no more of this,’ said he, his footonce more upon the step. ‘Go back to where we camefrom.’

He had avoided the name of any destination, for there was nowquite a little band of railway folk about the cab, and he stillkept an eye upon the court of justice, and laboured to avoidconcentric evidence. But here again the fatal jarveyout-manoeuvred him.

‘Back to the Ludge?’ cried he, in shrill tones ofprotest.

‘Drive on at once!’ roared John, and slammed thedoor behind him, so that the crazy chariot rocked andjingled.

Forth trundled the cab into the Christmas streets, the farewithin plunged in the blackness of a despair that neighboured onunconsciousness, the driver on the box digesting his rebuke andhis customer’s duplicity. I would not be thought toput the pair in competition; John’s case was out of allparallel. But the cabman, too, is worth the sympathy of thejudicious; for he was a fellow of genuine kindliness and a highsense of personal dignity incensed by drink; and his advances hadbeen cruelly and publicly rebuffed. As he drove, therefore,he counted his wrongs, and thirsted for sympathy and drink.Now, it chanced he had a friend, a publican in QueensferryStreet, from whom, in view of the sacredness of the occasion, hethought he might extract a dram. Queensferry Street liessomething off the direct road to Murrayfield. But thenthere is the hilly cross-road that passes by the valley of theLeith and the Dean Cemetery; and Queensferry Street is on the wayto that. What was to hinder the cabman, since his horse wasdumb, from choosing the cross-road, and calling on his friend inpassing? So it was decided; and the charioteer, alreadysomewhat mollified, turned aside his horse to the right.

John, meanwhile, sat collapsed, his chin sunk upon his chest,his mind in abeyance. The smell of the cab was stillfaintly present to his senses, and a certain leaden chill abouthis feet, all else had disappeared in one vast oppression ofcalamity and physical faintness. It was drawing on tonoon—two-and-twenty hours since he had broken bread; in theinterval, he had suffered tortures of sorrow and alarm, and beenpartly tipsy; and though it was impossible to say he slept, yetwhen the cab stopped and the cabman thrust his head into thewindow, his attention had to be recalled from depths ofvacancy.

‘If you’ll no’ stand me adram,’ said the driver, with a well-merited severity oftone and manner, ‘I dare say ye’ll have no objectionto my taking one mysel’?’

‘Yes—no—do what you like,’ returnedJohn; and then, as he watched his tormentor mount the stairs andenter the whisky-shop, there floated into his mind a sense as ofsomething long ago familiar. At that he started fullyawake, and stared at the shop-fronts. Yes, he knew them;but when? and how? Long since, he thought; and then,casting his eye through the front glass, which had been recentlyoccluded by the figure of the jarvey, he beheld the tree-tops ofthe rookery in Randolph Crescent. He was close tohome—home, where he had thought, at that hour, to besitting in the well-remembered drawing-room in friendly converse;and, instead—!

It was his first impulse to drop into the bottom of the cab;his next, to cover his face with his hands. So he sat,while the cabman toasted the publican, and the publican toastedthe cabman, and both reviewed the affairs of the nation; so hestill sat, when his master condescended to return, and drive offat last down-hill, along the curve of Lynedoch Place; but even sositting, as he passed the end of his father’s street, hetook one glance from between shielding fingers, and beheld adoctor’s carriage at the door.

‘Well, just so,’ thought he; ‘I’llhave killed my father! And this isChristmas-day!’

If Mr. Nicholson died, it was down this same road he mustjourney to the grave; and down this road, on the same errand, hiswife had preceded him years before; and many other leadingcitizens, with the proper trappings and attendance of theend. And now, in that frosty, ill-smelling, straw-carpeted,and ragged-cushioned cab, with his breath congealing on theglasses, where else was John himself advancing to?

The thought stirred his imagination, which began tomanufacture many thousand pictures, bright and fleeting, like theshapes in a kaleidoscope; and now he saw himself, ruddy andcomfortered, sliding in the gutter; and, again, a littlewoe-begone, bored urchin tricked forth in crape and weepers,descending this same hill at the foot’s pace of mourningcoaches, his mother’s body just preceding him; and yetagain, his fancy, running far in front, showed him hisdestination—now standing solitary in the low sunshine, withthe sparrows hopping on the threshold and the dead man withinstaring at the roof—and now, with a sudden change, throngedabout with white-faced, hand-uplifting neighbours, and doctorbursting through their midst and fixing his stethoscope as hewent, the policeman shaking a sagacious head beside thebody. It was to this he feared that he was driving; in themidst of this he saw himself arrive, heard himself stammer faintexplanations, and felt the hand of the constable upon hisshoulder. Heavens! how he wished he had played the manlierpart; how he despised himself that he had fled that fatalneighbourhood when all was quiet, and should now be tamelytravelling back when it was thronging with avengers!

Any strong degree of passion lends, even to the dullest, theforces of the imagination. And so now as he dwelt on whatwas probably awaiting him at the end of this distressfuldrive—John, who saw things little, remembered them less,and could not have described them at all, beheld in hismind’s-eye the garden of the Lodge, detailed as in a map;he went to and fro in it, feeding his terrors; he saw thehollies, the snowy borders, the paths where he had sought Alan,the high, conventual walls, the shut door—what! was thedoor shut? Ay, truly, he had shut it—shut in hismoney, his escape, his future life—shut it with thesehands, and none could now open it! He heard the snap of thespring-lock like something bursting in his brain, and satastonied.

And then he woke again, terror jarring through hisvitals. This was no time to be idle; he must be up anddoing, he must think. Once at the end of this ridiculouscruise, once at the Lodge door, there would be nothing for it butto turn the cab and trundle back again. Why, then, go sofar? why add another feature of suspicion to a case already sosuggestive? why not turn at once? It was easy to say, turn;but whither? He had nowhere now to go to; he couldnever—he saw it in letters of blood—he could neverpay that cab; he was saddled with that cab for ever. Ohthat cab! his soul yearned and burned, and his bowels sounded tobe rid of it. He forgot all other cares. He mustfirst quit himself of this ill-smelling vehicle and of the humanbeast that guided it—first do that; do that, at least; dothat at once.

And just then the cab suddenly stopped, and there was hispersecutor rapping on the front glass. John let it down,and beheld the port-wine countenance inflamed with intellectualtriumph.

‘I ken wha ye are!’ cried the husky voice.‘I mind ye now. Ye’re a Nucholson. Idrove ye to Hermiston to a Christmas party, and ye came back onthe box, and I let ye drive.’

It is a fact. John knew the man; they had been evenfriends. His enemy, he now remembered, was a fellow ofgreat good nature—endless good nature—with a boy; whynot with a man? Why not appeal to his better side? Hegrasped at the new hope.

‘Great Scott! and so you did,’ he cried, as if ina transport of delight, his voice sounding false in his ownears. ‘Well, if that’s so, I’ve somethingto say to you. I’ll just get out, I guess.Where are we, any way?’

The driver had fluttered his ticket in the eyes of thebranch-toll keeper, and they were now brought to on the highestand most solitary part of the by-road. On the left, a rowof fieldside trees beshaded it; on the right, it was bordered bynaked fallows, undulating down-hill to the Queensferry Road; infront, Corstorphine Hill raised its snow-bedabbled, darklingwoods against the sky. John looked all about him, drinkingthe clear air like wine; then his eyes returned to thecabman’s face as he sat, not ungleefully, awaitingJohn’s communication, with the air of one looking to betipped.

The features of that face were hard to read, drink had soswollen them, drink had so painted them, in tints that variedfrom brick-red to mulberry. The small grey eyes blinked,the lips moved, with greed; greed was the ruling passion; andthough there was some good nature, some genuine kindliness, atrue human touch, in the old toper, his greed was now so setafire by hope, that all other traits of character laydormant. He sat there a monument of gluttonous desire.

John’s heart slowly fell. He had opened his lips,but he stood there and uttered nought. He sounded the wellof his courage, and it was dry. He groped in his treasuryof words, and it was vacant. A devil of dumbness had him bythe throat; the devil of terror babbled in his ears; andsuddenly, without a word uttered, with no conscious purposeformed in his will, John whipped about, tumbled over the roadsidewall, and began running for his life across the fallows.

He had not gone far, he was not past the midst of the firstafield, when his whole brain thundered within him,‘Fool! You have your watch!’ The shockstopped him, and he faced once more toward the cab. Thedriver was leaning over the wall, brandishing his whip, his faceempurpled, roaring like a bull. And John saw (or thought)that he had lost the chance. No watch would pacify theman’s resentment now; he would cry for vengeancealso. John would be had under the eye of the police; histale would be unfolded, his secret plumbed, his destiny wouldclose on him at last, and for ever.

He uttered a deep sigh; and just as the cabman, taking heartof grace, was beginning at last to scale the wall, his defaultingcustomer fell again to running, and disappeared into the furtherfields.

p.78CHAPTER VIII—SINGULAR INSTANCE OF THE UTILITY OFPASS-KEYS

Where he ran at first, John neververy clearly knew; nor yet how long a time elapsed ere he foundhimself in the by-road near the lodge of Ravelston, proppedagainst the wall, his lungs heaving like bellows, his legsleaden-heavy, his mind possessed by one sole desire—to liedown and be unseen. He remembered the thick coverts roundthe quarry-hole pond, an untrodden corner of the world where hemight surely find concealment till the night should fall.Thither he passed down the lane; and when he came there, behold!he had forgotten the frost, and the pond was alive with youngpeople skating, and the pond-side coverts were thick withlookers-on. He looked on a while himself. There wasone tall, graceful maiden, skating hand in hand with a youth, onwhom she bestowed her bright eyes perhaps too patently; and itwas strange with what anger John beheld her. He could havebroken forth in curses; he could have stood there, like amortified tramp, and shaken his fist and vented his gall upon herby the hour—or so he thought; and the next moment his heartbled for the girl. ‘Poor creature, it’s littleshe knows!’ he sighed. ‘Let her enjoy herselfwhile she can!’ But was it possible, when Flora usedto smile at him on the Braid ponds, she could have looked sofulsome to a sick-hearted bystander?

The thought of one quarry, in his frozen wits, suggestedanother; and he plodded off toward Craigleith. A wind hadsprung up out of the north-west; it was cruel keen, it dried himlike a fire, and racked his finger-joints. It broughtclouds, too; pale, swift, hurrying clouds, that blotted heavenand shed gloom upon the earth. He scrambled up among thehazelled rubbish heaps that surround the caldron of the quarry,and lay flat upon the stones. The wind searched close alongthe earth, the stones were cutting and icy, the bare hazelswailed about him; and soon the air of the afternoon began to bevocal with those strange and dismal harpings that heraldsnow. Pain and misery turned in John’s limbs to aharrowing impatience and blind desire of change; now he wouldroll in his harsh lair, and when the flints abraded him, wasalmost pleased; now he would crawl to the edge of the huge pitand look dizzily down. He saw the spiral of the descendingroadway, the steep crags, the clinging bushes, the peppering ofsnow-wreaths, and far down in the bottom, the diminishedcrane. Here, no doubt, was a way to end it. But itsomehow did not take his fancy.

And suddenly he was aware that he was hungry; ay, even throughthe tortures of the cold, even through the frosts of despair, agross, desperate longing after food, no matter what, no matterhow, began to wake and spur him. Suppose he pawned hiswatch? But no, on Christmas-day—this wasChristmas-day!—the pawnshop would be closed. Supposehe went to the public-house close by at Blackhall, and offeredthe watch, which was worth ten pounds, in payment for a meal ofbread and cheese? The incongruity was too remarkable; thegood folks would either put him to the door, or only let him into send for the police. He turned his pockets out one afteranother; some San Francisco tram-car checks, one cigar, nolights, the pass-key to his father’s house, apocket-handkerchief, with just a touch of scent: no, money couldbe raised on none of these. There was nothing for it but tostarve; and after all, what mattered it? That also was adoor of exit.

He crept close among the bushes, the wind playing round himlike a lash; his clothes seemed thin as paper, his joints burned,his skin curdled on his bones. He had a vision of ahigh-lying cattle-drive in California, and the bed of a driedstream with one muddy pool, by which the vaqueros had encamped:splendid sun over all, the big bonfire blazing, the strips of cowbrowning and smoking on a skewer of wood; how warm it was, howsavoury the steam of scorching meat! And then again heremembered his manifold calamities, and burrowed and wallowed inthe sense of his disgrace and shame. And next he wasentering Frank’s restaurant in Montgomery Street, SanFrancisco; he had ordered a pan-stew and venison chops, of whichhe was immoderately fond, and as he sat waiting, Munroe, the goodattendant, brought him a whisky punch; he saw the strawberriesfloat on the delectable cup, he heard the ice chink about thestraws. And then he woke again to his detested fate, andfound himself sitting, humped together, in a windy combe ofquarry refuse—darkness thick about him, thin flakes of snowflying here and there like rags of paper, and the strongshuddering of his body clashing his teeth like a hiccough.

We have seen John in nothing but the stormiest condition; wehave seen him reckless, desperate, tried beyond his moderatepowers; of his daily self, cheerful, regular, not unthrifty, wehave seen nothing; and it may thus be a surprise to the reader tolearn that he was studiously careful of his health. Thisfavourite preoccupation now awoke. If he were to sit thereand die of cold, there would be mighty little gained; better thepolice cell and the chances of a jury trial, than the miserablecertainty of death at a dyke-side before the next winter’sdawn, or death a little later in the gas-lighted wards of aninfirmary.

He rose on aching legs, and stumbled here and there among therubbish heaps, still circumvented by the yawning crater of thequarry; or perhaps he only thought so, for the darkness wasalready dense, the snow was growing thicker, and he moved like ablind man, and with a blind man’s terrors. At last heclimbed a fence, thinking to drop into the road, and foundhimself staggering, instead, among the iron furrows of aploughland, endless, it seemed, as a whole county. And nexthe was in a wood, beating among young trees; and then he wasaware of a house with many lighted windows, Christmas carriageswaiting at the doors, and Christmas drivers (for Christmas has adouble edge) becoming swiftly hooded with snow. From thisglimpse of human cheerfulness, he fled like Cain; wandered in thenight, unpiloted, careless of whither he went; fell, and lay, andthen rose again and wandered further; and at last, like atransformation scene, behold him in the lighted jaws of the city,staring at a lamp which had already donned the tilted night-capof the snow. It came thickly now, a ‘FeedingStorm’; and while he yet stood blinking at the lamp, hisfeet were buried. He remembered something like it in thepast, a street-lamp crowned and caked upon the windward side withsnow, the wind uttering its mournful hoot, himself looking on,even as now; but the cold had struck too sharply on his wits, andmemory failed him as to the date and sequel of thereminiscence.

His next conscious moment was on the Dean Bridge; but whetherhe was John Nicholson of a bank in a California street, or someformer John, a clerk in his father’s office, he had nowclean forgotten. Another blank, and he was thrusting hispass-key into the door-lock of his father’s house.

Hours must have passed. Whether crouched on the coldstones or wandering in the fields among the snow, was more thanhe could tell; but hours had passed. The finger of the hallclock was close on twelve; a narrow peep of gas in the hall-lampshed shadows; and the door of the back room—hisfather’s room—was open and emitted a warmlight. At so late an hour, all this was strange; the lightsshould have been out, the doors locked, the good folk safe inbed. He marvelled at the irregularity, leaning on thehall-table; and marvelled to himself there; and thawed and grewonce more hungry, in the warmer air of the house.

The clock uttered its premonitory catch; in five minutesChristmas-day would be among the days of thepast—Christmas!—what a Christmas! Well, therewas no use waiting; he had come into that house, he scarce knewhow; if they were to thrust him forth again, it had best be doneat once; and he moved to the door of the back room andentered.

Oh, well, then he was insane, as he had long believed.

There, in his father’s room, at midnight, the fire wasroaring and the gas blazing; the papers, the sacredpapers—to lay a hand on which was criminal—had allbeen taken off and piled along the floor; a cloth was spread, anda supper laid, upon the business table; and in his father’schair a woman, habited like a nun, sat eating. As heappeared in the doorway, the nun rose, gave a low cry, and stoodstaring. She was a large woman, strong, calm, a littlemasculine, her features marked with courage and good sense; andas John blinked back at her, a faint resemblance dodged about hismemory, as when a tune haunts us, and yet will not berecalled.

‘Why, it’s John!’ cried the nun.

‘I dare say I’m mad,’ said John,unconsciously following King Lear; ‘but, upon my word, I dobelieve you’re Flora.’

‘Of course I am,’ replied she.

And yet it is not Flora at all, thought John; Flora wasslender, and timid, and of changing colour, and dewy-eyed; andhad Flora such an Edinburgh accent? But he said none ofthese things, which was perhaps as well. What he said was,‘Then why are you a nun?’

‘Such nonsense!’ said Flora.‘I’m a sick-nurse; and I am here nursing your sister,with whom, between you and me, there is precious little thematter. But that is not the question. The point is:How do you come here? and are you not ashamed to showyourself?’

‘Flora,’ said John, sepulchrally, ‘Ihaven’t eaten anything for three days. Or, at least,I don’t know what day it is; but I guess I’mstarving.’

‘You unhappy man!’ she cried. ‘Here,sit down and eat my supper; and I’ll just run upstairs andsee my patient; not but what I doubt she’s fast asleep, forMaria is a malade imaginaire.’

With this specimen of the French, not of Stratford-atte-Bowe,but of a finishing establishment in Moray Place, she left Johnalone in his father’s sanctum. He fell at once uponthe food; and it is to be supposed that Flora had found herpatient wakeful, and been detained with some details of nursing,for he had time to make a full end of all there was to eat, andnot only to empty the teapot, but to fill it again from a kettlethat was fitfully singing on his father’s fire. Thenhe sat torpid, and pleased, and bewildered; his misfortunes werethen half forgotten; his mind considering, not without regret,this unsentimental return to his old love.

He was thus engaged, when that bustling woman noiselesslyre-entered.

‘Have you eaten?’ said she. ‘Then tellme all about it.’

It was a long and (as the reader knows) a pitiful story; butFlora heard it with compressed lips. She was lost in noneof those questionings of human destiny that have, from time totime, arrested the flight of my own pen; for women, such as she,are no philosophers, and behold the concrete only. Andwomen, such as she, are very hard on the imperfect man.

‘Very well,’ said she, when he had done;‘then down upon your knees at once, and beg God’sforgiveness.’

And the great baby plumped upon his knees, and did as he wasbid; and none the worse for that! But while he was heartilyenough requesting forgiveness on general principles, the rationalside of him distinguished, and wondered if, perhaps, the apologywere not due upon the other part. And when he rose againfrom that becoming exercise, he first eyed the face of his oldlove doubtfully, and then, taking heart, uttered his protest.

‘I must say, Flora,’ said he, ‘in all thisbusiness, I can see very little fault of mine.’

‘If you had written home,’ replied the lady,‘there would have been none of it. If you had evengone to Murrayfield reasonably sober, you would never have sleptthere, and the worst would not have happened. Besides, thewhole thing began years ago. You got into trouble, and whenyour father, honest man, was disappointed, you took the pet, orgot afraid, and ran away from punishment. Well,you’ve had your own way of it, John, and I don’tsuppose you like it.’

‘I sometimes fancy I’m not much better than afool,’ sighed John.

‘My dear John,’ said she, ‘notmuch!’

He looked at her, and his eye fell. A certain anger rosewithin him; here was a Flora he disowned; she was hard; she wasof a set colour; a settled, mature, undecorative manner; plain ofspeech, plain of habit—he had come near saying, plain offace. And this changeling called herself by the same nameas the many-coloured, clinging maid of yore; she of the frequentlaughter, and the many sighs, and the kind, stolen glances.And to make all worse, she took the upper hand with him, which(as John well knew) was not the true relation of the sexes.He steeled his heart against this sick-nurse.

‘And how do you come to be here?’ he asked.

She told him how she had nursed her father in his longillness, and when he died, and she was left alone, had taken tonurse others, partly from habit, partly to be of some service inthe world; partly, it might be, for amusement.‘There’s no accounting for taste,’ saidshe. And she told him how she went largely to the houses ofold friends, as the need arose; and how she was thus doublywelcome as an old friend first, and then as an experienced nurse,to whom doctors would confide the gravest cases.

‘And, indeed, it’s a mere farce my being here forpoor Maria,’ she continued; ‘but your father takesher ailments to heart, and I cannot always be refusing him.We are great friends, your father and I; he was very kind to melong ago—ten years ago.

A strange stir came in John’s heart. All thiswhile had he been thinking only of himself? All this while,why had he not written to Flora? In penitential tenderness,he took her hand, and, to his awe and trouble, it remained inhis, compliant. A voice told him this was Flora, afterall—told him so quietly, yet with a thrill of singing.

‘And you never married?’ said he.

‘No, John; I never married,’ she replied.

The hall clock striking two recalled them to the sense oftime.

‘And now,’ said she, ‘you have been fed andwarmed, and I have heard your story, and now it’s high timeto call your brother.’

‘Oh!’ cried John, chap-fallen; ‘do you thinkthat absolutely necessary?’

‘I can’t keep you here; I am astranger,’ said she. ‘Do you want to run awayagain? I thought you had enough of that.’

He bowed his head under the reproof. She despised him,he reflected, as he sat once more alone; a monstrous thing for awoman to despise a man; and strangest of all, she seemed to likehim. Would his brother despise him, too? And wouldhis brother like him?

And presently the brother appeared, under Flora’sescort; and, standing afar off beside the doorway, eyed the heroof this tale.

‘So this is you?’ he said, at length.

‘Yes, Alick, it’s me—it’s John,’replied the elder brother, feebly.

‘And how did you get in here?’ inquired theyounger.

‘Oh, I had my pass-key,’ says John.

‘The deuce you had!’ said Alexander.‘Ah, you lived in a better world! There are nopass-keys going now.’

‘Well, father was always averse to them,’ sighedJohn. And the conversation then broke down, and thebrothers looked askance at one another in silence.

‘Well, and what the devil are we to do?’ saidAlexander. ‘I suppose if the authorities got wind ofyou, you would be taken up?’

‘It depends on whether they’ve found the body ornot,’ returned John. ‘And then there’sthat cabman, to be sure!’

‘Oh, bother the body!’ said Alexander.‘I mean about the other thing. That’sserious.’

‘Is that what my father spoke about?’ askedJohn. ‘I don’t even know what it is.’

‘About your robbing your bank in California, ofcourse,’ replied Alexander.

It was plain, from Flora’s face, that this was the firstshe had heard of it; it was plainer still, from John’s,that he was innocent.

‘I!’ he exclaimed. ‘I rob mybank! My God! Flora, this is too much; even you mustallow that.’

‘Meaning you didn’t?’ asked Alexander.

‘I never robbed a soul in all my days,’ criedJohn: ‘except my father, if you call that robbery; and Ibrought him back the money in this room, and he wouldn’teven take it!’

‘Look here, John,’ said his brother, ‘let ushave no misunderstanding upon this. Macewen saw my father;he told him a bank you had worked for in San Francisco was wiringover the habitable globe to have you collared—that it wassupposed you had nailed thousands; and it was dead certain youhad nailed three hundred. So Macewen said, and I wish youwould be careful how you answer. I may tell you also, thatyour father paid the three hundred on the spot.’

‘Three hundred?’ repeated John. ‘Threehundred pounds, you mean? That’s fifteen hundreddollars. Why, then, it’s Kirkman!’ he brokeout. ‘Thank Heaven! I can explain allthat. I gave them to Kirkman to pay for me the night beforeI left—fifteen hundred dollars, and a letter to themanager. What do they suppose I would steal fifteen hundreddollars for? I’m rich; I struck it rich instocks. It’s the silliest stuff I ever heardof. All that’s needful is to cable to the manager:Kirkman has the fifteen hundred—find Kirkman. He wasa fellow-clerk of mine, and a hard case; but to do him justice, Ididn’t think he was as hard as this.’

‘And what do you say to that, Alick?’ askedFlora.

‘I say the cablegram shall go to-night!’ criedAlexander, with energy. ‘Answer prepaid, too.If this can be cleared away—and upon my word I do believeit can—we shall all be able to hold up our headsagain. Here, you John, you stick down the address of yourbank manager. You, Flora, you can pack John into my bed,for which I have no further use to-night. As for me, I amoff to the post-office, and thence to the High Street about thedead body. The police ought to know, you see, and theyought to know through John; and I can tell them some rigmaroleabout my brother being a man of highly nervous organisation, andthe rest of it. And then, I’ll tell you what,John—did you notice the name upon the cab?’

John gave the name of the driver, which, as I have not beenable to command the vehicle, I here suppress.

‘Well,’ resumed Alexander, ‘I’ll callround at their place before I come back, and pay your shot foryou. In that way, before breakfast-time, you’ll be asgood as new.’

John murmured inarticulate thanks. To see his brotherthus energetic in his service moved him beyond expression; if hecould not utter what he felt, he showed it legibly in his face;and Alexander read it there, and liked it the better in that dumbdelivery.

‘But there’s one thing,’ said the latter,‘cablegrams are dear; and I dare say you remember enough ofthe governor to guess the state of my finances.’

‘The trouble is,’ said John, ‘that all mystamps are in that beastly house.’

‘All your what?’ asked Alexander.

‘Stamps—money,’ explained John.‘It’s an American expression; I’m afraid Icontracted one or two.’

‘I have some,’ said Flora. ‘I have apound note upstairs.’

‘My dear Flora,’ returned Alexander, ‘apound note won’t see us very far; and besides, this is myfather’s business, and I shall be very much surprised if itisn’t my father who pays for it.’

‘I would not apply to him yet; I do not think that canbe wise,’ objected Flora.

‘You have a very imperfect idea of my resources, and notat all of my effrontery,’ replied Alexander.‘Please observe.’

He put John from his way, chose a stout knife among the supperthings, and with surprising quickness broke into hisfather’s drawer.

‘There’s nothing easier when you come totry,’ he observed, pocketing the money.

‘I wish you had not done that,’ said Flora.‘You will never hear the last of it.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ returned the young man;‘the governor is human after all. And now, John, letme see your famous pass-key. Get into bed, and don’tmove for any one till I come back. They won’t mindyou not answering when they knock; I generally don’tmyself.’

p.95CHAPTER IX—IN WHICH MR. NICHOLSON ACCEPTS THEPRINCIPLE OF AN ALLOWANCE

In spite of the horrors of the dayand the tea-drinking of the night, John slept the sleep ofinfancy. He was awakened by the maid, as it might have beenten years ago, tapping at the door. The winter sunrise waspainting the east; and as the window was to the back of thehouse, it shone into the room with many strange colours ofrefracted light. Without, the houses were all cleanlyroofed with snow; the garden walls were coped with it a foot inheight; the greens lay glittering. Yet strange as snow hadgrown to John during his years upon the Bay of San Francisco, itwas what he saw within that most affected him. For it wasto his own room that Alexander had been promoted; there was theold paper with the device of flowers, in which a cunning fancymight yet detect the face of Skinny Jim, of the Academy,John’s former dominie; there was the old chest of drawers;there were the chairs—one, two, three—three asbefore. Only the carpet was new, and the litter ofAlexander’s clothes and books and drawing materials, and apencil-drawing on the wall, which (in John’s eyes) appeareda marvel of proficiency.

He was thus lying, and looking, and dreaming, hanging, as itwere, between two epochs of his life, when Alexander came to thedoor, and made his presence known in a loud whisper. Johnlet him in, and jumped back into the warm bed.

‘Well, John,’ said Alexander, ‘the cablegramis sent in your name, and twenty words of answer paid. Ihave been to the cab office and paid your cab, even saw the oldgentleman himself, and properly apologised. He was mightyplacable, and indicated his belief you had been drinking.Then I knocked up old Macewen out of bed, and explained affairsto him as he sat and shivered in a dressing-gown. Andbefore that I had been to the High Street, where they have heardnothing of your dead body, so that I incline to the idea that youdreamed it.’

‘Catch me!’ said John.

‘Well, the police never do know anything,’assented Alexander; ‘and at any rate, they have despatcheda man to inquire and to recover your trousers and your money, sothat really your bill is now fairly clean; and I see but one lionin your path—the governor.’

‘I’ll be turned out again, you’llsee,’ said John, dismally.

‘I don’t imagine so,’ returned the other;‘not if you do what Flora and I have arranged; and yourbusiness now is to dress, and lose no time about it. Isyour watch right? Well, you have a quarter of anhour. By five minutes before the half-hour you must be attable, in your old seat, under Uncle Duthie’spicture. Flora will be there to keep you countenance; andwe shall see what we shall see.’

‘Wouldn’t it be wiser for me to stay inbed?’ said John.

‘If you mean to manage your own concerns, you can doprecisely what you like,’ replied Alexander; ‘but ifyou are not in your place five minutes before the half-hour Iwash my hands of you, for one.’

And thereupon he departed. He had spoken warmly, but thetruth is, his heart was somewhat troubled. And as he hungover the balusters, watching for his father to appear, he hadhard ado to keep himself braced for the encounter that mustfollow.

‘If he takes it well, I shall be lucky,’ hereflected.

‘If he takes it ill, why it’ll be a herring acrossJohn’s tracks, and perhaps all for the best.He’s a confounded muff, this brother of mine, but he seemsa decent soul.’

At that stage a door opened below with a certain emphasis, andMr. Nicholson was seen solemnly to descend the stairs, and passinto his own apartment. Alexander followed, quakinginwardly, but with a steady face. He knocked, was bidden toenter, and found his father standing in front of the forceddrawer, to which he pointed as he spoke.

‘This is a most extraordinary thing,’ said he;‘I have been robbed!’

‘I was afraid you would notice it,’ observed hisson; ‘it made such a beastly hash of the table.’

‘You were afraid I would notice it?’ repeated Mr.Nicholson. ‘And, pray, what may that mean?’

‘That I was a thief, sir,’ returnedAlexander. ‘I took all the money in case the servantsshould get hold of it; and here is the change, and a note of myexpenditure. You were gone to bed, you see, and I did notfeel at liberty to knock you up; but I think when you have heardthe circumstances, you will do me justice. The fact is, Ihave reason to believe there has been some dreadful error aboutmy brother John; the sooner it can be cleared up the better forall parties; it was a piece of business, sir—and so I tookit, and decided, on my own responsibility, to send a telegram toSan Francisco. Thanks to my quickness we may hearto-night. There appears to be no doubt, sir, that John hasbeen abominably used.’

‘When did this take place?’ asked the father.

‘Last night, sir, after you were asleep,’ was thereply.

‘It’s most extraordinary,’ said Mr.Nicholson. ‘Do you mean to say you have been out allnight?’

‘All night, as you say, sir. I have been to thetelegraph and the police office, and Mr. Macewen’s.Oh, I had my hands full,’ said Alexander.

‘Very irregular,’ said the father.‘You think of no one but yourself.’

‘I do not see that I have much to gain in bringing backmy elder brother,’ returned Alexander, shrewdly.

The answer pleased the old man; he smiled. ‘Well,well, I will go into this after breakfast,’ said he.

‘I’m sorry about the table,’ said theson.

‘The table is a small matter; I think nothing ofthat,’ said the father.

‘It’s another example,’ continued the son,‘of the awkwardness of a man having no money of hisown. If I had a proper allowance, like other fellows of myage, this would have been quite unnecessary.’

‘A proper allowance!’ repeated his father, intones of blighting sarcasm, for the expression was not new tohim. ‘I have never grudged you money for any properpurpose.’

‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Alexander, ‘butthen you see you aren’t always on the spot to have thething explained to you. Last night, forinstance—’

‘You could have wakened me last night,’interrupted his father.

‘Was it not some similar affair that first got John intoa mess?’ asked the son, skilfully evading the point.

But the father was not less adroit. ‘And pray,sir, how did you come and go out of the house?’ heasked.

‘I forgot to lock the door, it seems,’ repliedAlexander.

‘I have had cause to complain of that too often,’said Mr. Nicholson. ‘But still I do notunderstand. Did you keep the servants up?’

‘I propose to go into all that at length afterbreakfast,’ returned Alexander. ‘There is thehalf-hour going; we must not keep Miss Mackenziewaiting.’

And greatly daring, he opened the door.

Even Alexander, who, it must have been perceived was on termsof comparative freedom with his parent—even Alexander hadnever before dared to cut short an interview in this high-handedfashion. But the truth is, the very mass of his son’sdelinquencies daunted the old gentleman. He was like theman with the cart of apples—this was beyond him! ThatAlexander should have spoiled his table, taken his money, stayedout all night, and then coolly acknowledged all, was somethingundreamed of in the Nicholsonian philosophy, and transcendedcomment. The return of the change, which the old gentlemanstill carried in his hand, had been a feature of imposingimpudence; it had dealt him a staggering blow. Then therewas the reference to John’s original flight—a subjectwhich he always kept resolutely curtained in his own mind; for hewas a man who loved to have made no mistakes, and when he fearedhe might have made one kept the papers sealed. In view ofall these surprises and reminders, and of his son’scomposed and masterful demeanour, there began to creep on Mr.Nicholson a sickly misgiving. He seemed beyond his depth;if he did or said anything, he might come to regret it. Theyoung man, besides, as he had pointed out himself, was playing agenerous part. And if wrong had been done—and done toone who was, after, and in spite of, all, a Nicholson—itshould certainly be righted.

All things considered, monstrous as it was to be cut short inhis inquiries, the old gentleman submitted, pocketed the change,and followed his son into the dining-room. During these fewsteps he once more mentally revolted, and once more, and thistime finally, laid down his arms: a still, small voice in hisbosom having informed him authentically of a piece of news; thathe was afraid of Alexander. The strange thing was that hewas pleased to be afraid of him. He was proud of his son;he might be proud of him; the boy had character and grit, andknew what he was doing.

These were his reflections as he turned the corner of thedining-room door. Miss Mackenzie was in the place ofhonour, conjuring with a tea-pot and a cosy; and, behold! therewas another person present, a large, portly, whiskered man of avery comfortable and respectable air, who now rose from his seatand came forward, holding out his hand.

‘Good-morning, father,’ said he.

Of the contention of feeling that ran high in Mr.Nicholson’s starched bosom, no outward sign was visible;nor did he delay long to make a choice of conduct. Yet inthat interval he had reviewed a great field of possibilities bothpast and future; whether it was possible he had not beenperfectly wise in his treatment of John; whether it was possiblethat John was innocent; whether, if he turned John out a secondtime, as his outraged authority suggested, it was possible toavoid a scandal; and whether, if he went to that extremity, itwas possible that Alexander might rebel.

‘Hum!’ said Mr. Nicholson, and put his hand, limpand dead, into John’s.

And then, in an embarrassed silence, all took their places;and even the paper—from which it was the oldgentleman’s habit to suck mortification daily, as he markedthe decline of our institutions—even the paper lay furledby his side.

But presently Flora came to the rescue. She slid intothe silence with a technicality, asking if John still took hisold inordinate amount of sugar. Thence it was but a step tothe burning question of the day; and in tones a little shaken,she commented on the interval since she had last made tea for theprodigal, and congratulated him on his return. And thenaddressing Mr. Nicholson, she congratulated him also in a mannerthat defied his ill-humour; and from that launched into the taleof John’s misadventures, not without some suitablesuppressions.

Gradually Alexander joined; between them, whether he would orno, they forced a word or two from John; and these fell sotremulously, and spoke so eloquently of a mind oppressed withdread, that Mr. Nicholson relented. At length even hecontributed a question: and before the meal was at an end allfour were talking even freely.

Prayers followed, with the servants gaping at this new-comerwhom no one had admitted; and after prayers there came thatmoment on the clock which was the signal for Mr.Nicholson’s departure.

‘John,’ said he, ‘of course you will stayhere. Be very careful not to excite Maria, if MissMackenzie thinks it desirable that you should see her.Alexander, I wish to speak with you alone.’ And then,when they were both in the back room: ‘You need not come tothe office to-day,’ said he; ‘you can stay and amuseyour brother, and I think it would be respectful to call on UncleGreig. And by the bye’ (this spoken with acertain—dare we say?—bashfulness), ‘I agree toconcede the principle of an allowance; and I will consult withDoctor Durie, who is quite a man of the world and has sons of hisown, as to the amount. And, my fine fellow, you mayconsider yourself in luck!’ he added, with a smile.

‘Thank you,’ said Alexander.

Before noon a detective had restored to John his money, andbrought news, sad enough in truth, but perhaps the least sadpossible. Alan had been found in his own house in RegentTerrace, under care of the terrified butler. He was quitemad, and instead of going to prison, had gone to MorningsideAsylum. The murdered man, it appeared, was an evictedtenant who had for nearly a year pursued his late landlord withthreats and insults; and beyond this, the cause and details ofthe tragedy were lost.

When Mr. Nicholson returned from dinner they were able to puta despatch into his hands: ‘John V. Nicholson, RandolphCrescent, Edinburgh.—Kirkham has disappeared; policelooking for him. All understood. Keep mind quiteeasy.—Austin.’ Having had this explained tohim, the old gentleman took down the cellar key and departed fortwo bottles of the 1820 port. Uncle Greig dined there thatday, and Cousin Robina, and, by an odd chance, Mr. Macewen; andthe presence of these strangers relieved what might have beenotherwise a somewhat strained relation. Ere they departed,the family was welded once more into a fair semblance ofunity.

In the end of April John led Flora—or, as moredescriptive, Flora led John—to the altar, if altar that maybe called which was indeed the drawing-room mantel-piece in Mr.Nicholson’s house, with the Reverend Dr. Durie posted onthe hearthrug in the guise of Hymen’s priest.

The last I saw of them, on a recent visit to the north, was ata dinner-party in the house of my old friend Gellatly Macbride;and after we had, in classic phrase, ‘rejoined theladies,’ I had an opportunity to overhear Flora conversingwith another married woman on the much canvassed matter of ahusband’s tobacco.

‘Oh yes!’ said she; ‘I only allow Mr.Nicholson four cigars a day. Three he smokes at fixedtimes—after a meal, you know, my dear; and the fourth hecan take when he likes with any friend.’

‘Bravo!’ thought I to myself; ‘this is thewife for my friend John!’

p. 109THEBODY-SNATCHER

Every night in the year, four of ussat in the small parlour of the George at Debenham—theundertaker, and the landlord, and Fettes, and myself.Sometimes there would be more; but blow high, blow low, come rainor snow or frost, we four would be each planted in his ownparticular arm-chair. Fettes was an old drunken Scotchman,a man of education obviously, and a man of some property, sincehe lived in idleness. He had come to Debenham years ago,while still young, and by a mere continuance of living had grownto be an adopted townsman. His blue camlet cloak was alocal antiquity, like the church-spire. His place in theparlour at the George, his absence from church, his old,crapulous, disreputable vices, were all things of course inDebenham. He had some vague Radical opinions and somefleeting infidelities, which he would now and again set forth andemphasise with tottering slaps upon the table. He drankrum—five glasses regularly every evening; and for thegreater portion of his nightly visit to the George sat, with hisglass in his right hand, in a state of melancholy alcoholicsaturation. We called him the Doctor, for he was supposedto have some special knowledge of medicine, and had been known,upon a pinch, to set a fracture or reduce a dislocation; butbeyond these slight particulars, we had no knowledge of hischaracter and antecedents.

One dark winter night—it had struck nine some timebefore the landlord joined us—there was a sick man in theGeorge, a great neighbouring proprietor suddenly struck down withapoplexy on his way to Parliament; and the great man’sstill greater London doctor had been telegraphed to hisbedside. It was the first time that such a thing hadhappened in Debenham, for the railway was but newly open, and wewere all proportionately moved by the occurrence.

‘He’s come,’ said the landlord, after he hadfilled and lighted his pipe.

‘He?’ said I. ‘Who?—not thedoctor?’

‘Himself,’ replied our host.

‘What is his name?’

‘Doctor Macfarlane,’ said the landlord.

Fettes was far through his third tumbler, stupidly fuddled,now nodding over, now staring mazily around him; but at the lastword he seemed to awaken, and repeated the name‘Macfarlane’ twice, quietly enough the first time,but with sudden emotion at the second.

‘Yes,’ said the landlord, ‘that’s hisname, Doctor Wolfe Macfarlane.’

Fettes became instantly sober; his eyes awoke, his voicebecame clear, loud, and steady, his language forcible andearnest. We were all startled by the transformation, as ifa man had risen from the dead.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘I am afraid Ihave not been paying much attention to your talk. Who isthis Wolfe Macfarlane?’ And then, when he had heardthe landlord out, ‘It cannot be, it cannot be,’ headded; ‘and yet I would like well to see him face toface.’

‘Do you know him, Doctor?’ asked the undertaker,with a gasp.

‘God forbid!’ was the reply. ‘And yetthe name is a strange one; it were too much to fancy two.Tell me, landlord, is he old?’

‘Well,’ said the host, ‘he’s not ayoung man, to be sure, and his hair is white; but he looksyounger than you.’

‘He is older, though; years older. But,’with a slap upon the table, ‘it’s the rum you see inmy face—rum and sin. This man, perhaps, may have aneasy conscience and a good digestion. Conscience!Hear me speak. You would think I was some good, old, decentChristian, would you not? But no, not I; I nevercanted. Voltaire might have canted if he’d stood inmy shoes; but the brains’—with a rattling fillip onhis bald head—‘the brains were clear and active, andI saw and made no deductions.’

‘If you know this doctor,’ I ventured to remark,after a somewhat awful pause, ‘I should gather that you donot share the landlord’s good opinion.’

Fettes paid no regard to me.

‘Yes,’ he said, with sudden decision, ‘Imust see him face to face.’

There was another pause, and then a door was closed rathersharply on the first floor, and a step was heard upon thestair.

‘That’s the doctor,’ cried thelandlord. ‘Look sharp, and you can catchhim.’

It was but two steps from the small parlour to the door of theold George Inn; the wide oak staircase landed almost in thestreet; there was room for a Turkey rug and nothing more betweenthe threshold and the last round of the descent; but this littlespace was every evening brilliantly lit up, not only by the lightupon the stair and the great signal-lamp below the sign, but bythe warm radiance of the bar-room window. The George thusbrightly advertised itself to passers-by in the coldstreet. Fettes walked steadily to the spot, and we, whowere hanging behind, beheld the two men meet, as one of them hadphrased it, face to face. Dr. Macfarlane was alert andvigorous. His white hair set off his pale and placid,although energetic, countenance. He was richly dressed inthe finest of broadcloth and the whitest of linen, with a greatgold watch-chain, and studs and spectacles of the same preciousmaterial. He wore a broad-folded tie, white and speckledwith lilac, and he carried on his arm a comfortable driving-coatof fur. There was no doubt but he became his years,breathing, as he did, of wealth and consideration; and it was asurprising contrast to see our parlour sot—bald, dirty,pimpled, and robed in his old camlet cloak—confront him atthe bottom of the stairs.

‘Macfarlane!’ he said somewhat loudly, more like aherald than a friend.

The great doctor pulled up short on the fourth step, as thoughthe familiarity of the address surprised and somewhat shocked hisdignity.

‘Toddy Macfarlane!’ repeated Fettes.

The London man almost staggered. He stared for theswiftest of seconds at the man before him, glanced behind himwith a sort of scare, and then in a startled whisper,‘Fettes!’ he said, ‘You!’

‘Ay,’ said the other, ‘me! Did youthink I was dead too? We are not so easy shut of ouracquaintance.’

‘Hush, hush!’ exclaimed the doctor.‘Hush, hush! this meeting is so unexpected—I can seeyou are unmanned. I hardly knew you, I confess, at first;but I am overjoyed—overjoyed to have thisopportunity. For the present it must be how-d’ye-doand good-bye in one, for my fly is waiting, and I must not failthe train; but you shall—let me see—yes—youshall give me your address, and you can count on early news ofme. We must do something for you, Fettes. I fear youare out at elbows; but we must see to that for auld lang syne, asonce we sang at suppers.’

‘Money!’ cried Fettes; ‘money fromyou! The money that I had from you is lying where I cast itin the rain.’

Dr. Macfarlane had talked himself into some measure ofsuperiority and confidence, but the uncommon energy of thisrefusal cast him back into his first confusion.

A horrible, ugly look came and went across his almostvenerable countenance. ‘My dear fellow,’ hesaid, ‘be it as you please; my last thought is to offendyou. I would intrude on none. I will leave you myaddress, however—’

‘I do not wish it—I do not wish to know the roofthat shelters you,’ interrupted the other. ‘Iheard your name; I feared it might be you; I wished to know if,after all, there were a God; I know now that there is none.Begone!’

He still stood in the middle of the rug, between the stair anddoorway; and the great London physician, in order to escape,would be forced to step to one side. It was plain that hehesitated before the thought of this humiliation. White ashe was, there was a dangerous glitter in his spectacles; butwhile he still paused uncertain, he became aware that the driverof his fly was peering in from the street at this unusual sceneand caught a glimpse at the same time of our little body from theparlour, huddled by the corner of the bar. The presence ofso many witnesses decided him at once to flee. He crouchedtogether, brushing on the wainscot, and made a dart like aserpent, striking for the door. But his tribulation was notyet entirely at an end, for even as he was passing Fettesclutched him by the arm and these words came in a whisper, andyet painfully distinct, ‘Have you seen it again?’

The great rich London doctor cried out aloud with a sharp,throttling cry; he dashed his questioner across the open space,and, with his hands over his head, fled out of the door like adetected thief. Before it had occurred to one of us to makea movement the fly was already rattling toward the station.The scene was over like a dream, but the dream had left proofsand traces of its passage. Next day the servant found thefine gold spectacles broken on the threshold, and that very nightwe were all standing breathless by the bar-room window, andFettes at our side, sober, pale, and resolute in look.

‘God protect us, Mr. Fettes!’ said the landlord,coming first into possession of his customary senses.‘What in the universe is all this? These are strangethings you have been saying.’

Fettes turned toward us; he looked us each in succession inthe face. ‘See if you can hold your tongues,’said he. ‘That man Macfarlane is not safe to cross;those that have done so already have repented it toolate.’

And then, without so much as finishing his third glass, farless waiting for the other two, he bade us good-bye and wentforth, under the lamp of the hotel, into the black night.

We three turned to our places in the parlour, with the big redfire and four clear candles; and as we recapitulated what hadpassed, the first chill of our surprise soon changed into a glowof curiosity. We sat late; it was the latest session I haveknown in the old George. Each man, before we parted, hadhis theory that he was bound to prove; and none of us had anynearer business in this world than to track out the past of ourcondemned companion, and surprise the secret that he shared withthe great London doctor. It is no great boast, but Ibelieve I was a better hand at worming out a story than either ofmy fellows at the George; and perhaps there is now no other manalive who could narrate to you the following foul and unnaturalevents.

In his young days Fettes studied medicine in the schools ofEdinburgh. He had talent of a kind, the talent that picksup swiftly what it hears and readily retails it for itsown. He worked little at home; but he was civil, attentive,and intelligent in the presence of his masters. They soonpicked him out as a lad who listened closely and remembered well;nay, strange as it seemed to me when I first heard it, he was inthose days well favoured, and pleased by his exterior.There was, at that period, a certain extramural teacher ofanatomy, whom I shall here designate by the letter K. Hisname was subsequently too well known. The man who bore itskulked through the streets of Edinburgh in disguise, while themob that applauded at the execution of Burke called loudly forthe blood of his employer. But Mr. K— was then at thetop of his vogue; he enjoyed a popularity due partly to his owntalent and address, partly to the incapacity of his rival, theuniversity professor. The students, at least, swore by hisname, and Fettes believed himself, and was believed by others, tohave laid the foundations of success when he had acquired thefavour of this meteorically famous man. Mr. K— was abon vivant as well as an accomplished teacher; he liked asly illusion no less than a careful preparation. In bothcapacities Fettes enjoyed and deserved his notice, and by thesecond year of his attendance he held the half-regular positionof second demonstrator or sub-assistant in his class.

In this capacity the charge of the theatre and lecture-roomdevolved in particular upon his shoulders. He had to answerfor the cleanliness of the premises and the conduct of the otherstudents, and it was a part of his duty to supply, receive, anddivide the various subjects. It was with a view to thislast—at that time very delicate—affair that he waslodged by Mr. K— in the same wynd, and at last in the samebuilding, with the dissecting-rooms. Here, after a night ofturbulent pleasures, his hand still tottering, his sight stillmisty and confused, he would be called out of bed in the blackhours before the winter dawn by the unclean and desperateinterlopers who supplied the table. He would open the doorto these men, since infamous throughout the land. He wouldhelp them with their tragic burden, pay them their sordid price,and remain alone, when they were gone, with the unfriendly relicsof humanity. From such a scene he would return to snatchanother hour or two of slumber, to repair the abuses of thenight, and refresh himself for the labours of the day.

Few lads could have been more insensible to the impressions ofa life thus passed among the ensigns of mortality. His mindwas closed against all general considerations. He wasincapable of interest in the fate and fortunes of another, theslave of his own desires and low ambitions. Cold, light,and selfish in the last resort, he had that modicum of prudence,miscalled morality, which keeps a man from inconvenientdrunkenness or punishable theft. He coveted, besides, ameasure of consideration from his masters and his fellow-pupils,and he had no desire to fail conspicuously in the external partsof life. Thus he made it his pleasure to gain somedistinction in his studies, and day after day renderedunimpeachable eye-service to his employer, Mr. K—.For his day of work he indemnified himself by nights of roaring,blackguardly enjoyment; and when that balance had been struck,the organ that he called his conscience declared itselfcontent.

The supply of subjects was a continual trouble to him as wellas to his master. In that large and busy class, the rawmaterial of the anatomists kept perpetually running out; and thebusiness thus rendered necessary was not only unpleasant initself, but threatened dangerous consequences to all who wereconcerned. It was the policy of Mr. K— to ask noquestions in his dealings with the trade. ‘They bringthe body, and we pay the price,’ he used to say, dwellingon the alliteration—‘quid proquo.’ And, again, and somewhat profanely,‘Ask no questions,’ he would tell his assistants,‘for conscience’ sake.’ There was nounderstanding that the subjects were provided by the crime ofmurder. Had that idea been broached to him in words, hewould have recoiled in horror; but the lightness of his speechupon so grave a matter was, in itself, an offence against goodmanners, and a temptation to the men with whom he dealt.Fettes, for instance, had often remarked to himself upon thesingular freshness of the bodies. He had been struck againand again by the hang-dog, abominable looks of the ruffians whocame to him before the dawn; and putting things together clearlyin his private thoughts, he perhaps attributed a meaning tooimmoral and too categorical to the unguarded counsels of hismaster. He understood his duty, in short, to have threebranches: to take what was brought, to pay the price, and toavert the eye from any evidence of crime.

One November morning this policy of silence was put sharply tothe test. He had been awake all night with a rackingtoothache—pacing his room like a caged beast or throwinghimself in fury on his bed—and had fallen at last into thatprofound, uneasy slumber that so often follows on a night ofpain, when he was awakened by the third or fourth angryrepetition of the concerted signal. There was a thin,bright moonshine; it was bitter cold, windy, and frosty; the townhad not yet awakened, but an indefinable stir already preludedthe noise and business of the day. The ghouls had comelater than usual, and they seemed more than usually eager to begone. Fettes, sick with sleep, lighted them upstairs.He heard their grumbling Irish voices through a dream; and asthey stripped the sack from their sad merchandise he leaneddozing, with his shoulder propped against the wall; he had toshake himself to find the men their money. As he did so hiseyes lighted on the dead face. He started; he took twosteps nearer, with the candle raised.

‘God Almighty!’ he cried. ‘That isJane Galbraith!’

The men answered nothing, but they shuffled nearer thedoor.

‘I know her, I tell you,’ he continued.‘She was alive and hearty yesterday. It’simpossible she can be dead; it’s impossible you should havegot this body fairly.’

‘Sure, sir, you’re mistaken entirely,’ saidone of the men.

But the other looked Fettes darkly in the eyes, and demandedthe money on the spot.

It was impossible to misconceive the threat or to exaggeratethe danger. The lad’s heart failed him. Hestammered some excuses, counted out the sum, and saw his hatefulvisitors depart. No sooner were they gone than he hastenedto confirm his doubts. By a dozen unquestionable marks heidentified the girl he had jested with the day before. Hesaw, with horror, marks upon her body that might well betokenviolence. A panic seized him, and he took refuge in hisroom. There he reflected at length over the discovery thathe had made; considered soberly the bearing of Mr.K—’s instructions and the danger to himself ofinterference in so serious a business, and at last, in soreperplexity, determined to wait for the advice of his immediatesuperior, the class assistant.

This was a young doctor, Wolfe Macfarlane, a high favouriteamong all the reckless students, clever, dissipated, andunscrupulous to the last degree. He had travelled andstudied abroad. His manners were agreeable and a littleforward. He was an authority on the stage, skilful on theice or the links with skate or golf-club; he dressed with niceaudacity, and, to put the finishing touch upon his glory, he kepta gig and a strong trotting-horse. With Fettes he was onterms of intimacy; indeed, their relative positions called forsome community of life; and when subjects were scarce the pairwould drive far into the country in Macfarlane’s gig, visitand desecrate some lonely graveyard, and return before dawn withtheir booty to the door of the dissecting-room.

On that particular morning Macfarlane arrived somewhat earlierthan his wont. Fettes heard him, and met him on the stairs,told him his story, and showed him the cause of his alarm.Macfarlane examined the marks on her body.

‘Yes,’ he said with a nod, ‘it looksfishy.’

‘Well, what should I do?’ asked Fettes.

‘Do?’ repeated the other. ‘Do you wantto do anything? Least said soonest mended, I shouldsay.’

‘Some one else might recognise her,’ objectedFettes. ‘She was as well known as the CastleRock.’

‘We’ll hope not,’ said Macfarlane,‘and if anybody does—well, you didn’t,don’t you see, and there’s an end. The fact is,this has been going on too long. Stir up the mud, andyou’ll get K— into the most unholy trouble;you’ll be in a shocking box yourself. So will I, ifyou come to that. I should like to know how any one of uswould look, or what the devil we should have to say forourselves, in any Christian witness-box. For me, you knowthere’s one thing certain—that, practically speaking,all our subjects have been murdered.’

‘Macfarlane!’ cried Fettes.

‘Come now!’ sneered the other. ‘As ifyou hadn’t suspected it yourself!’

‘Suspecting is one thing—’

‘And proof another. Yes, I know; and I’m assorry as you are this should have come here,’ tapping thebody with his cane. ‘The next best thing for me isnot to recognise it; and,’ he added coolly, ‘Idon’t. You may, if you please. I don’tdictate, but I think a man of the world would do as I do; and Imay add, I fancy that is what K— would look for at ourhands. The question is, Why did he choose us two for hisassistants? And I answer, because he didn’t want oldwives.’

This was the tone of all others to affect the mind of a ladlike Fettes. He agreed to imitate Macfarlane. Thebody of the unfortunate girl was duly dissected, and no oneremarked or appeared to recognise her.

One afternoon, when his day’s work was over, Fettesdropped into a popular tavern and found Macfarlane sitting with astranger. This was a small man, very pale and dark, withcoal-black eyes. The cut of his features gave a promise ofintellect and refinement which was but feebly realised in hismanners, for he proved, upon a nearer acquaintance, coarse,vulgar, and stupid. He exercised, however, a veryremarkable control over Macfarlane; issued orders like the GreatBashaw; became inflamed at the least discussion or delay, andcommented rudely on the servility with which he was obeyed.This most offensive person took a fancy to Fettes on the spot,plied him with drinks, and honoured him with unusual confidenceson his past career. If a tenth part of what he confessedwere true, he was a very loathsome rogue; and the lad’svanity was tickled by the attention of so experienced a man.

‘I’m a pretty bad fellow myself,’ thestranger remarked, ‘but Macfarlane is the boy—ToddyMacfarlane I call him. Toddy, order your friend anotherglass.’ Or it might be, ‘Toddy, you jump up andshut the door.’ ‘Toddy hates me,’ he saidagain. ‘Oh yes, Toddy, you do!’

‘Don’t you call me that confounded name,’growled Macfarlane.

‘Hear him! Did you ever see the lads playknife? He would like to do that all over my body,’remarked the stranger.

‘We medicals have a better way than that,’ saidFettes. ‘When we dislike a dead friend of ours, wedissect him.’

Macfarlane looked up sharply, as though this jest werescarcely to his mind.

The afternoon passed. Gray, for that was thestranger’s name, invited Fettes to join them at dinner,ordered a feast so sumptuous that the tavern was thrown intocommotion, and when all was done commanded Macfarlane to settlethe bill. It was late before they separated; the man Graywas incapably drunk. Macfarlane, sobered by his fury,chewed the cud of the money he had been forced to squander andthe slights he had been obliged to swallow. Fettes, withvarious liquors singing in his head, returned home with deviousfootsteps and a mind entirely in abeyance. Next dayMacfarlane was absent from the class, and Fettes smiled tohimself as he imagined him still squiring the intolerable Grayfrom tavern to tavern. As soon as the hour of liberty hadstruck he posted from place to place in quest of his lastnight’s companions. He could find them, however,nowhere; so returned early to his rooms, went early to bed, andslept the sleep of the just.

At four in the morning he was awakened by the well-knownsignal. Descending to the door, he was filled withastonishment to find Macfarlane with his gig, and in the gig oneof those long and ghastly packages with which he was so wellacquainted.

‘What?’ he cried. ‘Have you been outalone? How did you manage?’

But Macfarlane silenced him roughly, bidding him turn tobusiness. When they had got the body upstairs and laid iton the table, Macfarlane made at first as if he were goingaway. Then he paused and seemed to hesitate; and then,‘You had better look at the face,’ said he, in tonesof some constraint. ‘You had better,’ herepeated, as Fettes only stared at him in wonder.

‘But where, and how, and when did you come by it?’cried the other.

‘Look at the face,’ was the only answer.

Fettes was staggered; strange doubts assailed him. Helooked from the young doctor to the body, and then backagain. At last, with a start, he did as he wasbidden. He had almost expected the sight that met his eyes,and yet the shock was cruel. To see, fixed in the rigidityof death and naked on that coarse layer of sackcloth, the manwhom he had left well clad and full of meat and sin upon thethreshold of a tavern, awoke, even in the thoughtless Fettes,some of the terrors of the conscience. It was a crastibi which re-echoed in his soul, that two whom he had knownshould have come to lie upon these icy tables. Yet thesewere only secondary thoughts. His first concern regardedWolfe. Unprepared for a challenge so momentous, he knew nothow to look his comrade in the face. He durst not meet hiseye, and he had neither words nor voice at his command.

It was Macfarlane himself who made the first advance. Hecame up quietly behind and laid his hand gently but firmly on theother’s shoulder.

‘Richardson,’ said he, ‘may have thehead.’

Now Richardson was a student who had long been anxious forthat portion of the human subject to dissect. There was noanswer, and the murderer resumed: ‘Talking of business, youmust pay me; your accounts, you see, must tally.’

Fettes found a voice, the ghost of his own: ‘Payyou!’ he cried. ‘Pay you for that?’

‘Why, yes, of course you must. By all means and onevery possible account, you must,’ returned theother. ‘I dare not give it for nothing, you dare nottake it for nothing; it would compromise us both. This isanother case like Jane Galbraith’s. The more thingsare wrong the more we must act as if all were right. Wheredoes old K— keep his money?’

‘There,’ answered Fettes hoarsely, pointing to acupboard in the corner.

‘Give me the key, then,’ said the other, calmly,holding out his hand.

There was an instant’s hesitation, and the die wascast. Macfarlane could not suppress a nervous twitch, theinfinitesimal mark of an immense relief, as he felt the keybetween his fingers. He opened the cupboard, brought outpen and ink and a paper-book that stood in one compartment, andseparated from the funds in a drawer a sum suitable to theoccasion.

‘Now, look here,’ he said, ‘there is thepayment made—first proof of your good faith: first step toyour security. You have now to clinch it by a second.Enter the payment in your book, and then you for your part maydefy the devil.’

The next few seconds were for Fettes an agony of thought; butin balancing his terrors it was the most immediate thattriumphed. Any future difficulty seemed almost welcome ifhe could avoid a present quarrel with Macfarlane. He setdown the candle which he had been carrying all this time, andwith a steady hand entered the date, the nature, and the amountof the transaction.

‘And now,’ said Macfarlane, ‘it’s onlyfair that you should pocket the lucre. I’ve had myshare already. By the bye, when a man of the world fallsinto a bit of luck, has a few shillings extra in hispocket—I’m ashamed to speak of it, but there’sa rule of conduct in the case. No treating, no purchase ofexpensive class-books, no squaring of old debts; borrow,don’t lend.’

‘Macfarlane,’ began Fettes, still somewhathoarsely, ‘I have put my neck in a halter to obligeyou.’

‘To oblige me?’ cried Wolfe. ‘Oh,come! You did, as near as I can see the matter, what youdownright had to do in self-defence. Suppose I got intotrouble, where would you be? This second little matterflows clearly from the first. Mr. Gray is the continuationof Miss Galbraith. You can’t begin and thenstop. If you begin, you must keep on beginning;that’s the truth. No rest for the wicked.’

A horrible sense of blackness and the treachery of fate seizedhold upon the soul of the unhappy student.

‘My God!’ he cried, ‘but what have I done?and when did I begin? To be made a class assistant—inthe name of reason, where’s the harm in that? Servicewanted the position; Service might have got it. Wouldhe have been where I am now?’

‘My dear fellow,’ said Macfarlane, ‘what aboy you are! What harm has come to you? Whatharm can come to you if you hold your tongue? Why,man, do you know what this life is? There are two squads ofus—the lions and the lambs. If you’re a lamb,you’ll come to lie upon these tables like Gray or JaneGalbraith; if you’re a lion, you’ll live and drive ahorse like me, like K—, like all the world with any wit orcourage. You’re staggered at the first. Butlook at K—! My dear fellow, you’re clever, youhave pluck. I like you, and K— likes you. Youwere born to lead the hunt; and I tell you, on my honour and myexperience of life, three days from now you’ll laugh at allthese scarecrows like a High School boy at a farce.’

And with that Macfarlane took his departure and drove off upthe wynd in his gig to get under cover before daylight.Fettes was thus left alone with his regrets. He saw themiserable peril in which he stood involved. He saw, withinexpressible dismay, that there was no limit to his weakness,and that, from concession to concession, he had fallen from thearbiter of Macfarlane’s destiny to his paid and helplessaccomplice. He would have given the world to have been alittle braver at the time, but it did not occur to him that hemight still be brave. The secret of Jane Galbraith and thecursed entry in the day-book closed his mouth.

Hours passed; the class began to arrive; the members of theunhappy Gray were dealt out to one and to another, and receivedwithout remark. Richardson was made happy with the head;and before the hour of freedom rang Fettes trembled withexultation to perceive how far they had already gone towardsafety.

For two days he continued to watch, with increasing joy, thedreadful process of disguise.

On the third day Macfarlane made his appearance. He hadbeen ill, he said; but he made up for lost time by the energywith which he directed the students. To Richardson inparticular he extended the most valuable assistance and advice,and that student, encouraged by the praise of the demonstrator,burned high with ambitious hopes, and saw the medal already inhis grasp.

Before the week was out Macfarlane’s prophecy had beenfulfilled. Fettes had outlived his terrors and hadforgotten his baseness. He began to plume himself upon hiscourage, and had so arranged the story in his mind that he couldlook back on these events with an unhealthy pride. Of hisaccomplice he saw but little. They met, of course, in thebusiness of the class; they received their orders together fromMr. K—. At times they had a word or two in private,and Macfarlane was from first to last particularly kind andjovial. But it was plain that he avoided any reference totheir common secret; and even when Fettes whispered to him thathe had cast in his lot with the lions and foresworn the lambs, heonly signed to him smilingly to hold his peace.

At length an occasion arose which threw the pair once moreinto a closer union. Mr. K— was again short ofsubjects; pupils were eager, and it was a part of thisteacher’s pretensions to be always well supplied. Atthe same time there came the news of a burial in the rusticgraveyard of Glencorse. Time has little changed the placein question. It stood then, as now, upon a cross road, outof call of human habitations, and buried fathom deep in thefoliage of six cedar trees. The cries of the sheep upon theneighbouring hills, the streamlets upon either hand, one loudlysinging among pebbles, the other dripping furtively from pond topond, the stir of the wind in mountainous old floweringchestnuts, and once in seven days the voice of the bell and theold tunes of the precentor, were the only sounds that disturbedthe silence around the rural church. The ResurrectionMan—to use a byname of the period—was not to bedeterred by any of the sanctities of customary piety. Itwas part of his trade to despise and desecrate the scrolls andtrumpets of old tombs, the paths worn by the feet of worshippersand mourners, and the offerings and the inscriptions of bereavedaffection. To rustic neighbourhoods, where love is morethan commonly tenacious, and where some bonds of blood orfellowship unite the entire society of a parish, thebody-snatcher, far from being repelled by natural respect, wasattracted by the ease and safety of the task. To bodiesthat had been laid in earth, in joyful expectation of a fardifferent awakening, there came that hasty, lamp-lit,terror-haunted resurrection of the spade and mattock. Thecoffin was forced, the cerements torn, and the melancholy relics,clad in sackcloth, after being rattled for hours on moonlessbyways, were at length exposed to uttermost indignities before aclass of gaping boys.

Somewhat as two vultures may swoop upon a dying lamb, Fettesand Macfarlane were to be let loose upon a grave in that greenand quiet resting-place. The wife of a farmer, a woman whohad lived for sixty years, and been known for nothing but goodbutter and a godly conversation, was to be rooted from her graveat midnight and carried, dead and naked, to that far-away citythat she had always honoured with her Sunday’s best; theplace beside her family was to be empty till the crack of doom;her innocent and almost venerable members to be exposed to thatlast curiosity of the anatomist.

Late one afternoon the pair set forth, well wrapped in cloaksand furnished with a formidable bottle. It rained withoutremission—a cold, dense, lashing rain. Now and againthere blew a puff of wind, but these sheets of falling water keptit down. Bottle and all, it was a sad and silent drive asfar as Penicuik, where they were to spend the evening. Theystopped once, to hide their implements in a thick bush not farfrom the churchyard, and once again at the Fisher’s Tryst,to have a toast before the kitchen fire and vary their nips ofwhisky with a glass of ale. When they reached theirjourney’s end the gig was housed, the horse was fed andcomforted, and the two young doctors in a private room sat downto the best dinner and the best wine the house afforded.The lights, the fire, the beating rain upon the window, the cold,incongruous work that lay before them, added zest to theirenjoyment of the meal. With every glass their cordialityincreased. Soon Macfarlane handed a little pile of gold tohis companion.

‘A compliment,’ he said. ‘Betweenfriends these little d-d accommodations ought to fly likepipe-lights.’

Fettes pocketed the money, and applauded the sentiment to theecho. ‘You are a philosopher,’ he cried.‘I was an ass till I knew you. You and K—between you, by the Lord Harry! but you’ll make a man ofme.’

‘Of course we shall,’ applauded Macfarlane.‘A man? I tell you, it required a man to back me upthe other morning. There are some big, brawling,forty-year-old cowards who would have turned sick at the look ofthe d-d thing; but not you—you kept your head. Iwatched you.’

‘Well, and why not?’ Fettes thus vauntedhimself. ‘It was no affair of mine. There wasnothing to gain on the one side but disturbance, and on the otherI could count on your gratitude, don’t yousee?’ And he slapped his pocket till the gold piecesrang.

Macfarlane somehow felt a certain touch of alarm at theseunpleasant words. He may have regretted that he had taughthis young companion so successfully, but he had no time tointerfere, for the other noisily continued in this boastfulstrain:—

‘The great thing is not to be afraid. Now, betweenyou and me, I don’t want to hang—that’spractical; but for all cant, Macfarlane, I was born with acontempt. Hell, God, Devil, right, wrong, sin, crime, andall the old gallery of curiosities—they may frighten boys,but men of the world, like you and me, despise them.Here’s to the memory of Gray!’

It was by this time growing somewhat late. The gig,according to order, was brought round to the door with both lampsbrightly shining, and the young men had to pay their bill andtake the road. They announced that they were bound forPeebles, and drove in that direction till they were clear of thelast houses of the town; then, extinguishing the lamps, returnedupon their course, and followed a by-road toward Glencorse.There was no sound but that of their own passage, and theincessant, strident pouring of the rain. It was pitch dark;here and there a white gate or a white stone in the wall guidedthem for a short space across the night; but for the most part itwas at a foot pace, and almost groping, that they picked theirway through that resonant blackness to their solemn and isolateddestination. In the sunken woods that traverse theneighbourhood of the burying-ground the last glimmer failed them,and it became necessary to kindle a match and re-illumine one ofthe lanterns of the gig. Thus, under the dripping trees,and environed by huge and moving shadows, they reached the sceneof their unhallowed labours.

They were both experienced in such affairs, and powerful withthe spade; and they had scarce been twenty minutes at their taskbefore they were rewarded by a dull rattle on the coffinlid. At the same moment Macfarlane, having hurt his handupon a stone, flung it carelessly above his head. Thegrave, in which they now stood almost to the shoulders, was closeto the edge of the plateau of the graveyard; and the gig lamp hadbeen propped, the better to illuminate their labours, against atree, and on the immediate verge of the steep bank descending tothe stream. Chance had taken a sure aim with thestone. Then came a clang of broken glass; night fell uponthem; sounds alternately dull and ringing announced the boundingof the lantern down the bank, and its occasional collision withthe trees. A stone or two, which it had dislodged in itsdescent, rattled behind it into the profundities of the glen; andthen silence, like night, resumed its sway; and they might bendtheir hearing to its utmost pitch, but naught was to be heardexcept the rain, now marching to the wind, now steadily fallingover miles of open country.

They were so nearly at an end of their abhorred task that theyjudged it wisest to complete it in the dark. The coffin wasexhumed and broken open; the body inserted in the dripping sackand carried between them to the gig; one mounted to keep it inits place, and the other, taking the horse by the mouth, gropedalong by wall and bush until they reached the wider road by theFisher’s Tryst. Here was a faint, diffused radiancy,which they hailed like daylight; by that they pushed the horse toa good pace and began to rattle along merrily in the direction ofthe town.

They had both been wetted to the skin during their operations,and now, as the gig jumped among the deep ruts, the thing thatstood propped between them fell now upon one and now upon theother. At every repetition of the horrid contact eachinstinctively repelled it with the greater haste; and theprocess, natural although it was, began to tell upon the nervesof the companions. Macfarlane made some ill-favoured jestabout the farmer’s wife, but it came hollowly from hislips, and was allowed to drop in silence. Still theirunnatural burden bumped from side to side; and now the head wouldbe laid, as if in confidence, upon their shoulders, and now thedrenching sack-cloth would flap icily about their faces. Acreeping chill began to possess the soul of Fettes. Hepeered at the bundle, and it seemed somehow larger than atfirst. All over the country-side, and from every degree ofdistance, the farm dogs accompanied their passage with tragicululations; and it grew and grew upon his mind that someunnatural miracle had been accomplished, that some namelesschange had befallen the dead body, and that it was in fear oftheir unholy burden that the dogs were howling.

‘For God’s sake,’ said he, making a greateffort to arrive at speech, ‘for God’s sake,let’s have a light!’

Seemingly Macfarlane was affected in the same direction; for,though he made no reply, he stopped the horse, passed the reinsto his companion, got down, and proceeded to kindle the remaininglamp. They had by that time got no farther than thecross-road down to Auchenclinny. The rain still poured asthough the deluge were returning, and it was no easy matter tomake a light in such a world of wet and darkness. When atlast the flickering blue flame had been transferred to the wickand began to expand and clarify, and shed a wide circle of mistybrightness round the gig, it became possible for the two youngmen to see each other and the thing they had along withthem. The rain had moulded the rough sacking to theoutlines of the body underneath; the head was distinct from thetrunk, the shoulders plainly modelled; something at once spectraland human riveted their eyes upon the ghastly comrade of theirdrive.

For some time Macfarlane stood motionless, holding up thelamp. A nameless dread was swathed, like a wet sheet, aboutthe body, and tightened the white skin upon the face of Fettes; afear that was meaningless, a horror of what could not be, keptmounting to his brain. Another beat of the watch, and hehad spoken. But his comrade forestalled him.

‘That is not a woman,’ said Macfarlane, in ahushed voice.

‘It was a woman when we put her in,’ whisperedFettes.

‘Hold that lamp,’ said the other. ‘Imust see her face.’

And as Fettes took the lamp his companion untied thefastenings of the sack and drew down the cover from thehead. The light fell very clear upon the dark, well-mouldedfeatures and smooth-shaven cheeks of a too familiar countenance,often beheld in dreams of both of these young men. A wildyell rang up into the night; each leaped from his own side intothe roadway: the lamp fell, broke, and was extinguished; and thehorse, terrified by this unusual commotion, bounded and went offtoward Edinburgh at a gallop, bearing along with it, soleoccupant of the gig, the body of the dead and long-dissectedGray.

THE STORY OF A LIE

p.145CHAPTER I—INTRODUCES THE ADMIRAL

When Dick Naseby was in Paris hemade some odd acquaintances; for he was one of those who haveears to hear, and can use their eyes no less than theirintelligence. He made as many thoughts as Stuart Mill; buthis philosophy concerned flesh and blood, and was experimental asto its method. He was a type-hunter among mankind. Hedespised small game and insignificant personalities, whether inthe shape of dukes or bagmen, letting them go by like sea-weed;but show him a refined or powerful face, let him hear a plangentor a penetrating voice, fish for him with a living look in someone’s eye, a passionate gesture, a meaning and ambiguoussmile, and his mind was instantaneously awakened.‘There was a man, there was a woman,’ he seemed tosay, and he stood up to the task of comprehension with thedelight of an artist in his art.

And indeed, rightly considered, this interest of his was anartistic interest. There is no science in the personalstudy of human nature. All comprehension is creation; thewoman I love is somewhat of my handiwork; and the great lover,like the great painter, is he that can so embellish his subjectas to make her more than human, whilst yet by a cunning art hehas so based his apotheosis on the nature of the case that thewoman can go on being a true woman, and give her character freeplay, and show littleness, or cherish spite, or be greedy ofcommon pleasures, and he continue to worship without a thought ofincongruity. To love a character is only the heroic way ofunderstanding it. When we love, by some noble method of ourown or some nobility of mien or nature in the other, we apprehendthe loved one by what is noblest in ourselves. When we aremerely studying an eccentricity, the method of our study is but aseries of allowances. To begin to understand is to begin tosympathise; for comprehension comes only when we have statedanother’s faults and virtues in terms of our own.Hence the proverbial toleration of artists for their own evilcreations. Hence, too, it came about that Dick Naseby, ahigh-minded creature, and as scrupulous and brave a gentleman asyou would want to meet, held in a sort of affection the varioushuman creeping things whom he had met and studied.

One of these was Mr. Peter Van Tromp, an English-speaking,two-legged animal of the international genus, and by professionof general and more than equivocal utility. Years before hehad been a painter of some standing in a colony, and portraitssigned ‘Van Tromp’ had celebrated the greatness ofcolonial governors and judges. In those days he had beenmarried, and driven his wife and infant daughter in a ponytrap. What were the steps of his declension? No oneexactly knew. Here he was at least, and had been any timethese past ten years, a sort of dismal parasite upon theforeigner in Paris.

It would be hazardous to specify his exact industry.Coarsely followed, it would have merited a name grown somewhatunfamiliar to our ears. Followed as he followed it, with askilful reticence, in a kind of social chiaroscuro, it was stillpossible for the polite to call him a professional painter.His lair was in the Grand Hotel and the gaudiestcafés. There he might be seen jotting off a sketchwith an air of some inspiration; and he was always affable, andone of the easiest of men to fall in talk withal. Aconversation usually ripened into a peculiar sort of intimacy,and it was extraordinary how many little services Van Trompcontrived to render in the course of six-and-thirty hours.He occupied a position between a friend and a courier, which madehim worse than embarrassing to repay. But those whom heobliged could always buy one of his villainous little pictures,or, where the favours had been prolonged and more than usuallydelicate, might order and pay for a large canvas, with perfectcertainty that they would hear no more of the transaction.

Among resident artists he enjoyed celebrity of anon-professional sort. He had spent more money—noless than three individual fortunes, it was whispered—thanany of his associates could ever hope to gain. Apart fromhis colonial career, he had been to Greece in a brigantine withfour brass carronades; he had travelled Europe in a chaise andfour, drawing bridle at the palace-doors of German princes;queens of song and dance had followed him like sheep and paid histailor’s bills. And to behold him now, seeking smallloans with plaintive condescension, sponging for breakfast on anart-student of nineteen, a fallen Don Juan who had neglected todie at the propitious hour, had a colour of romance for youngimaginations. His name and his bright past, seen throughthe prism of whispered gossip, had gained him the nickname ofThe Admiral.

Dick found him one day at the receipt of custom, rapidlypainting a pair of hens and a cock in a little water-coloursketching box, and now and then glancing at the ceiling like aman who should seek inspiration from the muse. Dick thoughtit remarkable that a painter should choose to work over anabsinthe in a public café, and looked the man over.The aged rakishness of his appearance was set off by a youthfulcostume; he had disreputable grey hair and a disreputable sore,red nose; but the coat and the gesture, the outworks of the man,were still designed for show. Dick came up to his table andinquired if he might look at what the gentleman was doing.No one was so delighted as the Admiral.

‘A bit of a thing,’ said he. ‘I justdash them off like that. I—I dash them off,’ headded with a gesture.

‘Quite so,’ said Dick, who was appalled by thefeebleness of the production.

‘Understand me,’ continued Van Tromp; ‘I ama man of the world. And yet—once an artist always anartist. All of a sudden a thought takes me in the street; Ibecome its prey: it’s like a pretty woman; no use tostruggle; I must—dash it off.’

‘I see,’ said Dick.

‘Yes,’ pursued the painter; ‘it all comeseasily, easily to me; it is not my business; it’s apleasure. Life is my business—life—this greatcity, Paris—Paris after dark—its lights, its gardens,its odd corners. Aha!’ he cried, ‘to be youngagain! The heart is young, but the heels are leaden.A poor, mean business, to grow old! Nothing remains but thecoup d’œil, the contemplative man’senjoyment, Mr. —,’ and he paused for the name.

‘Naseby,’ returned Dick.

The other treated him at once to an exciting beverage, andexpatiated on the pleasure of meeting a compatriot in a foreignland; to hear him, you would have thought they had encountered inCentral Africa. Dick had never found any one take a fancyto him so readily, nor show it in an easier or less offensivemanner. He seemed tickled with him as an elderly fellowabout town might be tickled by a pleasant and witty lad; heindicated that he was no precision, but in his wildest times hadnever been such a blade as he thought Dick. Dick protested,but in vain. This manner of carrying an intimacy at thebayonet’s point was Van Tromp’s stock-in-trade.With an older man he insinuated himself; with youth he imposedhimself, and in the same breath imposed an ideal on his victim,who saw that he must work up to it or lose the esteem of this oldand vicious patron. And what young man can bear to lose acharacter for vice?

At last, as it grew towards dinner-time, ‘Do you knowParis?’ asked Van Tromp.

‘Not so well as you, I am convinced,’ saidDick.

‘And so am I,’ returned Van Tromp gaily.‘Paris! My young friend—you will allowme?—when you know Paris as I do, you will have seen StrangeThings. I say no more; all I say is, Strange Things.We are men of the world, you and I, and in Paris, in the heart ofcivilised existence. This is an opportunity, Mr.Naseby. Let us dine. Let me show you where todine.’

Dick consented. On the way to dinner the Admiral showedhim where to buy gloves, and made him buy them; where to buycigars, and made him buy a vast store, some of which heobligingly accepted. At the restaurant he showed him whatto order, with surprising consequences in the bill. What hemade that night by his percentages it would be hard toestimate. And all the while Dick smilingly consented,understanding well that he was being done, but taking his lossesin the pursuit of character as a hunter sacrifices hisdogs. As for the Strange Things, the reader will berelieved to hear that they were no stranger than might have beenexpected, and he may find things quite as strange without theexpense of a Van Tromp for guide. Yet he was a guide of nomean order, who made up for the poverty of what he had to show bya copious, imaginative commentary.

‘And such,’ said he, with a hiccup, ‘such isParis.’

‘Pooh!’ said Dick, who was tired of theperformance.

The Admiral hung an ear, and looked up sidelong with a glimmerof suspicion.

‘Good night,’ said Dick; ‘I’mtired.’

‘So English!’ cried Van Tromp, clutching him bythe hand. ‘So English! Soblasé! Such a charming companion! Letme see you home.’

‘Look here,’ returned Dick, ‘I have saidgood night, and now I’m going. You’re anamusing old boy: I like you, in a sense; but here’s an endof it for to-night. Not another cigar, not another grog,not another percentage out of me.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ cried the Admiral withdignity.

‘Tut, man!’ said Dick; ‘you’re notoffended; you’re a man of the world, I thought.I’ve been studying you, and it’s over. Have Inot paid for the lesson? Au revoir.’

Van Tromp laughed gaily, shook hands up to the elbows, hopedcordially they would meet again and that often, but looked afterDick as he departed with a tremor of indignation. Afterthat they two not unfrequently fell in each other’s way,and Dick would often treat the old boy to breakfast on a moderatescale and in a restaurant of his own selection. Often, too,he would lend Van Tromp the matter of a pound, in view of thatgentleman’s contemplated departure for Australia; therewould be a scene of farewell almost touching in character, and aweek or a month later they would meet on the same boulevardwithout surprise or embarrassment. And in the meantime Dicklearned more about his acquaintance on all sides: heard of hisyacht, his chaise and four, his brief season of celebrity amid amore confiding population, his daughter, of whom he loved towhimper in his cups, his sponging, parasitical, nameless way oflife; and with each new detail something that was not merelyinterest nor yet altogether affection grew up in his mind towardsthis disreputable stepson of the arts. Ere he left ParisVan Tromp was one of those whom he entertained to a farewellsupper; and the old gentleman made the speech of the evening, andthen fell below the table, weeping, smiling, paralysed.

p.154CHAPTER II—A LETTER TO THE PAPERS

Old Mr. Naseby had the sturdy,untutored nature of the upper middle class. The universeseemed plain to him. ‘The thing’s right,’he would say, or ‘the thing’s wrong’; and therewas an end of it. There was a contained, prophetic energyin his utterances, even on the slightest affairs; he sawthe damned thing; if you did not, it must be from perversity ofwill; and this sent the blood to his head. Apart from this,which made him an exacting companion, he was one of the mostupright, hot-tempered, hot-headed old gentlemen in England.Florid, with white hair, the face of an old Jupiter, and thefigure of an old fox-hunter, he enlivened the vale of Thyme fromend to end on his big, cantering chestnut.

He had a hearty respect for Dick as a lad of parts. Dickhad a respect for his father as the best of men, tempered by thepolitic revolt of a youth who has to see to his ownindependence. Whenever the pair argued, they came to anopen rupture; and arguments were frequent, for they were bothpositive, and both loved the work of the intelligence. Itwas a treat to hear Mr. Naseby defending the Church of England ina volley of oaths, or supporting ascetic morals with anenthusiasm not entirely innocent of port wine. Dick used towax indignant, and none the less so because, as his father was askilful disputant, he found himself not seldom in thewrong. On these occasions, he would redouble in energy, anddeclare that black was white, and blue yellow, with muchconviction and heat of manner; but in the morning such a licenceof debate weighed upon him like a crime, and he would seek outhis father, where he walked before breakfast on a terraceoverlooking all the vale of Thyme.

‘I have to apologise, sir, for last night—’he would begin.

‘Of course you have,’ the old gentleman would cutin cheerfully. ‘You spoke like a fool. Say nomore about it.’

‘You do not understand me, sir. I refer to aparticular point. I confess there is much force in yourargument from the doctrine of possibilities.’

‘Of course there is,’ returned his father.‘Come down and look at the stables. Only,’ hewould add, ‘bear this in mind, and do remember that a manof my age and experience knows more about what he is saying thana raw boy.’

He would utter the word ‘boy’ even moreoffensively than the average of fathers, and the light way inwhich he accepted these apologies cut Richard to the heart.The latter drew slighting comparisons, and remembered that he wasthe only one who ever apologised. This gave him a highstation in his own esteem, and thus contributed indirectly to hisbetter behaviour; for he was scrupulous as well as high-spirited,and prided himself on nothing more than on a just submission.

So things went on until the famous occasion when Mr. Naseby,becoming engrossed in securing the election of a sound partycandidate to Parliament, wrote a flaming letter to thepapers. The letter had about every demerit of party lettersin general; it was expressed with the energy of a believer; itwas personal; it was a little more than half unfair, and about aquarter untrue. The old man did not mean to say what wasuntrue, you may be sure; but he had rashly picked up gossip, ashis prejudice suggested, and now rashly launched it on the publicwith the sanction of his name.

‘The Liberal candidate,’ he concluded, ‘isthus a public turncoat. Is that the sort of man wewant? He has been given the lie, and has swallowed theinsult. Is that the sort of man we want? I answerNo! With all the force of my conviction, I answer,No!’

And then he signed and dated the letter with anamateur’s pride, and looked to be famous by the morrow.

Dick, who had heard nothing of the matter, was up first onthat inauspicious day, and took the journal to an arbour in thegarden. He found his father’s manifesto in onecolumn; and in another a leading article. ‘No onethat we are aware of,’ ran the article, ‘hadconsulted Mr. Naseby on the subject, but if he had been appealedto by the whole body of electors, his letter would be none theless ungenerous and unjust to Mr. Dalton. We do not chooseto give the lie to Mr. Naseby, for we are too well aware of theconsequences; but we shall venture instead to print the facts ofboth cases referred to by this red-hot partisan in anotherportion of our issue. Mr. Naseby is of course a largeproprietor in our neighbourhood; but fidelity to facts, decentfeeling, and English grammar, are all of them qualities moreimportant than the possession of land. Mr. — isdoubtless a great man; in his large gardens and that half-mile ofgreenhouses, where he has probably ripened his intellect andtemper, he may say what he will to his hired vassals, but (as theScotch say)—

here
He mauna think to domineer.

‘Liberalism,’ continued the anonymous journalist,‘is of too free and sound a growth,’ etc.

Richard Naseby read the whole thing from beginning to end; anda crushing shame fell upon his spirit. His father hadplayed the fool; he had gone out noisily to war, and come backwith confusion. The moment that his trumpets sounded, hehad been disgracefully unhorsed. There was no question asto the facts; they were one and all against the Squire.Richard would have given his ears to have suppressed the issue;but as that could not be done, he had his horse saddled, andfurnishing himself with a convenient staff, rode off at once toThymebury.

The editor was at breakfast in a large, sad apartment.The absence of furniture, the extreme meanness of the meal, andthe haggard, bright-eyed, consumptive look of the culprit,unmanned our hero; but he clung to his stick, and was stout andwarlike.

‘You wrote the article in this morning’spaper?’ he demanded.

‘You are young Mr. Naseby? I publishedit,’ replied the editor, rising.

‘My father is an old man,’ said Richard; and thenwith an outburst, ‘And a damned sight finer fellow thaneither you or Dalton!’ He stopped and swallowed; hewas determined that all should go with regularity. ‘Ihave but one question to put to you, sir,’ heresumed. ‘Granted that my father was misinformed,would it not have been more decent to withhold the letter andcommunicate with him in private?’

‘Believe me,’ returned the editor, ‘thatalternative was not open to me. Mr. Naseby told me in anote that he had sent his letter to three other journals, and infact threatened me with what he called exposure if I kept it backfrom mine. I am really concerned at what has happened; Isympathise and approve of your emotion, young gentleman; but theattack on Mr. Dalton was gross, very gross, and I had no choicebut to offer him my columns to reply. Party has its duties,sir,’ added the scribe, kindling, as one who should proposea sentiment; ‘and the attack was gross.’

Richard stood for half a minute digesting the answer; and thenthe god of fair play came upper-most in his heart, and murmuring‘Good morning,’ he made his escape into thestreet.

His horse was not hurried on the way home, and he was late forbreakfast. The Squire was standing with his back to thefire in a state bordering on apoplexy, his fingers violentlyknitted under his coat tails. As Richard came in, he openedand shut his mouth like a cod-fish, and his eyes protruded.

‘Have you seen that, sir?’ he cried, noddingtowards the paper.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Richard.

‘Oh, you’ve read it, have you?’

‘Yes, I have read it,’ replied Richard, looking athis foot.

‘Well,’ demanded the old gentleman, ‘andwhat have you to say to it, sir?’

‘You seem to have been misinformed,’ saidDick.

‘Well? What then? Is your mind so sterile,sir? Have you not a word of comment? noproposal?’

‘I fear, sir, you must apologise to Mr. Dalton. Itwould be more handsome, indeed it would be only just, and a freeacknowledgment would go far—’ Richard paused,no language appearing delicate enough to suit the case.

‘That is a suggestion which should have come from me,sir,’ roared the father. ‘It is out of placeupon your lips. It is not the thought of a loyal son.Why, sir, if my father had been plunged in such deplorablecircumstances, I should have thrashed the editor of that vilesheet within an inch of his life. I should have thrashedthe man, sir. It would have been the action of an ass; butit would have shown that I had the blood and the naturalaffections of a man. Son? You are no son, no son ofmine, sir!’

‘Sir!’ said Dick.

‘I’ll tell you what you are, sir,’ pursuedthe Squire. ‘You’re a Benthamite. Idisown you. Your mother would have died for shame; therewas no modern cant about your mother; she thought—she saidto me, sir—I’m glad she’s in her grave, DickNaseby. Misinformed! Misinformed, sir? Have youno loyalty, no spring, no natural affections? Are youclockwork, hey? Away! This is no place for you.Away!’ (waving his hands in the air). ‘Goaway! Leave me!’

At this moment Dick beat a retreat in a disarray of nerves, awhistling and clamour of his own arteries, and in short in such afinal bodily disorder as made him alike incapable of speech orhearing. And in the midst of all this turmoil, a sense ofunpardonable injustice remained graven in his memory.

p.162CHAPTER III—IN THE ADMIRAL’S NAME

There was no return to thesubject. Dick and his father were henceforth on terms ofcoldness. The upright old gentleman grew more upright whenhe met his son, buckrammed with immortal anger; he asked afterDick’s health, and discussed the weather and the crops withan appalling courtesy; his pronunciation waspoint-de-vice, his voice was distant, distinct, andsometimes almost trembling with suppressed indignation.

As for Dick, it seemed to him as if his life had come abruptlyto an end. He came out of his theories and clevernesses;his premature man-of-the-worldness, on which he had pridedhimself on his travels, ‘shrank like a thing ashamed’before this real sorrow. Pride, wounded honour, pity andrespect tussled together daily in his heart; and now he waswithin an ace of throwing himself upon his father’s mercy,and now of slipping forth at night and coming back no more toNaseby House. He suffered from the sight of his father,nay, even from the neighbourhood of this familiar valley, whereevery corner had its legend, and he was besieged with memories ofchildhood. If he fled into a new land, and among none butstrangers, he might escape his destiny, who knew? and begin againlight-heartedly. From that chief peak of the hills, thatnow and then, like an uplifted finger, shone in an arrow ofsunlight through the broken clouds, the shepherd in clear weathermight perceive the shining of the sea. There, he thought,was hope. But his heart failed him when he saw the Squire;and he remained. His fate was not that of the voyager bysea and land; he was to travel in the spirit, and begin hisjourney sooner than he supposed.

For it chanced one day that his walk led him into a portion ofthe uplands which was almost unknown to him. Scramblingthrough some rough woods, he came out upon a moorland reachingtowards the hills. A few lofty Scotch firs grew hard byupon a knoll; a clear fountain near the foot of the knoll sent upa miniature streamlet which meandered in the heather. Ashower had just skimmed by, but now the sun shone brightly, andthe air smelt of the pines and the grass. On a stone underthe trees sat a young lady sketching. We have learned tothink of women in a sort of symbolic transfiguration, based onclothes; and one of the readiest ways in which we conceive ourmistress is as a composite thing, principally petticoats.But humanity has triumphed over clothes; the look, the touch of adress has become alive; and the woman who stitched herself intothese material integuments has now permeated right through andgone out to the tip of her skirt. It was only a black dressthat caught Dick Naseby’s eye; but it took possession ofhis mind, and all other thoughts departed. He drew near,and the girl turned round. Her face startled him; it was aface he wanted; and he took it in at once like breathing air.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, taking off his hat,‘you are sketching.’

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘for my ownamusement. I despise the thing.’

‘Ten to one, you do yourself injustice,’ returnedDick. ‘Besides, it’s a freemasonry. Isketch myself, and you know what that implies.’

‘No. What?’ she asked.

‘Two things,’ he answered. ‘First,that I am no very difficult critic; and second, that I have aright to see your picture.’

She covered the block with both her hands. ‘Ohno,’ she said; ‘I am ashamed.’

‘Indeed, I might give you a hint,’ saidDick. ‘Although no artist myself, I have known many;in Paris I had many for friends, and used to prowl amongstudios.’

‘In Paris?’ she cried, with a leap of light intoher eyes. ‘Did you ever meet Mr. VanTromp?’

‘I? Yes. Why, you’re not theAdmiral’s daughter, are you?’

‘The Admiral? Do they call him that?’ shecried. ‘Oh, how nice, how nice of them! It isthe younger men who call him so, is it not?’

‘Yes,’ said Dick, somewhat heavily.

‘You can understand now,’ she said, with anunspeakable accent of contented noble-minded pride, ‘why itis I do not choose to show my sketch. Van Tromp’sdaughter! The Admiral’s daughter! I delight inthat name. The Admiral! And so you know myfather?’

‘Well,’ said Dick, ‘I met him often; we wereeven intimate. He may have mentioned myname—Naseby.’

‘He writes so little. He is so busy, so devoted tohis art! I have had a half wish,’ she added laughing,‘that my father was a plainer man, whom I couldhelp—to whom I could be a credit; but only sometimes, youknow, and with only half my heart. For a greatpainter! You have seen his works?’

‘I have seen some of them,’ returned Dick;‘they—they are very nice.’

She laughed aloud. ‘Nice?’ sherepeated. ‘I see you don’t care much forart.’

‘Not much,’ he admitted; ‘but I know thatmany people are glad to buy Mr. Van Tromp’spictures.’

‘Call him the Admiral!’ she cried. ‘Itsounds kindly and familiar; and I like to think that he isappreciated and looked up to by young painters. He has notalways been appreciated; he had a cruel life for many years; andwhen I think’—there were tears in hereyes—‘when I think of that, I feel incline to be afool,’ she broke off. ‘And now I shall gohome. You have filled me full of happiness; for think, Mr.Naseby, I have not seen my father since I was six years old; andyet he is in my thoughts all day! You must come and call onme; my aunt will be delighted, I am sure; and then you will tellme all—all about my father, will you not?’

Dick helped her to get her sketching traps together; and whenall was ready, she gave Dick her hand and a frank return ofpressure.

‘You are my father’s friend,’ she said;‘we shall be great friends too. You must come and seeme soon.’

Then she was gone down the hillside at a run; and Dick stoodby himself in a state of some bewilderment and evendistress. There were elements of laughter in the business;but the black dress, and the face that belonged to it, and thehand that he had held in his, inclined him to a seriousview. What was he, under the circumstances, called upon todo? Perhaps to avoid the girl? Well, he would thinkabout that. Perhaps to break the truth to her? Why,ten to one, such was her infatuation, he would fail.Perhaps to keep up the illusion, to colour the raw facts; to helpher to false ideas, while yet not plainly statingfalsehoods? Well, he would see about that; he would alsosee about avoiding the girl. He saw about this last sowell, that the next afternoon beheld him on his way to visither.

In the meantime the girl had gone straight home, light as abird, tremulous with joy, to the little cottage where she livedalone with a maiden aunt; and to that lady, a grim, sixty yearsold Scotchwoman, with a nodding head, communicated news of herencounter and invitation.

‘A friend of his?’ cried the aunt.‘What like is he? What did ye say was hisname?’

She was dead silent, and stared at the old womandarkling. Then very slowly, ‘I said he was myfather’s friend; I have invited him to my house, and comehe shall,’ she said; and with that she walked off to herroom, where she sat staring at the wall all the evening.Miss M‘Glashan, for that was the aunt’s name, read alarge bible in the kitchen with some of the joys ofmartyrdom.

It was perhaps half-past three when Dick presented himself,rather scrupulously dressed, before the cottage door; he knocked,and a voice bade him enter. The kitchen, which openeddirectly off the garden, was somewhat darkened by foliage; but hecould see her as she approached from the far end to meethim. This second sight of her surprised him. Herstrong black brows spoke of temper easily aroused and hard toquiet; her mouth was small, nervous and weak; there was somethingdangerous and sulky underlying, in her nature, much that washonest, compassionate, and even noble.

‘My father’s name,’ she said, ‘hasmade you very welcome.’

And she gave him her hand, with a sort of curtsy. It wasa pretty greeting, although somewhat mannered; and Dick felthimself among the gods. She led him through the kitchen toa parlour, and presented him to Miss M‘Glashan.

‘Esther,’ said the aunt, ‘see and make Mr.Naseby his tea.’

And as soon as the girl was gone upon this hospitable intent,the old woman crossed the room and came quite near to Dick as ifin menace.

‘Ye know that man?’ she asked in an imperiouswhisper.

‘Mr. Van Tromp?’ said Dick. ‘Yes, Iknow him.’

‘Well, and what brings ye here?’ she said.‘I couldn’t save the mother—her that’sdead—but the bairn!’ She had a note in hervoice that filled poor Dick with consternation.‘Man,’ she went on, ‘what is it now? Isit money?’

‘My dear lady,’ said Dick, ‘I think youmisinterpret my position. I am young Mr. Naseby of NasebyHouse. My acquaintance with Mr. Van Tromp is really veryslender; I am only afraid that Miss Van Tromp has exaggerated ourintimacy in her own imagination. I know positively nothingof his private affairs, and do not care to know. I met himcasually in Paris—that is all.’

Miss M‘Glashan drew along breath. ‘InParis?’ she said. ‘Well, and what do you thinkof him?—what do ye think of him?’ she repeated, witha different scansion, as Richard, who had not much taste for sucha question, kept her waiting for an answer.

‘I found him a very agreeable companion,’ hesaid.

‘Ay,’ said she, ‘did ye! And how doeshe win his bread?’

‘I fancy,’ he gasped, ‘that Mr. Van Tromphas many generous friends.’

‘I’ll warrant!’ she sneered; and before Dickcould find more to say, she was gone from the room.

Esther returned with the tea-things, and sat down.

‘Now,’ she said cosily, ‘tell me all aboutmy father.’

‘He’—stammered Dick, ‘he is a veryagreeable companion.’

‘I shall begin to think it is more than you are, Mr.Naseby,’ she said, with a laugh. ‘I am hisdaughter, you forget. Begin at the beginning, and tell meall you have seen of him, all he said and all you answered.You must have met somewhere; begin with that.’

So with that he began: how he had found the Admiral paintingin a café; how his art so possessed him that he could notwait till he got home to—well, to dash off his idea; how(this in reply to a question) his idea consisted of a cockcrowing and two hens eating corn; how he was fond of cocks andhens; how this did not lead him to neglect more ambitious formsof art; how he had a picture in his studio of a Greek subjectwhich was said to be remarkable from several points of view; howno one had seen it nor knew the precise site of the studio inwhich it was being vigorously though secretly confected; how (inanswer to a suggestion) this shyness was common to the Admiral,Michelangelo, and others; how they (Dick and Van Tromp) hadstruck up an acquaintance at once, and dined together that samenight; how he (the Admiral) had once given money to a beggar; howhe spoke with effusion of his little daughter; how he had onceborrowed money to send her a doll—a trait worthy of Newton,she being then in her nineteenth year at least; how, if the dollnever arrived (which it appeared it never did), the trait wasonly more characteristic of the highest order of creativeintellect; how he was—no, not beautiful—striking,yes, Dick would go so far, decidedly striking in appearance; howhis boots were made to lace and his coat was black, not cut-away,a frock; and so on, and so on by the yard. It wasastonishing how few lies were necessary. After all, peopleexaggerated the difficulty of life. A little steering, justa touch of the rudder now and then, and with a willing listenerthere is no limit to the domain of equivocal speech.Sometimes Miss M‘Glashan made a freezing sojourn in theparlour; and then the task seemed unaccountably more difficult;but to Esther, who was all eyes and ears, her face alight withinterest, his stream of language flowed without break or stumble,and his mind was ever fertile in ingenious evasionsand—

What an afternoon it was for Esther!

‘Ah!’ she said at last, ‘it’s good tohear all this! My aunt, you should know, is narrow and tooreligious; she cannot understand an artist’s life. Itdoes not frighten me,’ she added grandly; ‘I am anartist’s daughter.’

With that speech, Dick consoled himself for his imposture; shewas not deceived so grossly after all; and then if a fraud, wasnot the fraud piety itself?—and what could be moreobligatory than to keep alive in the heart of a daughter thatfilial trust and honour which, even although misplaced, becameher like a jewel of the mind? There might be anotherthought, a shade of cowardice, a selfish desire to please; poorDick was merely human; and what would you have had him do?

p.172CHAPTER IV—ESTHER ON THE FILIAL RELATION

A month later Dick and Esther metat the stile beside the cross roads; had there been any one tosee them but the birds and summer insects, it would have beenremarked that they met after a different fashion from the daybefore. Dick took her in his arms, and their lips were settogether for a long while. Then he held her atarm’s-length, and they looked straight into eachother’s eyes.

‘Esther!’ he said; you should have heard hisvoice!

‘Dick!’ said she.

‘My darling!’

It was some time before they started for their walk; he keptan arm about her, and their sides were close together as theywalked; the sun, the birds, the west wind running among thetrees, a pressure, a look, the grasp tightening round a singlefinger, these things stood them in lieu of thought and filledtheir hearts with joy. The path they were following ledthem through a wood of pine-trees carpeted with heather andblue-berry, and upon this pleasant carpet, Dick, not without someseriousness, made her sit down.

‘Esther!’ he began, ‘there is something youought to know. You know my father is a rich man, and youwould think, now that we love each other, we might marry when wepleased. But I fear, darling, we may have long to wait, andshall want all our courage.’

‘I have courage for anything,’ she said, ‘Ihave all I want; with you and my father, I am so well off, andwaiting is made so happy, that I could wait a lifetime and notweary.’

He had a sharp pang at the mention of the Admiral.‘Hear me out,’ he continued. ‘I ought tohave told you this before; but it is a thought I shrink from; ifit were possible, I should not tell you even now. My poorfather and I are scarce on speaking terms.’

‘Your father,’ she repeated, turning pale.

‘It must sound strange to you; but yet I cannot think Iam to blame,’ he said. ‘I will tell you how ithappened.’

‘Oh Dick!’ she said, when she had heard him to anend, ‘how brave you are, and how proud. Yet I wouldnot be proud with a father. I would tell himall.’

‘What!’ cried Dick, ‘go in months after, andbrag that I had meant to thrash the man, and thendidn’t. And why? Because my father had made abigger ass of himself than I supposed. My dear,that’s nonsense.’

She winced at his words and drew away. ‘But whenthat is all he asks,’ she pleaded. ‘If he onlyknew that you had felt that impulse, it would make him so proudand happy. He would see you were his own son after all, andhad the same thoughts and the same chivalry of spirit. Andthen you did yourself injustice when you spoke just now. Itwas because the editor was weak and poor and excused himself,that you repented your first determination. Had he been abig red man, with whiskers, you would have beaten him—youknow you would—if Mr. Naseby had been ten times morecommitted. Do you think, if you can tell it to me, and Iunderstand at once, that it would be more difficult to tell it toyour own father, or that he would not be more ready to sympathisewith you than I am? And I love you, Dick; but then he isyour father.’

‘My dear,’ said Dick, desperately, ‘you donot understand; you do not know what it is to be treated withdaily want of comprehension and daily small injustices, throughchildhood and boyhood and manhood, until you despair of ahearing, until the thing rides you like a nightmare, until youalmost hate the sight of the man you love, and who’s yourfather after all. In short, Esther, you don’t knowwhat it is to have a father, and that’s what blindsyou.’

‘I see,’ she said musingly, ‘you mean that Iam fortunate in my father. But I am not so fortunate afterall; you forget, I do not know him; it is you who know him; he isalready more your father than mine.’ And here shetook his hand. Dick’s heart had grown as cold asice. ‘But I am sorry for you, too,’ shecontinued, ‘it must be very sad and lonely.’

‘You misunderstand me,’ said Dick,chokingly. ‘My father is the best man I know in allthis world; he is worth a hundred of me, only he doesn’tunderstand me, and he can’t be made to.’

There was a silence for a while. ‘Dick,’ shebegan again, ‘I am going to ask a favour, it’s thefirst since you said you loved me. May I see yourfather—see him pass, I mean, where he will not observeme?’

‘Why?’ asked Dick.

‘It is a fancy; you forget, I am romantic aboutfathers.’

The hint was enough for Dick; he consented with haste, andfull of hang-dog penitence and disgust, took her down by abackway and planted her in the shrubbery, whence she might seethe Squire ride by to dinner. There they both sat silent,but holding hands, for nearly half an hour. At last thetrotting of a horse sounded in the distance, the park gatesopened with a clang, and then Mr. Naseby appeared, with stoopingshoulders and a heavy, bilious countenance, languidly rising tothe trot. Esther recognised him at once; she had often seenhim before, though with her huge indifference for all that layoutside the circle of her love, she had never so much as wonderedwho he was; but now she recognised him, and found him ten yearsolder, leaden and springless, and stamped by an abidingsorrow.

‘Oh Dick, Dick!’ she said, and the tears began toshine upon her face as she hid it in his bosom; his own fellthickly too. They had a sad walk home, and that night, fullof love and good counsel, Dick exerted every art to please hisfather, to convince him of his respect and affection, to heal upthis breach of kindness, and reunite two hearts. But alas!the Squire was sick and peevish; he had been all day gloomingover Dick’s estrangement—for so he put it to himself,and now with growls, cold words, and the cold shoulder, he beatoff all advances, and entrenched himself in a justresentment.

p.178CHAPTER V—THE PRODIGAL FATHER MAKES HIS DEBUT ATHOME

That took place upon aTuesday. On the Thursday following, as Dick was walking byappointment, earlier than usual, in the direction of the cottage,he was appalled to meet in the lane a fly from Thymebury,containing the human form of Miss M‘Glashan. The ladydid not deign to remark him in her passage; her face was suffusedwith tears, and expressed much concern for the packages by whichshe was surrounded. He stood still, and asked himself whatthis circumstance might portend. It was so beautiful a daythat he was loth to forecast evil, yet something must perforcehave happened at the cottage, and that of a decisive nature; forhere was Miss M‘Glashan on her travels, with a smallpatrimony in brown paper parcels, and the old lady’sbearing implied hot battle and unqualified defeat. Was thehouse to be closed against him? Was Esther left alone, orhad some new protector made his appearance from among themillions of Europe? It is the character of love to loathethe near relatives of the loved one; chapters in the history ofthe human race have justified this feeling, and the conduct ofuncles, in particular, has frequently met with censure from theindependent novelist. Miss M‘Glashan was now seen inthe rosy colours of regret; whoever succeeded her, Dick felt thechange would be for the worse. He hurried forward in thisspirit; his anxiety grew upon him with every step; as he enteredthe garden a voice fell upon his ear, and he was once morearrested, not this time by doubt, but by indubitable certainty ofill.

The thunderbolt had fallen; the Admiral was here.

Dick would have retreated, in the panic terror of the moment;but Esther kept a bright look-out when her lover wasexpected. In a twinkling she was by his side, brimful ofnews and pleasure, too glad to notice his embarrassment, and inone of those golden transports of exultation which transcend notonly words but caresses. She took him by the end of thefingers (reaching forward to take them, for her greatpreoccupation was to save time), she drew him towards her, pushedhim past her in the door, and planted him face to face with Mr.Van Tromp, in a suit of French country velveteens and with aremarkable carbuncle on his nose. Then, as though this wasthe end of what she could endure in the way of joy, Esther turnedand ran out of the room.

The two men remained looking at each other with some confusionon both sides. Van Tromp was naturally the first torecover; he put out his hand with a fine gesture.

‘And you know my little lass, my Esther?’ hesaid. ‘This is pleasant; this is what I haveconceived of home. A strange word for the old rover; but weall have a taste for home and the home-like, disguise it how wemay. It has brought me here, Mr. Naseby,’ heconcluded, with an intonation that would have made his fortune onthe stage, so just, so sad, so dignified, so like a man of theworld and a philosopher, ‘and you see a man who iscontent.’

‘I see,’ said Dick.

‘Sit down,’ continued the parasite, setting theexample. ‘Fortune has gone against me. (I amjust sirrupping a little brandy—after my journey.) Iwas going down, Mr. Naseby; between you and me, I wasdécavé; I borrowed fifty francs, smuggled myvalise past the concierge—a work of considerabletact—and here I am!’

‘Yes,’ said Dick; ‘and here youare.’ He was quite idiotic.

Esther, at this moment, re-entered the room.

‘Are you glad to see him?’ she whispered in hisear, the pleasure in her voice almost bursting through thewhisper into song.

‘Oh yes,’ said Dick, ‘very.’

‘I knew you would be,’ she replied; ‘I toldhim how you loved him.’

‘Help yourself,’ said the Admiral, ‘helpyourself; and let us drink to a new existence.’

‘To a new existence,’ repeated Dick; and he raisedthe tumbler to his lips, but set it down untasted. He hadhad enough of novelties for one day.

Esther was sitting on a stool beside her father’s feet,holding her knees in her arms, and looking with pride from one tothe other of her two visitors. Her eyes were so bright thatyou were never sure if there were tears in them or not; littlevoluptuous shivers ran about her body; sometimes she nestled herchin into her throat, sometimes threw back her head, withecstasy; in a word, she was in that state when it is said ofpeople that they cannot contain themselves for happiness.It would be hard to exaggerate the agony of Richard.

And, in the meantime, Van Tromp ran on interminably.

‘I never forget a friend,’ said he, ‘nor yetan enemy: of the latter, I never had but two—myself and thepublic; and I fancy I have had my vengeance pretty freely out ofboth.’ He chuckled. ‘But those days aredone. Van Tromp is no more. He was a man who hadsuccesses; I believe you knew I had successes—to which weshall refer no farther,’ pulling down his neckcloth with asmile. ‘That man exists no more: by an exercise ofwill I have destroyed him. There is something like it inthe poets. First, a brilliant and conspicuouscareer—the observed, I may say, of all observers, includingthe bum-bailie: and then, presto! a quiet, sly, old, rusticbonhomme, cultivating roses. In Paris, Mr.Naseby—’

‘Call him Richard, father,’ said Esther.

‘Richard, if he will allow me. Indeed, we are oldfriends, and now near neighbours; and, à propos,how are we off for neighbours, Richard? The cottage stands,I think, upon your father’s land—a family which Irespect—and the wood, I understand, is LordTrevanion’s. Not that I care; I am an oldBohemian. I have cut society with a cut direct; I cut itwhen I was prosperous, and now I reap my reward, and can cut itwith dignity in my declension. These are our littleamours propres, my daughter: your father must respecthimself. Thank you, yes; just a leetle, leetle,tiny—thanks, thanks; you spoil me. But, as I wassaying, Richard, or was about to say, my daughter has beenallowed to rust; her aunt was a mere duenna; hence, inparenthesis, Richard, her distrust of me; my nature and that ofthe duenna are poles asunder—poles! But, now that Iam here, now that I have given up the fight, and live henceforthfor one only of my works—I have the modesty to say it is mybest—my daughter—well, we shall put all that torights. The neighbours, Richard?’

Dick was understood to say that there were many good familiesin the Vale of Thyme.

‘You shall introduce us,’ said the Admiral.

Dick’s shirt was wet; he made a lumbering excuse to go;which Esther explained to herself by a fear of intrusion, and soset down to the merit side of Dick’s account, while sheproceeded to detain him.

‘Before our walk?’ she cried.‘Never! I must have my walk.’

‘Let us all go,’ said the Admiral, rising.

‘You do not know that you are wanted,’ she cried,leaning on his shoulder with a caress. ‘I might wishto speak to my old friend about my new father. But youshall come to-day, you shall do all you want; I have set my hearton spoiling you.’

‘I will just take one drop more,’ said theAdmiral, stooping to help himself to brandy. ‘It issurprising how this journey has fatigued me. But I amgrowing old, I am growing old, I am growing old, and—Iregret to add—bald.’

He cocked a white wide-awake coquettishly upon hishead—the habit of the lady-killer clung to him; and Estherhad already thrown on her hat, and was ready, while he was stillstudying the result in a mirror: the carbuncle had somewhatpainfully arrested his attention.

‘We are papa now; we must be respectable,’ he saidto Dick, in explanation of his dandyism: and then he went to abundle and chose himself a staff. Where were the elegantcanes of his Parisian epoch? This was a support for age,and designed for rustic scenes. Dick began to see andappreciate the man’s enjoyment in a new part, when he sawhow carefully he had ‘made it up.’ He hadinvented a gait for this first country stroll with his daughter,which was admirably in key. He walked with fatigue, heleaned upon the staff; he looked round him with a sad, smilingsympathy on all that he beheld; he even asked the name of aplant, and rallied himself gently for an old town bird, ignorantof nature. ‘This country life will make me youngagain,’ he sighed. They reached the top of the hilltowards the first hour of evening; the sun was descending heaven,the colour had all drawn into the west; the hills were modelledin their least contour by the soft, slanting shine; and the widemoorlands, veined with glens and hazelwoods, ran west and northin a hazy glory of light. Then the painter wakened in VanTromp.

‘Gad, Dick,’ he cried, ‘whatvalue!’

An ode in four hundred lines would not have seemed so touchingto Esther; her eyes filled with happy tears; yes, here was thefather of whom she had dreamed, whom Dick had described; simple,enthusiastic, unworldly, kind, a painter at heart, and a finegentleman in manner.

And just then the Admiral perceived a house by the wayside,and something depending over the house door which might beconstrued as a sign by the hopeful and thirsty.

‘Is that,’ he asked, pointing with his stick,‘an inn?’

There was a marked change in his voice, as though he attachedimportance to the inquiry: Esther listened, hoping she shouldhear wit or wisdom.

Dick said it was.

‘You know it?’ inquired the Admiral.

‘I have passed it a hundred times, but that isall,’ replied Dick.

‘Ah,’ said Van Tromp, with a smile, and shakinghis head; ‘you are not an old campaigner; you have theworld to learn. Now I, you see, find an inn so very near myown home, and my first thought is my neighbours. I shall goforward and make my neighbours’ acquaintance; no, youneedn’t come; I shall not be a moment.’

And he walked off briskly towards the inn, leaving Dick alonewith Esther on the road.

‘Dick,’ she exclaimed, ‘I am so glad to geta word with you; I am so happy, I have such a thousand things tosay; and I want you to do me a favour. Imagine, he has comewithout a paint-box, without an easel; and I want him to haveall. I want you to get them for me in Thymebury. Yousaw, this moment, how his heart turned to painting. Theycan’t live without it,’ she added; meaning perhapsVan Tromp and Michel Angelo.

Up to that moment, she had observed nothing amiss inDick’s behaviour. She was too happy to be curious;and his silence, in presence of the great and good being whom shecalled her father, had seemed both natural andpraiseworthy. But now that they were alone, she becameconscious of a barrier between her lover and herself, and alarmsprang up in her heart.

‘Dick,’ she cried, ‘you don’t loveme.’

‘I do that,’ he said heartily.

‘But you are unhappy; you are strange; you—you arenot glad to see my father,’ she concluded, with a break inher voice.

‘Esther,’ he said, ‘I tell you that I loveyou; if you love me, you know what that means, and that all Iwish is to see you happy. Do you think I cannot enjoy yourpleasures? Esther, I do. If I am uneasy, if I amalarmed, if—. Oh, believe me, try and believe inme,’ he cried, giving up argument with perhaps a happyinspiration.

But the girl’s suspicions were aroused; and though shepressed the matter no farther (indeed, her father was alreadyseen returning), it by no means left her thoughts. At onemoment she simply resented the selfishness of a man who hadobtruded his dark looks and passionate language on her joy; forthere is nothing that a woman can less easily forgive than thelanguage of a passion which, even if only for the moment, shedoes not share. At another, she suspected him of jealousyagainst her father; and for that, although she could see excusesfor it, she yet despised him. And at least, in one way orthe other, here was the dangerous beginning of a separationbetween two hearts. Esther found herself at variance withher sweetest friend; she could no longer look into his heart andfind it written with the same language as her own; she could nolonger think of him as the sun which radiated happiness upon herlife, for she had turned to him once, and he had breathed uponher black and chilly, radiated blackness and frost. To putthe whole matter in a word, she was beginning, although ever soslightly, to fall out of love.

p.189CHAPTER VI—THE PRODIGAL FATHER GOES ON FROMSTRENGTH TO STRENGTH

We will not follow all the steps ofthe Admiral’s return and installation, but hurry forwardtowards the catastrophe, merely chronicling by the way a fewsalient incidents, wherein we must rely entirely upon theevidence of Richard, for Esther to this day has never opened hermouth upon this trying passage of her life, and as for theAdmiral—well, that naval officer, although still alive, andnow more suitably installed in a seaport town where he has atelescope and a flag in his front garden, is incapable ofthrowing the slightest gleam of light upon the affair.Often and often has he remarked to the present writer: ‘IfI know what it was all about, sir, I’ll be—’ inshort, be what I hope he will not. And then he will lookacross at his daughter’s portrait, a photograph, shake hishead with an amused appearance, and mix himself another grog byway of consolation. Once I heard him go farther, andexpress his feelings with regard to Esther in a single buteloquent word. ‘A minx, sir,’ he said, not inanger, rather in amusement: and he cordially drank her healthupon the back of it. His worst enemy must admit him to be aman without malice; he never bore a grudge in his life, lackingthe necessary taste and industry of attention.

Yet it was during this obscure period that the drama wasreally performed; and its scene was in the heart of Esther, shutaway from all eyes. Had this warm, upright, sullen girlbeen differently used by destiny, had events come upon her evenin a different succession, for some things lead easily to others,the whole course of this tale would have been changed, and Esthernever would have run away. As it was, through a series ofacts and words of which we know but few, and a series of thoughtswhich any one may imagine for himself, she was awakened in fourdays from the dream of a life.

The first tangible cause of disenchantment was when Dickbrought home a painter’s arsenal on Friday evening.The Admiral was in the chimney-corner, once more‘sirrupping’ some brandy and water, and Esther sat atthe table at work. They both came forward to greet the newarrival; and the girl, relieving him of his monstrous burthen,proceeded to display her offerings to her father. VanTromp’s countenance fell several degrees; he became quitequerulous.

‘God bless me,’ he said; and then, ‘I mustreally ask you not to interfere, child,’ in a tone ofundisguised hostility.

‘Father,’ she said, ‘forgive me; I knew youhad given up your art—’

‘Oh yes!’ cried the Admiral; ‘I’vedone with it to the judgment-day!’

‘Pardon me again,’ she said firmly, ‘but Ido not, I cannot think that you are right in this. Supposethe world is unjust, suppose that no one understands you, youhave still a duty to yourself. And, oh, don’t spoilthe pleasure of your coming home to me; show me that you can bemy father and yet not neglect your destiny. I am not likesome daughters; I will not be jealous of your art, and I will tryto understand it.’

The situation was odiously farcical. Richard groanedunder it; he longed to leap forward and denounce thehumbug. And the humbug himself? Do you fancy he waseasier in his mind? I am sure, on the other hand, that hewas acutely miserable; and he betrayed his sufferings by aperfectly silly and undignified access of temper, during which hebroke his pipe in several pieces, threw his brandy and water inthe fire, and employed words which were very plain although thedrift of them was somewhat vague. It was of very briefduration. Van Tromp was himself again, and in a mostdelightful humour within three minutes of the firstexplosion.

‘I am an old fool,’ he said frankly.‘I was spoiled when a child. As for you, Esther, youtake after your mother; you have a morbid sense of duty,particularly for others; strive against it, my dear—striveagainst it. And as for the pigments, well, I’ll usethem, some of these days; and to show that I’m in earnest,I’ll get Dick here to prepare a canvas.’

Dick was put to this menial task forthwith, the Admiral noteven watching how he did, but quite occupied with another grogand a pleasant vein of talk.

A little after Esther arose, and making some pretext, good orbad, went off to bed. Dick was left hobbled by the canvas,and was subjected to Van Tromp for about an hour.

The next day, Saturday, it is believed that little intercoursetook place between Esther and her father; but towards theafternoon Dick met the latter returning from the direction of theinn, where he had struck up quite a friendship with thelandlord. Dick wondered who paid for these excursions, andat the thought that the reprobate must get his pocket money wherehe got his board and lodging, from poor Esther’sgenerosity, he had it almost in his heart to knock the oldgentleman down. He, on his part, was full of airs andgraces and geniality.

‘Dear Dick,’ he said, taking his arm, ‘thisis neighbourly of you; it shows your tact to meet me when I had awish for you. I am in pleasant spirits; and it is then thatI desire a friend.’

‘I am glad to hear you are so happy,’ retortedDick bitterly. ‘There’s certainly not much totrouble you.’

‘No,’ assented the Admiral, ‘not much.I got out of it in time; and here—well, here everythingpleases me. I am plain in my tastes. ‘Apropos, you have never asked me how I liked mydaughter?’

‘No,’ said Dick roundly; ‘I certainly havenot.’

‘Meaning you will not. And why, Dick? She ismy daughter, of course; but then I am a man of the world and aman of taste, and perfectly qualified to give an opinion withimpartiality—yes, Dick, with impartiality. Frankly, Iam not disappointed in her. She has good looks; she hasthem from her mother. So I may say I chose herlooks. She is devoted, quite devoted tome—’

‘She is the best woman in the world!’ broke outDick.

‘Dick,’ cried the Admiral, stopping short;‘I have been expecting this. Let us—let us goback to the “Trevanion Arms” and talk this matter outover a bottle.’

‘Certainly not,’ went Dick. ‘You havehad far too much already.’

The parasite was on the point of resenting this; but a look atDick’s face, and some recollection of the terms on whichthey had stood in Paris, came to the aid of his wisdom andrestrained him.

‘As you please,’ he said; ‘although Idon’t know what you mean—nor care. But let uswalk, if you prefer it. You are still a young man; when youare my age— But, however, to continue. Youplease me, Dick; you have pleased me from the first; and to saytruth, Esther is a trifle fantastic, and will be better when sheis married. She has means of her own, as of course you areaware. They come, like the looks, from her poor, dear, goodcreature of a mother. She was blessed in her mother.I mean she shall be blessed in her husband, and you are the man,Dick, you and not another. This very night I will sound heraffections.’

Dick stood aghast.

‘Mr. Van Tromp, I implore you,’ he said; ‘dowhat you please with yourself, but, for God’s sake, letyour daughter alone.’

‘It is my duty,’ replied the Admiral, ‘andbetween ourselves, you rogue, my inclination too. I am asmatchmaking as a dowager. It will be more discreet for youto stay away to-night. Farewell. You leave your casein good hands; I have the tact of these little matters by heart;it is not my first attempt.’

All arguments were in vain; the old rascal stuck to his point;nor did Richard conceal from himself how seriously this mightinjure his prospects, and he fought hard. Once there came aglimmer of hope. The Admiral again proposed an adjournmentto the ‘Trevanion Arms,’ and when Dick had once morerefused, it hung for a moment in the balance whether or not theold toper would return there by himself. Had he done so, ofcourse Dick could have taken to his heels, and warned Esther ofwhat was coming, and of how it had begun. But the Admiral,after a pause, decided for the brandy at home, and made off inthat direction.

We have no details of the sounding.

Next day the Admiral was observed in the parish church, veryproperly dressed. He found the places, and joined inresponse and hymn, as to the manner born; and his appearance, ashe intended it should, attracted some attention among theworshippers. Old Naseby, for instance, had observedhim.

‘There was a drunken-looking blackguard opposite us inchurch,’ he said to his son as they drove home; ‘doyou know who he was?’

‘Some fellow—Van Tromp, I believe,’ saidDick.

‘A foreigner, too!’ observed the Squire.

Dick could not sufficiently congratulate himself on the escapehe had effected. Had the Admiral met him with his father,what would have been the result? And could such acatastrophe be long postponed? It seemed to him as if thestorm were nearly ripe; and it was so more nearly than hethought.

He did not go to the cottage in the afternoon, withheld byfear and shame; but when dinner was over at Naseby House, and theSquire had gone off into a comfortable doze, Dick slipped out ofthe room, and ran across country, in part to save time, in partto save his own courage from growing cold; for he now hated thenotion of the cottage or the Admiral, and if he did not hate, atleast feared to think of Esther. He had no clue to herreflections; but he could not conceal from his own heart that hemust have sunk in her esteem, and the spectacle of herinfatuation galled him like an insult.

He knocked and was admitted. The room looked very muchas on his last visit, with Esther at the table and Van Trompbeside the fire; but the expression of the two faces told a verydifferent story. The girl was paler than usual; her eyeswere dark, the colour seemed to have faded from round about them,and her swiftest glance was as intent as a stare. Theappearance of the Admiral, on the other hand, was rosy, andflabby, and moist; his jowl hung over his shirt collar, his smilewas loose and wandering, and he had so far relaxed the naturalcontrol of his eyes, that one of them was aimed inward, as if towatch the growth of the carbuncle. We are warned againstbad judgments; but the Admiral was certainly not sober. Hemade no attempt to rise when Richard entered, but waved his pipeflightily in the air, and gave a leer of welcome. Esthertook as little notice of him as might be.

‘Aha! Dick!’ cried the painter.‘I’ve been to church; I have, upon my word. AndI saw you there, though you didn’t see me. And I sawa devilish pretty woman, by Gad. If it were not for thisbaldness, and a kind of crapulous air I can’t disguise frommyself—if it weren’t for this and that andt’other thing—I—I’ve forgot what I wassaying. Not that that matters, I’ve heaps of thingsto say. I’m in a communicative vein to-night.I’ll let out all my cats, even unto seventy timesseven. I’m in what I call the stage, and all Idesire is a listener, although he were deaf, to be as happy asNebuchadnezzar.’

Of the two hours which followed upon this it is unnecessary togive more than a sketch. The Admiral was extremely silly,now and then amusing, and never really offensive. It wasplain that he kept in view the presence of his daughter, andchose subjects and a character of language that should not offenda lady. On almost any other occasion Dick would haveenjoyed the scene. Van Tromp’s egotism, flown withdrink, struck a pitch above mere vanity. He became candidand explanatory; sought to take his auditors entirely into hisconfidence, and tell them his inmost conviction abouthimself. Between his self-knowledge, which wasconsiderable, and his vanity, which was immense, he had created astrange hybrid animal, and called it by his own name. Howhe would plume his feathers over virtues which would havegladdened the heart of Cæsar or St. Paul; and anon,complete his own portrait with one of those touches of pitilessrealism which the satirist so often seeks in vain.

‘Now, there’s Dick,’ he said,‘he’s shrewd; he saw through me the first time wemet, and told me so—told me so to my face, which I had thevirtue to keep. I bear you no malice for it, Dick; you wereright; I am a humbug.’

You may fancy how Esther quailed at this new feature of themeeting between her two idols.

And then, again, in a parenthesis:—

‘That,’ said Van Tromp, ‘was when I had topaint those dirty daubs of mine.’

And a little further on, laughingly said perhaps, but yet withan air of truth:—

‘I never had the slightest hesitation in sponging uponany human creature.’

Thereupon Dick got up.

‘I think perhaps,’ he said, ‘we had betterall be thinking of going to bed.’ And he smiled witha feeble and deprecatory smile.

‘Not at all,’ cried the Admiral, ‘I know atrick worth two of that. Puss here,’ indicating hisdaughter, ‘shall go to bed; and you and I will keep it uptill all’s blue.’

Thereupon Esther arose in sullen glory. She had sat andlistened for two mortal hours while her idol defiled himself andsneered away his godhead. One by one, her illusions haddeparted. And now he wished to order her to bed in her ownhouse! now he called her Puss! now, even as he uttered the words,toppling on his chair, he broke the stem of his tobacco-pipe inthree! Never did the sheep turn upon her shearer with amore commanding front. Her voice was calm, her enunciationa little slow, but perfectly distinct, and she stood before himas she spoke, in the simplest and most maidenly attitude.

‘No,’ she said, ‘Mr. Naseby will have thegoodness to go home at once, and you will go to bed.’

The broken fragments of pipe fell from the Admiral’sfingers; he seemed by his countenance to have lived too long in aworld unworthy of him; but it is an odd circumstance, heattempted no reply, and sat thunderstruck, with open mouth.

Dick she motioned sharply towards the door, and he could onlyobey her. In the porch, finding she was close behind him,he ventured to pause and whisper, ‘You have doneright.’

‘I have done as I pleased,’ she said.‘Can he paint?’

‘Many people like his paintings,’ returned Dick,in stifled tones; ‘I never did; I never said I did,’he added, fiercely defending himself before he was attacked.

‘I ask you if he can paint. I will not be putoff. Can he paint?’ she repeated.

‘No,’ said Dick.

‘Does he even like it?’

‘Not now, I believe.’

‘And he is drunk?’—she leaned upon the wordwith hatred.

‘He has been drinking.’

‘Go,’ she said, and was turning to re-enter thehouse when another thought arrested her. ‘Meet meto-morrow morning at the stile,’ she said.

‘I will,’ replied Dick.

And then the door closed behind her, and Dick was alone in thedarkness. There was still a chink of light above the sill,a warm, mild glow behind the window; the roof of the cottage andsome of the banks and hazels were defined in denser darknessagainst the sky; but all else was formless, breathless, andnoiseless like the pit. Dick remained as she had left him,standing squarely upon one foot and resting only on the toe ofthe other, and as he stood he listened with his soul. Thesound of a chair pushed sharply over the floor startled his heartinto his mouth; but the silence which had thus been disturbedsettled back again at once upon the cottage and itsvicinity. What took place during this interval is a secretfrom the world of men; but when it was over the voice of Estherspoke evenly and without interruption for perhaps half a minute,and as soon as that ceased heavy and uncertain footfalls crossedthe parlour and mounted lurching up the stairs. The girlhad tamed her father, Van Tromp had gone obediently to bed: somuch was obvious to the watcher in the road. And yet hestill waited, straining his ears, and with terror and sickness athis heart; for if Esther had followed her father, if she had evenmade one movement in this great conspiracy of men and nature tobe still, Dick must have had instant knowledge of it from hisstation before the door; and if she had not moved, must she nothave fainted? or might she not be dead?

He could hear the cottage clock deliberately measure out theseconds; time stood still with him; an almost superstitiousterror took command of his faculties; at last, he could bear nomore, and, springing through the little garden in two bounds, heput his face against the window. The blind, which had notbeen drawn fully down, left an open chink about an inch in heightalong the bottom of the glass, and the whole parlour was thusexposed to Dick’s investigation. Esther sat uprightat the table, her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed uponthe candle. Her brows were slightly bent, her mouthslightly open; her whole attitude so still and settled that Dickcould hardly fancy that she breathed. She had not stirredat the sound of Dick’s arrival. Soon after, making aconsiderable disturbance amid the vast silence of the night, theclock lifted up its voice, whined for a while like a partridge,and then eleven times hooted like a cuckoo. Still Esthercontinued immovable and gazed upon the candle. Midnightfollowed, and then one of the morning; and still she had notstirred, nor had Richard Naseby dared to quit the window.And then, about half-past one, the candle she had been thusintently watching flared up into a last blaze of paper, and sheleaped to her feet with an ejaculation, looked about her once,blew out the light, turned round, and was heard rapidly mountingthe staircase in the dark.

Dick was left once more alone to darkness and to that dulledand dogged state of mind when a man thinks that Misery must nowhave done her worst, and is almost glad to think so. Heturned and walked slowly towards the stile; she had told him nohour, and he was determined, whenever she came, that she shouldfind him waiting. As he got there the day began to dawn,and he leaned over a hurdle and beheld the shadows fleeaway. Up went the sun at last out of a bank of clouds thatwere already disbanding in the east; a herald wind had alreadysprung up to sweep the leafy earth and scatter the congregateddewdrops. ‘Alas!’ thought Dick Naseby,‘how can any other day come so distastefully tome?’ He still wanted his experience of themorrow.

p.204CHAPTER VII—THE ELOPEMENT

It was probably on the stroke often, and Dick had been half asleep for some time against thebank, when Esther came up the road carrying a bundle. Somekind of instinct, or perhaps the distant light footfalls,recalled him, while she was still a good way off, to thepossession of his faculties, and he half raised himself andblinked upon the world. It took him some time to recollecthis thoughts. He had awakened with a certain blank andchildish sense of pleasure, like a man who had received a legacyovernight; but this feeling gradually died away, and was thensuddenly and stunningly succeeded by a conviction of thetruth. The whole story of the past night sprang into hismind with every detail, as by an exercise of the direct andspeedy sense of sight, and he arose from the ditch and, withrueful courage, went to meet his love.

She came up to him walking steady and fast, her face stillpale, but to all appearance perfectly composed; and she showedneither surprise, relief, nor pleasure at finding her lover onthe spot. Nor did she offer him her hand.

‘Here I am,’ said he.

‘Yes,’ she replied; and then, without a pause orany change of voice, ‘I want you to take me away,’she added.

‘Away?’ he repeated. ‘How?Where?’

‘To-day,’ she said. ‘I do not carewhere it is, but I want you to take me away.’

‘For how long? I do not understand,’ gaspedDick.

‘I shall never come back here any more,’ was allshe answered.

Wild words uttered, as these were, with perfect quiet ofmanner and voice, exercise a double influence on thehearer’s mind. Dick was confounded; he recovered fromastonishment only to fall into doubt and alarm. He lookedupon her frozen attitude, so discouraging for a lover to behold,and recoiled from the thoughts which it suggested.

‘To me?’ he asked. ‘Are you coming tome, Esther?’

‘I want you to take me away,’ she repeated withweary impatience. ‘Take me away—take me awayfrom here.’

The situation was not sufficiently defined. Dick askedhimself with concern whether she were altogether in her rightwits. To take her away, to marry her, to work off his handsfor her support, Dick was content to do all this; yet he requiredsome show of love upon her part. He was not one of thosetough-hided and small-hearted males who would marry their love atthe point of the bayonet rather than not marry her at all.He desired that a woman should come to his arms with anattractive willingness, if not with ardour. AndEsther’s bearing was more that of despair than that oflove. It chilled him and taught him wisdom.

‘Dearest,’ he urged, ‘tell me what you wish,and you shall have it; tell me your thoughts, and then I canadvise you. But to go from here without a plan, withoutforethought, in the heat of a moment, is madder than madness, andcan help nothing. I am not speaking like a man, but I speakthe truth; and I tell you again, the thing’s absurd, andwrong, and hurtful.’

She looked at him with a lowering, languid look of wrath.

‘So you will not take me?’ she said.‘Well, I will go alone.’

And she began to step forward on her way. But he threwhimself before her.

‘Esther, Esther!’ he cried.

‘Let me go—don’t touch me—what righthave you to interfere? Who are you, to touch me?’ sheflashed out, shrill with anger.

Then, being made bold by her violence, he took her firmly,almost roughly, by the arm, and held her while he spoke.

‘You know well who I am, and what I am, and that I loveyou. You say I will not help you; but your heart knows thecontrary. It is you who will not help me; for you will nottell me what you want. You see—or you could see, ifyou took the pains to look—how I have waited here all nightto be ready at your service. I only asked information; Ionly urged you to consider; and I still urge and beg you to thinkbetter of your fancies. But if your mind is made up, so beit; I will beg no longer; I give you my orders; and I will notallow—not allow you to go hence alone.’

She looked at him for awhile with cold, unkind scrutiny likeone who tries the temper of a tool.

‘Well, take me away, then,’ she said with asigh.

‘Good,’ said Dick. ‘Come with me tothe stables; there we shall get the pony-trap and drive to thejunction. To-night you shall be in London. I am yoursso wholly that no words can make me more so; and, besides, youknow it, and the words are needless. May God help me to begood to you, Esther—may God help me! for I see that youwill not.’

So, without more speech, they set out together, and werealready got some distance from the spot, ere he observed that shewas still carrying the hand-bag. She gave it up to him,passively, but when he offered her his arm, merely shook her headand pursed up her lips. The sun shone clearly andpleasantly; the wind was fresh and brisk upon their faces, andsmelt racily of woods and meadows. As they went down intothe valley of the Thyme, the babble of the stream rose into theair like a perennial laughter. On the far-away hills,sun-burst and shadow raced along the slopes and leaped from peakto peak. Earth, air and water, each seemed in better healthand had more of the shrewd salt of life in them than uponordinary mornings; and from east to west, from the lowest glen tothe height of heaven, from every look and touch and scent, ahuman creature could gather the most encouraging intelligence asto the durability and spirit of the universe.

Through all this walked Esther, picking her small steps like abird, but silent and with a cloud under her thick eyebrows.She seemed insensible, not only of nature, but of the presence ofher companion. She was altogether engrossed in herself, andlooked neither to right nor to left, but straight before her onthe road. When they came to the bridge, however, shehalted, leaned on the parapet, and stared for a moment at theclear, brown pool, and swift, transient snowdrift of therapids.

‘I am going to drink,’ she said; and descended thewinding footpath to the margin.

There she drank greedily in her hands and washed her templeswith water. The coolness seemed to break, for an instant,the spell that lay upon her; for, instead of hastening forwardagain in her dull, indefatigable tramp, she stood still where shewas, for near a minute, looking straight before her. AndDick, from above on the bridge where he stood to watch her, saw astrange, equivocal smile dawn slowly on her face and pass awayagain at once and suddenly, leaving her as grave as ever; and thesense of distance, which it is so cruel for a lover to endure,pressed with every moment more heavily on her companion.Her thoughts were all secret; her heart was locked and bolted;and he stood without, vainly wooing her with his eves.

‘Do you feel better?’ asked Dick, as she at lastrejoined him; and after the constraint of so long a silence, hisvoice sounded foreign to his own ears.

She looked at him for an appreciable fraction of a minute ereshe answered, and when she did, it was in themonosyllable—‘Yes.’

Dick’s solicitude was nipped and frosted. Hiswords died away on his tongue. Even his eyes, despairing ofencouragement, ceased to attend on hers. And they went onin silence through Kirton hamlet, where an old man followed themwith his eyes, and perhaps envied them their youth and love; andacross the Ivy beck where the mill was splashing and grumblinglow thunder to itself in the chequered shadow of the dell, andthe miller before the door was beating flour from his hands as hewhistled a modulation; and up by the high spinney, whence theysaw the mountains upon either hand; and down the hill again tothe back courts and offices of Naseby House. Esther hadkept ahead all the way, and Dick plodded obediently in her wake;but as they neared the stables, he pushed on and took thelead. He would have preferred her to await him in the roadwhile he went on and brought the carriage back, but after so manyrepulses and rebuffs he lacked courage to offer thesuggestion. Perhaps, too, he felt it wiser to keep hisconvoy within sight. So they entered the yard in Indianfile, like a tramp and his wife.

The grooms eyebrows rose as he received the order for thepony-phaeton, and kept rising during all his preparations.Esther stood bolt upright and looked steadily at some chickens inthe corner of the yard. Master Richard himself, thought thegroom, was not in his ordinary; for in truth, he carried thehand-bag like a talisman, and either stood listless, or set offsuddenly walking in one direction after another with brisk,decisive footsteps. Moreover he had apparently neglected towash his hands, and bore the air of one returning from aprolonged nutting ramble. Upon the groom’scountenance there began to grow up an expression as of one aboutto whistle. And hardly had the carriage turned the cornerand rattled into the high road with this inexplicable pair, thanthe whistle broke forth—prolonged, and low and tremulous;and the groom, already so far relieved, vented the rest of hissurprise in one simple English word, friendly to the mouth ofJack-tar and the sooty pitman, and hurried to spread the newsround the servants’ hall of Naseby House. Luncheonwould be on the table in little beyond an hour; and the Squire,on sitting down, would hardly fail to ask for MasterRichard. Hence, as the intelligent reader can foresee, thisgroom has a part to play in the imbroglio.

Meantime, Dick had been thinking deeply and bitterly. Itseemed to him as if his love had gone from him, indeed, yet gonebut a little way; as if he needed but to find the right touch orintonation, and her heart would recognise him and bemelted. Yet he durst not open his mouth, and drove insilence till they had passed the main park-gates and turned intothe cross-cut lane along the wall. Then it seemed to him asif it must be now, or never.

‘Can’t you see you are killing me?’ hecried. ‘Speak to me, look at me, treat me like ahuman man.’

She turned slowly and looked him in the face with eyes thatseemed kinder. He dropped the reins and caught her hand,and she made no resistance, although her touch wasunresponsive. But when, throwing one arm round her waist,he sought to kiss her lips, not like a lover indeed, not becausehe wanted to do so, but as a desperate man who puts his fortunesto the touch, she drew away from him, with a knot in herforehead, backed and shied about fiercely with her head, andpushed him from her with her hand. Then there was no roomleft for doubt, and Dick saw, as clear as sunlight, that she hada distaste or nourished a grudge against him.

‘Then you don’t love me?’ he said, drawingback from her, he also, as though her touch had burnt him; andthen, as she made no answer, he repeated with another intonation,imperious and yet still pathetic, ‘You don’t love me,do you, do you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied.‘Why do you ask me? Oh, how should I know? Ithas all been lies together—lies, and lies, andlies!’

He cried her name sharply, like a man who has taken a physicalhurt, and that was the last word that either of them spoke untilthey reached Thymebury Junction.

This was a station isolated in the midst of moorlands, yetlying on the great up line to London. The nearest town,Thymebury itself, was seven miles distant along the branch theycall the Vale of Thyme Railway. It was now nearly half anhour past noon, the down train had just gone by, and there wouldbe no more traffic at the junction until half-past three, whenthe local train comes in to meet the up express at a quarterbefore four. The stationmaster had already gone off to hisgarden, which was half a mile away in a hollow of the moor; aporter, who was just leaving, took charge of the phaeton, andpromised to return it before night to Naseby House; only a deaf,snuffy, and stern old man remained to play propriety for Dick andEsther.

Before the phaeton had driven off, the girl had entered thestation and seated herself upon a bench. The endless, emptymoorlands stretched before her, entirely unenclosed, and with noboundary but the horizon. Two lines of rails, a waggonshed, and a few telegraph posts, alone diversified theoutlook. As for sounds, the silence was unbroken save bythe chant of the telegraph wires and the crying of the plovers onthe waste. With the approach of midday the wind had moreand more fallen, it was now sweltering hot and the air trembledin the sunshine.

Dick paused for an instant on the threshold of theplatform. Then, in two steps, he was by her side andspeaking almost with a sob.

‘Esther,’ he said, ‘have pity on me.What have I done? Can you not forgive me? Esther, youloved me once—can you not love me still?’

‘How can I tell you? How am I to know?’ sheanswered. ‘You are all a lie to me—all a liefrom first to last. You were laughing at my folly, playingwith me like a child, at the very time when you declared youloved me. Which was true? was any of it true? or was itall, all a mockery? I am weary trying to find out.And you say I loved you; I loved my father’s friend.I never loved, I never heard of, you, until that man came homeand I began to find myself deceived. Give me back myfather, be what you were before, and you may talk of loveindeed!’

‘Then you cannot forgive me—cannot?’ heasked.

‘I have nothing to forgive,’ she answered.‘You do not understand.’

‘Is that your last word, Esther?’ said he, verywhite, and biting his lip to keep it still.

‘Yes, that is my last word,’ replied she.

‘Then we are here on false pretences, and we stay hereno longer,’ he said. ‘Had you still loved me,right or wrong, I should have taken you away, because then Icould have made you happy. But as it is—I must speakplainly—what you propose is degrading to you, and an insultto me, and a rank unkindness to your father. Your fathermay be this or that, but you should use him like afellow-creature.’

‘What do you mean?’ she flashed. ‘Ileave him my house and all my money; it is more than hedeserves. I wonder you dare speak to me about thatman. And besides, it is all he cares for; let him take it,and let me never hear from him again.’

‘I thought you romantic about fathers,’ hesaid.

‘Is that a taunt?’ she demanded.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘it is an argument.No one can make you like him, but don’t disgrace him in hisown eyes. He is old, Esther, old and broken down.Even I am sorry for him, and he has been the loss of all I caredfor. Write to your aunt; when I see her answer you canleave quietly and naturally, and I will take you to youraunt’s door. But in the meantime you must gohome. You have no money, and so you are helpless, and mustdo as I tell you; and believe me, Esther, I do all for your good,and your good only, so God help me.’

She had put her hand into her pocket and withdrawn itempty.

‘I counted upon you,’ she wailed.

‘You counted rightly then,’ he retorted.‘I will not, to please you for a moment, make both of usunhappy for our lives; and since I cannot marry you, we have onlybeen too long away, and must go home at once.’

‘Dick,’ she cried suddenly, ‘perhaps Imight—perhaps in time—perhaps—’

‘There is no perhaps about the matter,’interrupted Dick. ‘I must go and bring thephaeton.’ And with that he strode from the station,all in a glow of passion and virtue. Esther, whose eyes hadcome alive and her cheeks flushed during these last words,relapsed in a second into a state of petrifaction. Sheremained without motion during his absence, and when he returnedsuffered herself to be put back into the phaeton, and driven offon the return journey like an idiot or a tired child.Compared with what she was now, her condition of the morningseemed positively natural. She sat white and cold andsilent, and there was no speculation in her eyes. Poor Dickflailed and flailed at the pony, and once tried to whistle, buthis courage was going down; huge clouds of despair gatheredtogether in his soul, and from time to time their darkness wasdivided by a piercing flash of longing and regret. He hadlost his love—he had lost his love for good.

The pony was tired, and the hills very long and steep, and theair sultrier than ever, for now the breeze began to failentirely. It seemed as if this miserable drive would neverbe done, as if poor Dick would never be able to go away and becomfortably wretched by himself; for all his desire was to escapefrom her presence and the reproach of her averted looks. Hehad lost his love, he thought—he had lost his love forgood.

They were already not far from the cottage, when his heartagain faltered and he appealed to her once more, speaking low andeagerly in broken phrases.

‘I cannot live without your love,’ heconcluded.

‘I do not understand what you mean,’ she replied,and I believe with perfect truth.

‘Then,’ said he, wounded to the quick, ‘youraunt might come and fetch you herself. Of course you cancommand me as you please. But I think it would be betterso.’

‘Oh yes,’ she said wearily, ‘betterso.’

This was the only exchange of words between them till aboutfour o’clock; the phaeton, mounting the lane, ‘openedout’ the cottage between the leafy banks. Thin smokewent straight up from the chimney; the flowers in the garden, thehawthorn in the lane, hung down their heads in the heat; thestillness was broken only by the sound of hoofs. For rightbefore the gate a livery servant rode slowly up and down, leadinga saddle horse. And in this last Dick shuddered to identifyhis father’s chestnut.

Alas! poor Richard, what should this portend?

The servant, as in duty bound, dismounted and took the phaetoninto his keeping; yet Dick thought he touched his hat to him withsomething of a grin. Esther, passive as ever, was helpedout and crossed the garden with a slow and mechanical gait; andDick, following close behind her, heard from within the cottagehis father’s voice upraised in an anathema, and theshriller tones of the Admiral responding in the key of war.

p.219CHAPTER VIII—BATTLE ROYAL

Squire Naseby, on sitting down tolunch, had inquired for Dick, whom he had not seen since the daybefore at dinner; and the servant answering awkwardly that MasterRichard had come back but had gone out again with the ponyphaeton, his suspicions became aroused, and he cross-questionedthe man until the whole was out. It appeared from thisreport that Dick had been going about for nearly a month with agirl in the Vale—a Miss Van Tromp; that she lived near LordTrevanion’s upper wood; that recently Miss VanTromp’s papa had returned home from foreign parts after aprolonged absence; that this papa was an old gentleman, verychatty and free with his money in thepublic-house—whereupon Mr. Naseby’s face becameencrimsoned; that the papa, furthermore, was said to be anadmiral—whereupon Mr. Naseby spat out a whistle brief andfierce as an oath; that Master Dick seemed very friendly with thepapa—‘God help him!’ said Mr. Naseby; that lastnight Master Dick had not come in, and to-day he had driven awayin the phaeton with the young lady—

‘Young woman,’ corrected Mr. Naseby.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the man, who had been unwillingenough to gossip from the first, and was now cowed by the effectof his communications on the master. ‘Young woman,sir!’

‘Had they luggage?’ demanded the Squire.

‘Yes, sir.’

Mr. Naseby was silent for a moment, struggling to keep downhis emotion, and he mastered it so far as to mount into thesarcastic vein, when he was in the nearest danger of melting intothe sorrowful.

‘And was this—this Van Dunk with them?’ heasked, dwelling scornfully upon the name.

The servant believed not, and being eager to shift theresponsibility of speech to other shoulders, suggested thatperhaps the master had better inquire further from George thestableman in person.

‘Tell him to saddle the chestnut and come with me.He can take the gray gelding; for we may ride fast. Andthen you can take away this trash,’ added Mr. Naseby,pointing to the luncheon; and he arose, lordly in his anger, andmarched forth upon the terrace to await his horse.

There Dick’s old nurse shrunk up to him, for the newswent like wildfire over Naseby House, and timidly expressed ahope that there was nothing much amiss with the young master.

‘I’ll pull him through,’ the Squire saidgrimly, as though he meant to pull him through a threshing-mill;‘I’ll save him from this gang; God help him with thenext! He has a taste for low company, and no naturalaffections to steady him. His father was no society forhim; he must go fuddling with a Dutchman, Nance, and nowhe’s caught. Let us pray he’ll take thelesson,’ he added more gravely, ‘but youth is here tomake troubles, and age to pull them out again.’

Nance whimpered and recalled several episodes of Dick’schildhood, which moved Mr. Naseby to blow his nose and shake herhard by the hand; and then, the horse arriving opportunely, toget himself without delay into the saddle and canter off.

He rode straight, hot spur, to Thymebury, where, as was to beexpected, he could glean no tidings of the runaways. Theyhad not been seen at the George; they had not been seen at thestation. The shadow darkened on Mr. Naseby’s face;the junction did not occur to him; his last hope was for VanTromp’s cottage; thither he bade George guide him, andthither he followed, nursing grief, anxiety, and indignation inhis heart.

‘Here it is, sir,’ said George stopping.

‘What! on my own land!’ he cried.‘How’s this? I let this place tosomebody—M‘Whirter or M‘Glashan.’

‘Miss M‘Glashan was the young lady’s aunt,sir, I believe,’ returned George.

‘Ay—dummies,’ said the Squire.‘I shall whistle for my rent too. Here, take myhorse.’

The Admiral, this hot afternoon, was sitting by the windowwith a long glass. He already knew the Squire by sight, andnow, seeing him dismount before the cottage and come stridingthrough the garden, concluded without doubt he was there to askfor Esther’s hand.

‘This is why the girl is not yet home,’ hethought: ‘a very suitable delicacy on young Naseby’spart.’

And he composed himself with some pomp, answered the loudrattle of the riding-whip upon the door with a dulcet invitationto enter, and coming forward with a bow and a smile, ‘Mr.Naseby, I believe,’ said he.

The Squire came armed for battle; took in his man from top totoe in one rapid and scornful glance, and decided on a course atonce. He must let the fellow see that he understoodhim.

‘You are Mr. Van Tromp?’ he returned roughly, andwithout taking any notice of the proffered hand.

‘The same, sir,’ replied the Admiral.‘Pray be seated.’

‘No sir,’ said the Squire, point-blank, ‘Iwill not be seated. I am told that you are anadmiral,’ he added.

‘No sir, I am not an admiral,’ returned Van Tromp,who now began to grow nettled and enter into the spirit of theinterview.

‘Then why do you call yourself one, sir?’

‘I have to ask your pardon, I do not,’ says VanTromp, as grand as the Pope.

But nothing was of avail against the Squire.

‘You sail under false colours from beginning toend,’ he said. ‘Your very house was taken undera sham name.’

‘It is not my house. I am my daughter’sguest,’ replied the Admiral. ‘If it weremy house—’

‘Well?’ said the Squire, ‘what then?hey?’

The Admiral looked at him nobly, but was silent.

‘Look here,’ said Mr. Naseby, ‘thisintimidation is a waste of time; it is thrown away on me, sir; itwill not succeed with me. I will not permit you even togain time by your fencing. Now, sir, I presume youunderstand what brings me here.’

‘I am entirely at a loss to account for yourintrusion,’ bows and waves Van Tromp.

‘I will try to tell you then. I come here as afather’—down came the riding-whip upon thetable—‘I have right and justice upon my side. Iunderstand your calculations, but you calculated withoutme. I am a man of the world, and I see through you and yourmanœuvres. I am dealing now with a conspiracy—Istigmatise it as such, and I will expose it and crush it.And now I order you to tell me how far things have gone, andwhither you have smuggled my unhappy son.’

‘My God, sir!’ Van Tromp broke out, ‘I havehad about enough of this. Your son? God knows wherehe is for me! What the devil have I to do with yourson? My daughter is out, for the matter of that; I mightask you where she was, and what would you say to that? Butthis is all midsummer madness. Name your businessdistinctly, and be off.’

‘How often am I to tell you?’ cried theSquire. ‘Where did your daughter take my son to-dayin that cursed pony carriage?’

‘In a pony carriage?’ repeated Van Tromp.

‘Yes, sir—with luggage.’

‘Luggage?’—Van Tromp had turned a littlepale.

‘Luggage, I said—luggage!’ shoutedNaseby. ‘You may spare me this dissimulation.Where’s my son. You are speaking to a father, sir, afather.’

‘But, sir, if this be true,’ out came Van Tromp ina new key, ‘it is I who have an explanation todemand?’

‘Precisely. There is the conspiracy,’retorted Naseby. ‘Oh!’ he added, ‘I am aman of the world. I can see through and throughyou.’

Van Tromp began to understand.

‘You speak a great deal about being a father, Mr.Naseby,’ said he; ‘I believe you forget that theappellation is common to both of us. I am at a loss tofigure to myself, however dimly, how any man—I have notsaid any gentleman—could so brazenly insult another as youhave been insulting me since you entered this house. Forthe first time I appreciate your base insinuations, and I despisethem and you. You were, I am told, a manufacturer; I am anartist; I have seen better days; I have moved in societies whereyou would not be received, and dined where you would be glad topay a pound to see me dining. The so-called aristocracy ofwealth, sir, I despise. I refuse to help you; I refuse tobe helped by you. There lies the door.’

And the Admiral stood forth in a halo.

It was then that Dick entered. He had been waiting inthe porch for some time back, and Esther had been listlesslystanding by his side. He had put out his hand to bar herentrance, and she had submitted without surprise; and though sheseemed to listen, she scarcely appeared to comprehend.Dick, on his part, was as white as a sheet; his eyes burned andhis lips trembled with anger as he thrust the door suddenly open,introduced Esther with ceremonious gallantry, and stood forwardand knocked his hat firmer on his head like a man about toleap.

‘What is all this?’ he demanded.

‘Is this your father, Mr. Naseby?’ inquired theAdmiral.

‘It is,’ said the young man.

‘I make you my compliments,’ returned VanTromp.

‘Dick!’ cried his father, suddenly breaking forth,‘it is not too late, is it? I have come here in timeto save you. Come, come away with me—come away fromthis place.’

And he fawned upon Dick with his hands.

‘Keep your hands off me,’ cried Dick, not meaningunkindness, but because his nerves were shattered by so manysuccessive miseries.

‘No, no,’ said the old man, ‘don’trepulse your father, Dick, when he has come here to saveyou. Don’t repulse me, my boy. Perhaps I havenot been kind to you, not quite considerate, too harsh; my boy,it was not for want of love. Think of old times. Iwas kind to you then, was I not? When you were a child, andyour mother was with us.’ Mr. Naseby was interruptedby a sort of sob. Dick stood looking at him in amaze. ‘Come away,’ pursued the father in awhisper; ‘you need not be afraid of any consequences.I am a man of the world, Dick; and she can have no claim onyou—no claim, I tell you; and we’ll be handsome too,Dick—we’ll give them a good round figure, father anddaughter, and there’s an end.’

He had been trying to get Dick towards the door, but thelatter stood off.

‘You had better take care, sir, how you insult thatlady,’ said the son, as black as night.

‘You would not choose between your father and yourmistress?’ said the father.

‘What do you call her, sir?’ cried Dick, high andclear.

Forbearance and patience were not among Mr. Naseby’squalities.

‘I called her your mistress,’ he shouted,‘and I might have called her a—’

‘That is an unmanly lie,’ replied Dick,slowly.

‘Dick!’ cried the father, ‘Dick!’

‘I do not care,’ said the son, strengtheninghimself against his own heart; ‘I—I have said it, andit is the truth.’

There was a pause.

‘Dick,’ said the old man at last, in a voice thatwas shaken as by a gale of wind, ‘I am going. I leaveyou with your friends, sir—with your friends. I cameto serve you, and now I go away a broken man. For years Ihave seen this coming, and now it has come. You never lovedme. Now you have been the death of me. You may boastof that. Now I leave you. God pardon you.’

With that he was gone; and the three who remained togetherheard his horse’s hoofs descend the lane. Esther hadnot made a sign throughout the interview, and still kept silencenow that it was over; but the Admiral, who had once or twicemoved forward and drawn back again, now advanced for good.

‘You are a man of spirit, sir,’ said he to Dick;‘but though I am no friend to parental interference, I willsay that you were heavy on the governor.’ Then headded with a chuckle: ‘You began, Richard, with a silverspoon, and here you are in the water like the rest. Work,work, nothing like work. You have parts, you have manners;why, with application you may die a millionaire!’Dick shook himself. He took Esther by the hand, looking ather mournfully.

‘Then this is farewell,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she answered. There was no tone inher voice, and she did not return his gaze.

‘For ever,’ added Dick.

‘For ever,’ she repeated mechanically.

‘I have had hard measure,’ he continued.‘In time I believe I could have shown you I was worthy, andthere was no time long enough to show how much I loved you.But it was not to be. I have lost all.’

He relinquished her hand, still looking at her, and she turnedto leave the room.

‘Why, what in fortune’s name is the meaning of allthis?’ cried Van Tromp. ‘Esther comeback!’

‘Let her go,’ said Dick, and he watched herdisappear with strangely mingled feelings. For he hadfallen into that stage when men have the vertigo of misfortune,court the strokes of destiny, and rush towards anything decisive,that it may free them from suspense though at the cost ofruin. It is one of the many minor forms of suicide.

‘She did not love me,’ he said, turning to herfather.

‘I feared as much,’ said he, ‘when I soundedher. Poor Dick, poor Dick. And yet I believe I am asmuch cut up as you are. I was born to see othershappy.’

‘You forget,’ returned Dick, with something like asneer, ‘that I am now a pauper.’

Van Tromp snapped his fingers.

‘Tut!’ said he; ‘Esther has plenty for usall.’

Dick looked at him with some wonder. It had never dawnedupon him that this shiftless, thriftless, worthless, spongingparasite was yet, after and in spite of all, not mercenary in theissue of his thoughts; yet so it was.

‘Now,’ said Dick, ‘I must go.’

‘Go?’ cried Van Tromp. ‘Where?Not one foot, Mr. Richard Naseby. Here you shall stay inthe meantime! and—well, and do somethingpractical—advertise for a situation as privatesecretary—and when you have it, go and welcome. Butin the meantime, sir, no false pride; we must stay with ourfriends; we must sponge a while on Papa Van Tromp, who hassponged so often upon us.’

‘By God,’ cried Dick, ‘I believe you are thebest of the lot.’

‘Dick, my boy,’ replied the Admiral, winking,‘you mark me, I am not the worst.’

‘Then why,’ began Dick, and then paused.‘But Esther,’ he began again, once more to interrupthimself. ‘The fact is, Admiral,’ he came outwith it roundly now, ‘your daughter wished to run away fromyou to-day, and I only brought her back withdifficulty.’

‘In the pony carriage?’ asked the Admiral, withthe silliness of extreme surprise.

‘Yes,’ Dick answered.

‘Why, what the devil was she running awayfrom?’

Dick found the question unusually hard to answer.

‘Why,’ said he, ‘you know, you’re abit of a rip.’

‘I behave to that girl, sir, like an archdeacon,’replied Van Tromp warmly.

‘Well—excuse me—but you know youdrink,’ insisted Dick.

‘I know that I was a sheet in the wind’s eye, sir,once—once only, since I reached this place,’ retortedthe Admiral. ‘And even then I was fit for anydrawing-room. I should like you to tell me how manyfathers, lay and clerical, go upstairs every day with a face likea lobster and cod’s eyes—and are dull, upon the backof it—not even mirth for the money! No, ifthat’s what she runs for, all I say is, let herrun.’

‘You see,’ Dick tried it again, ‘she hasfancies—’

‘Confound her fancies!’ cried Van Tromp.‘I used her kindly; she had her own way; I was herfather. Besides I had taken quite a liking to the girl, andmeant to stay with her for good. But I tell you what it is,Dick, since she has trifled with you—Oh, yes, she didthough!—and since her old papa’s not good enough forher—the devil take her, say I.’

‘You will be kind to her at least?’ said Dick.

‘I never was unkind to a living soul,’ replied theAdmiral. ‘Firm I can be, but not unkind.’

‘Well,’ said Dick, offering his hand, ‘Godbless you, and farewell.’

The Admiral swore by all his gods he should not go.‘Dick,’ he said, ‘You are a selfish dog; youforget your old Admiral. You wouldn’t leave himalone, would you?’

It was useless to remind him that the house was not his todispose of, that being a class of considerations to which hisintelligence was closed; so Dick tore himself off by force, and,shouting a good-bye, made off along the lane to Thymebury.

p.233CHAPTER IX—IN WHICH THE LIBERAL EDITOR RE-APPEARSAS ‘DEUS EX MACHINA’

It was perhaps a week later, as oldMr. Naseby sat brooding in his study, that there was shown inupon him, on urgent business, a little hectic gentleman shabbilyattired.

‘I have to ask pardon for this intrusion, Mr.Naseby,’ he said; ‘but I come here to perform aduty. My card has been sent in, but perhaps you may notknow, what it does not tell you, that I am the editor of theThymebury Star.’

Mr. Naseby looked up, indignant.

‘I cannot fancy,’ he said, ‘that we havemuch in common to discuss.’

‘I have only a word to say—one piece ofinformation to communicate. Some months ago, wehad—you will pardon my referring to it, it is absolutelynecessary—but we had an unfortunate difference as tofacts.’

‘Have you come to apologise?’ asked the Squire,sternly.

‘No, sir; to mention a circumstance. On themorning in question, your son, Mr. RichardNaseby—’

‘I do not permit his name to be mentioned.’

‘You will, however, permit me,’ replied theEditor.

‘You are cruel,’ said the Squire. He wasright, he was a broken man.

Then the Editor described Dick’s warning visit; and howhe had seen in the lad’s eye that there was a thrashing inthe wind, and had escaped through pity only—so the Editorput it—‘through pity only sir. And oh,sir,’ he went on, ‘if you had seen him speaking upfor you, I am sure you would have been proud of your son. Iknow I admired the lad myself, and indeed that’s whatbrings me here.’

‘I have misjudged him,’ said the Squire.‘Do you know where he is?’

‘Yes, sir, he lies sick at Thymebury.’

‘You can take me to him?’

‘I can.’

‘I pray God he may forgive me,’ said thefather.

And he and the Editor made post-haste for the countrytown.

Next day the report went abroad that Mr. Richard wasreconciled to his father and had been taken home to NasebyHouse. He was still ailing, it was said, and the Squirenursed him like the proverbial woman. Rumour, in thisinstance, did no more than justice to the truth; and over thesickbed many confidences were exchanged, and clouds that had beengrowing for years passed away in a few hours, and as fond mankindloves to hope, for ever. Many long talks had been fruitlessin external action, though fruitful for the understanding of thepair; but at last, one showery Tuesday, the Squire might havebeen observed upon his way to the cottage in the lane.

The old gentleman had arranged his features with a view toself-command, rather than external cheerfulness; and he enteredthe cottage on his visit of conciliation with the bearing of aclergyman come to announce a death.

The Admiral and his daughter were both within, and both lookedupon their visitor with more surprise than favour.

‘Sir,’ said he to Van Tromp, ‘I am told Ihave done you much injustice.’

There came a little sound in Esther’s throat, and sheput her hand suddenly to her heart.

‘You have, sir; and the acknowledgment suffices,’replied the Admiral. ‘I am prepared, sir, to be easywith you, since I hear you have made it up with my friendDick. But let me remind you that you owe some apologies tothis young lady also.’

‘I shall have the temerity to ask for more than herforgiveness,’ said the Squire. ‘Miss VanTromp,’ he continued, ‘once I was in great distress,and knew nothing of you or your character; but I believe you willpardon a few rough words to an old man who asks forgiveness fromhis heart. I have heard much of you since then; for youhave a fervent advocate in my house. I believe you willunderstand that I speak of my son. He is, I regret to say,very far from well; he does not pick up as the doctors hadexpected; he has a great deal upon his mind, and, to tell you thetruth, my girl, if you won’t help us, I am afraid I shalllose him. Come now, forgive him! I was angry with himonce myself, and I found I was in the wrong. This is only amisunderstanding, like the other, believe me; and with one kindmovement, you may give happiness to him, and to me, and toyourself.’

Esther made a movement towards the door, but long before shereached it she had broken forth sobbing.

‘It is all right,’ said the Admiral; ‘Iunderstand the sex. Let me make you my compliments, Mr.Naseby.’

The Squire was too much relieved to be angry.

‘My dear,’ said he to Esther, ‘you must notagitate yourself.’

‘She had better go up and see him right away,’suggested Van Tromp.

‘I had not ventured to propose it,’ replied theSquire. ‘Les convenances, Ibelieve—’

‘Je m’en fiche,’ cried the Admiral,snapping his fingers. ‘She shall go and see my friendDick. Run and get ready, Esther.’

Esther obeyed.

‘She has not—has not run away again?’inquired Mr. Naseby, as soon as she was gone.

‘No,’ said Van Tromp, ‘not again. Sheis a devilish odd girl though, mind you that.’

‘But I cannot stomach the man with thecarbuncles,’ thought the Squire.

And this is why there is a new household and a brand-new babyin Naseby Dower House; and why the great Van Tromp lives inpleasant style upon the shores of England; and why twenty-sixindividual copies of the Thymebury Star are received dailyat the door of Naseby House.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES AND FANTASIES***

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