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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a21c98d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55270 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55270) diff --git a/old/55270-0.txt b/old/55270-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ed8986d..0000000 --- a/old/55270-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6845 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ways of Life, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Ways of Life - Two Stories - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: August 5, 2017 [EBook #55270] -[Last updated: October 22, 2017] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WAYS OF LIFE *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - THE WAYS OF LIFE - - TWO STORIES - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - “_We have wrought no new deliverance in the earth_” - - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS - NEW YORK & LONDON - The Knickerbocker Press - 1897 - - COPYRIGHT, 1897 - BY - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS - - - The Knickerbocker Press, New York - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - -A PREFACE: ON THE EBB TIDE 7 - -MR. SANDFORD 21 - -THE WONDERFUL HISTORY OF MR. ROBERT DALYELL 149 - - - - - -THE WAYS OF LIFE. - - - - -A PREFACE. - -ON THE EBB TIDE. - - -I do not pretend to say that the two stories included in this volume are -conscious or intentional studies of the phase of human experience which -I can describe in no other way than by calling it the ebb, in -contradistinction to that tide in the affairs of men which we all know -is, to those who can identify and seize it, the great turning-point of -life, and leads on to fortune. But they were at least produced under the -influence of the strange discovery which a man makes when he finds -himself carried away by the retiring waters, no longer coming in upon -the top of the wave, but going out. This does not necessarily mean the -decline of life, the approach of age, or any natural crisis, but -something more poignant--the wonderful and overwhelming revelation -which one time or other comes to most people, that their career, -whatever it may have been, has come to a stop: that such successes as -they may have achieved are over, and that henceforward they must -accustom themselves to the thought of going out with the tide. It is a -very startling discovery to one who has perhaps been going with a -tolerably full sail, without any consciousness of weakened energies or -failing power; and it usually is as sudden as it is strange, a thing -unforeseen by the sufferer himself, though probably other people have -already found it out, and traced the steps of its approach. Writers of -fiction, and those whose work it is to realise and exhibit, as far as in -them lies, the vicissitudes and alterations of life, are more usually -employed in illustrating the advance of that tide--in showing how it is -caught or lost, and with what an impetus, and what accompaniments it -flings itself higher and higher up upon the beach, with the sunshine -triumphant in the whirl of the big wave as it turns over and breaks into -foam, and the flood claps its hands with a rejoicing noise. But yet the -ebb has its poetry, too; the colours are more sombre, the sentiment is -different. The flood which in its rise seemed almost individual, -pervaded by something like conscious life of force and pleasure, becomes -like an abstract relentless fate when it pours back into the deep gulf -of a sea of forgetfulness, with a rush of whitened pebbles dragged from -the beach, or a long expanse of uncovered sands left bare, studded with -slippery fragments of rock and the bones of shipwrecked boats. These are -no more than symbols of the rising and falling again of human feeling, -which, in all its phases, is of the highest interest to those who -recognise, even in its imaginary developments, a shadow of their own. - -The moment when we first perceive that our individual tide has turned is -one which few persons will find it possible to forget. We look on with a -piteous surprise to see our little triumphs, our not-little hopes, the -future we had still believed in, the past in which we thought our name -and fame would still be to the good, whatever happened, all floating out -to sea to be lost there, out of sight of men. In the morning all might -seem as sure to go on for ever--that is, for our time, which means the -same thing--as the sky over us, or the earth beneath our feet; but -before evening there was a different story, and the tide was in full -retreat, carrying with it both convictions of the past and hope in the -future, not only our little laurels, all tossed and withered, and our -little projects, but also the very heart of exertion, our confidence in -ourselves and providence. The discovery comes in many different ways--in -the unresponsive silence which greets an orator who once was interrupted -by perpetual cheers, in the publishing of a book which drops and is -never heard of more, or, as in the present case, the unsold pictures: -and in the changed accent with which the fickle public pronounces a once -favoured name. - -There are some who salute this discovery with outcries of indignation -and refusal to believe. They think, like the French, that they are -betrayed, or, like many of us, that an enemy has done this: a malignant -critic perhaps, an ill-disposed publisher or dealer: and save their own -pride by putting forth explanations, and persuading themselves, if -nobody else, that the thing is temporary and an accident, or else that -it is due to cruel fate, and the machinations of evil-hearted men. But -when, amid the gifts of the artist, be they small or great, he happens -to retain the clearer reason, the common-sense of ordinary intelligence, -it is more difficult to take refuge in such self-deceptions, merciful -expedients of Nature as they may be to blind us to our own misfortunes. -The reasonable man has the worst of it in such cases. It is less -possible for him to believe in a mysterious fate or in malign -influences. He is obliged to allow to himself that the going out of the -tide is as natural as its coming in, and that he is no way exempted from -the operation of those laws which affect human reputation and comfort as -much as the rising and the falling affect the winds and the seas. - -These problems of the common life, though they are perhaps less -cheerful, are surely as fit subjects for fiction as are the easier -difficulties of youth. It is common to say that all the stories have -been told and every complication exhausted, so that we can do nothing -but repeat the old themes over again, with such variety of treatment as -our halting genius can suggest. Romance itself, they say, is gone, which -is an assertion strenuously contradicted by the most powerful of our -young writers, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, who replies to it in very energetic -tones, that, Here is a steam-engine, which is Romance incarnate, the -great poetry of form and purpose, a creation, as distinct as Hamlet or -Lear, a big, dutiful, but exigent giant which a touch can turn into a -destroyer, but loving guidance into the most useful servant and friend -of man. The tramp of its mighty feet across the wastes of the sea, -bringing the man home to his wife, the son to his mother, is poetry, is -joy to this eager spirit. I am disposed in moderation to accept the -belief of the young author who has a most broad and manful perception of -life as something more than love-making, and to acknowledge the -mysterious monstrous thing which he makes heroic. To show in his -masterful way how every consenting part of the big machine as it clanks -on with large unwieldy steps, so many beats to a minute, sounds a note -in the symphony of life and service, a voice in the great strain of song -which rises from earth to heaven, is more worthy than all the unsavoury -romances of all the decadents. Would not St. Francis, had he lived to -see it, have called to Brother Iron and Brother Steel, strong henchmen -of God, and Sister Steam, with her wreaths of snow, though her voice be -not sweet, to join the song of the Creatures in honour of the Maker, as -he called upon fire and water in his famous hymn? or that older minstrel -in the ancient ages, to whom “snow and vapour, wind and storms -fulfilling His word,” were already members of the great choir? It must -be added, however, when all is said, that it is the grimy engineer -behind watching every valve and guiding every stroke who makes the -romance of the machine, as interesting in his way as Romeo, who, though -he is the perennial hero, and attracts the greatest general interest, is -not so much of a man. - -I have often felt while sick or sorry, and craving a little rational -entertainment and distraction--which, in my opinion, it is one of the -highest aims of the novelist to supply--that the everlasting treatment -of the primary problem of youth, as if there was no other in the world, -was at once fatiguing to the reader and injudicious on the part of the -writer. When we want to be taken out of ourselves by the lively -presentment of other people’s difficulties and troubles, it is tiresome -to be always turned back to the disappointments or the successes of -eighteen, or--in deference to the different standard of age held to be -interesting by this generation--let us say five-and-twenty. I do not in -the least deny the great advantages of that episode in life for -treatment in fiction. It is almost the only episode which comes to a -distinct, while it may be, at the same time, a cheerful, end; and its -popularity is obvious: and it is a subject which women, who form the -bulk of readers of fiction, are rarely tired of; all of which points are -important. The elder writers made it the chief thread in the web of -fancy, but surrounded the young people with plenty of fathers and -mothers, neighbours and servants, doctors, clergymen, lawyers, etc., and -all the paraphernalia of common life. But I weary of the two by -themselves, or almost by themselves, as happens so often; and if the -artifices, with which we are so familiar, by which they are brought -together, are fatiguing, how much more so are those uglier artifices by -which, being linked together, they are torn asunder again, and a fierce -duel of what is called passion is set before us against the lurid skies -as the chief object of interest in the world? Novelists make a great -moan when they are hindered in the working out of such subjects, and cry -loudly to heaven and earth against the limited intelligences which -object to them, the British matron, the young person, and so forth. It -seems to me that they would be more reasonable if they complained of the -monotonous demand for a love-story which crushes out of court all the -rest of life--so infinite in variety, so full of complication, so -humorous, so mysterious, so natural and true. - -I have wondered often whether Macaulay and Darwin, and such great men, -whom it is the pride of the novel writer to quote as finding their -recreation in novels, were not of my opinion; though it is sadly -disconcerting to find from his own account that all Mr. Darwin wanted -was a story which ended happily--a judgment which is humbling to one’s -pride in a reader of whom one was so much inclined to boast. So do I -like a story which ends happily. And since the public is fond of such -small revelations, I may here confess that I have often begun a story -with the determination to be high-minded--to treat my young lovers -without indulgence, and either kill them or part them in deference to -the rules of Art. But my heart has generally failed me, and I have -rarely found courage to do them any harm. They will have plenty of -trouble in the world, one knows--why should one cross them in the -beginning of their career? - -These, however, are questions of a lighter mood than the one with which -I began, and a manifest digression from that theme. The two stories -which follow treat not of the joy and pride of life, but of those so -often unforeseen misfortunes and accidents which shape it towards its -end. Life appears under a very different aspect to the man who has felt -the turn of the tide. Probably the discovery has been quite sudden, -startling, and, so far as he knows, private to himself. His friends all -the time may go on hailing him as poet, creator--all manner of fine -things. If he discloses his discovery to them, he is met by reproaches -for his dejection, his distrust and gloomy views; the compliments which -he knows so well and believes so little are heaped again upon him; he is -out of health, out of spirits, overworked, they say, in want of rest; a -few weeks leisure and repose, and he will be himself again--as if it -were a mood or a freak of temper, and not a fact staring him in the -face. But usually he is too much stunned to speak. He is not dying, or -like to die, though his career has come or is coming to an end. It would -be far more appropriate, far more dramatic if he were; but death is -illogical, and will seldom come at the moment when it is wanted, when it -would most appropriately solve the problem of what is to be done -after?--which becomes the most pressing, the most necessary of -questions. Why did not Napoleon die at Waterloo? He lived to add a -pitiful postscript to his existence, to accumulate all kinds of squalid -miseries about his end, instead of the dramatic and clear-cut conclusion -which he might have attained by a merciful bullet or the thrust of a -bayonet. And how well it would be to end thus when we have discovered -that our day is over! But so far from that, the man has to go on, as if -nothing had happened, “in a cheerful despair,” as I have read in a -note-book--as if to-day were as yesterday, or perhaps more abundant. - - “We poets in our youth, begin in gladness, - But after comes in the end despondency and madness,” - -says Wordsworth. “We have wrought no deliverance in the earth,” says -with profounder meaning a much older poet. A man in such straits may -sometimes save himself as Hamlet would have done, with a bare bodkin, -had not the thought of that something after death which might be worse -even than present calamity deterred him; but if he is of other mettle -and cannot run away, or leave his post save at the lawful summons, the -question, What he is to do? is overwhelming. No hope of being carried to -any island valley of Avillion by stately queens in that boat which is -going out with the tide. And no rebellion against fate will do him the -slightest service. He has to hold his footing somehow--but how? - -I confess that I have not had the courage to follow this question, in -either of the cases treated here, to such depths of human discomfiture -as may have been, or may yet be. A greater artist might have done so, -and led the defeated man through all the depths of humiliation and -dismay; but my hand is not strong or firm enough to trace out to the -bounds of the catastrophe the last possibilities of the broken career. -What in the jargon of the age is called the psychological moment is -that in which the first discovery is made, and the startled victim -suddenly perceives what has happened to him, and feels in every plank of -his boat the downward drag of the ebb tide, and looks about him wildly -to see if there is anything he can lay hold of to arrest it, any -deliverance or any escape. This is the case of Mr. Sandford, the hero of -the first of the following tales: and of many others who are not -favoured by so speedy and so complete an answer to this bewildering -problem of life. - -The other story is different; for Robert Dalyell, the subject of that, -has laid his plans arbitrarily to escape out of it, doing what seems to -him the best he can for those who belonged to him. And here again there -is much more to say than has been said; for the condition of the man who -blots himself out of life without dying, and accepts a kind of moral -annihilation while yet all the sources of life are warm within him, -might well afford us one of the most tragic chapters of human history. -But I have shrunk from those darker colours with a compunction for him -whom I have made to suffer, which is quite fantastical and out of -reason, but yet true. To have brought him into the world for the mere -purpose of exhibiting his torments seems bad enough without searching -into the depths of them, and betraying those secrets which he himself -accepts with a robust commonplace of endurance as the natural -consequences of the step he has taken. - -I may add here that the circumstances of this latter story, which a just -but severe writer has upbraided me with taking from real life, are -indeed, so far as the central incident goes, facts in a family history, -but facts of which I know neither the date nor the personages involved, -all of whom are purely imaginary, as are most of the consequences that -follow, at least so far as is known to me. - -The reader, I hope, will forgive a writer very little given to -explanations, or to any personal appearance, for these prefatory words. - -M. O. W. O. - - - - -MR. SANDFORD. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -He was a man approaching sixty, but in perfect health, and with no -painful physical reminders that he had already accomplished the greater -part of life’s journey. He was a successful man, who had attained at a -comparatively early age the heights of his profession, and gained a name -for himself. No painter in England was better or more favourably known. -He had never been emphatically the fashion, or made one of those great -“hits” which are far from being invariably any test of genius; but his -pictures had always been looked for with pleasure, and attracted a large -and very even share of popular approbation. From year to year, for what -was really a very long time, though in his good health and cheerful -occupation the progress of time had never forced itself upon him unduly, -he had gone on doing very well, getting both praise and pudding--good -prices, constant commissions, and a great deal of agreeable applause. A -course of gentle uninterrupted success of this description has a -curiously tranquillising effect upon the mind. It did not seem to Mr. -Sandford, or his wife, or any of his belongings, that it could ever -fail. His income was more like an official income, coming in at slightly -irregular intervals, and with variations of amount, but wonderfully -equal at the year’s end, than the precarious revenues of an artist. And -this fact lulled him into security in respect to his pecuniary means. He -had a very pleasant, ample, agreeable life--a pretty and comfortable -house, full of desirable things; a pleasant, gay, not very profitable, -but pleasant family; and the agreeable atmosphere of applause and public -interest which gave a touch of perfection to all the other good things. -He had the consciousness of being pointed out in every assembly as -somebody worth looking at: “That’s Sandford, you know, the painter.” He -did not dislike it himself, and Mrs. Sandford liked it very much. -Altogether it would have been difficult to find a more pleasant and -delightful career. - -His wife had been the truest companion and helpmeet of all his early -life. She had made their small means do in the beginning when money was -not plentiful. She had managed to do him credit in all the many -appearances in society which a rising painter finds to his advantage, -while still spending very little on herself or her dress. She had kept -all going, and saved him from a thousand anxieties and cares. She had -sat to him when models proved expensive so often that it was a common -joke to say that some reflection of Mrs. Sandford’s face was in all his -pictures, from Joan of Arc to Queen Elizabeth. Now that the children -were grown up, perhaps the parents were a little less together than of -old. She had her daughters to look after, who were asked out a great -deal, and very anxious to be fashionable and to keep up with their fine -friends. The two grown-up girls were both pretty, animated, and pleasant -creatures, full of the chatter of society, yet likewise full of better -things. There were also two grown-up sons: one a young barrister, -briefless, and fond of society too; the other one of those agreeable -do-nothings who are more prevalent nowadays than ever before, a very -clever fellow, who had just not succeeded as he ought at the University -or elsewhere, but had plenty of brains for anything, and only wanted the -opportunity to distinguish himself. They were all full of faculty, both -boys and girls, but all took a good deal out of the family stores -without bringing anything in. Ever since these children grew up the -family life had been on a very easy, ample scale. There was never any -appearance of want of money, nor was the question ever discussed with -the young ones, who had really no way of knowing that there was anything -precarious in that well-established family income which provided them -with everything they could desire. Sometimes, indeed, Mrs. Sandford -would shake her head and declare that she “could not afford” some -particular luxury. “Oh, nonsense, mamma!” the girls would say, while -Harry would add, “That’s mother’s _rôle_, we all know. If she did not -say so she would not be acting up to her part.” They took it in this -way, with the same, or perhaps even a greater composure than if Mr. -Sandford’s revenues had been drawn from the three per cents. - -It was only after this position had been attained that any anxieties -arose. At first it had seemed quite certain that Jack would speedily -distinguish himself at the bar, and become Lord Chancellor in course of -time; and that something would turn up for Harry--most likely a -Government appointment, which so well known a man as his father had a -right to expect. And Mrs. Sandford, with a sigh, had looked forward with -certainty to the early marriage of her girls. But some years had now -passed since Ada, who was the youngest, had been introduced, and as yet -nothing of that kind had happened. Harry was pleasantly about the world, -a great help in accompanying his sisters when Mrs. Sandford did not want -to go out, but no appointment had fallen in his way; and the briefs -which Jack had procured were very few and very trifling. Things went on -quite pleasantly all the same. The young people enjoyed themselves very -much--they were asked everywhere. Lizzie, who had a beautiful voice, was -an acquisition wherever she went, and helped her sister and her -brothers, who could all make themselves agreeable. The life of the -household flowed on in the pleasantest way imaginable; everything was -bright, delightful, easy. Mrs. Sandford was so good a manager that all -domestic arrangements went as on velvet. She was never put out if two or -three people appeared unexpectedly to lunch. An impromptu dinner party -even, though it might disturb cook, never disturbed mamma. There was no -extravagance, but everything delightfully liberal and full. The first -vague uneasiness that crept into the atmosphere was about the boys. It -was Mrs. Sandford herself who began this. “Did you speak to Lord Okeham -about Harry?” she said to her husband one day, when she had been -particularly elated by the appearance of that nobleman at her tea-table. -He had come to look at a picture, and he was very willing afterwards, it -appeared, to come into the drawing-room to tea. - -“How could I? I scarcely know him. It is difficult enough to ask a -friend--but a man I have only seen twice----” - -“Your money or your life,” said Harry, with a laugh. He was himself -quite tranquil about his appointment, never doubting that some day it -would turn up. - -“It is easier to ask a stranger than a friend,” said Mrs. Sandford. “It -is like trading on friendship with a man you know; but this man’s -nothing but a patron, or an admirer. I should have asked him like--I -mean at once.” - -“Mother was going to say like a shot--she is getting dreadfully slangy, -worse than any of us. Let’s hope old Okeham will come back; there’s not -much time lost,” said the cheerful youth. - -“When your father was your age he was making a good deal of money. We -were beginning to see our way,” said Mrs. Sandford, shaking her head. - -“What an awfully imprudent pair you must have been to marry so early!” -cried Jack. - -“I wonder what you would say to us if we suggested anything of the -kind?” said Miss Ada, who had made herself very agreeable to Lord -Okeham. - -“A poor painter!” said Lizzie, with a tone in her voice which her mother -understood--for, indeed Mrs. Sandford did not at all encourage the -attentions of poor painters, having still that early certainty of great -matches in her mind. - -The young people were quite fond of their parents, very proud of their -father, dutiful as far as was consistent with the traditions of their -generation: but naturally they were of opinion that fathers and mothers -were slightly antiquated, and did not possess the last lights. - -“The young ones are too many for you, Mary,” said Mr. Sandford; but he -added, “It’s true what your mother says; you oughtn’t to be about so -much as you are, doing nothing. You ought to grind as long as you’re -young----” - -“At what, sir?” said Harry, with mock reverence. Mr. Sandford did not -reply, for indeed he could not. Instead of giving an answer he went back -to the studio, which indeed he had begun to find a pleasant refuge in -the midst of all the flow of youthful talk and laughter, which was not -of the kind he had been used to in his youth. Young artists, those poor -painters whom Mrs. Sandford held at arms’ length, are not perhaps much -more sensible than other young men, but they have at least a subject on -which any amount of talk is possible, and which their elders can -understand. Mr. Sandford was proud of his children, and loved them -dearly. Their education, he believed, was much better than his own, and -they knew a great deal more on general subjects than he did. But their -jargon was not his jargon, and though it seemed very clever and knowing, -and even amusing for a while, it soon palled upon him. He went back to -his studio and to the picture he was painting, for the daylight was -still good. It was the largest of his Academy pictures, and nearly -finished. It occurred to him as he stood looking at it critically from a -distance, with his head on one side and his hand shading now one part -now another, that Lord Okeham, though very complimentary, had not said -anything about a desire to possess in his small collection a specimen of -such a well-known master as ----. He remembered, now, that it was with -this desire that his lordship had been supposed to be coming. Daniells, -the picture dealer, had said as much. “He wants to come and see what -you’ve got on the stocks. Tell you w’at, old man, ’e’s as rich as -Cressus. Lay it on thick, ’e won’t mind--give you two thou’ as easy as -five ’undred.” This was what, with his usual elegant familiarity, Mr. -Daniells had said. It occurred to Mr. Sandford, with a curious little -pang of surprise, that Lord Okeham had not said a word on the subject. -He had admired everything, he had lingered upon some of the smaller -sketches, making little remarks in the way of criticism now and then -which the painter recognised as very judicious, but he had not said a -word about enriching his collection with a specimen, &c. The surprise -with which Mr. Sandford noticed this had a sort of sting in it--a prick -like the barb of a fish-hook, like the thorn upon a rose. He did not at -the moment exactly perceive why he should have felt it so. After a -little while, indeed, he began to smile at the idea that it was from -Okeham that this sting came. What did one man’s favour, even though that -man was a cabinet minister, matter to him? It was not that, it was the -discussion that followed which had left him with a prick of disquiet, a -tingling spot in his mind. He must, he felt, speak to some one about -Harry--not Lord Okeham, whom he did not know, who had evidently changed -his mind about that specimen of so well-known, &c. He would not dream of -saying anything to him, a man not sympathetic, a stranger whom, though -he might offer him a cup of tea, he did not really know; but it was very -clear that Harry ought to have something to do. - -So ought Jack. Jack had a profession, but that did not seem to advance -him much. Mr. Sandford had early determined that his sons should not be -artists like himself--that they should have no precarious career, -dependent on the favour of picture dealers and patrons, notwithstanding -that he himself had done very well in that way. He had always resolved -from the beginning to give them every advantage. Mr. Sandford recalled -to mind that a few years ago he had been very strenuous on this point, -talking of the duty of giving his children the very best education, -which was the best thing any father could do for his children. He had -been very confident indeed on that subject; now he paused and rubbed his -chin meditatively with his mahl-stick. Was it possible that he was not -quite so sure now? He shook himself free from this troublesome coil of -thought, and made up his mind that he must make an effort about Harry. -Then he put down his brushes and went out for his afternoon walk. - -In earlier days Mrs. Sandford would have come into the studio; she would -have talked Lord Okeham over. She would have said, “Oh, he did not like -that forest bit, didn’t he? Upon my word! I suppose my lord thinks he is -a judge!” - -“What he said was reasonable enough. He does know something about it. I -told you myself I was not satisfied with the balance of colour. The -shadow’s too dark. The middle distance----” - -“Oh, Edward, don’t talk nonsense: that’s just like you--you’re so -ridiculously modest. If the cook were to come in one morning and tell -you she thought your composition bad, you would say she approached the -picture without any bias, and probably what she said was quite true. -Come out for a walk.” - -This, be it clearly understood, was an imaginary conversation. It did -not take place for the excellent reason that Mrs. Sandford was in the -drawing-room, smiling at the witticisms of her young ones, and saying at -intervals, “Come, come, Lizzie!” and “Don’t be so satirical, Jack.” They -were not nearly such good company as her husband, nor did they want her -half so much, but she thought they did, and that it was her duty to be -there. So Mr. Sandford, who did not think of it at all as a grievance, -but only as a natural necessity, had nothing but an imaginary talk which -did not relieve him much, and went out for his walk by himself. - -It would be foolish to date absolutely from that day a slight change -that began to work in him--but it did come on about this time: and that -was an anxiety that the boys should get on and begin their life’s work -in earnest which had not affected him before. He had been too busy to -think much except about his work so long as the young ones were well; -and the period at which the young ones become men and women is not -always easy for a father to discern so long as they are all under his -roof as in their childish days. He, too, had let things flow along in -the well-being of the time without pausing to inquire how long it was to -last, or what was to come of it. A man of sixty who is in perfectly good -health does not feel himself to be old, nor think it necessary to -consider the approaching end of his career. Something, however, aroused -him now about these boys. He got a little irritable when he saw Harry -about, playing tennis with the girls, sometimes spending the whole day -in flannels. “Why can’t he do something?” he said to his wife. - -“Dear Edward,” said Mrs. Sandford, “what can the poor boy do? He is only -too anxious to do something. He is always talking to me about it. If -only Lord Okeham or some one would get a post for him. Is there no one -you can speak to about poor Harry?” - -This was turning the tables upon Harry’s father, who, to tell the truth, -was very slow to ask favours, and did not like it all. He did speak, -however--not to Lord Okeham, but to an inferior potentate, and was told -that all the lists were full, although everybody would be delighted, of -course, to serve him if possible; and nothing came of that. Then there -was Jack. The young man came into dinner one day in the highest spirits. -He had got a brief--a real brief--a curiosity which he regarded with a -jocular admiration. “I shall be a rich man in no time,” he said. - -“How much is your fee?” asked one of the girls. “You must take us -somewhere with it Jack.” - -“It is two guineas,” Jack said, and then there was a general burst of -laughter--that laughter young and fresh which is sweet to the ears of -fathers and mothers. - -“That’s majestic,” Harry said; “lend us something, old fellow, for -luck,” and they all laughed again. They thought it a capital joke that -Jack should earn two guineas in six months. It did not hurt him or any -of them; he had everything he wanted as if he had been earning hundreds. -But Mr. Sandford did not laugh. This time it vexed and disturbed him to -hear all the cheerful banter and talk about Jack’s two guineas. - -“It is all very well to laugh,” he said to his wife afterwards, “but how -is he ever to live upon that?” - -“Dear Edward, it’s not like you to take their fun in earnest,” said the -mother. “The poor boy has such spirits--and then it’s always a -beginning.” - -“I am afraid his spirits are too good. If he would only take life a -little more seriously----” - -“Why should he?” said Mrs. Sandford, taking high ground; “it is his -happiest time. If he wanted to marry and set up for himself it might be -different. But they have no cares--as yet. We ought to be thankful they -are all so happy at home. Few young men love their home like our boys. -We ought to be very thankful,” she repeated with a devout look upon her -upturned face. It took the words out of his mouth. He could not say any -more. - -But he kept on thinking. The time was passing away with great -rapidity--far more quickly than it had ever done. Sunday trod on the -heels of Sunday, and the months jostled each other as they flew along. -Presently it was Jack’s birthday, and there was a dance and a great deal -of affectionate pleasure; but when Mr. Sandford remembered how old the -boy was, it gave him a shock which none of the others felt. At that age -he himself had been Jack’s father, he had laid the foundation of his -reputation, and was a rising man. If they did not live at home and had -not everything provided for them, what would become of these boys? It -gave him a sort of panic to think of it. In the very midst of the dance, -when he was himself standing in the midst of a little knot of -respectable fathers watching the young ones enjoying themselves, this -thought overtook him and made him shiver. - -“Getting on, I hear, very well at the bar,” one of the gentlemen said. - -“He is not making very much money as yet,” replied Mr. Sandford. - -“Oh, nobody does that--at first, at least; but so long as he has you to -fall back upon,” this good-natured friend said, with a nod of his head. - -Mr. Sandford could not make any reply. He kept saying to himself, “Two -guineas--two guineas--he could not live very long on that.” And Harry -had not even two guineas. It fretted him to have this thought come back -at all manner of unlikely times. He did not seem able to shake it off. -And Mrs. Sandford was always on the defensive, seeing it in his eyes, -and making responses to it, speaking at it, always returning to the -subject. She dwelt upon the goodness of the boys, and their love of -their home, and how good it was for the girls to have them, and how -nobody made their mark all at once, “except people that have genius like -you,” she said with that wifely admiration and faith which is so sweet -to a man. What more could he say? - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -About the same time, or a little later, another shadow rose up upon Mr. -Sandford’s life. It was like the cloud no bigger than a man’s hand, like -a mere film upon the blue sky at first. Perhaps the very first -appearance of it--the faintest shadow of a shade upon the blue--arose on -that day when Lord Okeham visited the studio and went away without -giving any commission. Not that great personages had not come before -with the same result; but that this time there had been supposed to be a -distinct purpose in his visit beyond that of taking a cup of tea with -the artist’s wife and daughters--and this purpose had not been carried -out. It was not the cloud, but it was a sort of _avant-coureur_ of the -cloud, like the chill little momentary breath which sometimes heralds a -storm. No storm followed, but the shadow grew. The next thing that made -it really shape itself as a little more than a film was the fact of his -Academy picture, the principal one of the year, coming back--without -any explanation at all; not purchased, nor even with any application -from the print-sellers about an engraving; simply coming back as it had -gone into the exhibition. No doubt in the course of a long career such a -thing as this, too, had happened before. But there was generally -something to account for it, and the picture thus returned seldom dwelt -long in the painter’s hands. This time, however, it subsided quite -quietly into its place, lighting up the studio with a great deal of -colour and interest--“a pleasure to see,” Mrs. Sandford said, who had -often declared that the worst thing of being a painter’s wife was that -she never liked to see the pictures go away. This might be very true, -and it is quite possible that it was a pleasure to behold, standing on -its easel against a wall which generally was enlivened only with the -earliest of sketches, and against which a lay figure grinned and -sprawled. - -But the prospect was not quite agreeable to the painter. However -cheerfully he went into his studio in the morning, he always grew grave -when he came in front of that brilliant canvas. It was the “Black Prince -at Limoges,” a picture full of life and action, with all the aid of -mediæval costume and picturesque groups--such a picture as commanded -everybody’s interest in Mr. Sandford’s younger days. He would go and -stand before it for an hour at a time, trying to find some fault in the -composition, or in the flesh tints, or the arrangements of the -draperies. It took away his thoughts from the subject he was then -engaged in working out. Sometimes he would put up his hand to separate -one portion from another, sometimes divide it with a screen of paper, -sometimes even alter an outline with chalk, or mellow a spot of colour -with his brush. There was very little fault to be found with the -picture. It carried out all the rules of composition to which the -painter had been bred. The group of women which formed the central light -was full of beauty; the sick warrior to whom they appealed was a marvel -of strength and ferocity, made all the keener by the pallor of his -illness. There was nothing to be said against the picture; except, -perhaps, that, had not this been Mr. Sandford’s profession, there was no -occasion for its existence at all. - -When the mind has once been filled with a new idea it is astounding how -many events occur to heighten it. Other distinguished visitors came to -the studio, like Lord Okeham, and went away again, having left a great -deal of praise and a little criticism, but nothing else, behind them. -These were not, perhaps, of importance enough to have produced much -effect at an ordinary moment, but they added to the general -discouragement. Mr. Sandford smiled within himself at the mistakes the -amateurs made, and the small amount of real knowledge which they showed; -but when they were gone the smile became something like that which is -generally and vulgarly described as being on the wrong side of the -mouth. It was all very well to smile at the amateurs--but it was in the -long run their taste, and not that of the heaven-born artist, which -carried the day; and when a man takes away in his pocket the sum which -ought to supply your balance at your banker’s, the sight of his back as -he goes out at the door is not pleasant. Mr. Sandford had not come to -that pitch yet; but he laughed no longer, and felt a certain ruefulness -in his own look when one after another departed without a word of a -commission. There were other things, too, not really of the slightest -importance, which deepened the impression--the chatter of Jack’s -friends, for instance, some of whom were young journalists, and talked -the familiar jargon of critics. He came into the drawing-room one day -during one of his wife’s teas, and found two or three young men, -sprawling about with legs stretched out over the limited space, who were -pulling to pieces a recent exhibition of the works of a Royal -Academician. “You would think you had got among half a dozen different -sorts of people dressed for private theatricals,” said one of the -youths. “Old models got up as Shakespearian kings, and that sort of -thing. _You_ know, Mrs. Sandford; conventional groups trying to look as -if they were historical.” - -“I remember Mr. White’s pictures very well,” said Mrs. Sandford. “I used -to think them beautiful. We all rushed to see what he had in the -exhibition, upon the private view day, when I did not know so much about -it as I do now.” - -“Ah, yes; before you knew so much about it,” said the art authority. -“You would think very differently to-day.” - -“The whole school is like that,” said another. “Historical painting is -gone out like historical novel-writing. The public is tired of costume. -Life is too short for that sort of thing. We want a far more profound -knowledge of the human figure and beauty in the abstract----” - -“Stuff!” said Harry; “the British public doesn’t want your nudities, -whatever you may think.” - -“The British public likes babies, and sick girls getting well, and -beautiful young gentlemen saying eternal adieux to lovely young ladies,” -said one of the girls. - -“To be sure, that sort of thing always goes on; but everybody must feel -that in cultured circles there is a far greater sense of the beauty of -colour for itself and art for art than in those ridiculous old days when -the subject was everything----” - -“You confuse me with your new lights,” said Mrs. Sandford. “I always did -think there was a great deal in a good subject.” - -“My dear Mrs. Sandford!” cried one of the young men, laughing; while -another added, with the solemnity of his kind-- - -“People really did think so at one time. It was a genuine belief so long -as it lasted. I am not one of those who laugh at faith so _naïf_. -Whatever is true even for a time has a right to be respected,” said -this profound young man. - -Mr. Sandford came in at this point, having paused a little to enjoy the -fun, as he said to himself. It was wonderful to hear how they -chattered--these babes. “I am glad to hear that you are all so tolerant -of the old fogeys,” he said, with a laugh as he showed himself. And one -at least of the young men had the good taste to jump up as if he were -ashamed of himself, and to take his legs out of the way. - -“I suppose that’s the new creed that those fellows were giving forth,” -he said to Jack, when the other young men were gone. - -“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said Jack, with an embarrassed laugh. “We all -of us say our say.” - -“But that is the say of most of you, I suppose,” said his father. - -“Well, sir, I suppose every generation has its own standard. ‘The old -order changeth,’ don’t you know--in art as well as in other things.” - -“I see; and you think we know precious little about it,” said Mr. -Sandford, with a joyless smile which curled his lip without obeying any -mirthful impulse. He felt angry and unreasonably annoyed at the silly -boys who knew so little. “But they know how to put that rubbish into -words, and they get it published, and it affects the general opinion,” -he said to himself, with perhaps a feeling, not unnatural in the -circumstances, that he would like to drown those kittens with their -miauling about things they knew nothing about. Angry moods, however, did -not last long in Mr. Sandford’s mind. He went back to his studio and -looked at the “Black Prince” in the light of these criticisms. And he -found that some of the old courtiers in attendance on the sick warrior -did look unfeignedly like old models, which indeed they were, and that -there was more composition than life in the attitudes of the women. “I -always thought that arm should come like this,” he said to himself, -taking up his chalk. - -One day about this time he had a visit from Daniells, the picture -dealer, leading a millionaire--a newly-fledged one--who was making a -gallery and buying right and left. Daniells, though he was very dubious -about his h’s, was a good fellow, and always ready to stand by a friend. -He was taking his millionaire a round of the studios, and especially to -those in which there was something which had not “come off,” according -to his phraseology. The millionaire was exceptionally ignorant and -outspoken, expressing his own opinion freely. “What sort of a thing have -we got here?” he said, walking up to the “Black Prince;” “uncommon nice -lot of girls, certainly; but what are they all doing round the fellow -out of the hospital? I say, is it something catching?” he cried, giving -Mr. Sandford a dig with his elbow. Daniells laughed at this long and -loudly, but it was the utmost the painter could do to conjure up a -simple smile. He explained as well as he could that they were begging -for life, and that the town was being sacked, a terrible event of which -his visitor might have heard. - -“Sacked,” said the millionaire; “you mean that they’re factory hands and -have got the sack, or that they have been just told they’ve got to work -short time. I understand that; and it shows how human nature’s just the -same in all ages. But I can tell you that in Lancashire it’s a nice -rowing he’d have got instead of all these sweet looks. They would not -have let him off like that, don’t you think it. Wherever you get your -women from, ours ain’t of that kind.” - -Sandford tried to explain what kind of a sack it was, but he did not -succeed, for the rich man was much pleased with his own view. - -“It’s a fine picture,” said Daniells; “Mr. Sandford, he’s one of the -very best of our modern masters, sir. He has got a great name, and -beautiful his pictures look in a gallery with the others to set ’em off. -Hung on the line in the Academy, and collected crowds. I shouldn’t ’a -been surprised if they’d ’ad to put a rail round it like they did to Mr. -Frith’s.” - -He gave a wink at Mr. Sandford as he spoke, which made our poor painter -sick. - -“I’ve got one of Frith’s,” said the millionaire. - -“You’ll ’ave got one of every modern artist worth counting when you’ve -got Mr. Sandford’s,” said Daniells, with a pat upon the shoulder to his -wealthy client. That gentleman turned round, putting his hands into his -pockets. - -“I’ve seen some pictures as I liked better,” he said. - -“Yes, I know. You’ve seen that one o’ Millais’, a regular stunner; but, -God bless you, that’s but one figger, and twice the money. Look at the -work in that,” cried the dealer, turning his man round again, who gave -the picture another condescending inspection from one corner to the -other. - -“I don’t deny there’s a deal of work in it,” he said, “if it’s painted -fair with everything from the life; and I don’t mind taking it to -complete my collection; but I’ll expect to have that considered in the -price,” he added, turning once more on the painter. “You see, Mr. ---- -(What’s the gentleman’s name, Daniells?) I am not death on the picture -for itself. It’s a fine showy picture, and I don’t doubt ’t’ll look well -when it’s hung; but big things like that, as don’t tell their story -plain, they’re not exactly my taste. However, it’s all right since -Daniells says so. The only man I know that goes in for that sort of -thing thinks all the world of Daniells. ‘Go to Daniells,’ he says, ‘and -you’ll be all right.’ So I’ll take the picture, but I’ll expect a -hundred or two off for ready money. I suppose there’s discount in all -trades.” - -“Say fifty off, and you’ll do very well, and get a fine thing cheap,” -said Daniells. - -Mr. Sandford’s countenance had darkened. He was very amiable, very -courteous, much indisposed to bargaining, but he felt as if his customer -had jumped upon him, and it was all he could do to contain himself. “I -never make----” he began, with a little haughtiness most unusual to him; -but before he had said the final words he caught Daniells’ eye, who was -making anxious signs to him. The picture dealer twisted his face into a -great many contortions. He raised his eyebrows, he moved his lips, he -made all kinds of gestures; at last, under a pretence of looking at a -sketch, he darted between Mr. Sandford and the other, and in a hoarse -whisper said “Take it,” imperatively, in the painter’s ear. - -Mr. Sandford came to an astonished pause. He looked at the uncouth -patron of art, and at the dealer, and at the picture, in turn. It was on -his lips to say that nothing would induce him to let the “Black Prince” -go; but something stopped and chilled him--something, he could not tell -what. He paused a moment, then retired suddenly to the back of the -studio. “I’m not good at making bargains--I will leave myself,” he said, -“in Mr. Daniells’ hands.” - -“Ah, a bad system--a bad system. Every man ought to make his own -bargains,” said the rich man. - -Mr. Sandford did not listen. He began to turn over a portfolio of old -sketches as if that were the most important thing in the world. He -heard the voices murmur on, sometimes louder, sometimes lower, broken by -more than one sharp exclamation, but restrained himself and did not -interfere. Many thoughts went through his mind while he stooped over the -big portfolio, and turned over, without seeing them, sketch after -sketch. Why should he be bidden to “take it” in that imperative way? -What did Daniells know which made him interfere with such a high hand? -He was tempted again and again to turn round, to put a stop to the -negotiation, to say, as he had the best right, “I’ll have none of this;” -but he did not do it, though he could not even to himself explain why. - -He found eventually that Daniells had sold the picture for him at a -reduction of fifty guineas from the original price, which was a thing of -no importance. He hated the bargain, but the little sacrifice of the -money moved him not at all. He recovered his temper or his composure -when the arrangement was completed, and smiled with a reserved -acceptance of the millionaire’s invitation to “come to my place and see -it hung,” as he showed the pair away. They were a well-matched pair, and -Daniells was no doubt far better adapted to deal with each a man than a -sensitive, proud artist, who did not like to have his toes trodden upon. -After a while, indeed, Mr. Sandford felt himself quite able to smile at -the incident, and shook off all his annoyance. He went in to luncheon -with the cheque in his hand. - -“I have sold the ‘Black Prince,’” he said, with a certain pleasure, even -triumph, in his voice, remembering how Jack’s friends had scoffed, if -not at the picture, at least at the school to which it belonged. - -“Ah!” cried Mrs. Sandford, half pleased, half regretful. “I knew we -should not have to give it house-room long.” She gave a glance round her -as if she had heard something derogatory to the picture too. - -“Who have you taken in and done for this time, father?” said Harry, who -was given to banter. - -“Was it that horrid man who came with Mr. Daniells?” cried Lizzie. “Oh, -papa, I should not have thought you would have sold a nice picture to -such a man.” - -“Art-patrons are like gift-horses; we must not look them in the mouth,” -said the painter. “There are quantities of h’s, no doubt, to be found -about the studio; but if we stood upon that----” - -“So long as he doesn’t leave out anything, either h’s or 0’s, in his -cheque.” - -Mr. Sandford felt slightly, unreasonably offended by any reference to -the cheque. He gave it to his wife to send to the bank, with an annoyed -apprehension that she would make some remark upon the fifty guineas -which were left out. But Mrs. Sandford had not been his wife for thirty -years without being able to read the annoyance in his face. And though -she did not know what was its cause she respected it, and said not a -word about the difference which her quick eye saw at once. Could it be -that which had vexed Edward? she asked herself--he was not usually a man -who counted his pounds in that way. - -The sending off of the “Black Prince,” its packing and directing, and -all the details of its departure, occupied him for some time. It was -August, the beginning of holiday time, when, though never without a -protest at the loss of the light days, even a painter idles a little. -And the youngest boy had come from school, and they were all going to -the seaside. Mr. Sandford did not like the bustle of the moment. He -proposed to stay in town for a few days after the family, and join them -when they had settled down in their new quarters. Before they went, -however, he had an interview with one of those friends of Jack’s who -were always about the house, and whose opinions on art were so different -from Mr. Sandford’s, which gave another touch of excitement to the -household. The young fellow wanted to marry Lizzie, as had been a long -time apparent to everybody but her father. There was nothing to be said -against him except that he had not much money; but Mr. Sandford thought -that young Moulton looked startled when he had to inform him that Lizzie -would have no fortune. “Of course that was not of the least -consequence,” he said, but he gave his future father-in-law a curious -and startled look. - -“I think he was disappointed that there was no money,” the painter said -afterwards to his wife. - -“Oh, Edward! there is nothing mercenary about him!” said Mrs. Sandford; -but she sighed and added, “If there only had been a little for her--just -enough for her clothes. It makes such a difference to a young married -woman. It is hard to have to ask your husband for everything.” - -“Did you think so, Mary?” he asked, with a smile but a sense of pain. - -“I--but we were not like ordinary people, we were just two fools -together,” said the wife, with a smile which brightened all her face; -“but,” she added, shaking her head, “we don’t marry our daughters like -that.” - -“If she is half as good to him as you have been to me----” - -“Oh, don’t speak,” she said, putting up her hand to stop his mouth. -“Lance Moulton can never be the hundredth part so good as _my_ husband.” -But she stopped after this little outburst, and laughed, and again -shaking her head, repeated, “But we don’t marry our daughters like -that.” - -He felt inclined to ask, but did not, why? - -When they all went away Mr. Sandford felt a little lonely, left by -himself in the house, and perhaps it was that as much as anything else -that set him thinking again. His wife had pressed the question of what -Lizzie would want if she married young Moulton, who was only a -journalist, on several occasions, until at last they had both decided -that a small allowance might be made to her in place of a fortune. - -“Fifty pounds is the interest of a thousand, and that is what she will -have when we die,” Mrs. Sandford said, who was not learned in per cents. -“I think we might give her fifty pounds a year, Edward.” - -“Fifty pounds will not do much good,” he said. - -“Not in their housekeeping, perhaps; but to have even fifty pounds will -be a great thing for _her_. It will make her so much more comfortable.” -Thus they concluded the matter between them, though not without a -certain hesitation on Mr. Sandford’s part. It was strange that he should -hesitate. He had always been so liberal, ready to give. There was no -reason why he should take fright now. There was the millionaire’s cheque -for the “Black Prince,” which had just been paid into the bank, leaving -a comfortable balance to their credit. There was no pressure of any kind -for the moment. To those who had known what it was to await their next -payment very anxiously in order to pay very pressing debts, and had seen -the little stream of money flowing, flowing away, till it almost seemed -to be on the point of disappearing altogether, the ease of having a -considerable sum to their credit was indescribable; but Mrs. Sandford -was more and more wrapped up in the children, and though never -indifferent, yet a little detached in every-day thought and action from -her husband. She did not ask him as usual about his commissions and his -future work. She seemed altogether at ease in her mind about everything -that was not the boys and the girls. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -The house was very quiet when they were all away. Merely to look into -the drawing-room was enough to give any one a chill. The sense of -emptiness where generally every corner was full, and silence where there -were always so many voices, was very depressing. Mr. Sandford consoled -himself by a very hard day’s work the first day of the absence of his -family, getting on very well indeed, and making a great advance in the -picture he was painting--a small picture intended for one of his oldest -friends. In the evening, as he had nothing else to occupy him, he moved -about the studio, not going into the other parts of the house at all, -and amused himself by making a little study of the moonlight as it came -in upon the plants in the conservatory. His house was in a quarter not -fashionable, somewhere between St. John’s Wood and Regent’s Park, and -consequently there was more room than is usual in London, a pretty -garden and plenty of air. The effect of the moonlight and the black -exaggerated shadows amused him. The thought passed through his mind that -if perhaps he were one of the newfangled school which Jack’s friends -believed in, he might turn that unreal scene which was so indubitable a -fact into a picture and probably make a great success as an -impressionist--an idea at which he smiled with a milder but not less -genuine contempt than the young impressionist might have felt for Mr. -Sandford’s school. He had half a mind to do it--to conceal his name and -send it to one of the lesser exhibitions, so as afterwards to have a -laugh at the young men, and prove to them how easy the trick was, and -that any old fogey who took the trouble could beat them in their own -way. Next morning, however, he threw the sketch into a portfolio, with a -horror of the black and white extravagance which in the daylight -offended his artist-eye, and which he had a suspicion was not so good -after all, or so easy a proof of the facility of doing that sort of -thing as he had supposed. And that day his work did not advance so -quickly or so satisfactorily. He listened for the swing of the door at -the other end of the passage which connected the studio with the house, -though he knew well enough there was no one who could come to disturb -him. There are days when it is so agreeable to be disturbed! And it was -when he was painting in this languid way, and, as was natural, not at -all pleasing himself with his work, that there suddenly and most -distinctly came before him, as if some one had come in and said it, a -thing--a fact--which strangely enough he had not even thought of before. -When it first occurred to him his hand suddenly stopped work with an -action of its own before the mind had time to influence it, and there -was a sudden rush of heat to his head. He felt drops of moisture come -out on his forehead; his heart for a second paused too. His whole being -received a shock--a start. For the first moment he could scarcely make -out what this extraordinary sudden commotion, for which his mind seemed -only partially responsible, could be. - -This was what had in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, occurred to -the painter. He had, of course, been aware of it before without giving -any particular importance to the fact. The fact, indeed, in a -precarious, uncertain profession like his, in which a piece of good -fortune might occur at any moment, was really not of the first -importance; but it flashed upon him now in a significance and with a -force which no such thing had ever held before. It was this--that when -he had completed the little picture upon which he was working he had no -other commission of any kind on hand. It sounds very prosaic to be a -thing capable of giving such a tragic shot--but it was not prosaic. One -can even conceive circumstances in which despair and death might be in -such words; and to no one in Mr. Sandford’s position could they be -pleasant. Even if the fact represented no material loss, it would -represent loss--which at his age could never be made up--loss of -acceptance, loss of position, that kind of failure which is popularly -represented as being “shelved,” put aside as a thing that is done with; -always a keen and grievous pang. But to our painter the words meant more -than that. They meant a cutting off of the ground from under his feet, a -sudden arrest of everything, a full stop, which in his fully flowing -liberal life was a tragic horror and impossibility, a something far more -terrible than death. It had upon him something of the character of a -paralytic stroke. His hand, as we have said, stopped work sharply, -suddenly; it trembled, and the brush with which he was painting fell -from it; his limbs tottered under him, his under lip dropped, his heart -gave a leap and then a dead pause. He stumbled backwards for a few steps -and sank into a chair. - -Well! it was only for a few moments that he remained under the influence -of this shock. He picked himself up again, and then picked up his brush -and dried the perspiration from his forehead, and his heart with a -louder beat went on again as if also crying out “Well!” When he had -recovered the power of thought--which was not for a moment or two--he -smiled to himself and said, “What then?” Such a thing had happened -before. In an artist’s life there are often hair-breadth ’scapes, and -now and then the most prosperous comes, as it were, to a dead -wall--which is always battered through by a little perseverance or else -opens by itself, melting asunder at the touch of some heaven-sent patron -or happy accident, and so all goes on more prosperously than before. Mr. -Sandford had passed through many such crises at the beginning of his -career, and even when fully established had never been entirely certain -from whence his next year’s income was to come. But it had always come; -there had never been any real break in it--no failure of the continuity. -He had seemed to himself to be as thoroughly justified in reckoning upon -this continuity as any man in an office with so much a year. It might be -a little more or a little less, and there was always that not unpleasant -character of vagueness about it. It might even by a lucky chance for one -fortunate year be almost doubled, and this had happened on rare -occasions; but very seldom had there been any marked diminution in the -yearly incomings. He said, “Pooh, pooh,” to himself as he went up to his -picture again smiling, with his brush in his hand; not for such a matter -as that was he going to be discouraged. It was a thing that had happened -before, and would no doubt happen again. He began to work at his -picture, and went on with great spirit for perhaps a quarter of an hour, -painting in (for he had no model that morning) a piece of drapery from a -lay figure, and catching just the tone he wanted on the beautiful bit of -brocade which figured in the picture as part of a Venetian lady’s -majestic dress. He was unusually successful in his work, and also -succeeded for ten perhaps of these fifteen minutes in amusing himself -and distracting his thoughts from that discovery. A bit of success is -very exhilarating; it made him more confident than anything else could -have done. But when he had got his effect his smile began to fade away, -and his face grew grave again, and his hand trembled once more. After a -while he was obliged to give up and take a rest, putting down his -palette and brush with a sort of impatience and relief in getting rid of -them. Could he have gone straight to his wife and made her take a turn -with him in the garden, or even talked it over with her in the studio, -no doubt the impression would have died off; but she was absent, and he -could not do that; most likely, indeed, if she had been at home she -would have been absorbed in some calculation about Lizzie’s wedding, and -would not have noticed his preoccupation at all. - -He sat down again in that chair, and said once more to himself, “What -then?” and thought over the times in which this accident had happened -before. But there now suddenly occurred to him another thought which was -like the chill of an icy hand touching his heart. The same thing had -happened before--but he had never been sixty before. He felt himself -struck by this as if some one had given him a blow. It was quite true; -he had called himself laughingly an old fogey, and when he and his old -friends were together they talked a great deal about their age and about -the young fellows pushing them from their seats. How much the old -fellows mean when they say this, heaven knows. So long as they are -strong and well they mean very little. It is an amusing kind of adoption -of the folly of the young which seems to show what folly it is--a sort -of brag in its way of their own superiority to all such decrepitudes, -and easy power of laughing at what does not really touch them. But alone -in their own private retirements, when a thought like this suddenly -comes, a sharp and sudden realisation of age and what it means, no doubt -the effect is different. For the moment Mr. Sandford was appalled by the -discovery he had made, which had never entered his mind before. Ah! a -pause in one’s means of making one’s living, a sudden stop in the wheels -of one’s life, is a little alarming, a little exciting, perhaps a -discouragement, perhaps a sharp and keen stimulant at other times: at -forty, even at fifty, it may be the latter; but at sixty!--this gives -at once a new character to the experience--a character never apprehended -before. His heart, which had begun to spring up with an elasticity -natural to him, stopped again--nay, did not stop, but fell into a sudden -dulness of beating, a subdued silence as if ice-bound. Sensation was too -much for thought; his mind could not go into it; he only felt it, with a -dumb pang which was deeper than either words or thought. - -He could not do any more work that day. He tried again two or three -times, but ended by putting down his palette with a sense of incapacity -such as he thought he had never felt before. As a matter of fact, he -might have felt it a hundred times and attached no importance to it; he -would have gone into the house, leaving his studio, and talked or read, -or gone out for a walk, or to his club, or to see a friend, saying he -did not feel up to work to-day, and there would have been an end of it. -But he was alone, and none of these distractions were possible to him. -Luncheon came, however, which he could not eat, but sat over drearily, -not able to get away from the impression of that thought. Afterwards it -occurred to him that he would go and see Daniells and ask him--he was -not quite clear what. He could not go to one of his friends and ask, “Am -I falling off--do you see it? Has my hand lost its cunning--am I getting -old and is my mind going?” He could not ask any one such questions as -these. He smiled at it dolefully, feeling all the ridicule of the -suggestion. He knew his mind was not going--but---- At last he made up -his mind what he would do. It was a long walk to Bond Street, but it was -now afternoon and getting cooler, and the walk did him good. He reached -Daniells’ just before the picture dealer left off business for the day. -He was showing some one out very obsequiously through the outer room all -hung with pictures when he saw Sandford coming in. The stranger looked -much interested and pleased when he heard Sandford’s name. - -“Introduce me, please,” he said, “if this is the great Mr. Sandford, -Daniells.” - -“It is, Sir William,” said Daniells; and Sir William offered his hand -with the greatest effusion. “This is a pleasure that I have long -desired,” he said. - -Mr. Sandford was surprised--he was taken unawares, and the greeting -touched his heart. “After all, perhaps it isn’t _that_,” he said to -himself. - -“What a piece of luck that you should have come in just then! Why, -that’s Sir William Bloomfield--just the very man for you to know.” - -“Why for me more than another? I know his name, of course,” said Mr. -Sandford, “and he seems pleasant; but I’m too old for new friends.” - -“Too old; stuff and nonsense! You’re always a-harping on that string. -He’s just the man for you, just the man,” said Daniells, rubbing his -hands. - -Mr. Sandford was amused--perhaps a little pleased by this encounter; and -the pressure of his heavy thoughts was stilled. He began to look at the -new pictures which had come into the gallery, to admire some and -criticise others. Daniells had the good sense always to listen to Mr. -Sandford’s criticisms with attention. They had furnished him with a -great many telling phrases, and given to his own rough and practical -knowledge of art a little occasional polish which surprised and overawed -many of his customers. He listened admiringly now as usual. - -“What a deal you do know, to be sure!” he said after a while. “I don’t -know one of them that can make a thing clear like you, old man. It’s a -shame----” and here he coughed and broke off, as if endeavouring to -swallow his last words. - -“What is a shame?” The broken sentence changed Mr. Sandford’s mood -again--the momentary cheer died away. “Daniells,” he said, “I want you -to tell me what you meant the other day by forcing me to accept that -man’s offer. Yes, you did. I should not have let him have the picture -but for you.” - -“Forcing him! Oh, that’s a nice thing to say--the most obstinate fellow -in all London!” - -“Never mind that; I can see you are fencing. Come, why did you do it?” - -Daniells paused for some time. He said a great many things to stave off -his confusion, many half-things which involved others, and made his -answer perhaps more clear than if he had put it directly into words. - -“I see,” Mr. Sandford said at last, “you thought it very unlikely that I -should sell it at all to any one who knew better.” - -“It ain’t that. They don’t know half enough, hang ’em! or they wouldn’t -run after a booby like Blank and neglect you.” - -Mr. Sandford smiled what he felt to be a very sickly smile. “We must let -Blank have his day,” he said, “I don’t grudge it him; but I’d like to -know why my chances are so bad. I have always sold my pictures.” - -Daniells gave him a sudden look, as if he would have spoken; then -thought better of it, and said nothing. - -“I have had no reason to complain,” Mr. Sandford continued; “I have done -very well on the whole. I have never had extravagant prices like Em or -En.” - -“No,” said Daniells; “you see, you’ve never made an ’it. You’ve gone on -doing good work, and you’ve always done good work. I’d say that if I -were to die for it; but you’ve never made an ’it.” - -“I suppose that’s true; but you need not put it so very frankly,” said -the painter, with a laugh. - -“Frankly! I’ve got occasion to put it frankly; and I say it’s a d----d -shame--that’s what it is,” cried Daniells, raising his voice. - -“You’ve had occasion? Now that we’re on this subject, I should like to -get to the bottom of it. You’ve had occasion?” - -“Well, of course,” said the picture dealer, “if you drive me into a -corner. I’m in the middle of everything, and I hear what people say----” - -“What do they say? That I’ve lost my sense of colour like old Millrain, -or fallen into my dotage like----” - -“Nonsense, Sandford! You know it’s nothing of the kind. Don’t talk such -confounded nonsense. You are painting quite as well as ever, you know -you are. They--people don’t care for that sort of thing. It’s too good -for them, or you’re too good for them, or I don’t know what.” - -Mr. Sandford kept smiling--not for pleasure; he was conscious of that -sort of fixed smile that might be thought a sneer, at those people for -whom he was too good. “And you’ve had occasion,” he said, “to prove -this?” - -“Don’t smile at me like that--don’t look like that. If you knew how I’ve -argued and put it all before ’em---- I’ve said a hundred times if I’ve -said once, ‘Sandford! why, Sandford’s one of the best. There isn’t a -better educated painter not in England. You can’t pick a hole in his -pictures, try as you like.’” - -“Am I indeed so much discussed?” said the victim. “I did not know I was -of such importance. And on what ground have you held this discussion, -Daniells? There must have been some occasion for it. I don’t see -anything here of mine.” - -“Look here,” cried the picture dealer, roused, “if you won’t believe -me.” He opened the door of an inner room, into which Mr. Sandford -followed him. And there, with their faces turned to the wall, were three -pictures in a row. The shape of them gave him a faint, uneasy feeling. -By this time Daniells had been wound up to self-defence, and thought of -the painter’s feelings no more. - -“Look ’ere,” he said, “I shouldn’t have said a word if you had let well -alone--but look ’ere.” Before one of the pictures was visible Mr. -Sandford knew what he was going to see. Three pictures of his own, of a -kind for which he had been famous--cabinet pictures, for which there had -always been the readiest market. He recognised them all with a faintness -that made his brain swim and the light go from his eyes. They seemed so -familiar, like children. At the first glance, without looking at them, -he knew what they were and all about them, and had a sick longing that -the earth would open and swallow them, and hide his shame, for so it -seemed. - -“If that don’t show how I’ve trusted you, nothing can,” said the dealer. -“I thought they were as safe as the bank. I bought them all on spec, -thinking I’d get a customer as soon as they were in the shop--and, if -you’ll believe me, nobody’ll have them. I can’t tell what people are -thinking of, but that’s the truth.” - -Mr. Sandford stood with the light going out of his eyes, gazing straight -before him. “In that case--in that case,” he began, “you should--I -must----” - -“I say, don’t take it like that, old man. It’s the fortune of war. One -up and another down. It can’t be helped, don’t you know. Sandford, I -say, why, it’ll come all right again in half-a-dozen years or so. It’ll -come all right after a time.” - -“What did you say?” said Mr. Sandford, dazed. Then he answered vaguely, -“Oh yes; all right--all right.” - -“What’s the matter? I’ve been a wretched fool. Sandford, here, I say, -have a glass of wine.” - -“There’s nothing the matter. It seems to me a little--cold. I know--I -know it’s not a cold day; but there’s a chill wind about, -penetrating--thanks, Daniells, you’ve cleared up my problem very well. -Now, I think--I think I understand.” - -“Don’t go now, Sandford; don’t go like this.” - -“I want,” he said, smiling again, “to think it over. Much obliged to -you, Daniells, for helping me to understand.” - -“Sandford, don’t go like this. You make me awfully anxious--I’m sure -you’re ill. I can’t let you go out of my place, looking so dreadfully -ill, without some one with you.” - -“Some one with me! I hope you don’t mean to insult me, Daniells. I am -perfectly well--a little startled, but that’s all. I shall go and take a -walk, and blow away the cobwebs, and--think it over. That’s the best -thing. I’m much obliged to you, Daniells. Good-bye.” - -“Have a hansom, at least,” Daniells said. - -“No hansom,” Mr. Sandford answered, turning upon the dealer with a -curious smile. He even laughed a little--low, but quite distinct. “No, -I’ll have no hansom. Good-bye, Daniells, good-bye.” - -And in a minute he was gone. The picture dealer went out to the door -after him, and followed him with his eyes until his figure was lost in -the crowd. Daniells was alarmed. He blamed himself for his frankness. “I -never thought he’d have taken it to heart like that,” he said to -himself. “Yes, I did; or I might have done--he’s awful proud. But I’m -’asty. I can’t help it; I’m always doing things I’m sorry for. Anyhow, -he must have found it out some time, sooner or later,” the dealer said -to himself; and this philosophy silenced his fears. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Mr. Sandford knew nothing till he found himself in the Regent’s Park, -not far from his house. He had passed through the crowds in the street -with his life and thoughts suspended, feeling that to think was -impossible, seeing only before him the line of the three pictures -standing against the wall. They seemed to accompany him on his way, -showing against the front of the houses wherever he turned his eyes. -Three pictures, painted cheerfully, without a premonition, or any sense -of failure, or a moment’s fear that they would ever stand with their -faces against a dealer’s wall. One of them had been a great favourite -with his wife. The youngest girl--little Mary--had sat for one of the -figures, and Mrs. Sandford had not wished to let it go. “I wish we could -afford to keep this,” she said; “it is like selling our own flesh and -blood.” But most painters have to accustom themselves to that small -trouble, and even she had laughed at herself. And now to think that it -had never been sold at all--that it was unsaleable, oh, heaven! The -sense of a dreadful humiliation, far more than was reasonable, filled -the painter’s mind. The man whom he had always liked, but partly -despised--Daniells, who was as ignorant as a pig, who knew a picture -indeed when he saw it, but had not a notion why he liked it, nor could -render a reason or tell how he knew one to be bad or another good--that -he should be losing by his kindness, should be out of pocket, burdened -by three “Sandfords” with their faces against the wall! Mr. Sandford’s -gentle contempt came back upon him with a shock of humiliation and -shame. To sneer at a man who had suffered by him, who had given money -for his unsaleable work--a man who had thus shown himself a better man -than he: for Daniells had never said a word, probably never would have -said a word, listened to the painter’s calm assumptions and taken no -notice, having it in his power all the time to shame him! Nay, he had -done even more than this--he had brought his own customer out of his -way, in pity and friendship, to buy that “Black Prince,” no doubt -equally unsaleable, though--heaven help the poor painter!--he had not -found it out. The pang of this humiliation, mingled with tingling shame -and a painful gratitude and admiration, quivered through and through -him, penetrating the dark dismay and pain of his suspended thoughts. - -He began to notice everything more clearly when he got into the park. -The August afternoon was softening every moment into the deeper -sweetness of the evening. He avoided instinctively the frequented parts, -where the children were playing and people walking about, and made a -long circuit round the outskirts of the park, where only a rare -passenger was to be met with now and then. The air was sweet, though it -was the air of town. The leaves were fluttering in a light breeze, the -birds singing their evening songs, thrushes repeating a hundred -questions, blackbirds unconditional, piping loud and clear, almost as -good as nightingales. He was a man who was not hard to please, and even -Regent’s Park delighted him on a summer evening. He felt it even now, -notwithstanding the shadow that was over him. Never, up to this time, -had care hung so heavy on Mr. Sandford but what he could escape from it -by help of the artist-eye, ever ready to seize a passing effect, or by -the gentle heart which was full of sympathy with every human emotion or -even whim of passing fancy. His heart was unaccustomed to anything -tragical. It tried even now to beguile him and escape; to withdraw his -attention to the long, streaming, level rays of the sinking sun; to get -him out of himself to the aid of the child who had broken its toy and -was crying with such passion--far more than a man can show for losses -the most terrible--by the side of the road. And these expedients -answered for the moment. But what had befallen him now was not to be -eluded as other troubles had been. He could not escape from it. The most -ingenious imagination could not lessen it by turning it over and over. -Behind the sunset rays a strange vision of the unsold pictures came out -into the very sky. They shaped themselves behind the child, whom it was -so easy to pacify with a shilling, against the park palings. -Three--which was one of the complete numbers, as if to prove the fulness -of the disaster--three pictures unsold in Daniells’ inner room, and not -a commission in hand, nothing wanted from him, no one to buy. After thus -trying every device to escape, his heart grew low and faint within him, -giving up the conflict; he felt a dull buzzing in his ears, and a dull -throbbing in his breast. - -But thinking was not so easy a matter as it seemed. Think it over? How -was he to think it over? If it were possible to imagine the case of a -man who, walking serenely over a wide and peaceful country, should -suddenly, with the softest, scarcely audible, roll of the pebbles under -his feet, see the earth yawn before him and find himself on the brink of -a fearful precipice, that would have been like his case: but not so bad -as his case, for the man would have it in his power to draw back, to -retire to the peaceful fields behind: whereas, to Mr. Sandford, there -were no peaceful fields, but a gulf all round that one spot of -undermined earth on which he stood. Presently he found himself at his -own door, very tired and a little dazed in mind, thinking of that -precipice, of nothing more distinct. The house stood very solid, very -tranquil, its red roof all illumined with the last level line of the -sun, the garden stretching into shady corners under the trees, the -flower-beds blazing in lavish colours, the little lawn all burnt bare by -the ardent sun and worn with the feet of the tennis players: all so -peaceful, certain, secure--an old-established home with deep -foundations, and the assured, immovable look of household tranquillity -and peace. If the walls had been tottering, the garden relapsing into -weeds and wildness, he would not have been surprised--that would have -been suitable to his circumstances. The thing unsuitable was to come -back to that trim order and well-being, to that modest wealth and -comfort and beauty, and to know that all this too, like himself, was on -the edge of the precipice. Tired as he was, he went round the garden -before he went in, and gazed wistfully at the pleasant dwelling with its -open windows, wondering, when the next shock of the earthquake came, -whether it would all fall to pieces like a house of cards, and everybody -become aware that the earth was rent and a great chasm yawning before -the peaceful door. - -He never seemed to have realised, before now, how full of modest luxury -and exquisite comfort that house was. It was not yet covered up and -dismantled, though the fingers of the maid-servants had been itching to -get at that delightful task since ever “the family” left. All was empty -and still, but all in good order; no false pretension or show, -everything temperate and well chosen; rich, soft carpets in which the -foot sank, curtains hanging in graceful folds, the cosiest chairs, -Italian cabinets, Venice glass, pictures, not only of his own but of -many contemporary artists--a delightful interior, without a bare corner -or vacant spot anywhere. He went over it with a sort of despairing -pleasure and admiration, his head aching and giddy, with a sense that at -any moment the next shock might come, and everything collapse like the -shadows of a dream. Presently he was served with his dinner, which he -could not eat, in the cool dining-room, with a large window opening to -the garden and the sweet air breathing about him as he sat down at the -vacant table. What a mockery of all certitude and safety it was!--for -nothing could seem more firmly established, more solid and secure. If he -had been a prince of the blood he might have had a more splendid -dwelling, but not more comfort, more pleasantness. All that a sober mind -could desire was there--the utmost refinement of comfort, beautiful -things all around, every colour subdued into perfection, no noise or -anything to break the spell. He was glad that the others were -absent--it was the only alleviation to the dismay within him. There -would have been questions as to what was the matter--“Are you ill, -Edward?” “What is wrong with papa?” and other such questions, which he -could not have borne. - -Afterwards he went into the studio. The first thing that caught his eye -was the glow of that piece of drapery which he had painted under the -keen stimulant of the first warning. It had been a stimulant then, and -he was startled by the splendour of the colour he had put into that -piece of stuff--the roundness of it, the clear transparence of the -shadows. It stood out upon the picture like something by another hand, -painted in another age. Had he done that only a few hours ago--he with -the same brushes which had produced the rest of the picture which looked -so pale and insignificant beside it? How had he done it? it made all the -rest of the picture fade. He recognised in a moment the jogtrot, the -ordinary course of life, and against it the flush of the sudden -inspiration, the stronger handling, the glory and glow of the colour. He -had never done anything better in his life; he whose pictures were drugs -in the market, who had not a commission to look forward to. He stood -and looked at it for a long time, growing sadder and sadder. He was not -a man who had failed, and who could rail against the world; he was a man -who had succeeded; not a painter in England but would laugh out if any -one said that Sandford had been a failure. Why, who had been successful -if he had not? they would have said. He had not a word to say against -fate. Nobody was to blame, not even himself, seeing that now, in the -midst of all, he could still paint like that. He knew the value of that -as well as any man could know it. He could not shut his eyes to it -because he himself had done it. If he saw such a bit of painting in a -young fellow’s picture he would say, “Well done;” he would say, “Paint -like that, and you have your fortune in your own hand.” Ah, but he was -himself no longer a young fellow. Success was not before him; he had -grasped her, held her, and now it seemed his day was past. - -It is never cheerful to have to allow that your day is past. But there -are circumstances which make it less difficult. Sometimes a man accepts -gracefully enough that message of dismissal. Then he will retire with a -certain dignity, enjoying the ease which he has purchased with his hard -work, and looking on henceforward at the struggle of the others, not -sorry, perhaps, or at least saying to the world that he is not sorry, to -be out of that conflict. Mr. Sandford said to himself that in other -circumstances he might have been capable of this; might have laid aside -his pencil, occupied himself with guiding the younger, helping the less -strong, standing umpire, perhaps, in the strife, giving place to those -who represented the future, and whose day was but beginning. Such a -retirement must always seem a fit and seemly thing: but not now; not in -what he felt was but the fulness of his career; not, above all--and this -gave the sting to all--not while he was still depending upon his -profession for his daily bread. His daily bread, and what was worse than -that, the daily bread of those he loved. How many things that simple -phrase involved! Oh for the simplicity of those days when it meant but -what it said! He asked himself with a curious, fantastic, half-amused, -half-despairing curiosity whether it had ever meant mere bread? Bread -and a little fruit, perhaps; a cake, and a draught from a spring in the -primitive Eastern days when the phrase was invented. “Day by day our -daily bread:” a loaf like that of Elijah which the angel brought him: -the cakes of manna in the wilderness of which only enough was gathered -to suffice for one day: and the tent at night to retire to, or a cave, -perhaps--a shelter which cost nothing. How different now was daily -bread; so many things involved in it, that careful product of many men’s -work, the house which was his home: and all the costly nameless -necessities, so much more than food and clothing; the dainty and -pleasant things, the flowers and gardens, the amusements, the trifles -that make life delightful and sweet. Give us our daily bread: had it -ever been supposed to mean all that? All these many years these -necessities had been supplied, and all had gone on as if it were part of -the constitution of the world. But now the time had come when the -machinery was stopped, when everything was brought to a conclusion. Mr. -Sandford turned his eye from that bit of painting which stood out upon -his picture as if the sun had touched it, to the sheaves of old studies -and sketches in the portfolios, the half-finished bits about the walls, -all those scraps and fragments, full of suggestion, full of beautiful -thoughts, which make the studio of a great painter rich. He had thought -a few days ago that all this meant wealth. Now his eyes were opened, and -he saw that it meant nothing, that all about him was rubbish not worth -the collection, and himself, who could work no longer, who was no more -good for anything, only one piece of lumber the more, the most valueless -of all. - -He paused, and tried to say to himself that this was morbid. But it was -not morbid, it was true. With that curious hurrying of the thoughts -which a great calamity brings about, he had already glimpsed everything, -seeing the whole situation and all that was involved. There was a -certain sum of money in the bank, no more anywhere, except after his own -death. There were his insurances, a little for every one, enough, he had -hoped, though in a much changed and subdued manner, to support his wife -and the girls, enough for that daily bread of which he had been -thinking; but it could not be had till he died; and that was all. There -was nothing, nothing more; nothing to live upon, nothing to turn to. If -you have losses, if your income is reduced, you can retrench and -diminish your expenses. But when everything is cut off in a moment, when -you have no income at all? such utter loss paralyses the unfortunate. -He stood in his studio with a sort of vague smile upon his face, and -something of the imbecility of utter helplessness taking possession of -him. Everything cut off. Nothing to turn to. Vague visions passed -through his mind of the expenses of that seaside house, for instance, -which could not be got rid of now; of Lizzie’s fifty pounds a year which -he had promised not without forebodings; of Jack’s fee of two guineas -which the children had all made so merry about; of the easy course of -their existence, their life, which was so blameless, so innocent, so -kind: they were all ready to give, ready to be hospitable; none of the -family could see another in want and not eagerly offer what they had. -Good God! and to think they had nothing, nothing! It was not a question -of enough, it was that there was nothing; that all the streams were -closed, and all the doors shut, and the successful man, with his large -income, had suddenly become like a navvy out of work, like a dock -labourer, or whatever was most pitifully unprovided for in the world. - -It made Mr. Sandford’s brain whirl. So much in the bank, and after that -nothing; and all the liberal life going on; the servants, who could not -be sent off at a moment’s notice; the house, which could not be -abandoned; the family, all so cheerful in their false security, who had -no presentiment of evil. He asked himself what people did who were -ruined? He had no great acquaintance with such things. What did they do? -He was very helpless. He could not realise the possibility of breaking -up the house, having no home; of dispersing all the pleasant things -which had been part of his being so long; of stopping short---- He could -not understand how such things were done. And those people who were -ruined generally had something upon which they could fall back. A -merchant could begin again. He might have friends who would help him to -a new start, and there was always hope that he might do as well at last -as at first. But an artist (at sixty) could have no new start. The -public would have none of him. He had done his best; he could not begin -anew. His career when once closed was over, and nothing more could be -made of it. He remembered with a forlorn self-reproach of having himself -said that So-and-so should retire; that it would be more dignified to -give up work before work gave him up. Ah! so easy a thing to say, so -cruel a thing to say; but he had not realised that it was cruel, or that -such an end was cruel. He had never supposed it possible that such a -thing could happen to himself. - -The insurances: yes, there were always the insurances: a thousand pounds -for each child, that was the calculation they had made. They had said to -each other in the old times, Mary and he, that they never could save -money enough to make any appreciable provision for so many children, but -that if they could but secure for each a thousand pounds, that would -always be something. It would help to give the boys a start; it would be -something for the girls. That the boys should all have professions in -which they would be doing well, and the girls husbands to provide for -them, had seemed too commonplace a certainty even to be dwelt upon: and -a thousand pounds is never to be despised; it would help the young ones -over any early struggle, it would make all the difference. “So long as -we live,” Mrs. Sandford had said, “they will always have us to fall back -upon: and afterwards--what a thing it would have been for us, Edward, to -have a thousand pounds to the good to begin upon!” They had thought -they made everything safe so, for the young ones. Mr. Sandford, indeed, -still felt a faint lightening of his heart as he thought of the -insurances. It had always done him good to think of them; that would be -something at least to leave behind. But then it was necessary first that -he should die. - -He had never thought urgently of that necessity. So long as there is -nothing pressing about it, no appearance of its approach, it is easy -enough to speak of that conclusion. Sometimes there is even a pensive -pleasure in it. “When I am out of the way,” “When our day is over,” are -things quite simple to say. For of course that must come one time or -another, as everybody knows. It is more serious, but still not anything -very bad, to speak now and then of what is to be done “if anything -happens.” These things make but little impression upon the mind, even -when old age is on its way. And Mr. Sandford at sixty had as yet felt -very few premonitions of old age. He had called himself an old man with -a laugh, for his eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated; and it -was still pleasantly absurd to think that he could be supposed an old -man. But now all this took a different aspect. He felt no older, indeed, -but his position was altogether changed. In the shock of his new -circumstances he stood helpless, not knowing how to meet this unfeared, -unthought-of contingency. But his mind went off with a spring to further -eventualities. The only comfort was this, they had a thousand pounds -apiece laid up for them. But it would be necessary first that he should -die. - -Thinking it all over, he thought, on the whole, that this was the best -thing that could happen. The changes which he surveyed with such a sense -of impossibility, not knowing how they could be brought about, would -become quite natural if he died. There was always a change on the death -of the father. It was the natural time for remodelling life, for -altering everything. The family would not be able, of course, to remain -in this house, to keep up their present superstructure of existence: but -then in the change of circumstances that would seem quite natural and -they would not feel it. They could put everything, then, upon a simpler -footing. And they would have an income, not much of an income, perhaps, -but yet something that would come in punctually to the day, and which -would be independent of anything they did, which would have nothing to -do with picture dealers or patrons of art, or the changes of taste that -affected them. What a thing that was, when one came to think of it, to -have an income--something which came in all the same whether you worked -or not, whether you were ill or well, whether you were in a good vein -and could get on with your picture, or whether it dragged and did not -satisfy you! It gave him a sensation of pleasure to think of it: but -then he reflected on the one preliminary which was not so easy to bring -about, which no planning of his could accomplish just when it was -wanted, just when it would be of most use. - -For before this state of things could ensue, it would be necessary that -Mr. Sandford should be dead; and so far as he was aware there was no -immediate prospect of anything of the kind. People do not die when it is -most necessary, when it would be most expedient. It is a thing -independent of your own will, horribly uncertain, happening just when it -is not wanted. This difficulty, when he had begun to take a little -comfort in the possible arrangement of everything, sent the painter back -into all the confusion of miserable thoughts. Was it possible that he -was in circumstances which made it impossible for him to do anything, -even to die? - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Mr. Sandford went down next day to the seaside to join his family. They -had got a very pleasant house, in full sight of the sea. “What was the -use of going to the sea at all,” Mrs. Sandford said, “unless you got the -full good of it? All the sunsets and effects, and its aspect at every -hour of the day, which was so very different from having merely glimpses -of it--that is what my husband likes,” she said. And of course this -meant the most expensive place. He was met at the station by his wife -and little Mary, the youngest, who was always considered papa’s -favourite. The others had all gone along the coast with a large pic-nic -party, some of them in a boat, some riding--for there were fine -sands--and a delightful gallop along that crisp firm road, almost within -the flash of the waves, was most invigorating. “They all look ever so -much the better for it already,” said the fond mother. - -“There was not much the matter with them before that I could see.” - -“Oh, nothing the matter! But they do so enjoy the sea. And I find there -are a great many people here whom we know--more than usual; and a great -deal going on.” - -“There is generally a good deal going on.” - -“My dear Edward, staying behind has not been good for you; you are -looking pale; and I never heard you grudge the children their little -pleasures before.” - -“_I_ stayed at home, papa,” said little Mary, not willing to be -unappreciated, “to be the first to see you.” - -“You are always a good little girl,” said the father gratefully. - -“I assure you they were all anxious to stay: but I did not think you -would like them to give up a pleasure,” said Mrs. Sandford, never -willing to have any of her children subjected to an unfavourable -comparison. - -“No; oh no,” he said, with a sigh. It was almost impossible not to feel -a grudge at the thought of that careless enjoyment, no one taking any -thought; but he could not burst out with any disclosures of his trouble -before little Mary, looking up wistfully in his face with a child’s -sensitiveness to the perception of something wrong. Mary was more ready -to perceive this than Mrs. Sandford, who only thought that her husband -was perhaps a little out of temper, or annoyed by some trifling matter, -or merely affected by the natural misanthropy of three days’ solitude. -She clasped his arm caressingly with her hand as she led him along. - -“You have got some cobwebs into your mind,” she said, “but the sea -breezes will soon blow them away.” - -The sea breezes were very fresh; the sea itself spread out under the -sunshine a dazzling stretch of blue; the wide vault of heaven all belted -with lines of summer cloud, “which landward stretched along the deep” -like celestial countries far away. The air was filled with the soft -plash of the water, the softened sound of voices. The whole population -seemed out of doors, and all in full enjoyment of the heavenly afternoon -and the sights and sounds of the sea. Walking along through these -holiday groups, with his wife by his side and his little girl holding -his hand, Mr. Sandford felt an unreasonable calm--a sense of soothing -quiet--come over him. He could not dismiss the phantom which -overshadowed him, but he felt for the moment that he could ignore it. It -was necessary that he should ignore it. He could not communicate to his -wife so tragical a discovery there and then, in her ease and cheerful -holiday mood. He must prepare her for it. Not all in a moment could that -revelation burst upon her. Poor Mary! so happy in her children, so full -of their plans and pleasures, so secure in the certainty of prosperous -life: even the child, strange to think it, understood him better, being -nearer, he supposed, to those springs of life where there are no shades -of intervening feeling, but all is either happiness or despair. A -profound sorrow for these innocent creatures came into his mind; he -could not overcloud them, either the mother or the child. They were so -glad to have him again; so proud to walk on either side of him, pointing -out everything: and all was so happy, were it not for one thing; nothing -to trouble them, all well, all full of pleasure, confidence, health, -lightheartedness; not a cloud--except that one. - -“You have been tiring yourself--doing too much while you have been -alone; the servants have made you uncomfortable; they have been pulling -everything, to pieces, though I left the most stringent orders----” - -“No, the servants were very good; they disturbed nothing, though they -were longing to get at it.” - -“They always are; they take a positive pleasure in making the house look -as desolate as possible--as if nobody was ever going to live in it any -more.” - -“Nobody going to live in it more!” he repeated the words with a faint -smile. “No--on the contrary, it looked the most liveable place I ever -saw. I never felt its home-look so much.” - -“It is a nice little place,” she said, with a little pressure of his -arm. “Whatever may happen to the children in after life, we can always -feel that they have had a happy youth and a bright home.” - -“What should happen to them?” he said, alarmed with a sudden fear that -she must know. - -“Oh, nothing, I hope, but what is good; but the first change in the -family always makes one think. I hope you won’t mind, Edward: Lance -Moulton is here.” - -“Oh, he is here!” - -“If it is really to be so, Edward, don’t you think it is better they -should see as much of each other as possible?” his wife said, with -another tender pressure of his arm. “And somehow, when there is a thing -of that kind in the air, everything seems quickened; I am sure I can’t -tell how it is. It gives a ‘go’ to all they are doing. There are no end -of plans and schemes among them. Of course, Lance has a friend or two -about, and the Dropmores are here, who are such friends of our girls.” - -“And all is fun and nonsense, I suppose?” - -“Well, if you call it so--all pleasure, and kindness, and real -delightful holiday. Oh, Edward,” said Mrs. Sandford, with the ghost of a -tear in her eye, “don’t let us check it! It is the brightest time of -their lives.” - -The sunset was blazing in glory upon the sea, the belts of cloud all -reddening and glowing, soft puffs of vapour like roses floating across -the blue of the sky. And the air full of young voices softened and -musical, children playing, lovers wandering about, happy mothers -watching the sport, all tender gaiety, and security, and peace. -Everything joyful--save one thing. “No; God forbid that I should check -it,” he said hastily, with a sigh that might have been a groan. - -They all came back not long after, full of high spirits and endless -talk; they were all glad to see their father, who had never been any -restraint upon their pleasure, whose grave, gentle presence had never -checked or stilled them. They were sure of his sympathy more or less. If -he did not share their fun, he had at least never discouraged it. And -soon in the plenitude of their own affairs they forgot him, as was so -natural, and filled the room with laughing consultations over -to-morrow’s pleasure, and plans for it. “What are we going to do?” they -all cried, one after another, even Lizzie and Lance, coming in a little -dazzled from the balcony, where they had been enjoying the last fading -lights of the ending day, while the others had clamoured for lamps and -candles inside; “What are we going to do?” Mrs. Sandford sat beaming -upon them, hearing all the suggestions, offering a new idea now and -then. “I must know to-night, that the hampers may be got ready,” she -said; and then there was an echoing laugh all round. “Mother’s always so -practical.” Mr. Sandford sat a little outside of that lively circle with -a book in his hand. But he was not reading; he was watching them with a -strange fascination; not willing to check them; oh no! feeling a -helpless sort of wonder that they should play such pranks on the edge of -the precipice, and that none of them should divine--that even his wife -should not divine! The animated group, full in the light of the -lamps--girls and young men in the frank familiarity of the family -interrupting each other, contradicting each other, discussing and -arguing--was as charming a study as a painter could have desired; the -mother in the midst with her pencil in her hand and a sheet of white -paper on the table before her, which threw back the light; and behind, -the lovers stealing in out of the soft twilight shadows, the faint -glimmer of distant sea and sky. He watched it with a strange dull ache -under the pleasure of the father and the painter: the light touching -those graceful outlines, shining in those young eyes, the glimmer of -shining hair, the play of animated features, the soft, dreamlike, -suggestive shadows of the two behind. And yet the precipice yawning, -gaping at their feet, though nobody knew. - -“Papa,” said suddenly a small voice in his ear, “I am not going -to-morrow. I want to stay with you.” - -“My little Mary! But I am a dull old fellow, not worth staying with.” - -“You are sorry about something, papa!” - -“Sorry? There are a great many things in the world to be sorry about,” -he said, stroking her brown head. The child had clasped her hands about -his arm, and was nestling close up to him whispering. They were -altogether outside of the lively group at the table. This little -consoler comforted Mr. Sandford more than words could say. - -It was thus that the holiday life went on. The young people were always -consulting what to do, making up endless excursions and expeditions, -Mrs. Sandford always explaining for them. What was the use of being at -the seaside if they did not take full advantage of it? What was the use -of coming to a new part of the country if they did not see everything? -Sometimes she went with them, compelled by the addition of various -strangers with whom the girls could not go without a chaperon; sometimes -stayed at home with her husband, calculating where they would be by this -time; whether they had found a pleasant spot for their luncheon; when -they might be expected back. Meanwhile, Mr. Sandford took long solitary -walks--very long, very solitary--along the endless line of the sands, -within sight and sound of the sea. Little Mary and her next brother, the -schoolboy, always started with him; but the fascination of the rocks and -pools was too much for these little people, and the father, not -ill-pleased, went on with a promise of picking them up again on his way -back. He would walk on and on for the whole of the fresh shining -morning, with the sea on one side and the green country on the other, -and all the wonderful magical lights of the sky and water shining as if -for him alone. They beguiled him out of himself with their miraculous -play and shimmer and wealth of heavenly reflection; and sometimes he -seemed to feel a higher sensation still--the feeling as of a silent -great Companion who filled the heavenly space, yet moved with him, an -all-embracing, all-responsive sympathy, till he thought of God coming -down to the cool of the garden and walking with His creatures, and all -his trouble seemed to breathe away in a heavenly hush, which every -little wave repeated, softly lapping at his feet. - -But when he came back into the midst of his cheerful family other -subjects got the upper hand. There was not the least harm in the gaiety -that was about him--not the least harm; it was mere exuberance of -youthful life and pleasure. If things had been running their usual -course, and his usual year’s work had been in front of him, Mr. Sandford -said to himself that he too would have come out to the door to see the -children start on their expeditions, as his wife did, with pleasure in -their good looks, and in the family union and happiness. He might have -grumbled a little over Harry’s idleness, or even shaken his head over -the expense; but he too would have liked it--he would have admired his -young ones, and taken pleasure in seeing them happy. But to stand by and -watch all that, and know that presently the revenue which kept it all up -would stop, and the ground be cut from under their feet, sheer down, -like a precipice! Already he had begun to familiarise himself with this -idea. It had a sort of paralysing effect, as well as one of panic and -horror. It is not a thing that happens often. People grow poorer, or -even they get ruined at a blow, but there is generally something -remaining upon which economy will tell; he went over these differences -in his lonely hours, imagining a hundred cases. A merchant, for -instance, who ruins himself by speculation, if he is an honourable man, -has means at his disposal of trying again, or at least can get a -situation in an office (at the worst), where he will still have an -income--a steady income, though it may be small; his friends, and the -people who had business relations with him, would be sure to exert -themselves to secure him that; or if his losses were but partial, of -course nothing could be easier than to retrench and live at a lower -rate. So Mr. Sandford said to himself. But what can a few economies do -when at a critical moment, at a period close at hand, all incoming must -cease, and nothing remain? It did not now give him the violent shock of -sensation which he had felt at first when this fact came uppermost. He -had become accustomed to it. It was not _après moi_, but in three months -or so, the deluge: an end to everything, no half measures, no -retrenchment, but the end. He began to wonder when that time came what -would be done. The house could be sold, and all that was in it, but -where then would they go for shelter? They would have to pay for the -poorest lodgings, and at least there was nothing to pay for the house. -Mr. Sandford was not a man of business, he was a man of few resources; -he did not know what to do, or where to turn when his natural occupation -failed him. - -These thoughts went through his mind in a painful round. Three months or -so, and then an end of everything. Three months, and then the precipice -so near that the next step must be over it. Perhaps in other -circumstances, or if he had not been known to be so near the head of his -profession, he might have thought of artists’ work of some other kind -which he could do. He might have tried to illustrate books, to take up -one of the art manufactures; might have become a designer, a decorator, -something that would bring in money. But in this respect he was so -helpless, he knew no more what to do than the most ignorant; his heart -failed him when he tried to penetrate into the darkness of that future. -The only thing that came uppermost was the thought of the insurances, -and of the thousand pounds for each which the children would have. It -was not very much, but still it was something, a something real and -tangible, not like a workman’s wages for work, which may fail in a -moment as soon as he fails to please his employer, or loses his skill, -or grows too old for it. It had never occurred to Mr. Sandford before -how precarious these wages are, how little to be relied on. To think of -a number of people depending for their whole living upon the skill of -one man’s hand, upon the clearness of his sight, the truth of his -instincts, even the fashion of the moment! It seems, when you look at it -in the light of a discovery such as that which he had made, so mad, so -fatal! A thing that may cease in a moment as if it had never been, yet -with all the complicated machinery of life built upon it, based on the -strange theory that it would go on for ever! On the other hand a -thousand pounds is a solid thing; it would be a certainty for each of -them. Harry might go to one of the colonies and get an excellent start -with a thousand pounds in his pocket. Jack would no doubt be startled -into energy by the sense of having something which it would be fatal to -lose, yet which could not be lived upon. A thousand pounds would make -all the difference to Lizzie on her marriage. When he thought of his -wife a quiver of pain went over him, and yet he tried to calculate all -the chances there would be for her. All friends would be stirred in -sympathy for her; they would get her a pension, they would gather round -her: it would be made easy for her to break up this expensive way of -living, and begin on a smaller footing. There would be the house, which -would bring her in a little secure income if it was let. Whatever she -had would be secure--it would be based on something solid, certain--not -on a man’s work, which might lose its excellence or go out of fashion. -He felt himself smile with a kind of pleasure at the contemplation of -this steady certainty--which he never had possessed, which he never -could possess, but which poor Mary, with a pension and the rent of the -house, would at last obtain. Poor Mary! his lip quivered when he thought -of her. He wondered if the children would absorb her interest as much -when he was no longer in the background, whether she would be able to -find in them all that she wanted, and consolation for his absence. It -was not with any sense of blame that this thought went through his mind. -Blame her! oh no. To think of her children was surely a mother’s first -duty. She was not aware that her husband wanted consolation and help -more than they did. How could she know when he did not tell her? And he -felt incapable of telling her. He had meant to do it. When he came he -had intended as soon as possible to prepare her for it, to lead by -degrees to that revelation which could not but be given. But to break in -upon all their innocent gaieties, to stop her as she stood kissing her -hand to the merry cavalcade as they set out, her eyes shining with a -mother’s delight and pride; to call her away from among her pretty -daughters (she, her husband thought the fairest of them all), and their -pleasant babble about pleasures past and to come, and pour black despair -into the cheerful heart, how could he do it, how could any one do it? -Such happiness was sacred. He could not interrupt it, he could not -destroy it; it was pathetic, tragic, beyond words: on the edge of the -precipice! Oh no, no! not now, he could not tell her. Let the holidays -be over, let common life resume again, and then--unless by the grace of -God something else might happen before. - -They all noticed, however, that papa was dull--which was the way in -which it struck the young people--that he had no sympathy with their -gaiety, that he was “grumpy,” which was what it came to. Lizzie thought -that this probably arose from dissatisfaction with her marriage, and -was indignant. “If he doesn’t think Lance good enough, I wonder what -would please him. Did he expect one of the princes to propose to me?” -she cried. - -“Oh, Lizzie, my love, don’t speak so of your father!” - -“Well, mamma, he should not look at us so,” cried the girl. - -Mrs. Sandford herself was a little indignant too. Her sympathies were -all with the children. She saw disapproval in his subdued looks, and was -ready at any moment to spring to arms in defence of her children. And -indeed sometimes, in his great trouble, which no one divined, Mr. -Sandford would sometimes become impatient. - -“I wish,” he would say, “that Jack would do something--does he never do -anything at all? It frets me to see a young man so idle.” - -“My dear Edward!” cried his wife, “it is the Long Vacation. What should -he have to do?” - -“And Harry?” Mr. Sandford said. - -“Poor boy! You know he would give his little finger to have anything to -do. He has nothing to do. How can he help that? When we go back to town -you must really put your shoulder to the wheel. Among all your friends -surely, surely, something could be got for Harry,” said his mother, thus -turning the tables. “And in the meantime,” she added, “to get all the -health he can, and the full good of the sea, is certainly the best thing -the poor fellow could do.” - -What answer could be made to this? Mr. Sandford went out for his -walk--that long silent walk, in which the great Consoler came down from -amid all the silvery lights and shining skies, and walked with him in -the freshness of the morning, all silent in tenderness and great -solemnity and awe. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -“Unless, by the grace of God, something should happen”--that was what he -kept saying to himself when he reflected on the disclosure which must be -made when the seaside season was over. The great events of life rarely -happen according to our will. A man cannot die when he wishes it, though -there should be every argument in favour of such an event, and its -advantages most palpable. The moment passes in which that conclusion -would have all the force and satisfactory character of a great tragedy, -and a dreary postscript of existence drivels on, destructive of all -dignity and appropriateness. We live when we should do much better to -die, and we die sometimes when every circumstance calls upon us to live. - -Most people will think that it was a very dreary hope that moved Mr. -Sandford’s mind--perhaps even that it was not the expedient of a brave -man to desire to leave his wife and children to endure the change and -the struggle from which he shrank in his own person. But this was not -how it appeared to him. He thought, and with some reason, that the -change which becomes inevitable on the death of the head of a house is -without humiliation, without the pang of downfall which would be -involved in an entire reversal of life which had not that excuse; he -thought that everybody who knew him would regret the change, and that -every effort would be made to help those who were left behind. It would -be no shame to them to accept that help; it would seem to them a tribute -to his position rather than pity for them. His wife would believe that -her husband, a great painter, one of the first of the day, had fully -earned that recognition, and would be proud of the pension or the money -raised for her as of a monument in his honour. And then the insurances. -There could be no doubt, he said to himself, with a rueful smile, that -so much substantial money would be much better to have than a man who -could earn nothing, who had become incapable, whose work nobody wanted. -He had no doubt whatever that it would be by far the best solution. It -would rouse the boys by a sharp and unmistakable necessity; it might, he -thought, be the making of the boys, who had no fault in particular -except the disposition to take things easily, which was the weakness of -this generation. And as for the others, they would be taken care of--no -doubt they would be taken care of. Their condition would appeal to the -kindness of every friend who had ever bought a “Sandford” or thought it -an honour to know the painter. He would even himself be restored to -honour and estimation by the act of dying, which often is a very -ingratiating thing, and makes the public change its opinion. All these -arguments were so strongly in favour of it that to think there was no -means of securing it depressed Mr. Sandford’s mind more than all. By the -grace of God. But it is certain that the Disposer of events does not -always see matters as His creatures see them. No one can make sure, -however warmly such a decree might be wished for, or even prayed for, -that it will be given. If only that would happen! But it was still more -impossible to secure its happening than to open a new market for the -pictures, or cause commissions to pour in again. - -It may be asked whether Mr. Sandford’s conviction, which was so strong -on this subject, ever moved him to do anything to bring about his -desire. It was impossible, perhaps, that the idea should not have -crossed his mind-- - - “When we ourselves can our demission make - With a bare bodkin.” - -And we can scarcely say that it was, like Hamlet, the fear of something -after death that restrained him. It was a stronger sentiment still. It -was the feeling that to give one’s self one’s dismissal is quite a -different thing. It is a flight--it is a running away; all the arguments -against the selfishness of desiring to leave his wife and children to a -struggle from which he had escaped came into action against that. What -would be well if accomplished by the grace of God would be miserable if -done by the will of the man who might be mistaken in his estimate of the -good it would do. And then another practical thought, more tragical than -any in its extreme materialism and matter-of-fact character, it would -vitiate the insurances! If the children were to gain nothing by his -death, then it would certainly be better for them that he should live. -On that score there could be no doubt. This made suicide as completely -out of the question from a physical point of view as it was already -from a spiritual. He could not discharge himself from God’s service on -earth, though he should be very thankful if God would discharge him; and -he could not do anything to endanger the precious provision he had made -for his family. It can scarcely be said that Mr. Sandford considered -this case at leisure or with comparison of the arguments for and -against, for his decision was instinctive and immediate; nevertheless -the idea floated uppermost sometimes in the surging and whirl up and -down of many thoughts, but always to be dismissed in the same way. - -Two or three weeks had passed in this way when one evening Mr. Sandford -received a letter from Daniells, the dealer, inviting him to join a -party on the Yorkshire moors. Daniells was well enough off to be able to -deny himself nothing. He was not a gentleman, yet the sports that -gentlemen love were within reach of his wealth, and gentlemen not so -well off as he showed much willingness to share in his good things. Some -fine people whose names it was a pleasure to read were on his list, and -some painters who were celebrated enough to eclipse the fine people. -That all these should be gathered together by a man who was as ignorant -as a pig, and not much better bred, was wonderful; but so it was. -Perhaps the fact that Daniells was really at heart a good fellow had -something to do with it: but even had this not been the case, it is -probable that he could still have found guests to shoot on his moor, and -eat the birds they had shot. Mr. Sandford was no sportsman, and at first -he had little inclination to accept. It was his wife who urged him to do -so. - -“You are not enjoying Broadbeach as you usually do,” she said; “you are -bored by it. Oh, don’t tell me, Edward, I can see it in your eyes.” - -“If you think so, my dear, no denial of mine----” - -“No,” she said, shaking her head; “nothing you say will change my -opinion. I am dreadfully sorry, for I am fond of the place; but I have -made up my mind already never to come here again: for you are bored--it -is as plain as possible: you want a change: you must go.” - -“It is not much of a change to visit Daniells,” said Mr. Sandford. - -“Oh, it isn’t Daniells; it’s the company, and the distance, and all you -will find there. I have no objection to Mr. Daniells, Edward.” - -“Nor I; he is a good fellow in spite of his ’h’s.’” - -“I don’t care about his ’h’s.’ He’s very hospitable and very friendly, -and all the nice people go to him. I saw in the papers that Lord Okeham -was there. You might be able to speak a word for Harry.” - -Mr. Sandford smiled. “I am to go, then, as a business speculation,” he -said; but his smile faded away very soon, for he reflected that Lord -Okeham was the first to give him that sensation of being wanted no -longer, of having nobody to employ him, which had risen to such a tragic -height since then. - -“Don’t laugh,” said his wife. “I do think indeed it is your -duty--anything that may help on the children; and you do like Mr. -Daniells, Edward.” - -“Yes, I do like Daniells; he is a very good fellow.” - -“And the change will do you good. You must go.” - -It was arranged so almost without any voluntary action on his part. His -wife’s anxiety that he should “speak a word for Harry” seemed to him -half-pathetic, half-ridiculous in what he knew to be the position of -affairs; but then she did not know. It can scarcely be said that it was -other than a relief to him to leave his family to their own -light-hearted devices, or that the young ones were not at least -half-pleased when he went away. “Papa was not a bit like himself,” they -said; probably it was because the heat was too much for him (he -preferred cold weather), and the freshness of the moors would put him -all right. Mrs. Sandford was by no means willing to confess to herself -that she, too, was relieved by her husband’s departure. It was the first -time she had ever been conscious of that feeling in thirty years of -married life; but she, too, said that he would be the better of the -freshness of the moors, and they all gave themselves up to “fun” with a -new rush of pleasure when his grave countenance was away. - -“I am sure he did not mean it,” said Lizzie, “but I could not help -feeling that it was poor Lance that was the cause.” - -“Nothing of the sort, my dear,” said Mrs. Sandford. “Your father would -have told you if he had any objections. No; I know what it is; he is -very anxious about the boys--and so am I.” - -No one, however, who had seen her among them could have believed that -Mrs. Sandford was very anxious. She was so glad that they should enjoy -themselves. Afterwards, when the holidays were over, when they were all -back in town again, then something, no doubt, must be done about Harry. -He was very thoughtless, to be sure; he took no trouble about what was -going to happen to him. Mrs. Sandford threw off any shade of distress, -however, by saying to herself that now his father was fully roused to -the necessity of doing something, now that he was about to meet Lord -Okeham and other influential people, something _must_ be found for -Harry, and then all would go well. But the look in her husband’s eyes -haunted her, nevertheless, for the rest of the day. She had gone to the -railway with him to see him off, as she always did, and when the train -was just moving, he looked at her, waving his hand to her. The look in -his eyes was so strange and so sad, that Mrs. Sandford felt disposed to -rush after her husband by the next train. Failing that, she drew her -veil over her face as she turned away and shed tears, she could not tell -why, as if he had been going away never to return. How ridiculous! how -absurd! when he was only a little out of sorts and sure to be set right -by the freshness of the moors. The impression very soon wore out, and -the young people had already organised a little impromptu dance for the -evening, which gave Mrs. Sandford plenty to do. - -“It looks a little like taking advantage of your father’s absence--as if -you were glad he was gone.” - -“Not at all,” they all cried. “What a dreadful idea! The only thing is -that it would have bored him horribly; otherwise,” added Harry, “we are -always glad of my father’s company,” with an air of protection and -patronage which made the others laugh. And Mrs. Sandford keenly enjoyed -the dance, and felt it better that her husband’s face, never so grave -before, should not be there to over-shadow the evening’s entertainment. -He would be so much more in his element discussing light and shade with -the other R.A.s, or talking a little moderate politics with Lord Okeham, -or breathing in the freshness of the moors. - -And he did like the freshness of the moors, and the talk of his brother -artists, and the discussions among the men. It was entirely a man’s -party, and perhaps a very domestic man like Mr. Sandford, a little -neglected amid the exuberances of a young family, his very wife drawn -away from him by the exigencies of their amusements, is specially open -to the occasional refreshment of a party of his fellows, when congenial -pursuits and matured views, and something of a like experience--at all -events something which is a real experience of life--draw individuals -together. The “sport” of the painters was apt to be interrupted by -realisations of the “effects” about them, and by discussions on various -artistic-scientific points which only masters in the art could settle; -and that semi-professional flavour of the party was extremely -interesting to the other men, the public personages and society -magnates, who found it very piquant to be thrown amid the painters, and -who were inspired thereby to talk their best, and tell their most -entertaining stories. No atmosphere of failure accompanied Mr. Sandford -into this circle, which was kept hilarious by the host’s jovialities and -social mistakes. If anybody knew that Daniells kept in his inner room -three “Sandfords” which he could not sell, there was no hint of that -knowledge in anything that was said, or in the manner of the other -painters towards their fellow, to whom all appealed as to as great an -authority as could be found on all questions of art. He was restored, -thus, to the position which, indeed, nobody could take from him, though -he should never sell a picture again. It soothed him to feel and see -that, to all his brethren, he was as much as ever one of the first -painters of his time, and to give his opinion and sustain it with the -experience of his long professional life, and much experiment in art. A -forlorn hope had been in his mind that Daniells might have some good -news for him; that he might say some day, “That was all a false alarm, -old man--I’ve sold the pictures;” but this unfortunately did not come to -pass. Daniells never said it was a false alarm; he even said some things -in his rough but not unkindly way which to Mr. Sandford’s ear, quickened -by trouble, confirmed the disaster; but perhaps Daniells, who had no -particular delicacy of perception, did not intend this. - -The change, however, did Mr. Sandford a great deal of good: though -sometimes, when he found himself alone, the settled shadow of calamity -which had closed upon his life, and which must soon be known to all, -came over him with almost greater force than at first. It was but seldom -that he was alone, when he was indoors: yet now and then he would find -himself on the moors in the sun-setting, when the western sky was still -one blaze of yellow or orange light, varied by bands of cloudy red, with -the low hills and sweeps of moor standing black against that waning -brightness which, magnificent as it was, sent out little light. Mr. -Sandford did not compare his own going out of practical life and -possibility, yet preservation of a glow of fame which neither warmed nor -enlightened, with that show in the west. People seldom see allegories of -their own disaster. But as he strayed along with the sense of dreariness -in his heart which the dead and spectral aspect of hill and tree was so -well calculated to give, his own circumstances came back to him in -tragic glimpses. He thought of the gay group he had left behind, the -heedless young creatures singing and dancing on the edge of the -precipice, and of the peaceful home lying silent awaiting them, to which -they had no doubt of returning, with all its security of comfort and -peace, but on the edge of the precipice too. And he thought of Jack’s -fee, his two guineas, which they had all taken as the best joke in the -world, and of Lizzie, who was to have fifty pounds a year from her -father, and of Harry, quite happy and content on his schoolboy -allowance; and all this going on as if it were the course of nature, -unchangeable as the stars or the pillars of the earth. These things -glided before him as he looked over all the inequalities of the moor -standing black against the western sky. They were the true facts about -him, notwithstanding that in the shelter of this momentary pause he only -felt them as at a distance, and less strongly than before realised the -ease it would bring if by the grace of God something happened--before---- - -It was the time of the year when there are various race meetings in the -north, and Mr. Daniells had planned to carry his party to the most -famous of them. He had his landau and a brake, royally charged with -provisions, and filled with his guests. Mr. Sandford had done his best -to get off this unnecessary festivity, for which he had little taste. -But all his friends, who by this time had begun to perceive that his -spirits were not in their usual equable state, resisted and protested. -He must come, they said: to leave one behind would spoil the party; he -was not to be left alone with all the moorland effects to steal a march -upon the other painters. And he had not sufficient energy to stand -against their remonstrances. It was easier to yield, and he yielded. The -race was not unamusing. Even with all his preoccupation, he took a -little pleasure in it, more or less, as most Englishmen do: though it -glanced across his mind that somebody might say afterwards, “Sandford -was there, amusing himself on the edge of the precipice.” These vague -voices and glimpses of things were not enough to stand against the -remonstrances and banter of his friends: and after all, what did it -matter? The plunge over the precipice is not less terrible because you -may have performed a dance of despair on the edge. It was about sunset -on a lovely September evening when the party set out on their return -home. They were merry; not that there had been any excess or indulgence -unbecoming of English gentlemen. Daniells, it is true, who was not a -gentleman, had, perhaps, a little more champagne under his belt than was -good for him. But his guests were only merry, talking a little more -loudly than usual about the events of the day and the exploits of the -favourite, and settling some moderate bets which neither harmed nor -elated any one. Mr. Sandford, who had not betted, was the most silent -of party; the lively talk of the others left him free to retire to his -own thoughts. He had got rather into a tangle of dim calculations about -his insurances, and how the money would be divided, when somebody -suddenly called out “Hallo! we’ve got off the road!” - -For some time Mr. Sandford was the only one who paid any attention to -this statement. Looking out with a little start, he saw the same scene -against which his musings had taken form on previous nights. A sky -glowing with a stormy splendour, deep burning orange on the horizon -rising through zones of yellow to the daffodil sky above, every object -standing out black in the absence of light; not the hedgerows and white -line of the road alone, but the blunt inequalities of the moor, here a -lump of gorse or gnarled hawthorn bush, there a treacherous hollow with -a gleam of water gathered as in a cup. The coachman and grooms had not -been so prudent as their masters; their potations had been heavier than -champagne. How they had left the road and got upon the moor could never -be discovered. It was partly the perplexing glow above and blackness -below, partly the fumes of a long day’s successive drinkings in their -brains; partly, perhaps, as one of the passengers thought, something -else. The horses had taken the unusual obstacles on their path with -wonderful steadiness at first, but by the time the attention of the -gentlemen was fully attracted to what was happening, the coachman had -altogether lost control of the kicking and plunging animals. The man was -not too far gone to have driven home by the road, but his brain was -incapable of any effort to meet such an emergency. He began to flog the -horses wildly, to swear at them, to pull savagely at the reins. The -groom jumped down to rush to their heads, and in doing so, as they made -a plunge at the moment, fell on the roadside, and in a moment more was -left behind as the terrified horses dashed on. By this time everybody -was roused, and the danger was evident. Mr. Sandford sat quite still; he -was not learned about horses, while many of his companions were. One of -them got on to the box beside the terrified coachman to try what could -be done, the others gave startled and sometimes contradictory -suggestions and directions. He was quite calm in the tumult of alarm and -eager preparation for any event. He was sensible, profoundly sensible, -of the wonderful effect of the scene: the orange glow which no pigments -in the world could reproduce, the blackness of the indistinguishable -objects which stood up against it like low dark billows of a motionless -sea. The shocks of the jolting carriage affected him little, any more -than the shouts of the alarmed and excited men. He did not even remark, -then, that some sprang off and that others held themselves ready to -follow. His sensations were those of perfect calm. He thought of the -precipice no more, nor even of the insurances. Some one shook him by the -shoulder, but it did not disturb him. The effect was wonderful; the -orange growing intense, darker, the yellow light pervading the -illuminated sky. And then a sudden wild whirl, a shock of sudden -sensation, and he saw or felt no more. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Presently the light came back to Mr. Sandford’s eyes. He was lying upon -the dry heather on the side of the moor, the brown seed-pods nestling -against his cheek, the yellow glow in the west, to which his eyes -instinctively turned, having scarcely faded at all since he had looked -at it from the carriage. A confused sound of noises, loud speaking, and -moans of pain reached him where he lay, but scarcely moved him to -curiosity. His first sensation was one of curious ease and security. He -did not attempt to budge, but lay quite peacefully smiling at the -sunset, like a child. His head was confused, but there was in it a vague -sense of danger escaped, and of some kind of puzzled deliverance from he -knew not what, which gave the strangest feeling of soothing and rest. He -felt no temptation to jump up hastily, to go to the help of the people -who were moaning, or to inquire into the accident, as in another case he -would have done. He lay still, quite at his ease, hearing these voices -as if he heard them not, and smiling with a confused pleasure at the -glow of orange light in the sky. - -He did not know how long it was till some one knelt down and spoke to -him anxiously. “Sandford, are you badly hurt? Sandford, my dear fellow, -do you know me? Can you speak to me?” - -He burst into a laugh at this address. - -“Speak to you? Know you? What nonsense! I am not hurt at all. I am quite -comfortable.” - -“Thank God!” said the other. “Duncan, I fear, has a broken leg, and the -coachman is---- It was his fault, the unfortunate wretch. Give me your -hand, and I’ll help you to get up.” - -To get up? That was quite a different matter. He did not feel the least -desire to try. He felt, before trying and without any sense of alarm, -that he could not get up; then said to himself that this was nonsense -too, and that to lie there, however comfortably, when he might be -helping the others, was not to be thought of. He gave his hand -accordingly to his friend, and made an effort to rise. But it would have -been as easy (he said to himself) for a log of wood to attempt to rise. -He felt rather like that, as if his legs had turned to wood--not stone, -for that would have been cold and uncomfortable. “I don’t know how it -is,” he said, still smiling, “but I can’t budge. There’s nothing the -matter with me, I’m quite easy and comfortable, but I can’t move a limb. -I’ll be all right in a few minutes. Look after the others. Never mind -me.” He thought the face of the man who was bending over him looked -strangely scared, but nothing more was said. A rug was put over him and -one of the cushions of the carriage under his head, and there he lay, -vaguely hearing the groans of the man whose leg was broken as -(apparently) they moved him, and all the exclamations and questions and -directions given by one and another. What was more wonderful was the -dying out of that wild orange light in the sky. It paled gradually, as -if it had been glowing metal, and the cold night air breathing on it had -paled and dwindled that ineffectual fire. A hundred lessening tints and -tones of colour--yellows and faint greens, with shades of purple and -creamy whiteness breaking the edges--melted and shimmered in the -distance. It was like an exhibition got up for him alone, relieved by -that black underground, now traversed by gigantic ebony figures of a -horse and man, moving irregularly across the moor. A star came out with -a keen blue sparkle, like some power of heaven triumphant over that -illumination of earth. What a spectacle it was! And all for him alone! - -The next thing he was conscious of was two or three figures about -him--one the doctor, whose professional touch he soon discovered on his -pulse and his limbs. “We are going to lift you. Don’t take any trouble; -it will give you no pain,” some one said. And before he could protest, -which he was about to do good-humouredly, that there was no occasion, he -found himself softly raised upon some flat and even surface, more -comfortable, after all, than the lumps of the heather. Then there was a -curious interval of motion along the road, no doubt, though all he saw -was the sky with the stars coming gradually out; neither the road nor -his bearers, except now and then a dark outline coming within the line -of his vision; but always the deep blue of the mid sky shining above. -The world seemed to have concentrated in that, and it was not this -world, but another world. - -He remembered little more, except by snatches; an unknown -face--probably the doctor’s--looking exceedingly grave, bending over -him; then Daniells’ usually jovial countenance with all the lines -drooping and the colour blanched out of it, and a sound of low voices -talking something over, of which he could only make out the words -“Telegraph at once;” then, “Too late! It must not be too late. She must -come at once.” He wondered vaguely who this was, and why there should be -such a hurry. And then, all at once, it seemed to him that it was -daylight and his wife was standing by his bedside. He had just woke up -from what seemed a very long, confused, and feverish night--how long he -never knew. But when he woke everything was clear to him. Unless, by the -grace of God, something were to happen---- Something was about to -happen, by the grace of God. - -“Mary!” he cried, with a flush of joy. “You here!” - -“Of course, my dearest,” she said, with a cheerful look, “as soon as I -heard there had been an accident.” - -He took her hand between his and drew her to him. “This was all I -wanted,” he said. “God is very good; He gives me everything.” - -“Oh, Edward!” This pitiful protest, remonstrance, appeal to heaven and -earth--for all these were in her cry--came from her unawares. - -“Yes,” he said, “my dear, everything has happened as I desired. I -understand it all now. I thought I was not hurt; now I see. I am not -hurt, I am killed, like the boy--don’t you remember?--in Browning’s -ballad. Don’t be shocked, dear. Why shouldn’t I be cheerful? I am -not--sorry.” - -“Oh, Edward!” she cried again, the passion of her trouble exasperated by -his composure; “not to leave--us all?” - -He held her hand between his, smiling at her. “It was what I wanted,” he -said--“not to leave you; but don’t you believe, my darling, there must -be something about that leaving which is not so dreadful, which is made -easy to the man who goes away? Certainly, I don’t want to leave you; but -it’s so much for your good--for the children’s good----” - -“Oh, never, Edward, never!” - -“Yes; it’s new to you, but I’ve been thinking about it a long time--so -much that I once thought it would almost have been worth the while, but -for the insurances, to have----” - -“Edward!” She looked at him with an agonised cry. - -“No, dear--nothing of the kind. I never would, I never could have done -it. It would have been contrary to nature. The accident--was without any -will or action of mine. By the grace of God----” - -“Edward, Edward! Oh, don’t say that; by His hand, heavy, heavy upon us!” - -“It is you that should not say that, Mary. If you only knew, my dear. I -want you to understand so long as I am here to tell you----” - -“He must not talk so much,” said the voice of the doctor behind; “his -strength must be husbanded. Mrs. Sandford, you must not allow him to -exhaust himself.” - -“Doctor,” said Mr. Sandford, “I take it for granted you’re a man of -sense. What can you do for me? Spin out my life by a few more feeble -hours. Which would you rather have yourself? That, or the power of -saying everything to the person you love best in the world?” - -“Let him talk,” said the doctor, turning away; “I have no answer to -make. Give him a little of this if he turns faint. And send for me if -you want me, Mrs. Sandford.” - -“Thanks, doctor. That is a man of sense, Mary. I feel quite well, quite -able to tell you everything.” - -“Oh, Edward, when that is the case, things cannot be so bad! If you will -only take care, only try to save your strength, to keep up. Oh, my dear! -The will to get well does so much! Try! try! Edward, for the love of -God.” - -“My own Mary: always believing that everything’s to be done by an -effort, as all women do. I am glad it is out of my power. If I were in -any pain there might be some hope for you, but I’m in no pain. There’s -nothing the matter with me but dying. And I have long felt that was the -only way.” - -“Dying?--not when you were with us at the sea?” - -“Most of all then,” he said, with a smile. - -“Oh, Edward, Edward! and I full of amusements, of pleasure, leaving you -alone.” - -“It was better so. I am glad of every hour’s respite you have had. And -now you’ll be able easily to break up the house, which would have been a -hard thing and a bitter downfall in my lifetime. It will be quite -natural now. They will give you a pension, and there will be the -insurance money.” - -“I cannot bear it,” she cried wildly. “I cannot have you speak like -this.” - -“Not when it is the utmost ease to my mind--the utmost comfort----” - -She clasped her hands firmly together. “Say anything you wish, Edward.” - -“Yes, my poor dear.” He was very, very sorry for his wife. It burst upon -her without preparation, without a word of warning. Oh, he was sorry for -her! But for himself it was a supreme consolation to pour it all forth, -to tell her everything. “If I were going to be left behind,” he said, -soothingly, “my heart would be broken: but it is softened somehow to -those that are going away. I can’t tell you how. It is, though; it is -all so vague and soft. I know I’ll lose you, Mary, as you will lose me, -but I don’t feel it. My dearest, I had not a commission, not one. And -there are three pictures of mine unsold in Daniells’ inner shop. He’ll -tell you if you ask him. The three last. That one of the little Queen -and her little Maries, that our little Mary sat for, that you liked so -much, you remember? It’s standing in Daniells’ room; three of them. I -think I see them against the wall.” - -“Edward!” - -“Oh no, my head is not going. I only _think_ I see them. And it was the -merest chance that the ‘Black Prince’ sold; and not a commission, not a -commission. Think of that, Mary. It is true such a thing has happened -before, but I never was sixty before. Do you forget I am an old man, and -my day is over?” - -“No, no, no,” she cried with passion; “it is not so.” - -“Oh yes; facts are stubborn things--it is so. And what should we have -done if our income had stopped in a moment, as it would have done? A -precipice before our feet, and nothing, nothing beyond. Now for you, my -darling, it will be far easier. You can sell the house and all that is -in it. And they will give you a pension, and the children will have -something to begin upon.” - -“Oh, the children!” she cried, taking his hand into hers, bowing down -her face upon it. “Oh, Edward, what are the children between you and -me?” She cast them away in that supreme moment; the young creatures all -so well, so gay, so hopeful. In her despair and passion she flung their -crowding images from her--those images which had forced her husband from -her heart. - -He laughed a low, quiet laugh. “God bless them,” he said; “but I like to -have you all to myself, you and me only, for the last moment, Mary. You -have been always the best wife that ever was--nay, I won’t say have -been--you are my dear, my wife. We don’t understand anything about -widows, you and I. Death’s nothing, I think. It looks dreadful when -you’re not going. But God manages all that so well. It is as if it were -nothing to me. Mary, where are you?” - -“Here, Edward, holding your hand. Oh, my dear, don’t you see me?” - -“Yes, yes,” he said, with a faint laugh, as if ashamed at some mistake -he had made, and put his other hand over hers with a slight groping -movement. “It’s getting late,” he said; “it’s getting rather dark. What -time is it? Seven o’clock? You’ll not go down to dinner, Mary? Stay with -me. They can bring you something upstairs.” - -“Go down? Oh, no, no. Do you think I would leave you, Edward?” She had -made a little pause of terror before she spoke, for, indeed, it was -broad day, the full afternoon sunshine still bright outside, and nothing -to suggest the twilight. He sighed again--a soft, pleasurable sigh. - -“If you don’t mind just sitting by me a little. I see your dear face in -glimpses, sometimes as if you had wings and were hovering over me. My -head’s swimming a little. Don’t light the candles. I like the -half-light; you know I always did. So long as I can see you by it, Mary. -Is that a comfortable chair? Then sit down, my love, and let me keep -your hand, and I think I’ll get a little sleep.” - -“It will do you good,” said the poor wife. - -“Who knows?” he said, with another smile. “But don’t let them light the -candles.” - -Light the candles! She could see, where she sat there, the red sunshine -falling in a blaze upon a ruddy heathery hill, and beating upon the dark -firs which stood out like ink against that background. There is perhaps -nothing that so wrings the heart of the watcher as this pathetic mistake -of day for night which betrays the eyes from which all light is -failing. He lay within the shadow of the curtain, always holding her -hand fast, and fell asleep--a sleep which, for a time, was soft and -quiet enough, but afterwards got a little disturbed. She sat quite -still, not moving, scarcely breathing, that she might not disturb him; -not a tear in her eye, her whole being wound up into an external calm -which was so strangely unlike the tumult within. And she had forsaken -him--left him to meet calamity without her support, without sympathy or -aid! She had been immersed in the pleasures of the children, their -expeditions, their amusements. She remembered, with a shudder, that it -had been a little relief to get him away, to have their dance -undisturbed. Their dance! Her heart swelled as if it would burst. She -had been his faithful wife since she was little more than a child. All -her life was his--she had no thought, no wish, apart from him. And yet -she had left him to bear this worst of evils alone! - -Mrs. Sandford dared not break the sacred calm by a sob or a sigh. She -dared not even let the tears come to her eyes, lest he should wake and -be troubled by the sight of them. What thoughts went through her mind as -she sat there, not moving! Her past life all over, which, until that -telegram came, had seemed the easy tenor of every day; and the future, -so dark, so awful, so unknown--a world which she did not understand -without him. - -After an interval he began to speak again, but so that she saw he was -either asleep still or wandering in those vague regions between -consciousness and nothingness. “All against the wall--with the faces -turned,” he said. “Three--all the last ones: the one my wife liked so. -In the inner room: Daniells is a good fellow. He spared me the sight of -them outside. Three--that’s one of the perfect numbers--that’s--I could -always see them: on the road and on the moor, and at the races: then--I -wonder--all the way up--on the road to heaven? no, no. One of the -angels--would come and turn them round--turn them round. Nothing like -that in the presence of God. It would be disrespectful--disrespectful. -Turn them round--with their faces----” He paused; his eyes were closed, -an ineffable smile came over his mouth. “He--will see what’s best in -them,” he said. - -After this for a time silence reigned, broken only now and then by a -word sometimes unintelligible. Once his wife thought she caught -something about the “four square walls in the new Jerusalem,” sometimes -tender words about herself, but nothing clear. It was not till night -that he woke, surprising them with an outcry as to the light, as he had -previously spoken about the darkness. - -“You need not,” he said, “light such an illumination for me--_al giorno_ -as the Italians say; but I like it--I like it. Daniells--has the soul of -a prince.” Then he put out his hands feebly, calling “Mary! Mary!” and -drew her closer to him, and whispered a long, earnest communication; but -what it was the poor lady never knew. She listened intently, but she -could not make out a word. What was it? What was it? Whatever it was, to -have said it was an infinite satisfaction to him. He dropped back upon -his pillows with an air of content indescribable, and silent pleasure. -He had done everything, he had said everything. And in this mood slept -again, and woke no more. - - * * * * * - -Mr. Sandford’s previsions were all justified. The house was sold to -advantage, at what the agent called a fancy price, because it had been -his house--with its best furniture undisturbed. Everything was -miserable enough indeed, but there was no humiliation in the breaking up -of the establishment, which was evidently too costly for the widow. She -got her pension at once, and a satisfactory one, and retired with her -younger children to a small house, which was more suited to her -circumstances. And Lord Okeham, touched by the fact that Sandford’s -death had taken place under the same roof, in a room next to his own -(though that, to be sure, in an age of competition and personal merit -was nothing), found somehow, as a Cabinet Minister no doubt can if he -will, a post for Harry, in which he got on just as well as other young -men, and settled down into a very good servant of the State. And Jack, -being thus suddenly sobered and called back to himself, and eager to get -rid of the intolerable thought that he, too, had weighed upon his -father’s mind, and made his latter days more sad, took to his profession -with zeal, and got on, as no doubt any determined man does when he -adopts one line and holds by it. The others settled down with their -mother in a humbler way of living, yet did not lose their friends, as it -is common to say people do. Perhaps they were not asked any longer to -the occasional “smart” parties to which the pretty daughters and -well-bred sons of Sandford the famous painter, who could dispense -tickets for Academy soirées and private views, were invited, more or -less on sufferance. These failed them, their names falling out of the -invitation books; but what did that matter, seeing they had never been -but outsiders, flattered by the cards of a countess, but never really -penetrating beyond the threshold? - -Mrs. Sandford believed that she could not live when her husband was thus -taken from her. The remembrance of that brief but dreadful time when she -had abandoned him, when the children and their amusements had stolen her -heart away, was heavy upon her, and though she steeled herself to carry -out all his wishes, and to arrange everything as he would have had it -done, yet she did all with a sense that the time was short, and that -when her duty was thus accomplished she would follow him. This softened -everything to her in the most wonderful way. She felt herself to be -acting as his deputy through all these changes, glad that he should be -saved the trouble, and that humiliation and confession of downfall which -was not now involved in any alteration of life she could make, and -fully confident that when all was completed she would receive her -dismissal and join him where he was. But she was a very natural woman, -with all the springs of life in her unimpaired. And by-and-by, with much -surprise, with a pang of disappointment, and yet a rising of her heart -to the new inevitable solitary life which was so different, which was -not solitary at all, but full of the stir and hum of living, yet all -silent in the most intimate and closest circle, Mrs. Sandford recognised -that she was not to die. It was a strange thing, yet one which happens -often: for we neither live nor die according to our own will and -previsions--save sometimes in such a case as that of our painter, to -whom, as to his beloved, God accorded sleep. - -And more--the coming true of everything that he had believed. After -doing his best for his own, and for all who depended upon him in his -life, he did better still, as he had foreseen, by dying. Daniells sold -the three pictures at prices higher than he had dreamed of, for a -Sandford was now a thing with a settled value, it being sure that no new -flood of them would ever come into the market. And all went well. -Perhaps with some of us, too, that dying which it is a terror to look -forward to, seeing that it means the destruction of a home, may prove, -like the painter’s, a better thing than living even for those who love -us best. But it is not to every one that it is given to die at the right -moment, as Mr. Sandford had the happiness to do. - - - - -THE WONDERFUL HISTORY - -OF - -MR. ROBERT DALYELL. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -It was a September night, rather chilly and dreary, as the evening often -becomes at that season, even when the day has been beautiful. There was -a little cold wailing wind about, like the ghost of an autumn breeze, -which came in puffs of air, only strong enough to dislodge a fluttering -yellow leaf or two, and sometimes with a few drops of rain upon it, -which it dashed in your face with an elfish moan--not a night to walk in -the garden for pleasure. It was, however, a custom with Mr. Dalyell to -smoke his cigar out-of-doors after dinner in all weathers, and Fred, who -was his eldest son, was proud to be his father’s companion and share -this indulgence--too proud to make any opposition to the chill of the -night or the occasional dash of rain. All that was visible from the -windows of the Yalton drawing-room, across which now and then a white -figure would flutter, with a glance out were the red fire-tips of the -two cigars, moving now quickly, now slowly, stopping altogether for a -moment, going on with renewed rapidity--which was papa’s way. - -You could not see a prettier old house than Yalton in all the eastern -shires. It had the mixture of French with native Scotch architecture -which distinguishes a period in history. There were turrets, which the -profane called pepper-boxes, at the corners, and lines of many windows -in the commodious, comfortable _corps de logis_, now shining through the -night with cheerful lights. Two terraces stood between the altitude of -the house and the walk in which the father and son were, with lines of -stone balustrades all overgrown by creeping plants and adorned with -great vases in which the garish flowers of autumn were still fully -blooming, though they were unseen in the darkness. On the lower level -was the little temple of a fountain, which was reduced to a small and -broken jet by age and negligence. The scent of the mignonette in the -borders, the faint dripping of the water in the fountain, communicated -to the atmosphere a little half-artificial speciality of character, like -the terraces and great vases, not altogether natural to the locality, -yet not uncongenial in its quaint double nationality. The two dark -figures walking up and down, made visible by those red points, were yet -undistinguishable, save by the fact that one was slim and slight, a -boyish figure, and the other round and solid in the complete development -of the man. The lad had been unfolding to his father the many novelties -and wonders of his first year at the University, with that delightful -force of conviction that such pleasant and wonderful experiences had -never happened to anybody before which is the perennial belief of the -young: while the father listened with that half-amused, half-pensive -sympathy, made up of recollections fond and familiar, and the -half-provoked, half-pleased sensation of amazement at finding those -experiences re-embodied in the person of his son, which is habitual to -the old. But, indeed, to say old is merely to express a comparative -quality, for Mr. Dalyell of Yalton was a man under fifty, in the full -force and vigour of life. - -“Ah, yes,” he said, “Fred, it’s fine times for you now, my boy. But you -must remember that life is not made up of bumps and bump-suppers, and -that there are worse things than a proctor waiting for you, perhaps, -round the next corner. I don’t want you not to play--but you must learn -to work a little, too.” - -“All right, father,” said Fred; “I’ll pull through. I sha’n’t disgrace -the old house.” - -“No,” said Mr. Dalyell. “I don’t suppose you will: but you might perhaps -go a little farther than that.” - -“I didn’t think,” said Fred, surprised, “that you intended me to do more -than a good pass. I never supposed there was--any need for hard work.” - -“Need? I never said there was need: but it does a young fellow good to -be thought to work: even if it does no more it does that. It’s well for -you to be thought to work, Fred.” - -“If that’s all,” said the young man, “I don’t fancy I want to get a -reputation in that way.” - -“Then you’re a silly boy,” said his father. “It’s a capital thing to -have a good reputation. You don’t know what it might do for you.” - -“Well,” said the lad, with a laugh, “I don’t fancy that matters so much, -so long as you do everything for me, father.” - -“That’s just the point, Fred. That’s what I wanted to show you. I -sha’n’t always be here to do everything for you.” - -“Why,” said Fred, “you’re almost as young as I am!” - -“I’m not particularly old: but no man’s life is secure, however young he -may be; it’s not to be lippened to, as old Janet says. You ought to -contemplate what your position would be if I were taken away. Think what -happens to many a young fellow, Fred, whose father dies--perhaps just -when he is where you are: and he has to stop all his pleasant ways and -turn to, perhaps to work for his mother and the rest, perhaps only to -look after them and take care of them--but at all events to be the head -of the family instead of a careless boy.” Mr. Dalyell had stopped in his -walk to enforce what he said, which was a way he had. “I’ve known a boy -of your age,” he said, “that had to give up everything, and go into an -office, and work like a slave: instead of your bump-suppers, Fred.” - -“I’ve heard of such a thing myself,” said Fred; “though you don’t think -much of my experience, father. It happened to Surtees of New, a fellow a -little senior to me. It was awfully hard upon him. He would have been in -the ‘eight’ if he had stayed another year. What he felt most was leaving -the ‘Varsity without getting his blue. But,” added the lad, “if it -matters about what people think, as you were saying, he was thought no -end of for it. He went abroad, I think, to look after some business -there.” - -“And dropped, I suppose, never to be heard of more--among his old chums -at least?” - -“It was awfully hard upon him,” said Fred, regretfully. - -“Well,” said Mr. Dalyell, “that’s what may happen to any one of you -whose fathers are in business. You ought to remember that such a -contingency is always on the cards.” - -“Why, father----!” cried Fred. The boy was unwilling to make any -application, to seem to think that there could be anything in their own -circumstances to suggest this conversation: but he threw an involuntary -glance at the house behind him with all its cheerful lights, and at the -dark clouds of trees all round in the distance, which marked the great -extent of the park and woods of Yalton. He did not add a word, and -indeed the whole movement was involuntary--a sort of appeal from the -lugubrious remarks on one side to all these unending signs of wealth on -the other. - -“You mean to say there’s Yalton; and though I’m in business, I’m not all -in business,” said Mr. Dalyell with a laugh. “I was not speaking of -ourselves, my boy; but of the vicissitudes of life. I hope there will be -Dalyells of Yalton as long as Edinburgh Castle stands upon a rock; and -one can’t say more than that. Still, there are wonderful changes in -life, and I’d like to think--if you force me to an application--that you -were up to anything that might happen. You’d have to take the command, -you know, Fred,” he added after a moment, knocking the ash off his cigar -against the balustrade of the terrace, with another curious laugh. “Your -dear mother has never been used to anything but to be taken care of. You -had better not bother her by asking advice from her if you should ever -be in that position.” - -“I wish you would not say such dreadful things,” said Fred petulantly. -“Why should we talk of what I hope to heaven will never happen?--you -make me quite uncomfortable, papa.” - -“Well, my dear boy,” said Mr. Dalyell, “that’s the penalty, don’t you -know, of being grown up--like shaving, and other disadvantages. You -rather like the shaving--which implies an imaginary beard: but you don’t -like to hear of the much more important responsibilities.” - -“Shaving’s inevitable,” said Fred, giving a little furtive twirl to an -almost imaginary moustache. - -“Oh, is it?” said his father, with a more cheerful laugh. “Not for years -yet; don’t flatter yourself. When do you start for your ball to-morrow? -It’s fine to be an eligible young man, and sought after for all the -dances. That’s a pleasant consequence of being a ‘Varsity man, and heir -of Yalton, eh?” - -“Well, father,” said Fred, “seeing I’ve known the Scrymgeours all my -life, we needn’t put it on that ground. Whatever I was--if I was heir to -nothing--it would be the same to them.” - -“Let’s hope so,” said Mr. Dalyell, and he breathed a sigh, which somehow -got mingled with the little wail of the wind, and echoed into Fred’s -heart with a poignant suggestion. There was no reason to fear anything, -and he was angry with himself. It was childish and superstitious to -shiver as he did, as if the cold had caught him. There was no occasion -in the world for anything of the sort. He was not a fellow to catch -cold, he said to himself indignantly, nor to have presentiments, both of -which things were equally absurd. There was nothing but prosperity and -peace known in Yalton, and his father had the constitution of an -elephant. But the night was eerie, the horizon had a sort of weird -clearness upon it in the far distance, like a light showing through the -openings of the clouds. The trees stood up black in billows of -half-distinguishable shade, and the hills beyond them marked out their -outlines wistfully against the clearness in the west. It was cold, and -the air breathed of coming winter. A leaf drifting on the wind caught -him on the cheek like a soft blow. Altogether the night was eerie, wild, -full of possibilities. There was no ghost at Yalton; but sometimes old -Janet said there was a sound in the avenue that meant trouble, like a -horseman riding up to the house who never arrived. Fred involuntarily -listened, as if he might have heard that horseman, which was as good as -inviting trouble, but he did not think of that. However, there was no -sound, nor ghost of a sound, except what was purely natural--the wild -bitter wind wailing, driving a few leaves about, and bending, with a -soft swish of the dark unseen foliage, the light branches of the trees. - -“Come, let’s go in, Fred; I’ve finished my cigar,” said Mr. Dalyell; and -then, as though a brain wave, as scientific people say, had passed from -one to another--Fred’s unspoken thought of old Janet suggested her to -his father’s mind. They were going up one of the sets of stone steps -which led from one terrace to the other, when Mr. Dalyell suddenly put -his hand on his son’s arm: - -“You’ll laugh,” he said, but not himself in a laughing tone, “at what -I’m going to say. But if you should be in any difficulty what to do in -case of my absence, or--or anything of that sort--do you know, Fred, -whom I’d advise you to consult? The last person you would think of, -probably, by yourself--old Janet! You know she’s been about Yalton all -her life. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for any of us--and she’s an -extraordinarily sensible old woman, full of resource, and with a head on -her shoulders----” - -“I’m not fond of old Janet,” said Fred sturdily. - -“No, none of you are. Your mother never could be got to like her. It’s a -prejudice. She’s been invaluable to me.” - -“If it’s all the same to you, father,” said Fred stiffly, “I’d rather -not turn to an old wife for advice, an old nurse. What can she know? Of -course your good opinion goes a very long way----” - -“For or against? I’m afraid, so far as your mother is concerned, it is -rather against. However, we need say no more about it. But, remember! as -King Charles said.” - -They had paused on the landing between two flights of stairs. A great -trail of yellow nasturtium, dropping from the vase at the corner, showed -even in the dark a ghost of colour, and thrust its pungent odour into -Fred’s nostril. The faint billows of the trees stretched out dark and -darker over the landscape below, and the cold clear light in the sky -seemed to look on like a spectator who knows far more than the actors -what is and is going to be. Fred once more gave a little shiver, and -elevated his shoulders to his ears. - -“You’d better go and take some camphor, boy. You’ve caught cold,” his -father said. - -The drawing-room of Yalton was on the first floor, unlike the generality -of country houses, which gave it a great advantage in respect to the -landscape. On the ground floor a great deal of space was taken up with -the hall, which opened into a large portico, and was scarcely light -enough to be made much use of, in a climate where there is seldom too -much sun. It happened, fortunately, that Mrs. Dalyell, who was a nervous -and somewhat fantastic woman, was fond of a great deal of light, so that -the large windows, which made the turreted Scotch house like a wing of -the Louvre, were not displeasing to her. The curtains were but partially -drawn over the central windows even now, so that it was possible to turn -at any moment from the light and warmth of the interior to the wide -landscape out-of-doors, with its wild breadth of sky and wailing winds. -But within it was exceedingly bright with a number of lamps and candles -and that pleasant blaze of a fire which it is an agreeable tradition in -Scotch country houses to keep up in the evening, whether it is wanted or -not. In September it is generally wanted; but it cannot be said there -was any necessity for it on this particular night. The company in the -drawing-room consisted of Mrs. Dalyell, her two daughters, and a -gentleman of middle age and manners very ingratiating and friendly, if a -little formal--Mr. Patrick Wedderburn, than whom no man was more -respected in Edinburgh, a W.S. of the first eminence, learned in the -law, and a favourite everywhere. He belonged, it need scarcely be said, -to a good Scotch family, and was any man’s equal in Scotland, though he -acted as a “man of business” to many of his friends. He was one of the -dearest friends of Robert Dalyell of Yalton, and was a more constant -visitor than any other of the many familiar associates who called the -laird of Yalton “Bob,” and knew him and his affairs to the -finger-points. Pat Wedderburn, as the visitor was commonly called, was -an old bachelor, and therefore had no family to call him to a fireside -centre of his own. He was as much in Yalton as he was in his own -handsome but dull house in Ainslie Place, where, except when he had a -dinner-party, the rooms were so silent, the solitude so serious. Neither -the girls nor their mother made “company” of Mr. Wedderburn. He was -seated in a deep chair, reading the papers while they talked, as if he -were an uncle at the least, and he did not hesitate to interrupt their -conversation now and then by reading out a bit of news or making a -remark. He did not hesitate to correct Susie, who sometimes ventured -upon a big word with which she was not familiar, and used it wrongly, or -to tell Alice that she was a fidget, and could not keep still for five -minutes; and as this was done from behind the newspaper, in the most -accidental manner, it deepened still more the impression that nowhere -could Mr. Wedderburn have been more perfectly at home. The papers, it -may be added--that is to say, the London papers--arrived in Edinburgh in -the evening. The conversation which was going on when Mr. Dalyell came -into the drawing-room was, however, confined to the young people, and -was chiefly on the subject of the Scrymgeour ball, to which Fred was -going next day. - -“I think they might have asked me,” said Susie in an aggrieved tone. “I -am just the same age as Lucy Scrymgeour. It isn’t my fault mother, that -you’ve never taken me out yet. I am seventeen and _past_, as everybody -knows.” - -“No, it’s not your fault. I am sure you have badgered me enough about -it,” said Mrs. Dalyell; “but though you think you can do anything you -like with me, I have my opinions about some things. And one of them is -that a girl should not go out too soon. People are quite capable of -saying, ten or twenty years hence, ‘Oh, Susie Dalyell, I can tell you -her age to a day! She came out in such a year, and she must have been -nineteen at the least.’ That is exactly how people talk.” - -“And if they did,” cries Susie, “what would it matter? Farmer thinks I -look quite eighteen when I have my hair nicely dressed.” - -“That is all very well now, my dear; but wait till you are thirty or -thirty-five. You would like to put on a year or two now, but you will -like to take them off at the other end.” - -“Let’s hope,” said Mr. Wedderburn from behind his paper, “that she’ll -not be Susie Dalyell then.” - -“What difference will that make?” said Susie scornfully. “If I were -forty I should never make a mystery about it. What is the use of trying -to hide it, if you do have one foot in the grave?” - -“Mother’s forty--or more,” said Alice, “and nobody would say she had one -foot in the grave.” - -“Oh, what does it matter,” cried Susie again, “at that time of life, -when you are medeval and antediluvious? It is now that one minds.” - -“Susie, don’t call mamma such dreadful names.” - -“Mediæval and antediluvian, Susie”--from behind the paper, in an -undertone. - -“I suppose,” said Mrs. Dalyell tartly, “that Mr. Wedderburn thinks that -quite appropriate. Gentlemen always think a girl’s impertinence is -amusing when it’s directed against her mother; but you ought to know -better, Susie, than to hold me up to ridicule. I am sure, whatever else -I may be, I have been a careful mother to you.” - -“Oh, mamma! As if I meant anything like that,” cried Susie petulantly, -flinging herself upon her mother. “I only mean you don’t care now. It’s -nothing to you to think of Lucy dancing all night in billows of tulle, -like the girls in the novels, and me going to bed at ten o’clock. They -will only just have begun then. And to think they should have asked -Fred! and me Lucy’s greatest friend and contemporaneous, and friends -with Davie all my life--and that they never thought of asking me--never -even tried! Perhaps if they had asked me--and it’s such an opportunity -and such old friends--you would have let me go.” - -“I’ll tell you what, Susie,” said Fred, who had just come in; “I’ll ride -over to-morrow morning first thing and ask them to ask you. I dare say -they will for my sake.” - -Susie looked at him for a moment with a flush of hope, and then her face -clouded. “For your sake!” she said, with a sister’s frank contempt. “If -it’s only for your sake, I’ll stay at home. I am not a nobody like that. -I’m Lucy Scrymgeour’s oldest friend. If she doesn’t of her own -account--and Davie too,” cried the girl with an access of -indignation--“it’s more than any one can bear!” - -“I would never speak to one of them again,” said Alice, “if it was me.” - -“And what good would that do?” cried Susie, with the tear still in her -eye, turning upon her sister. “Lose the ball and a friend too! I suppose -they had some reason. Perhaps there were too many girls already--else -why should they ask Fred? Or, perhaps---- Yes, I’ll speak to Lucy again, -the first time I see her; but I shall be very dignified, and pretend -that I didn’t care a bit.” - -“But you couldn’t if you tried; dignified, my dear--that would be rather -difficult.” - -“Is there anything in the paper, Pat?” said Mr. Dalyell. - -“Not much. But it’s ill talking between a full man and a fasting. I’ve -seen what there is, and you’ve not. Here’s the _Times_. Munro’s in for -that place in the North.” - -“Bless my soul! and you call that nothing? Another firebrand, and as -good as two lost in our majority. That’s bad, Pat; that’s bad.” - -“I never think anything of a bye-election. They’re all in the nature of -accidents. There’s a good speech of Gladstone’s at one of the Lancaster -towns, and John Bright flaming on the side of peace like a house on -fire.” - -“And he says there’s nothing in the paper!” said Mr. Dalyell, as he -dropped into an easy-chair in his turn with the great broad-sheet of the -_Times_ in his hand. - -“When gentlemen begin talking politics,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “I always -think it is time for the ladies to retire. But you have begun early -to-night. Are you going into town at your usual hour to-morrow, Robert? -I hope you’ll be home early, for, with Fred away, there will be no man -but only the servants in the house.” - -“And what the worse will you be for that, Amelia? There are plenty to -protect you, I hope, if I were never to be seen again.” - -“Robert! that’s not a thing to joke about. I never feel safe, you know, -in this big, rambling old house when you’re not here--if it was only the -rats----” - -“What could the rats do to you, mother?” - -“Hold your peace, Fred!” said Mrs. Dalyell. “I sometimes think of Bishop -Hatto in that poem you used all to be so fond of--and those in the Pied -Piper. If you just heard some of old Janet Macalister’s stories, they -would make your hair stand on end.” - -“You’ll be back in time, Bob, not to keep her uneasy,” said Mr. -Wedderburn behind the _Standard_, which he had just taken up, to his -friend behind the _Times_. - -Dalyell answered carelessly, “Yes, yes. Why shouldn’t I be back in -time?” Then, with a laugh, to his wife, “You should never mind old -Janet. I dare say you were interfering with some hiding-holes of hers -that she did not want disturbed. She’s a kind of familiar spirit of the -house, that old woman. She knows it better than any of us; and there’s -all sorts of uncanny corners about this house. It would be to keep you -out of the secret chamber that she told you daft stories about the -rats.” - -“I don’t believe in any nonsense about secret chambers,” said Mrs. -Dalyell. “That’s all very well in Glamis, and such places: but Yalton’s -not good enough for that.” - -“Yalton’s good enough for anything, mamma,” cried Susie, indignant. “I -heard the horseman in the avenue a week ago, as clear as----” - -“What’s that you’re saying, Susie?” said Mr. Dalyell sharply. - -“Oh!” said the girl tremulously, “I mean the rain pattering in that -place, you know.” - -“Susie is always hearing some nonsense,” said her mother. “Gather up -your work and things, children, for it is time you were going to your -beds.” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Mr. Wedderburn went into Edinburgh by the early train, the train which -conveyed all the gentlemen who were business men. But Mr. Dalyell, who -was not exactly a man in business, went in later. He had a great deal to -do with that busy world, but he was not actually in harness with an -office which claimed his daily attention. He was a director of a railway -company, and he had something to do with a great insurance office, and -there were other more speculative concerns in which he was believed to -have an interest: and there were few days in the week in which he did -not go “in,” as everybody said, to Edinburgh; but still it was not a -matter of necessity. He was up earlier than his wont that morning--for -Yalton was not an early house in general--and “pottered about,” as his -wife said fretfully, from his dressing-room to the library and from the -library back to his dressing-room, disturbing her morning’s rest. He -seemed to have a quantity of little things to do. Even after the -breakfast bell had rung he ran twice into the library for something -which he said he had forgotten. “You seem to have as many things to -remember as if you were the Prime Minister,” said Mrs. Dalyell, who had -already poured out his coffee, and who was more annoyed when he left his -breakfast to get cold than by any other of his peccadilloes. “_Robert!_” -she cried from the door in a tone of exasperation, “there will be -nothing fit to eat!” “I am coming, I am coming!” he cried. The curious -thing was that he did not mind if his bacon was cold: but his wife -minded for him and fumed and fretted. “What is the use of trying to get -anything comfortable for your father?” she would say complainingly, -“Well, mother, I like my kidneys hot,” said Fred; “so they’re not thrown -away at least.” Mrs. Dalyell looked at her son as if his tastes were a -matter of much indifference, but softened when she met the lad’s -good-humoured blue eyes. He was not remarkable in appearance, but like -dozens of other Scotch lads all about--light-brown hair, curling so -strongly that it was difficult sometimes to comb it out; nice eyes, with -a smile in them; tolerable features, the nose turned up a little; not a -giant by any means, but well developed, well set up--a natural, -pleasant boy of twenty, not without his failings, and perhaps a little -careless, a little superficial, having had no occasion as yet to fathom -any of the depths of life. He nodded at her over the dish of kidneys -with a smile which was contagious. Mrs. Dalyell was by no means a -light-hearted person. She was easily put out. She did not like anybody -to have a different way of thinking from her own on the points that -interested her. To let your tea stand till it was cold was an offence to -Mrs. Dalyell. As for more serious matters she did not much interfere -with them. That was the gentlemen’s part of the business. To have -breakfast in good condition and attend to the comfort of the house was -hers, which perhaps is a view of the question which will commend itself -to many. In return for this she expected to have a great deal of the -trouble of life taken off her shoulders. She declared constantly that -she knew nothing of business. She preferred to get her money just when -she wanted it, instead of having a banking account of her own, as most -ladies like to have nowadays, or a settled allowance. In short, Mrs. -Dalyell was a woman whose very existence necessitated a husband behind -her to do the rough work and see to the supplies. Within these limits -there could not be a better mistress of a household. And she was -exceedingly annoyed when her husband allowed his breakfast to get cold. -It was a trick of his, of which it was her constant effort to mend him; -but he was seldom so bad as this day. - -“Go and tell your father,” she said at last, “that it is almost time for -the train. And to let him go without his breakfast is what I will not -do. So just tell him, once for all, if he does not come at once he must -just give up all thoughts of going in to Edinburgh to-day.” - -“Here I am--here I am, Amelia,” said Mr. Dalyell, running in and taking -his seat at table. “What have you got there, Fred? Kidneys!--and this is -bacon.” - -“All just as cold as chucky-stones,” said the lady of the house -solemnly. - -“You know I don’t mind, my dear. I’ll have a little of that kidney--and -a cup of coffee with plenty of milk. How often am I to tell you you -should never mind me?” - -“Just as often as I tell you I will mind you, Robert. Who should be -minded if it’s not the master of the house?” - -He cast upon her a look--which Fred, who had nearly but not quite -forgotten the conversation of last night, caught and wondered at with a -vague sense of pain, though his mother did not remark it. There was a -great deal of affection and tenderness in the glance; but something else -that puzzled him. There was trouble in it--but what trouble could there -be in his father’s eyes looking at his mother? There was something in it -which made him say quite inconsequently, looking up from his plateful of -devilled kidney, “You’re not going away anywhere, are you, father?” - -Then his father’s eyes fixed on himself with a startled glance: “Away?” -he said. “Where should I be going? and what’s put that into your head?” - -Fred replied with the familiar subterfuge of youth: “Oh, nothing!” But -his mind was not satisfied; for that was no answer. And there passed -through his thoughts a vague idea that if, later in the day, there came -a telegram saying that Mr. Dalyell had been obliged to go to London on -business, he would not be surprised. - -“Where indeed!” said Mrs. Dalyell. “It’s not the time for business, -which is a comfort: for you can’t be running up to London at a moment’s -notice, as you did in the spring. You would find nobody there.” - -“That is just it,” said Mr. Dalyell. And after he had made this -unquestioned observation, he added, “I shall perhaps run down to -Portobello and get a swim. Nothing puts a man right like the sea. I’ll -just take a plunge and be back by the four o’clock train.” - -“I hope you’ll have somebody with you; and don’t you be too venturesome -with your plunging and your swimming.” - -“Too venturesome on Portobello sands! I’ll get Pat Wedderburn to come -and look after me,” said Mr. Dalyell with a laugh. He laughed with his -lips, but his eyes were quite grave--which was all the more remarkable -since he had laughing eyes, with humorous puckers all about them, -exceedingly ready to light up at such a joke as that of being taken care -of by Pat Wedderburn. He had still half-a-dozen things which kept him -running out and in before he was ready to start, which his way, but -always a source of exasperation to his orderly wife. Finally, when -there was hardly time to catch the train, he dashed upstairs three steps -at a time, explaining that he had forgotten something. Mrs. Dalyell -stood wringing her hands at the open door. - -“I wish you had ordered the dog-cart, Fred. He’ll never catch the train. -You should remember your father’s ways, and that this is always what -happens: and then he’ll just fly and get out of breath and -over-heated--the very worst things for him. Dear, dear me! I might have -had more sense. I might have ordered the dog-cart myself, there’s only -ten minutes----” - -“If he does lose the train I suppose it won’t matter so much,” said -easy-minded Fred. - -“Not if he would think so,” replied the mother, “nothing at all--but -when he sets his mind on a thing, possible or impossible, he will carry -it out. ROBERT!” she cried, in capitals, going to the bottom of the -stairs. - -“I’m coming, I’m coming!” he shouted. His voice came not from the -direction of his room but from the west passage, where he had nothing to -do, a fact which awoke a vague surprise in Mrs. Dalyell’s mind. He came -downstairs “like a tempest,” she said afterwards, making as much noise, -and caught her in his arms, to her great astonishment. “Good-bye, my -dearest, good-bye!” he cried, giving her a loving kiss (“before the -bairns, and that man Foggo looking on!”). “Keep well and don’t distress -yourself about me.” He was gone almost before she could ask him why she -should distress herself about him, flying down the road with Fred after -him, which, indeed, was his usual way of catching a train. She stood at -the door looking after him, and though he was in such a hurry and not a -moment to lose, what did Robert do but turn round and take off his hat -and wave his hand to her! Such nonsense! as if he were going away for -years. She made a sign of impatience, hurrying him on. “Do you think -they will do it this time, Foggo?” she said to the butler, who was also -looking after them. Foggo had been standing ready to help his master on -with his coat. But Mr. Dalyell had time only to snatch it and throw it -over his shoulder, partly because of that unnecessary embrace which had -so confused his wife under the servant’s eyes. - -“Oh, ay, ma’am,” said Foggo, “they’ll do it; the maister’s aye just on -the edge--but he’s never missed her yet----” - -Mr. Dalyell, when he rushed upstairs, had not gone to his dressing-room -as he proposed to do. He had darted down the west passage, a long vacant -corridor with a few doors of unused bedrooms on one side. He went down -to the end room of all, and opened the door. An old woman in a -tremendous mutch and tartan shawl came forward to meet him. “I have come -to say good-bye, Janet, my woman,” he said, grasping her hand. “And -you’ll remember what you’ve promised.” - -“That I will, my bonnie man: if you’re sure you must do it. As long as I -live--but then I, may be, have not very long to live.” - -“We’ll have to trust for that,” he said, holding both her hands. - -“Could you no trust for other things? I’ve preachit to ye till I’m -weariet, maister Robert! Nobody trusted yet and was disappointed.” - -“We’ve gone over all that,” he said. “No, no, there’s no other way. We -can’t ask the Lord for money, Janet.” - -“What for no? And now I can scarce say God’s blessing on ye--for how -can I ask His blessing when it’s for a----?” - -“No more, Janet, no more. Good-bye!” - -“Oh, maister Robert, bide a moment. Do you mind the Psalm: - - ‘If in your heart ye sin regard - The Lord you will not hear?’ - -Think of that! How can I bid Him bless ye, when----?” - -“Good-bye, my dear old woman, good-bye!” - -And it was at this moment that Mrs. Dalyell’s voice calling “Robert!” -came small in the distance up the echoing passage. And in another moment -he was gone. - -Mrs. Dalyell went to her kitchen to give her orders to the cook as soon -as her husband was out of sight. She was an excellent housekeeper, and -enjoyed this part of her duties far too much to depute them to any -other, although indeed in the tide of prosperity which Mr. Dalyell’s -business had brought to Yalton she might have had a housekeeper had she -pleased, and a much larger establishment. But she had thrifty instincts -and that distrust of business which old-fashioned ladies used to have, -with an inward conviction that it always collapsed at one time or -another, and that the estate was the sheet-anchor: which had prevented -her ever from launching out into expense. She dismissed the thoughts of -Robert’s unusual embrace--for domestic endearments are sedulously kept -in the background in Scotch houses of the old-fashioned type--and of any -little peculiarity there might have been about him this morning more -than other mornings--from her mind: which it required no effort to do, -for she was not given to investigations below the surface, or reading -between the lines, and a parting kiss (though absurd) was a parting kiss -to Mrs. Dalyell, and it was nothing more. She took pains to order her -husband a very good dinner, with due consideration of his special -likings, which perhaps was as good a thing as she could have done. Then -after luncheon there was Fred to send off in good time, so that he might -not put out any of the Scrymgeours’ arrangements by arriving too late. -He had a seven-miles drive, and never would have recollected to order -the dog-cart in time if his mother had not taken that duty upon herself; -and she likewise cast a glance at his other arrangements to make sure -that his white ties were in good condition and his pumps as they ought -to be--precautions quite unnecessary and rather distasteful to the young -man in his new conviction, acquired at Oxford, that he knew better than -any one what was essential to a perfect turn-out, either for horse or -man. Susie, who was liberated from lessons after luncheon, spent her -time in preparing messages for Lucy Scrymgeour which were intended to -disturb and plant thorns in that young person’s mind. “You can tell her -I never was so surprised in my life as when it came for you and not for -me: for you never were such friends with them as me. But you’re only -asked as a man. They must be badly off for men; though when one thinks -of all the officers in the garrison--and Davie such friends with all of -them! I don’t think you have got any amatory instincts, Fred--for you’ve -no friends but Oxford men; and what good would they be to us if we had a -ball? But you can tell Davie _from me_----” - -“Has Davie amatory instincts?” cried Fred. “The little beast--I’ll take -him no messages from you.” - -“What on earth is the child talking of?” said Mrs. Dalyell. “Where did -she hear such a word? Amatory!” - -“It means friendship,” cried Susie, with a burning blush. “I know--I -know it does! I mean Davie has such lots of friends--and Fred has none; -or at least none that would be of any use if we were to have a ball.” - -“But we are not going to have a ball,” said the mother; “it is a great -deal too much trouble. Ask the Scrymgeours what they think a week hence. -The whole house will be turned upside down, and the servants put out of -the way, and everybody made wretched. No, Susie, there will be no ball.” - -“Then am I never to come out at all?” said Susie in a voice from which -consternation had driven all the lighter tones. This was too solemn a -thought to be expressed except with the gravity of fate. - -“You should present her, mother,” said Fred; “that’s the right thing for -a girl.” - -“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “that’s a great trouble too! The gowns -alone would cost about a hundred pounds; and your father, you know, -never stays a day longer in London than he can help--and what would -Susie and me do, two women by ourselves in that great big place? -Besides, to make it worth the while we would need to know a number of -people and get invitations. I’ve often heard of country people, very -well thought of in their own place, that have just been humiliated to -the very dust in London, with nobody to ask them out, or to call on them -or anything. She’ll have to be content with something nearer home.” - -“That is all because things are so conventionary and nothing natural,” -said Susie; “that is what they say in all the books. But if papa would -go up with us in his Deputy Lieutenant’s uniform, and knowing such -quantities and quantities of people--and perhaps if you were to tell -Mrs. Wauchope she might speak to the Duchess, and the Duchess would say -just a little word to one of the Princesses--and then perhaps the -Queen----” - -“Are you out of your senses, Susie? What do you expect that the Queen -would do?” - -“Well! they might say we belonged to D’yell of Yalton that saved the -life of James the Fourth, who is the Queen’s great, great, great (I -don’t know how many greats) grandfather. And if she was passing this -way, you know, mamma, my father would have to come out and offer her a -drink of milk upon his knees. And it is a real old rule for thousands of -years, a feudacious tenor, or something of that kind----” - -“Where did you find all that, Susie? Is it true, mother? Do we hold -Yalton like that?” cried Fred in great delight. “I never knew we were -such distinguished people before.” - -“I don’t see any distinction about it,” said Mrs. Dalyell: “I never paid -much attention to such old stories. Oh, if you believe all the Dalyell -stories---- By the way, Susie, I wish you to pronounce the name as I -do--as everybody is doing now. ’D’yell’ is so common--it is what the -ploughmen say.” - -“It is the right old antiquous way,” said Susie with energy, “and I like -it far the best. I heard about the horseman too--what it means,” she -added in a low tone. “Papa will never let me speak, but I could tell you -such things, Fred, if----” And here the little girl made various -telegraphic signs, meaning that enlightenment might be afforded if they -were alone together, with the mother well out of the way. These designs, -however, were frustrated unconsciously by Mrs. Dalyell, who gave her -daughter something to do in the way of replying to notes, which kept -Susie busy until it was time for Fred to depart. - -But yet there was a little time for talk when the girls went with him -round to the stables to remind the groom that he must not be late. - -“Where did you hear about that feudal business, Susie?” said Fred. “Did -you get it out of a book?” - -“I got it out of something much funnier. I got it out of old Janet. You -should just hear her; she knows more about us--oh! so much more--than we -know about ourselves. She told me about----” - -“Old Janet!” said Fred. He had forgotten his father’s grave talk and all -that had passed on the terrace, and it was not till he had thought it -over for a minute or two that it slowly came back to him what -association that was which was linked with the name of old Janet. Not -that he had not perfect acquaintance with her, as a matter of fact. She -had been Mr. Dalyell’s nurse, and had always possessed a room of -her own at Yalton, where she lived in a curious isolation and -independence--respected, and, perhaps, a little feared by the household -in general. Fred endeavoured to remember what it was as Susie’s voice -ran on, and then it suddenly burst upon him. It was to her his father -had advised him to go if he wanted help, in the supposed contingency of -his own removal--old Janet, of all people in the world! The recollection -made Fred indignant, yet gave him a sort of shiver of alarmed -presentiment as well. Could his father have meant anything more than a -mere passing fancy? Yet surely he must have meant something. And under -what possible circumstances could he, Fred, a University-man, and -acquainted with the world, require to take counsel with old Janet? It -gave him the strangest thrill to his very finger-points. It must mean -something different from what it seemed to mean. His father would never -have given him such a recommendation without a reason. Fred thought with -a sensation of horror of the family secrets which such an old woman -might possess. She might know something that would ruin them all--there -might be something hanging over them, something which she had to break -to him. Fred flung this fancy out of his mind as if it had been a stone -that some one had thrown into it, and came back to what Susie was -saying. Indifferent to the fact that he was not listening, Susie was -recounting the story of the family warning. - -“‘And since that time there has always been a sound in the avenue as if -some horseman was coming, heavy dunts on the road, and the tinkle of the -bridle,’ she says. Always when there is trouble coming. I am sure it -must be very fatiguing for a ghost, and monotonious--oh! just beyond -description--to ride that little bit of road and never come near the -house, and all just to frighten a person. I would dash into the hall and -shake my bridle at them if it was me.” - -“If you were a ghost, Susie?” said Alice with a shiver. “Oh, how can you -think of yourself as a ghost?” - -“I don’t: I’m not diaphanious,” said Susie; “but if you were to be a -ghost at all it would be better to have something more to do than just -dunting, dunting, over one bit of road.” - -“Janet must have been telling you a lot of lies and nonsense,” said Fred -indignantly; “I’ll have to speak to her if she goes on like that.” - -“Or tell papa,” said Alice. “He never likes to hear about the horseman.” - -“Yes, or tell papa,” said Fred. He could not tell what it meant, but he -had a strange feeling as if it were he himself that must do this and -shield his sisters from things that might frighten them--as if his -father somehow had not much to do with it. But he was greatly shocked -with himself when he became conscious of this thought. He was so much -absorbed, indeed, in the uncomfortable fancies called up by Janet’s -name, that Susie’s story of the King’s hunting and danger of his life, -and how the goodwife of Yalton brought him a bowl of milk, and how the -lands, as much as they could ride round in a day, according to the most -approved romantic fashion, were bestowed upon the D’yells for that -service, had little effect upon her brother. And presently the dog-cart -came round to the door, and the sight of Fred seated in it with his -portmanteau diverted Susie’s thoughts also and brought back her -grievance. She stood watching his departure by the side of her mother, -who had come out as was her wont to see the boy off. - -“There he goes!” said Susie. “Oh, what fossilized hearts boys have! He -never thinks of me that has to stay at home. Tell Lucy Scrymgeour if she -thinks I will ask her to our ball she is in the greatest mistake, and it -will be just as much splendider than theirs, as Yalton is better than -Westwood. And tell her mamma is going to take me to London to be -presented and make my three obeysances to the Queen, and when I have -done that I can go to every place, and all the other queens are obliged -to ask me. Well, if mamma doesn’t, it’s not my fault; but you can always -tell her, Fred: and just say to that ichthyosaurious Davie that I’ll -have all the grand guardsmen and equerries to talk to, and I wouldn’t -look at him.” - -“But it’s not his fault, Susie,” said Alice; “and perhaps he’ll tell -Fred he is very sorry.” - -“I don’t think he will, for boys have no hearts: they have vegetable -things instead, when they are not fossilized. If he says he is sorry, -Fred, you can say I don’t mind very much, only I’ll never speak to them -again.” - -“I hope you’ll have a nice ball, Fred,” said Mrs. Dalyell. “Come back as -early as you can to-morrow, for there are some people coming to tea. -And you may bring over Lucy and David, and any other young ones that are -staying at Westwood. We can give them their tea on the terrace, it’s not -too cold for that; and I am sure Mrs. Scrymgeour will be thankful to any -one that will take them out of her way.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -About the time when Fred was starting from Yalton Mr. Wedderburn, the -friend of the family, might have been seen in his office in a condition -very unlike his usual calm. That he was very much disturbed about -something was evident. His table was covered with all those -carefully-arranged letters and docketed papers which are essential to -the pose of a man of business; and by intervals he wrote a letter--or, -rather, part of a letter--to which he added a line whenever he could fix -his thoughts to it; but these intervals were scattered through the -reflections and calculations of several hours, to which Mr. Wedderburn -returned, from minute to minute, laying down his pen and falling back -into some more absorbing subject of thought. Sometimes he got up and -walked about the room, going from one window to the other, and staring -out at each as if the slight variation of the view could afford him some -light upon the subject over which he puckered his brows. Now and then he -said to himself audibly, “I must go out to-night.” He was not a man who -indulged in the habit of speaking to himself, nor was there much in -these words which could throw light upon the subject of his thoughts; -but it was evidently a sort of relief to him to say this as he paced -heavily about the room and looked out, staring blankly, neither seeing, -nor expecting to see, anything that would clear up the trouble on his -face. “I must go out to-night.” This phrase, however, meant a great deal -to the sober and reserved Edinburgh lawyer. - -It meant that to the house which he visited so often, receiving -hospitality, kindness, and a sense of almost family well-being, for -which he gave back nothing but a steady, undemonstrative friendship, the -moment had now come when he must go in another character--in the -character, indeed, of an anxious brother and helper, but yet as -announcing an approaching catastrophe and the breaking-up of a -superstructure of long-established prosperity and peace. He had not been -convinced of the necessity of this till to-day. Whispers, indeed, had -come to his ears of doubtful speculations and a position which was -beginning to be assailed by questions which never should arise as to -the position of a man in business. But he had lent a deaf ear to all -that was malicious, and brushed away all friendly fears. “Bob D’yell’s -as sensible a fellow as ever stepped. It’ll take strong evidence to make -me believe that he’s been playing ducks and drakes with his money.” This -confident speech from a man of Pat Wedderburn’s authority (in Edinburgh, -as in fashionable circles, the well-known members of the community are -generally distinguished by their Christian names) had done much to -support a credit which was not so robust as it had been. But this -morning Mr. Wedderburn had heard very unpleasant things--things which -had gone to his heart, and wounded both his affection and his pride. He -had a pride in his friend’s credit as in his own. And when he thought of -the cheerful household and all its innocent indulgences, Mr. Wedderburn -struck the table with his fist in the trouble of his heart. To think -that they might have to leave Yalton, to give up their little luxuries, -their social rank, all the pleasures of their life, affected this old -bachelor as probably it would not at all affect themselves. He could -have shed angry tears over the “putting down” of Mrs. Dalyell’s carriage -and the girls’ ponies, which, if it came to that, and they were aware -that their position required such sacrifices, these ladies would give up -without a murmur; and, perhaps, none of them would have much objection -to come “in” to a house in Edinburgh instead of Yalton, which was a -possibility which made Mr. Wedderburn swear. He was very unhappy about -them, one and all, and about his life-long friend, Bob D’yell, who must -no doubt have been in the wrong, and whom sometimes in his heart he -blamed angrily and bitterly, thinking what the effect of his rashness -would be to the others. Pat Wedderburn was grieved to the heart. He -could as easily have believed in himself going wrong; “But, God bless -us!” he said to himself, “it’s not going wrong. He has been taken in; he -was always a sanguine fellow, and he’s been deceived.” His thoughts -finally resolved themselves into the necessity, above and before all -things, of having a long talk with Bob; and he repeated, as he once more -stared mechanically out of the further window, “I must go out to-night.” - -He could not, however, go “out” before the usual time, and in the -interval he could not rest. Finally, he took his hat and left his office -with a better inspiration. If he could find his friend at one of the -establishments in which he had an interest, the talk might be had at -once, without any need, at least for to-night, of disturbing the -peaceful echoes of Yalton. Mr. Wedderburn went out for this purpose with -very tender thoughts of his friend mingled with his anger. “Why couldn’t -the fellow tell me in time? But the Lord grant it may still be in time! -There’s things I might have done. I’m not without funds nor resources, -nor ideas, either, for that matter.” And as Mr. Wedderburn went along -the orderly Edinburgh street, he burst out into a kind of laugh, such as -is among many elderly Scotchmen the last evidence of emotion, and said -within himself: “To the half of my kingdom!” The humour of the contrast -between that romantic phrase and the very prosaic, rapid calculation he -had gone through as to the money he--not a romantic person at all, an -Edinburgh W.S., of fifty-five, and of the most humdrum appearance--could -command: and the true feeling with which he had realised his friend’s -misfortune, burst forth in that anomalous sound. A woman who was passing -turned round and looked at him with puzzled alarm; and a boy, one of -those rude commentators who spare nobody’s feelings, called out, -“That’s a daft man; he’s laughing to himsel’.” “Laughing,” said Mr. -Wedderburn with something like a groan: “there is little laughing in my -head.” And so he went on to the Railway Office, and the Insurance -Office, to ask for Mr. Dalyell. - -At the railway he had not been seen that day, at the other office he had -appeared for about half an hour only. - -“He will have returned home, I suppose,” Wedderburn said indifferently. - -“Well, no, sir; not at once,” said the clerk who answered his questions. -“I heard him saying he was feeling fagged, and that he was going out to -Portobello for a dip in the sea and a good swim.” - -“It’s a little cold for that,” said Wedderburn. - -“Well, it may be a little cold,” admitted the clerk cautiously, “but Mr. -D’yell is a great man for the sea.” - -“He will probably be going out by the usual train,” Mr. Wedderburn said -to himself as he turned away. But there was no appearance of Dalyell in -the train. The lawyer walked to Yalton through the cornfields, in which -the harvest had begun, just as the sun was sinking. The ruddy autumnal -light came into his eyes, half blinding him with its long, level rays. -Everything was rosy with the brilliancy of the sunset; the blue sky -flushed with ruddy clouds, the warm colour of the sheaves catching a -still warmer tone from the sun. All was peaceful, wealthy, full of -external comfort and riches, and the house of Yalton caught the sinking -gleams from the west upon its high roof and pinnacles like a -benediction. The trees were taking the autumn livery here and there, -giving as yet only a little additional warmth to the landscape. To go -from Yalton to Melville Street, or some other dread abode of stony -gentility in Edinburgh, how could they ever bear it? Mr. Wedderburn had -been going over all his resources as he made his little journey, and he -had reckoned up what he could spare to set his friend on his legs again. -Perhaps there might yet be time! - -When he went into the drawing-room where Mrs. Dalyell was sitting, she -raised her head from her work, with a smile on her face. And then he -observed a little alteration--oh, not so much as a cloud upon her face, -not even a look that could be called disappointment, but only the -slightest scarcely perceptible change of expression. “Mr. Wedderburn!” -she said. “I’m very glad to see you: but I thought it was Robert,” and -she held out her hand to him with all the easy confidence of habitual -friendship. She was not disappointed; there was no doubt in her mind -that Robert was coming, if not behind his friend, at least with the next -train. - -“You will be surprised to see me so soon again,” he said, feeling a -little embarrassed. “You will think you are never to be quit of that old -fellow--but I wanted to have a long talk with Bob on some business; and -as I could not find him at the office----” - -“No,” said Mrs. Dalyell; “he said as soon as he could get his business -over he was going down to Portobello for a dip in the sea. I never knew -such a man for the sea. No doubt that has made him lose his train--for -he’s generally very punctual by this train.” - -“That is what I thought,” said Mr. Wedderburn. “I thought I would meet -him and come out with him. But the next will bring him, no doubt.” - -“In about three-quarters of an hour,” said Mrs. Dalyell, calmly: and she -added, “It’s a beautiful evening, and it’s a pity to keep you in the -house. We should take the good of the fine weather as long as it lasts. -Never mind me: you will find the girls upon the terrace somewhere. But -take a cup of tea before you go out.” - -“I will take a cup of tea,” said the visitor, “thankfully. But why not -come out upon the terrace yourself? It is the most lovely afternoon, and -the wind, as much as there is, is from the west. It’s a sin to stay in -the house when you have such a place to see the sunset from. Now if you -were in Melville Street, for instance----” - -“Why Melville Street?” said Mrs. Dalyell with a laugh--but she did not -wait for an answer. “If I had to live in Edinburgh I would never go -there. I would prefer the south side--or old George’s Square where the -houses are so good. I sometimes think we will have to come in for the -winter now that Susie’s of an age for parties, for there is little -gaiety for a young thing here.” - -“That’s true,” said Mr. Wedderburn, and he gave her a look in which -there was an inquiry and a moment’s doubt. Did she perhaps know -something? Had Bob D’yell confided some hint of approaching calamity or -necessary retrenchment to the wife of his bosom? What so natural, what -so wise? Mrs. Dalyell’s head was a little bent over the table where she -stood pouring out a cup of tea for the visitor; but she raised it, -meeting that inquiring look with the perfect frankness of her usual -demeanour and the calm of a woman round whom there had never been any -mysteries. She was struck, however, by his look. “Is there anything the -matter?” she said. “You are looking very serious.” Then, for heaven -knows what womanish reason, it occurred to her that Mr. Wedderburn was -himself in trouble, and wanting something of her husband. “You know,” -she said with a little emphasis, “that whatever might be the matter, if -there’s anything that Robert could do, Mr. Wedderburn, you are as sure -of him as of a brother.” “God bless her innocence!” the lawyer said to -himself. - -“Not a bit,” he said. “There’s nothing the matter: but thank you all the -same for saying that. Bob D’yell’s been to me as a brother, since we -were boys together--and will be I hope till the end.” - -Mrs. Dalyell put out her soft hand to him over the tea-table with a -smile. There was water in his eyes, though, fortunately, as he stood -with his back to the light, it could not be seen--but there was none in -hers. Her eyes were as serene as the evening skies; and her soft hand, -which perhaps was a little too soft, with no bones in it to speak of, -the hand of a woman never used to do much for herself, met his strong -grasp, in which there was more than many an oath of fidelity, with a -moderate and simple kindness which showed at once how natural and -genuine was the friendship to which she thus pledged her husband, and -how devoid of all tragical elements so far as her comprehension went. -She was a little surprised by Mr. Wedderburn’s grip, which rather hurt -that soft hand, but led the way to the terrace, after he had taken his -tea, with all her usual serenity. She took a shawl from the stand in the -hall and wrapped herself in it as she went out. In Scotland even in July -it is wise to take a shawl when you go out to see the sunset; how much -more in September! Indeed, after she had taken two or three turns upon -the terrace, she went in again, saying that it was all very well for -“you young things” (with a smile at Mr. Wedderburn), but that she knew -what rheumatism was. Susie and Alice were very good company on the -terrace, and they had a thousand things to say to their old friend, so -that, though he had looked occasionally at his watch, he had not taken -very decided note of the passage of time, until an hour after, when Mrs. -Dalyell came back again, with a shawl this time over her head. The sun -had quite gone down, the shadows were lengthening, and twilight stealing -on. “Do you mean to say,” Mrs. Dalyell said as she came down the steps -to the terrace, “that your father’s not here? I made sure he must be -here with you: the train’s been in this half-hour, and there’s not -another till nine--and no telegram. I don’t know what it can mean.” - -It could not be said, perhaps, that she was anxious, but she was uneasy, -not knowing what to think. Mr. Wedderburn, for his part, started, as if -the fault had somehow been his. “Bless me!” he said, “I had forgotten -all about it. I might have gone down and met the train.” - -“That would have done little good,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “for if he had -come by it he would have been here before now: the thing that astonishes -me is there’s no telegram. Sometimes Robert, like other people, is -detained. Every business man must be detained now and then: but he -always sends a telegram. I never knew him to fail.” - -“That is the worst,” said Mr. Wedderburn, “of being too exact in your -ways. If you ever depart from them by any accident everybody thinks -something must have happened.” - -“I don’t think something must have happened,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “but I -don’t understand it. It’s so unlike him. He would rather take any -trouble than keep me anxious; and I told him particularly we should be -alone to-night, with no man except servants in the house. It’s not like -Robert. It must have been something quite unforeseen.” - -“Such things are always happening, my dear lady. He may have had to meet -some man from London; he may even have had to go to London himself.” - -“Dear me!” said Mrs. Dalyell, “you don’t think that’s likely? Without so -much as a clean shirt! Besides, he would have sent a telegram,” she -repeated, going back to the one thing of which she was sure. - -“It’s the telegram you miss more than the man,” said Mr. Wedderburn -with a laugh. It was very very little of a laugh. He was more miserable -than she, for her anxiety was quite unmixed by any deeper sense of a -possible reason for her husband’s absence. There was no reason for it, -none whatever to her consciousness. - -“That is just it. I want the telegram to explain the man. Of course, he -might be called away. Would I have him tied to my apron-string? But a -word of warning, that’s what I look for. ‘Kept by business and will not -be back till the late train,’ or ‘Dining at the Lord President’s,’ -or--it does not matter what it is. I am always glad that Robert should -enjoy himself, so long as I have my telegram. But as it’s evident he’s -not coming,” said Mrs. Dalyell, looking at her watch, “we must just take -our dinner and hope he’s getting as good a one. He will be coming by the -nine train.” - -Mr. Wedderburn went in with very painful fancies, which he could not -shake off. The moment would have come, perhaps, when Bob D’yell had to -tell his family that he was a ruined man, and he would be shrinking from -that stern necessity. His friend pictured him wandering about the dark -streets, or sitting in the rooms above the Insurance Office, where -there was space to receive on occasion a belated director, and counting -up all he had--alas! would it not rather be all the debts he -had--reckoning them, and asking himself how long it would be before the -storm burst, and how he was to tell _her_, and what the poor children -would do? That was what the poor fellow would be thinking, wherever he -was. Instead of coming back--the good lawyer exclaimed within himself in -a little attempt at anger, to keep his sympathy from becoming too -heart-rending--to one that might have helped him! But that would be just -like Bob D’yell--ready enough to come to you if you were in trouble, to -give all his mind to what was to be done: but not if the trouble was his -own: more likely then to hide himself, to think shame of it, as if -misfortune was a man’s own fault. Mr. Wedderburn did not know what to -do, whether to hurry into Edinburgh to make inquiries, or to wait on, -and see whether he would arrive by the late train. Somehow he had very -little faith that his friend would come home. He might go away, -thinking, perhaps, that the creditors would be more gentle with his -family if he were gone. And that would be called absconding! Heaven -only could tell what in his despair the poor fellow might do. - -Except suicide: there never occurred to his friend, in the endless -thoughts he had on the subject, any fear of that, which to a Frenchman -would be the first thing to be thought of--the natural refuge for a -bankrupt. No, no!--come what might there was no need to think of that -dark contingency. Besides, Mr. Wedderburn reflected, with a sense of the -grim humour of the suggestion, that Dalyell, as the director of an -insurance company, knew too well that such a step would take away the -last resource his children might have. No, no!--not that. But he might -go away. He might not be able to bear the sight of ruin as affecting -them. That was what chiefly weighed upon himself--the woman and her -children; the girls, who would not know what it meant; and poor Fred, -who would know what it meant--who would have to abandon everything on -which his heart was most set. Had Wedderburn been aware of the -conversation which had taken place between Fred and his father his -troubled thoughts would have been still more serious: as it was, all he -could do was to keep his countenance, to look as like his ordinary as -possible, not to frighten the poor things too soon. - -But the dinner went over well enough. Mrs. Dalyell kept looking at the -door every time it opened, though she knew it was only to admit a new -dish, expecting her telegram. But it did not come. And the nine o’clock -train arrived, and there was still no appearance of the master of the -house. The footman was sent down to meet the train, and Wedderburn put -on his coat, and said shyly that he would just take a turn and meet the -truant. And the girls ran out by the terrace, and one strayed down the -avenue to bring papa home. And though it was cold, Mrs. Dalyell opened -one of the drawing-room windows that she might hear him coming. She was -not alarmed: but she was so much surprised that it made her a little -uneasy, for in all her married life such a thing had never happened to -her before. - -When it proved that he had not come by the nine o’clock train nobody -knew what to think. By this time the telegraph-office was closed at the -village, and there was no longer any hope of news that way: which, -strangely enough, was a thing that rather calmed than otherwise Mrs. -Dalyell’s mind. - -“He must be coming by the midnight express,” she said. - -“Would you like me to go in and see if there was anything the matter?” -said Mr. Wedderburn. - -“What could be the matter?” she said. - -“Oh, he might be ill--or there might have been an accident!” - -“In that case,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “Robert never would have omitted to -send a telegram--or the people at the office, or wherever he was, would -have done it. No, no! You would go in to Edinburgh anxious, and we could -not let you know that he had got the express to stop. Just stay where -you are. And we’ll hear all about it when he comes. And it’s a comfort -to have you in the house.” - -To this request Mr. Wedderburn at once yielded. If the poor fellow did -come home, miserable and disheartened, it was better that he should see -a friend’s face, and take counsel with a man who was ready to help and -advise before he told _her_. Besides, it was better for her, poor thing, -to have somebody to stand by her. And, oddly enough, now that there was -no chance of that telegram she was not so anxious. She had no doubt of -Robert coming by the express. She let Alice stay up beyond her bedtime -to make up a rubber for Mr. Wedderburn, and took her share in the game -quite cheerfully. She did not believe in either illness or accident. “He -would have had no peace till I was by his bedside,” she said; “and -anybody could have sent a telegram.” No, no, she had no fear of that: -and expected now quite calmly the last train. - -But Mr. Dalyell did not come by the midnight express. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -There is something dreadful in the aspect of a room from which its -habitual occupant is absent unexpectedly all night. Its good order, its -cold whiteness, the unused articles in tidy array, undisturbed by any -careless natural movements, strike a chill to the heart. In any case, -even when the usual tenant is pleasantly absent, or gone on a visit, -there is something ominous in the empty room. It seems to breathe of a -time when the familiar person will be gone for ever. And how much more -when the beloved occupant has gone mysteriously--absent, lost in the -unknown--no one knowing where he has passed the night! Mrs. Dalyell was -not a fanciful woman, she was not given to morbid imaginations, but when -she glanced into her husband’s dressing-room next morning her heart sank -for a moment with this chill, that would not be reasoned away. She did -reason it away, however, and recovered her composure. For, after all, -what was it?--nothing. A man in active life has a hundred calls upon -him. He might be whipped off to London upon some railway business -without any warning. The only thing that really troubled her was the -absence of that telegram. It was still almost summer weather; nothing to -interrupt the working of the telegraph anywhere. Already even she might -have had one had he telegraphed from any station on the way up to -London. This was the thing which she could not understand. - -“No, there is no word,” she said. “I have made up my mind he must have -been called off at a moment’s notice to London; but why he didn’t -telegraph, I can’t imagine--even from Berwick he might have done it, and -I should have had it by this time. I never knew Robert so careless -before.” - -“Here it is, mother,” cried Alice, rushing in with the famous yellow -envelope, the hideous messenger of so much trouble. But when Mrs. -Dalyell took it, she flung it back again almost with indignation, and -turned upon the girl with a sort of fury. - -“Couldn’t you see,” she cried, “that it was for Mr. Wedderburn?” The -poor lady had kept her nerves quiet and her imagination suppressed till -now. But this felt to her like an injury. She got up from the -breakfast-table, and paced about the room, wringing her hands. It had -come, but it was not for her! This seemed to put terror into the -anxiety, an increase of every involuntary tremor. In the sickness of the -disappointment tears came rushing to her eyes. She took Alice by the -shoulders and gave her a shake. “Couldn’t you see? you little careless -monkey!” Poor Mrs. Dalyell was unjust in the heat of her disappointment. -But after a while reason once more resumed its sway. “I am letting it -get upon my nerves,” she said with a tremulous laugh, as she came back -to the table. Then, with a glance at Mr. Wedderburn’s disturbed face, -“It is not by any chance--about Robert?” she cried. - -“No--no--I’ve no reason to suppose it is. It’s from my managing clerk. -He says: ‘Something requiring your instant attention. Fear bad----’ -No--no--no reason in the world to suppose that D’yell has anything to do -with it. I must just hurry away. I’m called upon often, you know,” he -added with a sickly explanatory smile, “on urgent--personal affairs.” - -“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “we know that well; and no better or kinder -counsellor. But you have had no breakfast----” - -“I must not stop a moment longer--there is just time for the early -train.” - -The girls caught their hats from the stand in the hall and ran down with -him, Alice speeding on in front like a greyhound to bid the -station-master keep back the train for a minute--a kindly arrangement -which often was made for the convenience of Yalton. Mr. Wedderburn gave -forth a few breathless instructions to Susie as he hurried along. “If I -were you I would send over for Fred. He should be at home in the -circumstances: and don’t let your mother be troubled.” - -“But, dear Mr. Wedderburn, what are the circumstances?” said Susie. “Is -there anything wrong with papa?” - -“I hope not, my dear, I hope not. I’ve no reason to think that there is -anything wrong: but just--I would have Fred at home as early as -possible. And if I hear anything in town, I’ll send you word directly. -And you may calculate on seeing me before dinner. Then we’ll know what -to think.” - -“I hope papa will be home before then: and he’ll laugh at us -cardiatically.” - -“Susie, my dear--there’s no such word.” - -“Oh yes, Mr. Wedderburn, for cardiac means from the heart; and that’s -the only way it will go.” - -He turned round upon her, and smiled with the strangest mixture of -fatherly kindness and pity and sorrow. Susie was silenced by this -strange look. Her eyes were startled with a sudden anxious question, her -soft lips dropped apart with fear and wonder. “Oh, why are you so sorry -for me, Mr. Wedderburn?” she cried. But they were just arriving at the -railway, and the train was waiting. Susie, with her young sister -clinging to her arm, both a little breathless with their run, in their -light morning dresses and careless garden hats, the rose of morning -health and brightness in their soft, shaded faces, the morning sun -shining upon them and round them, distinguishing them upon the rustic -platform by the soft little shadow they threw, was a sight the good -lawyer never forgot. “The innocent things!” he said to himself. - -When he was safe from their eyes, whirling along over the country, he -took once more the telegram from his pocket: “Something requiring your -immediate attention. Fear bad news. Sent for last night. Too late to -communicate, please lose no time.” Well! after all, there was nothing in -that to indicate Bob D’yell. It might be Mrs. Davidson’s business. It -might be that scapegrace young Faulkner again. The devil fly away with -all young spendthrifts! To give an honest man a fright like this for -him! Mr. Wedderburn, with a momentary relief, noted, a gleam of fun -coming into his eyes, two superfluous words in the telegram: -“‘Please’--the blockhead! What man in his senses says ‘please’ when he -has to pay a ha’penny for it?” he said with a little hoarse laugh to -himself. For surely it must be young Faulkner--the born fool! There was -absolutely nothing to connect it with Bob D’yell. - -When he entered his office, however, he was met with a very grave face -by his managing clerk. “It was a man from Musselburgh, sir, last night. -He came to the office, and finding it shut, as it naturally would be at -that hour, came on to me at my house. You know, sir, I live out at -Morningside----” - -“It would be strange if I did not know where you live--get on, man, get -on!” - -“I say that to account for it being so late. Well, sir, he told me--if -it was Musselburgh or if it was Portobello, I can’t quite say, but it’s -written down, and I sent off young Gibson by skreigh of day to make -inquiries. He told me, sir, that a heap of clothes had been found on the -sands belonging to somebody, it would seem, that was bathing in the sea. -They lay there all the afternoon and no one took any notice, but at last -one of the fisherwomen getting bait came in and said it was a -gentleman’s clothes, and his watch and all lying. And the things were -examined, and in the pockets were a number of letters----” - -Mr. Wedderburn gave a gasp, inarticulate but impatient, with a vehement -wave of his hand. The clerk handed him, with a look of deep -commiseration and sympathy which filled the lawyer with sudden rage, a -little packet on the table. - -Ah!--had he not known it all the time? - -He sank into a chair, speechless for the moment, but half with rage at -Martin standing there gently shaking his head, with the look that a -sympathetic acquaintance wears at a funeral--as if it were anything to -him! “Robert Dalyell, Esq., Yalton,” the familiar commonplace address, -that meant nothing except the merest everyday necessity--that meant a -whole tragedy now. - -“Found lying on the sands. But was that all--was that all? For God’s -sake, man, speak out, whatever you have to say.” - -Martin excused Mr. Wedderburn’s hastiness with a slight wave of his -hand, and said all there was to say. It was very little: Mr. Dalyell, a -man very well known, had been seen to arrive at the station, and had -been met by various people on his way to the sea. He was not in the -habit of using the bathing machines, as indeed few gentlemen were. There -was no special danger about the spot, and it was a calm day, and he was -a good swimmer. Of course the place was a little out of the way, and -east of the sands, as was indispensable when gentlemen bathed without -any machine; but nothing out of the ordinary--many men did the same, and -Mr. Dalyell did it constantly. No cry of distress had been heard, nor -any other signs of a catastrophe. This little mound of clothes, flung -down with the conviction of perfect security, the watch in the pocket, -a shilling or two dropped on the sands as the things were moved--this -was all. “The body,” Martin said, dropping his already subdued voice, -“had not been found.” - -The body! Surely it was premature still to talk of that. - -“He might have been carried along by the current further east and got to -land there.” - -“A naked man, sir--without any clothes! There would soon have been word -of such a wonder as that--and somebody sent on for the things. We took -all that into consideration.” - -“I must go down myself at once,” said the lawyer. - -“I sent Gibson, sir, the first thing.” - -“What’s Gibson to me?” said Mr. Wedderburn, with a sort of roar of -trouble, anger, and misery combined. “I must go myself.” - -“There are a number of letters,” said Martin, “that might want -answering.” - -“Letters! when Bob Dalyell’s lying somewhere dead or dying.” - -“Oh, sir,” said Martin, “in the midst of life we are in death. If it’s -poor Mr. D’yell--and there’s no reasonable doubt on the subject--he’s -dead long, long before now.” - -Wedderburn made a dash through the air with his clenched fist, as if he -had been knocking down a too sympathetic clerk, and took his hat, and -darted away. - -“Old Pat’s in one of his grandest tempers,” a young clerk permitted -himself to say in Mr. Martin’s hearing, as the door closed with a -violent swing behind their employer. - -“Old Pat!--if it’s our respected superior, Mr. Wedderburn, that ye mean -by that familiar no to say contemptuous epithet,” said Mr. Martin--“he -has just heard of the loss of his dearest friend. You would do better to -feel for him than to mock at a good man in trouble, my young friend.” - -Mr. Wedderburn rushed to Portobello as fast as the train would take him, -following in the track of his young clerk, who had already exhausted -every means of information, but who fortunately met the lawyer on the -way and gave him the result of his inquiries. These inquiries seemed to -leave no doubt as to the catastrophe, and Wedderburn found to his horror -that it was already very generally known, and that there had been a -paragraph on the subject in the _Scotsman_, fortunately not giving the -name of the sufferer, but indicating the general fear that a well-known -member of society had been the victim. “They never read the papers,” Mr. -Wedderburn said to himself, “and she would never think it was--_him_” -(already it seemed too familiar to say Bob). When some one came hurrying -up to him, grasping his hand and asking, “Is this awful news true?--is -it out of doubt that it’s poor D’yell?”--the broken-hearted man felt -once more fiercely angry at the question, as if it was not a thing to be -discussed in ordinary words. But this was morbid, he knew. The -questioner was Mr. Scrymgeour, Fred’s host, the giver of the ball on the -previous night, who explained that he had seen the paragraph in the -papers, and had secured it at once and come in to Edinburgh to inquire, -that the poor boy should hear nothing till he could ascertain if it were -true. And even while he spoke, others came pressing upon them with grave -faces: “Was it true? Could it be D’yell?” The sensation was -extraordinary. “He was said to be a little shaky in business matters,” -said one. “That was all rubbish,” said another. “A man with a good -estate at his back and plenty of friends--no fear but he would have -pulled through.” “And Chili stock is looking up again, which was -supposed to be his danger.” Thus they stood and talked him over. “I -suppose there is no doubt it was an accident?” said another cautiously. -This remark caught the lawyer’s anxious ear, upon whose own heart a -heavy cloud of dread was hanging. But there was a chorus (thank God!) of -assurances. No, no!--Bob D’yell was the best fellow in the world. He was -a man always confident in his own mind, a man that had every inducement -to live--with a fine family, his son at Oxford, with a good estate -behind him, and an excellent character and plenty of friends. Even if -there might be a little temporary embarrassment--that would soon have -blown over. There were men that would have stuck by him through thick -and thin. “Me, for instance,” said Mr. Wedderburn, careless of grammar. -“I went out especially last night to tell him, if there really was -trouble, I would see him through it----” “Poor fellow! Poor Bob! Poor -D’yell!” the bystanders said in their various tones. Nobody had the -faintest hope that he could have escaped. Such a prodigy as a man -without clothes would soon have been known along the coast. And of -course he would have hurried back, if he had been saved, to ease the -anxieties of his friends. It was only Mr. Wedderburn who insisted upon -every means being taken to secure the poor remains, and that not for -certainty of the fact, but for decent burial. There is no coroner’s -inquest in Scotland; but an inquiry into all the circumstances was -immediately set on foot, an inquiry at first in which there was no -certain evidence but the piteous heap of clothes, the respectable -garments in which every man of business goes to town. The papers left in -the pocket, the few shillings on the sands, the notes in his -pocket-book, were all so many unconscious witnesses to the accident, all -proving how accidental, how unlooked-for, was this cutting short of his -career. There was even a withered rose in his coat, a pale China rose -from one corner of the terrace at Yalton, which Mr. Wedderburn -recognised with a pang, as if it had been one of the children. The tears -blinded the middle-aged lawyer’s eyes as he took this faded thing out of -his friend’s coat, brushed off the sand from the withered leaves, and -put it in his pocket-book reverently. All who were present looked on at -this little incident as if it had been a religious rite. - -It may be added here that the naked remains of a drowned man were found -a few weeks afterwards on the east sands of Portobello. Needless to say -that they were quite unrecognisable; but the height and size, and the -absence of clothing, made it as nearly certain as any such thing could -be that this was all that remained of Robert Dalyell. - -Meanwhile that fatal day passed over at Yalton, the first part very -quietly, as usual, in the ordinary occupations of the household. It was -a beautiful morning, full of comfort and good hope, and Mrs. Dalyell was -busy in her house. It was the day for the overseeing and paying of the -weekly bills, and there were various repairs necessary before the winter -set in which she had to look after, and a great deal of linen--napery as -she called it--had come in from the laundry, which it was essential to -examine to see what wanted renewing and what it would be possible to -darn and keep in use. Old Janet Macalister was famous for her darning. -Old as she was, it was still, Mrs. Dalyell said, “a pleasure to see” her -work. It was an ornament to the tablecloths rather than a blemish. Old -Janet was in great activity, almost agitation. She appeared in the -house, as she very rarely did, and talked so much in an excited way, -that the servants thought her “fey.” She went with Mrs. Dalyell to the -housekeeper’s room, uninvited, to examine the linen. “Dinna put that -away. I can darn that fine,” old Janet said to many articles over which -her mistress shook her head. “Losh! what’s the good o’ me, eatin’ bread -and burnin’ fire this mony mony a year, if I canna keep the napery in -order!” she cried. Her head, which was slightly palsied, nodded more -than usual, her large pale hands shook; but her voice was strong, and -she ended every sentence with a harsh laugh. - -“I am afraid you are not very well to-day, Janet,” said Mrs. Dalyell. - -“Oh, ’deed am I, very well; but ye must give me work, mistress, ye must -give me work. Without work there are o’er many thoughts in a person’s -head for comfort. And that fine darning, it just takes everything out of -ye: it takes up baith body and mind.” - -When her survey of the linen was over, Mrs. Dalyell came back to the -drawing-room, having sent old Janet back to her room with an armful of -sheets and tablecloths. And she was glad to escape from the old woman. -There was a gleam in her eyes, often fixed upon her mistress with a -penetrating look, as if she knew something, and her unusual flurry of -speech and the harsh laugh of agitation which occurred so often, which -Mrs. Dalyell did not understand, and which alarmed her--she could not -tell why. Then came luncheon, to which she sat down with her girls, with -a forlorn sense of the two empty seats which Foggo had placed as usual. -“I thought, mem,” he said in his solemn way, “that Mr. Fred would have -been home, if not the maister.” - -“Why should you think Mr. Fred would have been at home?” she asked -almost angrily. - -“He is coming in the afternoon with some of the young people from -Westwood for tea. We shall want tea on the terrace at half-past four, -and there will probably be five or six people.” - -“Very well, mem,” said Foggo, more solemn than ever, and with a look -which, like Janet’s, meant more than his words. - -Mrs. Dalyell had something like an _attaque des nerfs_, which was a -malady unknown to her. She could not eat anything. In order that the -servants might not suppose there was anything irregular in their -master’s proceedings, she said nothing before Foggo about her anxiety. -She said she was tired, looking over all that weary linen. “And old -Janet, that was stranger than ever, and she always was a strange -creature. I think I will lie down for a little after lunch. And I almost -wish that I had not bidden Fred to bring over the Scrymgeours with him -for the afternoon.” If this was said to throw dust in Foggo’s eyes, Mrs. -Dalyell might have spared herself the trouble. For Foggo had read his -_Scotsman_ that morning, and had heard a murmur of dismay which had come -to Yalton by the backstairs, by the kitchen--nobody knew how. “God help -the poor woman!” Foggo said, when he retired to his own domain, with -more feeling than respect. “She’s full of trouble, but she will not let -on, and though she’s in horror of something, it’s not half so bad as -what has come to pass.” - -“If that story’s true,” said the cook, who was too much disturbed and -too anxious to hear everything to take any trouble about her own work, -which the kitchen-maid was accomplishing sadly while her principal -talked and cried over the dreadful rumour which had swept hither on the -wings of the wind. “Oh, it’s true enough,” said Foggo, whose disposition -was dismal--“and there’s little dinner will be wanted here this night, -for sooner or later they must hear. It was more than I could well bear -to hear them talking of the big tea on the terrace and who was coming. I -hope the Scrymgeour people will not be so mad as to let their young ones -come: and nobody else will come, for it’s well known over the country by -this time, though she doesn’t know.” - -“Oh, my poor bonnie lady,” said the cook weeping--“and the kind maister, -that had a pleasant word for everybody.” - -“Not so pleasant a word for them that crossed him,” said Foggo. “Not -that I would say a word against him, and him a drowned man.” - -Early in the afternoon Fred came home. It was a house that stood always -with open doors and windows, so that there was no need to open to any -familiar comer; but Foggo was in the hall, chiefly because he too was -excited and eager to have the first of any news that might arrive, when -the youth with his light step came in. His eager question, “Is my -father at home?” made the grave butler more solemn than ever. - -“No, sir, the master has not been back since he left the house yesterday -morning,” said Foggo. - -But though his looks were so significant, that the very dogs saw that -something was the matter, Fred neither gave nor communicated any news. -He rushed upstairs three steps at a time, and burst into the -drawing-room, where his mother was sitting. She had tried to lie down, -as she had said, but Mrs. Dalyell could not rest: her nerves would not -be stilled, and her thoughts grew so many that they buzzed in her ears, -and seemed to suffocate her in her throat. She was sitting at the window -which commanded the gate, so that she might see who appeared, ever -watching for that telegraph boy, who in a moment might set all right. - -“You have come back early, Fred,” she said. “And have you come alone?” - -“Mother, what’s this I hear, that my father has never come home?” - -“Who has told you such a thing? Your father has many affairs in his -hands; he’s often been called away in a hurry.” - -“You knew then he was going somewhere? It’s all right, then, thank -God!” said Fred; “and that dreadful thing in the papers has nothing to -do with him.” - -“What dreadful thing in the papers?” cried Mrs. Dalyell. It was not till -Fred had thus committed himself in his haste and anxiety that he felt -how foolish it was to refer to a report which as yet was not -authenticated. He went to look for the papers, cursing his own rashness. -But Foggo had more sense than might have been supposed. He had conveyed -that _Scotsman_ out of the way. - -Alas! as if it were of any use to try to stave off the knowledge of such -a calamity! An hour later Mr. Wedderburn’s sober step sounded upon the -gravel, coming up from the train. Mrs. Dalyell sat still in her chair, -not running to meet him as the others did. “Oh, I shall hear it soon -enough--I shall hear it soon enough!” she said to herself. - -His very step had tragedy in it; and she knew before she saw him that -something dreadful had happened, that the failure of that telegram, -which Robert had never before omitted to send her, was but too well -explained. Something like a sweeping gust of fatal wind seemed to flow -through the house--a chill consciousness of coming trouble, calling out -everybody from above and below to hear the news. And then there was a -terrible cry, and then a dread stillness fell over Yalton--like the -stillness before a storm. - -There was one strange thing, however, which happened that fatal -afternoon, and which Fred could never forget. As he went upstairs to his -own room, which was in the upper storey, a pale and miserable ghost of -the cheerful youth he had been yesterday, he saw old Janet standing at -the end of the passage which led to her room. She put out her long arm, -out of the folds of her tartan shawl. “How is she taking it, Mr. Fred?” -she asked. Janet’s eyes were deep, and shone with a strange fire. Her -face was full of excitement and agitation--but not of grief, although -she had been devoted to the master, who was also her nursling. “How is -your mother taking it?” There was a gleam of strange curiosity in her -eyes. - -“Taking it?” cried Fred. “Have you no heart that you ask such a -question? My mother is heartbroken--as we all are,” said the lad, his -voice giving way to the half-arrested sob, which he was too young to be -able to restrain. - -“But no me--that’s what you’re thinking: though the Lord knows he’s -more to me than everything else in this world. Laddie, you’re -young--young; and so is your mother. But me, I’m a very old woman. I’ve -seen many a strange thing. You’ll mind that you’re to come and ask me if -you’re ever very sore troubled in your mind.” - -“You!” cried Fred. There was something like scorn in his tone. The first -distress of youth seems always final, insurmountable, so that it is half -an insult to suggest that it will be lived through and other troubles -come. But then a sudden chill of horror came over the lad. “You!” he -said again, with a pang which he did not himself understand. He -remembered what his father had said: “Go to old Janet.” Did she know -what his father had said? Had she been aware that this great trouble, -this more than trouble, this misery, calamity, was coming? Fred gave the -old woman an awed and terrified look--and fled: from her and his own -thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -There is no coroner’s inquest in Scotland, as has been said; -nevertheless there was a careful examination into all the circumstances -of Mr. Dalyell’s death. It was known that he was going to Portobello to -bathe. This he had stated not only to his family, but to the clerks at -the insurance office and other persons whom he had met. One gentleman -appeared who had travelled that little journey with him by the train, -whom he had almost persuaded to join him in his swim, and who parted -with him only at the corner of the road leading down to the sands; the -porter at the station had seen him arrive, had seen the two walk off -together. There was no mystery or concealment about anything he had -done. It was his usual place for bathing, there was nothing -extraordinary about the matter, up to the moment when the clothes were -found on the sands and the man was gone. Every step was traced of his -ordinary career, nor could one suspicious circumstance be found. The -mere fact of the heap of clothing, the money in the pockets, the watch, -all the familiar careless evidences of a day which was to be as any -other day, with no auguries of evil in it, was all there was to account -for his disappearance. But that was pathetically distinct and -unimpeachable. And when after so much delay the body was found--which, -indeed, no one could tell to be Robert Dalyell’s body, but which by -every law of probability might be considered so--the question dropped, -and all the endless talk and speculation to which it had given rise. Of -course there were doubts at first whether it might be suicide. But why, -of all people in the world, should Robert Dalyell drown himself? No -doubt there had been rumours of unfortunate speculations, and possible -pecuniary disaster. But everybody knew now that Pat Wedderburn, a man of -considerable wealth and unlimited credit, had put his means at his -friend’s disposal. It is true that what Mr. Wedderburn had said was that -he was about to do so; but these fine shades are too much to be -preserved when a statement is sent about from mouth to mouth, and all -Edinburgh was persuaded that Mr. Wedderburn’s means made Dalyell’s -position secure--if, indeed, it ever was insecure, with a good estate -behind him, and all his connections. But what a fatality! What a -catastrophe! A man in the prime of life, with a nice wife and delightful -children, a charming place, an excellent position, everything smiling -upon him. That he should be carried away from all that in a moment by -some confounded cramp, some momentary weakness. What a lesson it was! In -the midst of life we are in death. This was what, with many regrets for -Bob D’yell and sorrow for his family, and a great sensation among all -who knew him, Edinburgh said. And then the event was displaced by -another event, and his name was transferred from the papers and -everybody’s mouth to a tablet in Yalton Church, and Robert Dalyell was -as if he had never been. - -It proved that his life was very heavily insured--to a much larger sum -than anybody had been aware of, and in several offices. Neither Mrs. -Dalyell, nor any of his advisers knew the reason for these unusual -liberalities of arrangement, if not that Mr. Dalyell, being himself -concerned in an insurance office, thought it right to set an example to -others by the number and value of his own. Enough was obtained in this -sorrowful way to clear off everything that was wrong in his affairs, and -to secure Fred, when he should come of age, in unencumbered possession -of Yalton, as well as to leave the portions of the girls intact. So far -as this went, and though it was a dreadful thing to think, much more to -say, no doubt it passed through Mr. Wedderburn’s mind, who was the sole -executor, with the exception of Mrs. Dalyell, that the moment of poor -Bob’s death was singularly well chosen. Mrs. Dalyell left everything in -his hands, so that the conclusion was in no way forced upon her, nor -would she have entertained it if it had occurred to her. Nothing would -have persuaded her that her Robert had drowned himself, and she knew no -reason why. She was not a woman who demanded explanations, who searched -into the motives of things. She accepted the event when it happened with -sorrow or with thankfulness, according as it was good or bad, but she -did not demand to have the secret told her of how it came about. And she -grieved deeply for her good husband; the earth was altogether overcast -to her for a time. She felt no warmth in the sun, no beauty in the -world--a pall hung over everything. Robert was gone--what was the good -of all those secondary things, the comforts and ease of life, which were -not him, nor ever could bring him back? She would have accepted joyfully -a life of poverty and privation with Robert instead of this dreadful -comfortable blank without him. Her emotions were as sincere as they were -sober and unexaggerated. But, as was natural, this gloom of early -bereavement did not last. After a few months she was capable of taking a -little pleasure in the spring weather, of watching the flowers come up. -And though the first notice she took of these ameliorating circumstances -was to say with tears, “How pleased your father always was to see the -crocuses!” yet it was the beginning of a better time. Mrs. Dalyell was -still in the forties; she was in excellent health, and she was of a -mild, unimpassioned temperament. It was not possible that the clouds -should hang for ever about such a tranquil sky. - -But there were two of the mourners who were not so simply constituted. -Fred, who had been so light-hearted a boy when his father talked to him -on the terrace and bade him think of the catastrophes which overturned -so many young lives, was greatly changed. He could not get that -conversation out of his mind, nor the strange recommendation his father -had given him, nor the stranger repetition by old Janet of what Mr. -Dalyell had said. How did she know? Had the father confided to her what -was about to happen? Confided?--a thing which was an accident, an -unforeseen calamity, or---- what else? Confided to Janet that next day -he was going to die? Fred turned this over in his mind, over and over, -till he was nearly mad. How did she know? How did she know? Was it -second-sight, witchcraft of one kind or another? But Fred was a young -man of his time--or rather he was not sufficiently a young man of his -time to believe in witchcraft or any occult power. How was it?--how was -it?--how was it? This question went on in his mind so constantly that it -became a sort of mechanical rhyme running through everything. How did -old Janet know? Had it been discovered by her somehow by mystic art? Had -it been confided to her? He could not turn his mind away from this -question or forget it. How did she know?--what did she know? Fred felt -as if he should have informed the commissioners who had investigated the -circumstances of his father’s death of that conversation on the -terrace. It might be only a coincidence; but it was a very curious -coincidence. He ought to have reported it, made it known, that everybody -might draw his own conclusions. Here was a man who as a matter of fact -died by some mysterious accident next day, and who had talked to his son -of what he might have to do were he left with the family on his hands, -and advised whom he should take counsel with in difficulties: and the -proposed counsellor had apparently been communicated with too. What -would the little court of inquiry, he wondered, have said to that? What -would the insurance people have said? Was it his duty to have told the -strange and terrible detail? Was it better to have remained silent? Poor -Fred could not tell what he ought to have done--what he ought to do. He -was but a boy after all, when all was said. He had not been accustomed -to form such momentous decisions for himself, and he was overwhelmed -with grief and misery, not able to think. He remained silent, not -betraying even to Mr. Wedderburn, who was now the guide of the -household, looking after everything, what he felt. But the lad was very -unhappy. There was no reason why he should not return to Oxford; but he -had no desire to return. He did not care to do anything. He wandered -about the grounds asking himself what his father meant, if he had it all -in his mind then as he walked along the terrace in the dark, listening -to his boy’s chatter of college jokes and light-hearted nonsense. Was he -thinking then of what was to be done next day? Had he planned it all? -and left perhaps his last instructions with Janet, the unlikeliest -repository of such secrets. Could it be this? or only coincidence, a -series of coincidences, such as may occur and sometimes do occur, -perplexing and confusing every calculation? All this made him very -miserable, as he pondered, many a weary monotonous night and day. He -stole out in the evenings after dinner and strolled along the terrace, -as his father had been used to do, with a sort of vague hope of -enlightenment, of some influence that might come to him, or even voice -that he might hear. But he never heard anything more than the wind -moaning in the trees, which drove him indoors with the melancholy of -their unseen rustling, and the eerie sounds of the night, rising over -all the invisible country, tinkle of water, and sweeping sound of the -winds and the drop of the autumnal leaves falling, the hoot of an owl, -the stirring of unseen things in the woods and fields. But when he was -indoors again, still less could Fred bear the cheerful air of the -drawing-room with its bright fire and lamps, and the voices of his -sisters which began after a time of silence to whisper and chatter again -in the irrepressible vitality of their youth. Had it all been planned -before that night? Did his father already well know what was going to -happen on the morrow--all the incidents of the tragedy? And did Janet -know? Fred repeated these questions to himself till his brain felt as if -it were giving way. - -All this time he kept himself carefully away from speech or look of -Janet, who had been, strange as it was, less affected by the calamity -than any one in the house, and had a look in her dry eyes which Fred -could not understand. His heart revolted against her; a woman without -feeling, who had no tears for the man who had surrounded her with -comforts and ensured her well-being for her life--the man who was her -child, whom she had nursed, but never mourned. A sort of hatred sprang -up in the lad’s mind towards this old woman. He felt it a wrong and -almost insult that he should have been bidden to take her advice--and -avoided her as if she had been the plague. Janet, on the contrary, -seemed to seek opportunities of encountering him, appearing suddenly -about the house, as she had never hitherto done, in all kinds of -unlikely places. Her unobtrusiveness had been one of her great qualities -in former times. She had never been seen on the stairs or in the -corridor, scarcely at all, except at the opening of the passage leading -to her own room, or sitting in the sun by the laundry door, or about the -servants’ part of the house. But now old Janet seemed to be everywhere. -Fred met her in the hall, lingering about the library, in the gallery -above which encircled the hall, everywhere save in his mother’s -drawing-room. And whenever she met him, though she did nothing to stop -him, she gave him a look full of significance. It seemed to say, “When -are you coming to consult me? I want to be consulted,” till the young -man became exasperated, and fled from her with an ever-growing sense of -trouble or fear. Her apparition in her large white mutch, with a black -ribbon round it, tied in a great bow on the top of her head, with her -black and white shepherd’s plaid shawl, which she had adopted, instead -of the old red and green tartan, in compliment to the family -mourning--gave him a sensation of shivering, as if old Janet had -included in her own person the properties of all the Fates. He was -afraid of what she might have to say to him--afraid lest there should be -something to tell which would be hateful to hear; afraid for his -father’s good name and his own peace. - -Mr. Wedderburn had no such addition to the many cares which this -catastrophe had introduced into his placid life. He knew nothing about -Janet, or any secret she might have in her keeping, nor had he any idea -of that last interview which lay so heavily upon Fred’s mind; but he was -not at ease. The public mind had been entirely reassured on the subject -of Dalyell’s embarrassed circumstances by the announcement that Pat -Wedderburn had taken upon him all the responsibility and was indeed the -principal in Dalyell’s speculations, using him only as an agent, which -was what Wedderburn’s statement on the subject had now grown to. But -Wedderburn knew very well that he had only intended to make this offer -to his friend, and that Dalyell’s troubles about money were weighing -very heavily upon him when he went down to Portobello for his swim. And -he knew that the very opportune cramp or failure of heart which caused -his death accomplished at the same time the complete deliverance from -all those cares, of his children and his wife. Everything was -appropriate, perfectly convenient to the moment and to the needs of the -man who gave his life for his family as much as if he had defended them -to the death on the ramparts of some besieged city--with this only -exception, that the weapons with which he fought were equivocal, if not -dishonest. For the insurance money would never have been paid to the -representatives of a suicide. Poor Bob! poor Bob! it was unworthy, it -was dreadful to associate that title with his honest name. And yet--if -it had been a planned thing, it was not an honest thing, although he had -paid for it by the sacrifice of his life. This thought rankled in Mr. -Wedderburn’s mind. Dalyell had been, so to speak, absolved by public -opinion from that guilt. The payment of the insurances was in itself a -full acquittal, and no one ventured to say or even think that the -catastrophe on the Portobello sands was anything but a fatal accident. -But Wedderburn’s mind was haunted by this doubt. It was not for him to -bring it forward, to hint a suspicion which could never be proved, which -would be ruinous to the prospects of those whose interests were in his -hands. No, never to any soul would he hint such a doubt. But yet--he -said to himself that poor Bob would have been capable of it. A thing -that you are willing to give your life to purchase--it is difficult to -believe that what is bought at such a sacrifice could be wronging any -one, or a sin against the commonwealth. The suicide would be a sin -before God, but many a desperate creature is ready to encounter that, -with a pathetic trust in the understanding and pity of the great Father. -But to die dishonestly for the good of your family, that was a different -thing. Bob Dalyell, perhaps, was not a man who would attach any idea of -guilt to this way of cheating the insurance companies, even his own -office; but Wedderburn, who might have been capable of the sacrifice, -would have stood at that. His idea of honour and probity was perhaps -more abstract than that of a man who was involved in sharp business -transactions, in speculation and commercial adventure, and who was, -besides, a man with a family, bent upon saving them from ruin. He shook -his head and acknowledged to himself that poor Bob was capable of not -having taken that divergence from strict integrity into account. Had he -made up his mind to die for his family he would not have considered the -ease of the insurance companies. The thought of wronging them would have -sat lightly on his soul. - -Mr. Wedderburn took from this self-discussion a habit which remained -with him for all the rest of his life, the habit of shaking his head, -slowly, sadly to himself, as it were, as if in the course of some -remark. It was while he questioned, and doubted, and laid things -together, excusing his friend even while he judged him, that this habit -was acquired. It was not a bad habit for a lawyer who was consulted by -his clients on many delicate questions. It gave an air of regretful -decision, of compassion and sympathy, when he had conclusions to -announce that were not pleasant to his clients. And he never lost this -gesture of reflection and compassion, which was as sacred to Bob -Dalyell as his tombstone. It was thus, with many a vexing doubt and -fear, that he mourned the friend of his youth. - -The female members of the party were happily exempted from all these -discussions. It does not often happen that the women have the lightest -part to bear in any such calamity. But in this case it was so. Mrs. -Dalyell mourned her husband most sincerely and deeply, forgetting every -little flaw in his character, and gradually elevating him into the -position of a perfect man--the best husband, the kindest father! And the -girls mourned him with torrents of youthful tears, with a conviction -that they never could smile again, never get beyond the blackness of the -first grief, the awful sensation of the catastrophe. But there was -nothing but pure sorrow in their minds. They thought no more of the -insurance companies than the birds in the garden think of the crumbs -miraculously provided for them when snow is on the ground. Neither had -the slightest doubt ever entered their minds as to what they were told -of his death. They knew every detail, laying it up in their hearts. How -he had parted smiling from his friend at the corner of the street, and -gone off to the sands with his buoyant step, in such health and -strength, in such good-will and good-humour with all the world. This was -what the girls said to themselves, trying to picture his last look upon -life. And they hoped it was some unsuspected failure of the heart, which -the doctor said was most likely--a thing which would give no pain, which -would be over in a moment, so that he would never know he was dying, or -have any pang of anxiety for those he was leaving behind. This was how -the girls realised their father’s death: and their mother’s picture of -it was not dissimilar. She felt that there must have been a moment in -which he thought of her and of “the bairns.” Mrs. Dalyell added that to -the imaginary scene--a moment in which, as people said was the case in -drowning, all his life would rush through his brain, and he would think -of her as he died. They had the best of it. Their innocent thoughts -conceived no ulterior scheme, no darkness of doubt. Had they realised -that any such doubt existed, it is probable that they would have -canonised poor Robert Dalyell on the spot as a hero and martyr, dying -for those he loved, and still never have thought of the insurance -companies; but, happily, no such imagination entered at all into their -simple thoughts. - -The household had settled down completely into the habits of its new -life, when Fred Dalyell came home from a long wandering tour he had made -about Europe, not so much for love of travelling or desire to see -beautiful things and places, as to distract his mind from the miserable -thoughts that had gained so complete an empire over him. He had -succeeded very well in that, for the most persistent trouble yields to -such treatment at twenty; but the first return to Yalton, and all the -recollections that were waiting for him under those familiar trees, -brought back on the first coming much of the old trouble to the lad’s -sensitive mind. It was now May, and Yalton was almost as cheerful as -ever, though in a subdued way. The girls, “poor things,” as their mother -said, had recovered their spirits. They were so young!--and Fred’s -coming home had been a thing much looked for, like the beginning of a -new era to the young creatures over whom the winter of gloom was -naturally passing away. Susie and Alice were much disappointed by the -cloud that came over Fred after the first joy of their greetings. -Instead of sitting with them and telling them everything, he -disappeared on the first evening, with a sort of impatient, almost -angry, resistance of their blandishments. - -“Oh, let me alone; I have a thousand things to think of,” he said, -pushing them away as the manner of big brothers is. Susie and Alice -forgave Fred when they saw the little red tip of his cigar on the -terrace, and realised that he had gone there “to think of father.” For a -moment it was debated between them whether one of them should not go to -him to share his solitude and thoughts; but they decided, with a better -inspiration, to leave him alone, and even withdrew delicately from the -drawing-room window, not to seem to spy upon his sacred thoughts. - -“Oh, do you mind how papa used to go up and down, up and down?” said -Alice to Susie. - -“Do I mind?” said Susie, half indignant. “Could I ever forget?” And they -shed a few tears together, then hurried off to the table in the full -light of the lamps, where Fred’s curiosities which he had brought home, -and all his little presents, were laid out for inspection, and began to -laugh and twitter over them, and compare this with that, like two -birds. - -Yes, this was just the place where father had stood when he had suddenly -changed the conversation about the bump-suppers, and all the joys of -Oxford, to that strange and sober talk about the vicissitudes of life, -and what a difference a day might make in the position of a happy lad at -college, thinking of nothing but fun and frolic. Fred remembered every -word, every look--the wail of the autumnal wind, the clear break of sky -among the clouds towards the west, the half shock, half amusement, with -which he had felt that sudden change into what in those days of levity -he had called the didactic in his father’s tone. It had seemed to him a -sermon at the time; and then it had seemed to him--he knew not what--an -awful advertisement of what was coming: a prophecy conscious or -unconscious. He walked up and down, up and down under the trees, hearing -the same sounds, the tinkle of the half-choked fountain, the rustling of -the wind among the branches. The sentiment of the night was different, -for that had been in September, and this was full of the soft and -hopeful stir of May. The leaves were falling then; now they were but -just opened, hanging in clusters of vivid young green, which almost -forced colour upon the paleness of the wistful night. But nothing else -was as it had been then. His father was gone, swept from the earth as -though he had never been. Yet this great change had not brought the -other changes which Mr. Dalyell anticipated. Fred had not been forced -into the premature development of a young head of the family. He had not -been plunged into care and trouble, into work and anxiety. If anything, -he had been more free than before. He was still only a youth dallying -upon the edge of life, not a man entering into serious duties. The -contrast struck him strangely. This was not what his father had -foreseen. It gave him a vague new trouble in his mind to perceive that -this was so. He ought to be less free, perhaps more occupied, more -responsible. He could not all at once decide what the difference was. - -Here he was suddenly disturbed by the sound of a step upon the -gravel--and it is to be feared that Fred uttered within himself an -impatient exclamation, as he threw away the end of his cigar. “Here is -one of those bothering girls,” he said to himself, though we know with -what high reason and feeling Susie and Alice had withdrawn, even from -the window, not to seem to spy upon their brother. He got up to meet -them, remembering that he had just come home and that it would be brutal -to show any impatience of their affection. But Fred might have known -that the heavy, slow step which approached him was not that of either of -the girls. A tall figure shaped itself out of the darkness--the white -mutch, the bow of black ribbon, the checked shawl, became dimly visible. - -“Eh, Mr. Fred,” said old Janet, “but I’m blythe to see you home!” - -“Oh,” he said, “it’s you!” in a tone which was not encouraging. He had -forgotten old Janet, happily, and it was with anything but pleasure that -he felt her image thus thrust upon him again. - -“Who should it be but me?” she said. “There is none that can take such -an interest. And, Mr. Fred, it is time you should be taking your ain -place. This house of Yalton should go into no other hands but them it -belongs to. Oh, I canna speak more plain; but you must rouse yourself -up, and you must take your ain place.” - -“I don’t know what you have to do with it,” cried Fred angrily, “nor why -you should thrust your advice upon me. I am here in my own place. What -do you mean? I ought to be at Oxford, that would be my own place.” - -“Na, na! that would be just more schooling,” said Janet, “and it’s no -schooling you want, but to stand up like a man, and be maister of your -father’s house, as is your right. Oh, laddie, I tell you I canna speak -more plain; but take you my word, it’ll save more trouble, and worse -trouble, if you will just grip the reins in your hands and take your ain -place!” - -He laughed contemptuously in his impatience and anger. “You had better -save your advice for things you understand,” he said. “Don’t you know -the law considers me an infant, and that I can do nothing till I’m of -age--if there was anything to do? But all is going as well as can -be--almost too well--as if he were not missed,” the young man cried -abruptly with a movement of feeling, which indeed was momentary and had -not come into his mind before. Perhaps it was an influence from the -brain of the old woman beside him which sent it there now. - -“That’s just what I wanted to say,” said old Janet--“as if _he_ were not -missed. All settled for her, and smoothed down and made fair and easy, -as if _himsel_’ were to the fore. There’s trouble in the air, Mr. Fred, -and if you dinna bestir yourself, and take your ain place, and get a -grip of the reins in your ain hand----” - -“Rubbish!” said Fred. “How can I get the reins, till I come of age? If -there was any need, which there is not, my mother knows better than half -a dozen of me.” - -“Your mother!” said old Janet, with the natural contempt of an old -servant for the mistress; then she added in a different tone: “if it was -only your mother”--shaking her old head. - -“Who else?” said Fred with indignation. But Janet made no reply. She -turned her back upon him and went off along the terrace, always shaking -her head, which was slightly palsied and had a faint nodding motion -besides. Something in this confirmed movement which was comic, and the -jealousy of his mother, which had always been a well-known feature in -old Janet, tended to give a ludicrous character to her appeal. Instead -of deepening the sadness of his thoughts, it lightened them with a -curious sense of relief. It seemed to take away at once the gravity of -the recollection of his father’s reference to her, and the painful -suggestion in it which had caused Fred so much trouble, when old Janet -thus displayed herself in an absurd rather than a tragical light. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Mr. Wedderburn entered very naturally into the charge of his friend’s -affairs. He had been Dalyell’s counsellor already on many occasions in -his life, and knew much about his concerns, the resources of the estate, -and all the original sources of income which Dalyell had increased, yet -fatally risked, by his speculations. No one was better fitted than he to -apply the welcome aid of the insurance moneys to the relief of Yalton -from all the encumbrances which the dead man’s other affairs had -imported into his life. A man so familiar with the household and all its -affairs, nobody could know so well as he how to guide the revenues of -the household so as to afford their usual comforts to Mrs. Dalyell and -the girls without injuring Fred’s interests, or forgetting the very near -approach of the time when he should take the control into his own hands. -It was evident that changes were inevitable then; either that Mrs. -Dalyell should retire to a house of her own, or that she should remain -as Fred’s housekeeper, with her authority contingent upon his plans, -and liable to be destroyed whenever the young man should think of -marriage--a position in which the faithful friend of the house was -unwilling to contemplate the mistress of Yalton. It was not a thing that -would have affected Mrs. Dalyell. It would not have occurred to her to -think that the house was less hers by being Fred’s. But Mr. Wedderburn -was jealous of her dignity, and it wounded a certain imaginative sense -of fitness for which no one would have given the dry old lawyer -credit--the notion that the woman whom he had so long admired and liked -should be dependent on her boy’s caprice and whether it should please -him or not to marry. The event which would make another change, so -great, in her position, troubled him more than he could say. Was it not -enough, he asked himself, that she should have had this shock to bear, -and her life rent in two, that she should now have to yield all -authority to Fred, and be dependent upon him for her home and dignity? -The thought did not disturb Mrs. Dalyell, who felt it as natural to -continue as before at the head of a house, which was no less hers -because her son was now its formal head, as to perform any other act of -life. But it did disturb her champion and guardian, who made it more and -more his office from day to day to watch over her comfort and spare her -trouble. - -It was astonishing how Pat Wedderburn, who had not for many years, -indeed for all his independent life, known more of the sweets of -domesticity than those which he shared at second-hand in the houses of -his friends, and especially at Yalton, fell into the ways of the head of -a family. He did not, indeed, come out to Yalton every night as poor -Dalyell had done, but he spent at least half of his evenings there, and -gave his mind to the consideration of what was wanted in the house, and -what would be agreeable to both mother and girls, with a curious -familiar devotion which was at once amusing and touching. No father -probably ever was so mindful of the tastes of his children as Mr. -Wedderburn was of Susie and Alice. He remembered what they liked, and -noted every expression of a wish with an affectionate vigilance and -thoughtfulness which surprised even the girls, though they were well -accustomed to have their little caprices considered. As for Mrs. -Dalyell, no wife ever had her likings more sedulously consulted, her -suggestions more carefully carried out, than were hers by her -co-executor, her trustee, and fellow-guardian of the children. She had -but to speak to Mr. Wedderburn about any trifling obstacle and it was -immediately removed out of their way. He regarded her wants and wishes -as things which were sacred; not as a husband does, whose natural -impulse it is to contest, if not to deny. Life had never been made so -easy for the ladies of Yalton. When he came out it was almost certain -that some pleasant surprise accompanied him--a book, a present, -something that either girls or mother had wished for. And they all took -Mr. Wedderburn as completely for granted as if this devotion had been -the most natural thing in the world. - -And it would be impossible to describe the sweetness that came into the -life of old Pat Wedderburn (as Edinburgh profanely called him) from this -amateur performance, so to speak, of the duties of husband and father. -He had long been in the habit of considering Yalton as a sort of home. -But yet his visits there, though he was always so welcome, were more or -less at the pleasure of his hosts, and he had kept up the form, though -it was not much more than a form, of being invited. Now no such -restraint (though it had never been much of a restraint) existed. He put -a certain limit upon himself, but save for that the house of his wards -was to him as his own, always open, always ready. They were all his -wards, the mother not less than the children. It is true she was joined -with him in the trust, and that she was a woman, as he said to himself, -of a great deal of sense, who could give him advice upon many subjects, -and even took or appeared to take an intelligent interest in -investments, and knew whether the claims of the farmers were just, and -what was right in respect to repairs, &c., better than Mr. Wedderburn -himself. But she had never been accustomed to do anything for herself, -to act independently, to take any step without advice and active help. -It is impossible to say how pleasant it was to the middle-aged bachelor -to be thus referred to at every moment asked about everything, consulted -in every domestic contingency. He would not have minded even had he been -called upon to settle difficulties with the servants, or subdue a -refractory cook, nor would it have bored him to have a housekeeper’s -afflictions in this way poured into his ears. - -Happily, however, in the large easy-going household at Yalton there were -few difficulties of that kind. Mrs. Dalyell was an excellent manager, -but she was not exacting, and her servants were chiefly old servants, -who ruled the less permanent kitchen-maids, footboys, &c., under them -with rods of iron, but did not trouble the mistress with their -imperfections. When a house has been long established on such a footing, -and there is no overwhelming necessity for economy, or interfering -dispositions on the part of its head, it is wonderful how smoothly it -will roll on, notwithstanding all human weaknesses. And the shadow of -grief glided away. There could not have been a more desirable house, or -a more pleasant routine of life. The very neighbourhood breathed peace -into Wedderburn’s being. Before he had reached the gates the atmosphere -of content enveloped him. He had something in his pocket for the -girls--he had something to consult their mother about, generally her own -business, but sometimes even his, so great a confidence was he acquiring -in her common-sense. To think that the loss of poor Bob Dalyell should -have brought so great an acquisition of happiness into his life! He was -ashamed when he came to think of it, and felt a compunction as if he had -profited by his friend’s disaster. But it was no fault of his. - -And there was no doubt that Mr. Wedderburn enjoyed Yalton and the life -there a great deal more than if he had been really the father whose -office as far as possible he had taken upon himself. He was not -responsible for the faults or aggrieved by the imperfections of the -children, as a man is to whom they belong. The very distance between -them increased the charm. Although it would have been death to him to -have been thrust out of that paradise, it would perhaps have lessened -its charm had he been absolutely swept into it, bound to it, by law and -necessity. The freedom of the voluntary tie added sweetness to the bond. -He was far more at the orders of his adopted family than any father -would have been; but that shyness of old bachelorhood, which is as real -as the reserve of old maidenhood and very similar, though it is little -remarked, was in no way ruffled or wounded by the present arrangement. -And thus good came out of all the evil, to one at least of the little -circle who had been so deeply affected by it. Poor Bob D’yell!--to think -that he should have lost all this, and that his most devoted friend -should have acquired it by his loss! This gave Mr. Wedderburn a -compunction which was of course entirely fictitious and visionary--for -had he not taken that position it would have been much worse for the -family as well as for himself. - -This state of affairs was scarcely interrupted by Fred’s majority, for -Fred, no more than any other member of the household, considered that it -made any difference. Of course, in the progress of time he would marry, -and probably desire to be as his father had been. But, in the meantime, -he felt himself no less a boy on the morning after his twenty-first -birthday than he had done the morning before; and the idea of taking the -reins out of his mother’s hands or desiring more freedom than he -actually possessed, especially the freedom of turning her out of the -house which was now legally his, or disturbing any of her arrangements, -never occurred to Fred. Young people brought up under such an easy sway -as that of Mrs. Dalyell do not feel the temptation of rushing wildly -into freedom as soon as it is legally their own. Fred had always been -free, and he could not be more so, because his name was now at the head -of all the family affairs, and Frederick Dalyell, Esq., was now the -official proprietor at Yalton. What difference did it make? The family -generally said none. Of course, Fred, as the only son and the eldest, -would have been paramount in the house under any circumstances; he could -not be more than paramount now. But it was not to Fred that Mrs. Dalyell -looked for help and advice, any more than it had been before; this -birthday did not add experience or wisdom to the boy. And Mr. Wedderburn -came and went just the same, looking after Fred’s interests, spoiling -the girls, always ready to be referred to. It made no difference, nor -did anybody wish that it should, except perhaps old Janet, whose opinion -was not thought much of, whom Fred avoided carefully, and whose very -existence was scarcely realised by the adviser of the house. As for Fred -himself, his troubled thoughts had worn themselves out. Whatever trouble -there may be in the mind respecting a man who has been in his grave for -more than a year, it dies away under the progress of gentle time. To -keep up the pressure of such misery there must be new events occurring -or to be dreaded. What is altogether past affects the spirit in a -different way. If there was a tragic secret unrevealed in the story of -Robert Dalyell’s death, it was hidden for ever in the bitter waves that -had swallowed him up: and the course of his young life had gradually -swept from Fred’s mind the burden of his father’s tragedy. He had -decided to go back to Oxford at the end of the first year, and he was -still continuing his unlaborious studies there when the second had -ended, and October, with its shortening days and windy skies, returned -again. The vacation had been a lively one to Fred, and Mrs. Dalyell had -been obliged to come out of the seclusion of her widowhood on account of -Susie, whose introduction to the world could not be postponed any -longer. Mrs. Dalyell herself was not unwilling that it should be so. She -was entirely contented in her home-life, yet pleased to vary it when -need was, and the more smiling and brilliant side of things no longer -jarred upon her feelings. And Susie, in all the fervour of her first -season (though it was only in Edinburgh), was as happy as the day. - -Thus it was, upon a household as cheerful as could be seen, that the -shadows began to lengthen in that October, a little before the end of -the vacation, when Fred, who had exhausted his own covers with the -assistance of his friends, was flitting about the country in a series of -“last days” before he went back to his college. Fred’s friends of the -shooting parties had made the house very gay for the girls, and Mr. -Wedderburn had thought it expedient to “put in an appearance,” as he -said, even more frequently than usual, to support Mrs. Dalyell and help -to preserve the balance of the house. He came “out” four or five nights -in the week to the house which became daily more and more like his home, -and found a continually increasing charm in the sight of the pleasure of -the young ones and in the company of their mother. While they were -carrying on their amusements, he considered it only his duty to sit by -Mrs. Dalyell and keep her as far as possible from feeling the blank of -the empty place. They could talk to each other, as only old friends -can--of the people and places they had mutually known all their lives, -of the different dispositions of the children, of Robert, how pleased he -would have been to see them so happy, of the beasts in the little -home-farm; and of the new leases, and the new Lord of Session, and the -Queen’s visit to Edinburgh, and everything indeed that came within the -range of their kindly world. It was very pleasant: Mrs. Dalyell found it -so, who was thus able to relieve her mind of any remark that occurred to -her, which the young ones were too hasty or too much occupied to listen -to; and Mr. Wedderburn liked it still better, feeling that he himself, -who had never ventured to risk any of the great undertakings of life, -had thus come to have the cream and perfection of quiet social comfort, -without paying for it, without cost to himself or wrong to any one in -life. - -On one such evening Mrs. Dalyell had been called away on some domestic -errand, and Mr. Wedderburn, feeling thus a little left to himself, -strolled out upon the terrace to look at the rising moon and to enjoy -the softness of the evening, one of the last perhaps before the winter -came on. It was a still night, and the temperature was high for the time -of year. The country had been blazing in the sunlight with all the -colours of the autumn, and even the moon brought out the yellow -lightness in the waving birches, if not the russet reds and browns of -the deeper foliage. Nothing could be more still: the sky resplendent, -with here and there a puff of ethereal whiteness, a cloud scarcely to be -called a cloud, imperceptibly floating upon a breeze that was scarcely -to be called a breeze--a soft sigh of night air. It was so warm that he -did not hesitate to sit down, though at fifty-seven one is cautions -about sitting down in the open-air in October, even in the day. But the -night was very soft, and so were Mr. Wedderburn’s thoughts. It cannot be -said they were sentimental, much less impassioned. He wanted no more -than he possessed, the loving kindness of this house, the affection of -the children, the friendship and trust of their mother. He was entirely -satisfied to come and go, to feel that he was of use to them, to enjoy -their society. A great sense of well-being filled his mind as he sat -there and heard the sound of their young voices gay and sweet coming -from the billiard-room, where Fred and a friend or two were amusing the -girls. There was something like a suggestion that more might come of -that partnership of jest and play which was springing up between pretty -Susie and one of these young men--dear little Susie!--who had given up -her big words, but whom her father’s friend still corrected and petted -with fatherly tenderness. If it were possible to feel more fatherly than -old Pat Wedderburn, the dry old Edinburgh lawyer, felt as he sat there -and smiled in the dark at the sound of Susie’s voice, I do not know what -that quintessence of paternity could be. - -He was thus sitting in quiet enjoyment of the solitude (which is so much -sweeter a thing with the sense of the near vicinity of those we love -than when we are really alone) and his own thoughts, when he saw, as -Fred had done on a previous occasion, a tall figure rise as it were out -of the soil and approach through the dark--a shadow, but with that -independent movement of a living creature which is so instantly -distinguishable from any combination of shadows. Mr. Wedderburn was not -superstitious, but the figure as it came slowly towards him was one -which he did not recognise, and he was astonished at its intrusion here. -He rose up to intercept it--whether it was an unlawful visitor prowling -round perhaps to see the handiest way of entry into an unsuspicious -house, or some lover bound for a rendezvous, or some servant come out -unconscious of observation to take the air. But the new-comer was not -afraid of his observation, and he now made out that it was a large old -woman in her checked shawl and white cap. Even then Mr. Wedderburn did -not recognise the old woman, with whose appearance he was but slightly -acquainted. She stopped when they met and made him a slow curtsey, -leaning upon a stick. It was too dark for him to see her face. - -“Did you want anything with me, my woman?” said Mr. Wedderburn. - -“Ay, sir,” she said, “I just do that. You’ll maybe not know me. I’m -Janet Macalister, that was nurse to Mr. Robert D’yell.” - -“I have often heard of you,” said Mr. Wedderburn, “and I am glad to see -you, Janet; not that I do see you, for the night’s dark. And this is not -an hour for you to be out at your years. If you have anything to say to -me we would be better in the library or the hall.” - -“Sir,” said Janet, “what I have to say is not for any place where we can -be seen. I came out here that naebody might suspect I took such a thing -upon me; and yet I’m forced to it--though I canna tell you why.” - -“This sounds very mysterious,” said Mr. Wedderburn; “but I hope there’s -nothing very wrong.” - -“Mr. Wedderburn,” said Janet, “you’re very often at our house.” - -“Eh!” cried Mr. Wedderburn, in amazement, “at your house? Oh, you mean -at Yalton, I suppose. And have you any objections to that?” - -“Yes, sir,” said Janet firmly, “the greatest of objections. Do you not -know, Mr. Wedderburn, that the mistress is still but a young woman (to -have such a family), and that she is a widow with naebody to defend her -good name--and here are you, a marriageable man, haunting her house -every night of your life. Bide a moment, sir, and listen to me. Oh, it’s -nothing to laugh at--it’s just very serious. You are here morning, noon, -and night”--(here there was a murmur from the unfortunate man of “No, -no! not so bad as that”)--“and I ask ye to take your ain sense and -judgment to your help and tell me what folk will think that sees that?” - -“Think!” faltered Mr. Wedderburn. “Woman, you must have taken leave of -your senses. What is it you mean?--and what should they think but that -I’m the friend of the family and a very attached one, and that it’s my -business to be here?” - -“Oh, sir, ye’ll not content your ain judgment with that, far less the -rest of the world! It’s no business that brings ye here. Ye come because -you’re fain and fond to come. I am the oldest person about the house, -and it would ill become me to see my bairn’s wife put in a wrong -position, and never say a word. Sir, the mistress is a bonnie and a -pleasant woman.” - -“I have nothing to say against that.” - -“And no age to speak of. And you yoursel’ what are ye? Comparatively -speaking, a young man.” - -“Comparatively in the furthest sense. I am much obliged to you, Janet.” - -“Don’t think, sir,” said Janet, solemnly, “that you can carry it off -with a laugh. I will not see the mistress put in a wrong position, and -never say a word. It may be want of thought; but you must see, if you -consider, that she’s not like a young lass to be courted and married. -And still less is she one to be made a talk of in all the country side. -I will not have my mistress exposed to detractions, and none to the -fore to put a stop to them!” said Janet with excitement, striking her -staff on the gravel. - -Mr. Wedderburn stood, feeling the old woman tower over him with her -palsied head and threatening air; he was half angry, half amused, wholly -discomfited and startled. The situation was ludicrous, and yet it was -embarrassing. To be startled out of the happiness of his thoughts by -such an interruption, brought to book by an old servant, warned as it -were off the premises by the nurse, was almost too whimsical and absurd -a position to be treated as serious; and yet there was an uncomfortable -reality at the bottom which he could not elude. - -“Janet,” he said, “my woman--do you not think you are going a little too -far? I was just as often at this house when Robert D’yell himself was -here.” - -“No, Mr. Wedderburn, not half so often.” - -“Nonsense, woman, much more often! and in any way I am not answerable to -you. The last thing I could think of,” he added in a troubled tone, -“would be to--would be---- You are daft, Janet! I’m their trustee and -the nearest of their friends; how dare you say a word about my visits? -I will say nothing to your mistress, but I must request you to refrain -from such remarks, or else----” - -“Sir,” cried Janet, “you needna threaten me, for you’re not the master -here!” - -“No, I am not the master here,” said Mr. Wedderburn; “but if you think -anybody will have encouragement to set up ill stories about---- No,” he -said, checking himself, “I will not blame you with that. You’ve made a -mistake; but no doubt your meaning was good--only never let me hear it -any more.” - -“Oh, sir,” cried Janet, “the human heart’s an awfu’ deceitful thing. I -could find it in my heart to go down on my knees, and beg you--oh, for -the Lord’s sake!--to go away before there’s any harm done from this -misfortunate house.” - -“The woman’s daft!” cried Mr. Wedderburn. - -But it gave him a dazed and troubled look when he appeared in the -drawing-room some time later. He was very silent all the rest of the -evening, sometimes casting an almost furtive look round him from one -face to another; sometimes red, sometimes pale. Once or twice he broke -out into a curious laugh when there seemed little occasion for it. “I -am afraid you have taken cold, Mr. Wedderburn; it was too late to be -sitting out on an October night,” said Mrs. Dalyell. - -“I don’t think I’ve taken cold--but I think I’ll return to my room, with -your kind permission, for I have some things to plan out,” said the -lawyer. It was so unlike him that they all agreed something must be the -matter. Had he got bad news? Had he been troubled about business? -“Perhaps he had taken something that had disagreed with him,” Mrs. -Dalyell suggested. Whatever it was, he was not like himself. - -No, he was very unlike himself. He gave a shame-faced look in the glass -when he went to his room, and burst out into a low, long laugh. “I’m a -pretty person!” he said to himself. And then he became suddenly -grave--graver, almost, than he had ever been in all his serious life. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -It was not until Fred Dalyell’s return from Oxford in the spring that he -became aware of the rumour which had already begun to spread through the -neighbourhood and to be discussed in the Edinburgh drawing-rooms, that -his mother was about to marry again. He had seen when he returned home -that the girls were a little overcast and subdued, and that there was a -little flush as of uneasiness and embarrassment on Mrs. Dalyell’s face. -It is difficult at first for a long absent member of a family coming -back, to find such a cloud in the air, to discover whether this is only -the moment of a storm, whether it means some trifling disagreement--for -trifles become great in the inclosure of the household walls--or whether -something important and fundamental is intimated by these restrained -phrases and averted looks. He thought that perhaps there had been a -“breeze,” that Susie was getting into the wilful stage, and, distracted -by hopes and prospects of her own, had been opposing or defying her -mother; that the tenants had been troublesome, backward on rent-day, or -bothering about those eternal repairs, which he wondered that old -Wedderburn could allow to worry his mother. But this did not seem enough -to account for the visible but unexplained trouble in the house. When he -caught Susie by the arm and drew her aside to ask, “What’s the matter?” -she shook off his hand with a cry of “Oh, don’t ask me, Fred,” and -escaped from him, leaving him more bewildered than ever. What could it -mean? It seemed to the young man that they all avoided him on this first -evening of his return. His mother did not call him into her room to ask -those minute and repeated questions with which mothers are so apt to -tease their boys. “Oh, confound it! Now I am going to be put through my -catechism!” he said usually, when he was called to one of these -examinations; but its omission gave him a shock which was still more -disagreeable. Could it be possible that his mother did not want to see -him alone, and that the girls were afraid to be questioned by him? Fred -felt very uncomfortable, without the faintest notion what could be the -cause of it, when he perceived this constrained condition of the house. -Then it suddenly occurred to him that old Pat Wedderburn, as he was -generally and profanely called, had not come to meet him as had -invariably been the case till now. - -“By the by,” he cried, “I felt that something was wanting, but I -couldn’t make out what it was. What has become of old Pat?” - -“You should speak a little more respectfully, Fred, of our oldest -friend,” said his mother reproachfully; but she did not look at him, and -the flush grew deeper on her face, which was bent over her work. As for -Susie, she pushed her chair away, and almost turned her back upon her -mother. Fred immediately divined that old Pat had been objecting to some -of Susie’s flirtations, which was odd, as Susie was known to be his -favourite of all. - -“Oh, I’m respectful enough,” he said. “I don’t mean any harm. The house -doesn’t seem natural without him. Why isn’t he here to-night?” - -“He has not been with us quite so much of late,” said Mrs. Dalyell, -never lifting her eyes from her work; “but he is coming out to-morrow, -and he will tell you himself, Fred.” - -“Has anything gone wrong?” he asked amazed; for the girls, whose voices -generally ran chattering through everything, and who on an ordinary -occasion would have thrown in half-a-dozen remarks, sat still as two -stone images, Susie with her head averted, Alice buried in a book, which -she held between her and the light. - -“I request,” said Mrs. Dalyell, in a voice somewhat high-pitched and -imperative, as if she expected to encounter opposition, “that there be -no more about it till to-morrow night.” - -“Oh, if it is me you mean, mamma, you may be sure there will be no more -about it--till Doomsday--from me!” - -“Susie!” cried her brother in amazement. But Susie’s only reply was to -burst from the room in a flush of rage and opposition, such as Fred had -never seen in his quiet home before. Alice followed her quickly, and the -young man thought that now at last there was some chance of having it -out. “I suppose,” he said, “that old Pat has been at her for -flirting--the little pussy that she has grown.” - -But before he had finished his little speech Mrs. Dalyell, too, had -risen from her chair, and, standing with her back to him, was putting -her work away. - -“You must excuse me,” she said, “my dear boy, if I don’t enter into it -to-night. I’m--a little tired and put out. I must go and look after -those girls; and though it’s your first night at home, it’s late, and I -don’t think I shall come down again. After your journey, Fred, you -should go early to bed.” - -“After my journey!” he cried with angry dismay. “What has my journey to -do with it? But never mind, mother, if you’re tired. I’ll come to your -room, and have a talk over the fire.” - -“Not to-night,” she said, and kissed him. She lingered a moment, patting -him on the shoulder with her hand. “I know it must seem strange to you, -Fred--but not to-night, not to-night.” - -As a matter of fact, the least imaginative of lookers-on will allow that -the position of a middle-aged mother who has to tell her grown-up son -that she is going to marry again must be an embarrassing one. Mrs. -Dalyell was not like a girl expecting ecstatic happiness in the union -with the man she loves. It was an arrangement which had come to seem -natural, partly because she wanted someone to lean upon, and -ill-natured gossips (as she heard) objected to that constant, easy, -unembarrassing presence of the household friend, which she and her -children had found so comfortable--without the existence of some closer -bond. She would rather honestly have had Mr. Wedderburn on his old -footing; but, if she could not have him on his old footing, it was -better to marry him than to lose him. This had been the unimpassioned -fashion of Mrs. Dalyell’s thoughts. And he wished it. A man, it -appeared, even at fifty-seven, could not content himself with the -friendship which was quite enough for a woman. Perhaps she was a little -flattered to know that this was so, and that in her mature matronhood -she still had charms. And she had thought, as he assured her, that it -would draw the family bonds closer and make so little difference. The -chief difference would be that he would come of right, instead of only -for love, and that the interests of her family would be his own, not -only much more than his own, as they were at present. It had seemed very -plausible, as he set all the advantages forth, which indeed Pat -Wedderburn had done, not only to calm her scruples, but also his own; -for, had she but known it, he too was very well contented with the -existing position of affairs. But if Mrs. Dalyell had known the trouble -it would have given her--the wild vexation of the girls, and the -horrible necessity of having to tell Fred! No, that last was what she -could not do. She had intended to do it on his return, but her courage -had failed her. Tell your grown-up son that you are going to marry! No, -no, she could not do it. And when two years had not yet elapsed from his -father’s death! “Oh,” she said to herself, “it was no wrong to Robert! -Oh, no, no wrong to Robert! It was a different thing, not to be thought -of in the same way.” But still, when it came to the point, she could not -do it, it was beyond her power. - -Fred could not tell what to think: he was angry and vexed and cast down -by the strange reception he had received. The first night at home, which -was always so pleasant, the girls hanging about him with a hundred -things to ask and to tell, his mother beaming with affection and -pleasure on her united family. And here he was left alone, the lamps -burning with a sort of calm intelligence as if they knew all about it, -the clock chuckling at him on the mantel-piece. Foggo came in with the -tea-tray, and looked round in astonishment for the ladies, then shook -his head solemnly and went away, leaving the little silver kettle -boiling over its spirit-lamp. Foggo knew too. The very kettle puffed out -its steam in Fred’s face like a mockery. Everybody knew--except the -forlorn young master of the house, who knew nothing, and could not even -form a guess what the mystery could be. - -He was not however destined to spend that night in uncertainty. As he -went upstairs, passing with a sense of injury the closed doors of his -mother’s and his sisters’ rooms, Fred heard himself called in a whisper -from the end of the corridor. Had he reflected for a moment he would -have known who it must be. But with his mind full of his present trouble -he did not reflect; he turned round quickly, hoping to see one of his -sisters, and it was not till he found himself in the clutches of old -Janet that he recognised the danger of her interference. “Has she told -ye, Mr. Fred?” whispered the old woman, approaching her formidable head -in the big mutch, and with its little palsied movement, to the young -man’s face. “Told me what?” he cried with impatience. “Oh, my bonnie -lad, dinna lose your temper--you’ll have need of all your patience. -That she’s going to be married upon Pat Wedderburn!” - -Fred gave a hoarse cry, which ran along the whole corridor into his -mother’s closed room, who heard it and trembled--and to Susie’s, who sat -half desperate over her fire longing for her brother. Not for a moment -did Fred doubt the news: it explained everything; but he fled from the -creature of ill-omen, the woman who gave it, with a sense of hatred and -rage, for which indeed there was no warrant so far as she was concerned. -“This is your doing!” he cried with fantastic bitterness. Why should he -hate Janet, and how could it be her doing? he asked himself afterwards. -But at the moment it seemed to the distracted young man as if this old -retainer was one of the Fates, the enemy, not the friend of the house. -He would not wait to hear another word, but rushed upstairs and shut -himself in his room, as if some evil thing had been at his heels. -Married!--his mother, his father’s wife, the first authority of his -life--the woman without reproach--mamma! With that last baby-cry the cup -was filled. The young man flung himself upon his face on his bed. And -what an unhappy house it was which the darkness held that night -concealed in its outer mantle of peace! Unhappy without any cause, for -there was no evil going to be done--no harm: so far as any of these -troubled people knew. - -Mr. Wedderburn, who came “out” next day with an embarrassment not less -than that of Mrs. Dalyell, was roused a little by the desperate -self-repression with which Fred received the official announcement. “My -boy,” he said, “it may vex you that there should be any change, but what -we are doing is no wrong to you--nor to any man.” - -“I have not said it was,” said Fred sullenly. - -“No, you have not said it was--but you seem to think it’s an -unpardonable step. It is nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Wedderburn, -indignant. “The time will come when you will think fit to marry, and -then your mother will be turned out of her house; and that will seem the -most natural thing in the world. Why should she not have one by her side -that will make her comfort his care? Your father would have wished it. -She’s not a person to stand alone to fight with the world.” - -“She has her children.” - -“Her children! Susie, who will have a husband of her own as soon as the -lad has enough to live on; and Alice, who will follow her sister’s -example; and you--when are you here to keep your mother company? A month -in the vacations when the house is full--and a marriage whenever it -strikes your fancy, with her turned adrift. No, no, my young man! You -may not like it, you may scorn both her and me for it. But that -face!--as if you were wronged and shamed. Come, come, Fred, that’s not -an air to put on with an old and faithful friend like me.” - -“I know you are a faithful friend,” cried the young man resentfully. “I -never doubted you for a moment.” - -“But never dreamed that I would push my devotion so far? Well, I have -done it, you see. And it’s your business, my young man, to make the best -of it, and accept what all the powers on earth shall not prevent, I -promise you,” cried the old lawyer with some heat. There were many -people throughout Scotland who were aware that it was not a safe thing -to go too far with old Pat Wedderburn. - -Mrs. Dalyell, however, insisted upon one thing--that the marriage should -not take place until two years after her husband’s death, so that there -were yet several months of discomfort to get through. However it might -end, there could be little doubt that in the meantime an element of -extreme discomfort was brought into the house. Mr. Wedderburn, whose -happiness had been to spend half the evenings of his life at Yalton, -came less frequently and was not happy when he came. Susie had turned -into a little firebrand, all the more disdainful and offended by her -mother’s intentions that she was on the eve of a similar change in her -own person. Little Alice swayed from one party to the other, sometimes -impertinent, sometimes mournful. The step which was to bring additional -happiness in the end (or so it is the conventional necessity to suppose) -in the meantime brought nothing but discord, division and doubt, and -made the entire party unhappy. How much better, even the two principals -secretly thought in their hearts, to have gone on in the old happy -routine as things were! - -Fred came home again in June after various wanderings, visits here and -there. He intended to go away before the marriage, and in the existing -state of circumstances to make as short a stay as he could at Yalton, -from which his mother meant to remove after this event, leaving the -house to be taken possession of by her son. Naturally it was not a very -joyful visit: the mother held her domestic place with a kind of -unsmiling composure, doing everything as before, ignoring as much as -possible the difference in her children’s faces; and a little polite -conversation went on between those who had been so happily united, and -twittered and chattered like the birds a few months before. Mrs. Dalyell -would not allow herself to be moved, would not show the impatience which -possessed her, kept firm with an immovable steadiness, letting the young -ones go and come without remark. It was more difficult for them, who -could not ignore her, and whose foolish young hearts were eagerly bent -on sending little darts into her, saying things between themselves which -she could scarcely resent, yet which went to her heart. And the girls -would drag their brother to the other end of the long drawing-room, -hanging one on each arm, talking low in his ear, while their mother sat -at the table by the lamp, apparently taking no notice. They were very -cruel to her, chiefly in ignorance, resenting the fact that she did not -mind, and unable to feel any human charity for her, as she sat there -isolated, conscious of their conspiracy against her. Mrs. Dalyell’s -spirit was roused a little by this persecution. She had been doubtful -enough of the expediency of what she was about to do from the first, but -she became more and more determined to hold to her resolution as they -thus united against her: and--what she never thought could have been the -case--began to long for the day when she should be delivered from this -domestic tyranny and once more breathe freely in an atmosphere where she -would not be constrained. Thus it may be supposed there was little -comfort one way or another in the troubled house; and it became the -order of the day to make the evening as short as possible, to go to bed -early, to finish upon any terms, at the earliest moment, the dreary, -unattractive evening hours. - -Fred was following the little line of ladies with their candles up the -stairs, when he was once more stopped, but this time openly, by old -Janet. She came to the edge of the great staircase in her nodding mutch -and checked shawl. “Will you give me two or three minutes, Mr. Fred,” -she said. - -“For what do you want two or three minutes? I have no time at present,” -he said quickly, for Susie, who was nearest to him in the procession, -had stopped upon the stairs, holding up her candle and looking back upon -him. She was like a picture, with her light held up and falling upon her -white dress. - -“But you must come,” said Janet in a shrill whisper. “You must come. -Remember what your father said--and this time it’s a matter of life and -death.” - -“How do you know what my father said?” - -“Ay, that’s a question. Come with me, my bonnie man--oh, come with me -and you shall know all.” - -Susie stood like a little light-bearer holding up the candle. “Who are -you talking to there, Fred, in the dark?” - -“No one,” he said, with the prompt unconscious impulse of a child -accused. - -“No one! Why, it’s Janet. Oh, is that all?” said Susie. She lowered her -light at once and turned away with the profoundest indifference. The -sight of Janet conveyed no sense of excitement or mystery to the girl -who saw her every day. - -Fred obeyed the old woman sulkily and with the greatest reluctance. He -would not have done so at all had not Susie seen her. But he could not -show to Susie that he had any reluctance to speak to old Janet, whom the -younger members of the family had always held by against all the -objections of the younger servants. He went mechanically after her, with -a strong return of that resentment which he had felt against his father -for the recommendation to consult her. It was grievous to be made to -think of that at such a moment, when his father had become more sacred -to him than ever, in face of the desecrating change that was about to -take place, the injury to that beloved memory. It was the only grievance -Fred had against his father. He tried to force it from his mind, to have -patience with the old woman as he followed her. She belonged to _him_. -She had been faithful to him all his life. Perhaps she wanted to make -sure that she should be provided for when his mother left the place, -when Yalton was in his possession alone. Oh, certainly she should be -provided for, till her last hour! The only one that was faithful to -_him_. Neither friend nor wife had been faithful to him, but his old -nurse was faithful. She was sacred to his son for his sake. - -Fred made his heart soft with these thoughts; he overcame his own -opposition almost altogether, partly with the sentiment of the nurse’s -faithfulness, partly with his resentment against the others; and he was -ready when he found himself in Janet’s room, face to face with her in -the light of her lamp, to offer her any assurance of his protection and -certainty she might require as to her living and her home. Janet, -however, put no question to him on any such score. She shut the door and -came up close to him in the lamp-light. “Mr. Fred,” she said, “you maun -take courage, my bonnie man. There are dreadful things to be said to you -to-night. Just summon all your strength and read that.” - -Fred started at the sight of the paper she put before his eyes. “I see,” -he said, “it is my father’s writing. But you need not show me any -letter. He told me himself, the day before he died----” - -“Oh, laddie, laddie! take it and read it before I go out o’ my senses,” -Janet cried. - -He took the paper into his hands. His father’s handwriting, there could -be no doubt; but no suspicion of the truth was in Fred’s mind. He -glanced over it, and thought to himself that he had gone out of his -senses, as Janet said, or had lost himself in some incoherent dream. “My -wife’s marriage must be stopped.” What did that mean? A man who died two -years ago, how could he write about an event of to-day? Was he going -mad? Was he in a dream? Was it some delusion which she had put by -witchcraft before his eyes? “My wife’s marriage must be stopped.” “How -could he know?” he asked with blanched lips. “How could he tell there -would be a marriage?” He turned upon her a face blank of all expression, -pale, in a horror of enlightenment about to come. - -“Oh, boy, boy! cannot ye see?” cried Janet. She put forth a long -trembling finger and thrust it at the paper, pointing to the date. Fred -looked and read. He read it a second time aloud, a strange terror -growing upon him: “June 3, 18--.” “Why,” he said, “why----.” Then, -stammering and stumbling over the words, broke down. “Why, why,” he -began again with a laugh, “we cannot all be mad and going to Bedlam! -It’s this year: June 3, 18--.” - -The old woman grasped him by both his hands. “It’s this year--and we’re -no mad, though often, often I’ve felt on the edge of it. We’re no mad,” -she repeated, “and it’s this year, and the man that wrote that is in the -house this blessed night, Mr. Fred!” - -God help the lad! He had but turned his black and terrible countenance -upon her, holding the letter helplessly in his hands, when there sounded -through the house, cutting the silence like a knife, a sudden wild cry, -a shriek, lasting only for a second, but piercing to the heart of the -night, to the heart of the house, like some sudden horrible event. It -was followed almost immediately after by a rush of muffled feet along -the passage: the door was pushed open violently, yet silently, and -someone came in like a shot from a pistol, as sudden and unexpected. -Fred felt himself shrink towards the wall in his horror and amaze. It -was a man who had come in--a man with a beard which covered half his -face, yet showed a curious kind of smile coming out of the midst of it, -though the eyes were full of an almost tragic seriousness. Fred had -fallen back against the wall as this new-comer appeared. The room swam -round and round in his eyes, a darkness came over him, he saw nothing -for a moment: then slowly came to himself, and saw again, within reach -of him, so near that he could have touched him, this man--whom he had -never seen before. Oh, could he but have been sure that he had never -seen him before! His heart stopped beating--and then with a flutter and -a spring went on again, as if it would have leaped out of his breast. -The shock of the supernatural, the horror of an awful discovery, came -into the young man’s brain and almost paralysed it as they clashed -together. Ah, had it been but the supernatural! But as that face emerged -out of the mist, Fred saw that it was that of a living man--and that he -heard it talking--_it_--as living men do. - -“You have told him, Janet?” - -“No a moment too soon--just as you were coming. Let the laddie be, let -him come to himself. And what was it you were doing? Did she--or -you----?” - -“I have given her a fright that will put a stop to that,” he said, with -a strange laugh, hard and harsh: and then he flung himself into a chair, -throwing off a dark cloak in which he had been wrapped from head to -foot. He added after a moment with a groan, “The way of transgressors is -hard!” and hid his face in his hands. - -Fred had not moved nor said a word, neither had this strange intruder, -save for one glance, taken any notice of him. The young man stood up -against the wall, supporting himself by it in a sort of conscious swoon -and suspense of being. A moment is like an hour in such a horror of -discovery; the idea that was too dreadful to entertain becomes possible, -certain, familiar, before you have had time to draw a second breath. His -father not dead--not a shameful suicide to cheat the insurance companies -as his son had once feared--but a still more shameful survivor, having -cheated them, having saved his family and cleared his name by the most -dreadful, the most false of frauds, the most tremendous of lies. Fred’s -whole being surged up like a stormy sea in fierce and violent reaction -as soon as he got command again of his stunned faculties--he who had -suffered so much misery from the thought that his father had taken his -own life in his despair, but who had of late become so tender of his -memory, so indignant with those who forgot or were faithless to him! And -lo, all his pangs were unnecessary, all his love deceived, and here was -the man, living!--a swindler, and a cheat, worse than a bankrupt--having -saved his reputation and the comfort of his family by a cheat, the -worst of frauds, the most disgraceful. Fred had been ready to defy the -world for his father when he came upstairs that evening. He turned now -with loathing from the name. Father! What did the word mean?--a cheat, a -swindler, the most prodigious and incredible of liars. The youth was -hard, as youth is, stern and inexorable. He took nothing into account, -neither the motive nor the tremendous sacrifice involved, nor least of -all the thought that he himself had profited by this dreadful act. -Profited?--he?--Fred? His first act must be to denounce the fraud, to -offer restitution. The man should escape first--that he would allow, but -no more. - -Old Janet came up to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Oh, Mr. -Fred, are you not going to say a word to him?--not a word of kindness? -Oh, Mr. Fred, your father! that has sacrificed just everything in the -world.” - -“I have no father,” said Fred hoarsely. “My father is dead.” - -The unfortunate man raised his head from his hands, and the familiar -eyes, the eyes that had smiled upon the boy’s childhood, but which -smiled no more, tragic in the misery of a renunciation which was more -bitter--but, alas! not honourable like death--turned towards the stern -and angry boy with a strange look, not of appeal, but of surprise. The -offender knew very well all that was involved to himself in what he had -done. He knew that it cut him off as a living man from all knowledge of -his family, from all possibility of reunion--that he was dead and worse, -so far as old surroundings were concerned; but he was not prepared for -his son’s stern condemnation. He had anticipated wonder, -consternation--but, oh, surely some touch of pleasure in seeing him -restored from the dead, some burst of welcome from Fred! He uncovered -his face and looked with a ghastly astonishment at the son who thus cast -him off without a word. - -“Maister Freddie, for God’s sake! think what you are saying. Speak a -word to him!” - -“I have nothing to say,” said Fred. “I will make the truth known in a -week from this time--if it is the truth. I will be no party to a fraud. -I loved my father that died, and his memory, but I can be no party to a -fraud. In a week’s time----” - -The stranger never said a word; he sat gazing with things unutterable -in his eyes, wonder above all. His boy! it was cruel, barbarous, -inhuman; but--this strange visitor did not condemn the youth. He looked -at him with an inconceivable surprise--his boy--Fred! He did not make -any protest, but sat up, strangely awakened--wondering: even the object -of his visit fading in comparison with this shock for which he was not -prepared. - -All this time there had been sounds of rushing footsteps and ringing of -bells through the house, the commotion of some sudden event breaking -into the quiet of the night. And then came a distant sound of Susie’s -voice, calling: “Fred! Fred!” The young man’s heart was rent with -passionate emotion, such as he had never known in his life before. - -“Nobody must come in here,” he said, “to find a stranger in the house. -If my mother has been frightened, I will tell her. But not if I can help -it. Now, the only thing remaining for me is to make the truth -known--when----” He paused. He could not address that dreadful spectre -directly; his heart was bitter within him at the man who had thus killed -for ever his father’s memory, the ideal which he had cherished in his -father’s name. “When----he has decided what to do.” - -There was a dreadful pause in Janet’s room when the young man went away. -Then the stranger said in a musing tone: “So that’s what Fred has come -to in a couple of years. You see, Janet, you have not been so successful -as you thought.” - -“Oh, my man, oh, my bonnie man! the callant is just distracted with -wonder and fear.” - -“There’s more in it than that--and he’s right, Janet. We were wrong, you -and I. And I must just abide the consequences. I’ll lie down on your bed -for an hour or two, if you’re sure it’s safe. And then I’ll take the -gate. It will be for ever this time, you can tell that boy. I’ll neither -make nor meddle more; and if he’s wise he’ll let sleeping dogs lie.” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Robert Dalyell stole forth from the house which was his own, yet could -never more be his, in what would have been the dead of night had it been -any other season but June and any place but a northern country. It was -already daylight, with a pearl-like radiance as of spiritual day, and -something more mystic and almost awful in the silence of night, combined -with this diffusion of lovely light, than any darkness could have been. -He seemed to see the great spreading landscape like a picture, with his -own single and solitary figure in it, with a momentary terror of himself -alone in that great surrounding silence. He was not afraid of being -seen, as he was when he had stolen under cover of the brief darkness -into the house; but it occurred to him that anybody who should look out -of a curtained window or from the crevice of a closed shutter, and see -him walking along at an hour when nobody was abroad, would be afraid of -him as an unnatural wanderer in the wide brightness which was night. He -was in point of fact a ghost, as he had been believed to be--a man with -no place or meaning in the world, with his name upon a funeral tablet, -and his place knowing him no more; and like a ghost he passed through -the pale diffused light which cast no shadow. Never man was in a -position more strange and cruel. He had made the sacrifice of his life, -not as his son and his friend had feared, by suicide, but in a more -dreadful way. He had put himself to death, and yet he lived. The man had -been in this living death for nearly two years. He had lost -everything--himself, his name, and his personal identity, as well as -wife and children, and home and living. And yet he had never fully -realised what it was till now. Something of the Bohemian, something of -the adventurer in the man, which had been hidden under the most decorous -exterior for nearly fifty years, had made that curious new start in -existence almost amusing to him in its absolute novelty and relief from -the long monotony of usual life. - -Even his sudden going home, with the object of frightening his wife out -of a marriage which would have been no marriage, had something of the -character of a jest in it. But there was no longer any jest in the -matter. He had seen his wife, he had seen his son, and he was at last -aware of what it was he had done--the darker aspect of it--the dishonour -to others, the deadly extinction of himself, the end of everything which -he had accomplished, almost with a light heart. A ghost indeed, -offending the eyes and chilling the very soul of those who were most -near and dear to him. “A swindler,” the boy had said. Was he a swindler? -To be sure the insurance offices would never have paid that money had -they known; but surely he had paid the price for it. He had died to all -intents and purposes. He had given himself for his children--a living -sacrifice--not less, but more than if he had really died and been thrown -up by the sea, as everybody believed, on Portobello sands. It is hard to -see guilt in a transaction, not for your own advantage, for which you -have given your life. Robert Dalyell did not blame his son; he could -perceive that there was much in what Fred said, though his heart swelled -in his breast against that injustice. He was not angry with Fred, but -much impressed, and moved (strangely enough) to something like -satisfaction by his son’s demeanour. The boy was a good boy, wounded in -his honour, and therefore inexorable, but only as a good man would wish -his boy to be. He was glad Fred was an honourable fellow, feeling it -like that. Poor Dalyell himself had all the instincts and habits of mind -of an honourable man; he had not seen the dishonour in it; he had -thought that, giving his life for it as he had done, there was nothing -morally wrong in his act. Surely he had bought the money dear: it was -not for him; it was for them, and for their good. There they were, all -of them--the wife who was about to give him a successor within two -years, and the boy who was himself his successor--safe in Yalton, -honoured, respected, enjoying the position to which they were born: -while he was an outcast, without anything but what he made for himself, -and the boy called him a swindler! He was an honest boy for all that, -and Dalyell’s mind had a certain forlorn satisfaction in it: though a -more forlorn being than he, walking, walking like a ghost through that -morning light which began in its pearly paleness to warm to the rising -of the sun, could not be. It was wonderful at what leisure he was, in -the utter forlornness of his being, to think of them all. He was not -sorry that he had given himself to save them. The only thing he was -sorry for was that, being dead, he had interfered at all. He ought to -have gone upon his own way--married, too, as he might have done, and got -himself new ties in his new life. He believed now that there would have -been no harm in that. There would be no harm in it. He would get away as -quickly as it was practicable, and get back to his new world, and this -time he would feel himself really emancipated. He would think no more of -the bonds of the past. She should be free to marry if she liked, and so -would he. This old world and he had nothing to do with each other any -more. - -The foolish thing was that he had come at all on this fool’s errand. It -was all the old woman’s fault. It had been weak of him to let her into -his secret, to keep himself up with news of home, to be moved by her -horror at this marriage. Why should not she marry if she wished to do -so? She had been a good wife to him, and he had made her a widow. He had -known that she was not a woman who could act for herself, that she was -one who must have a caretaker, a manager of external matters? Why should -he interfere with her? It was all that confounded old woman’s scruples. -But Dalyell decided that he would interfere no more, that he would go -back whence he came and marry too, and thus justify his wife. The man’s -heart was very heavy in his breast when he made this resolution; but yet -he had a great courage, and was determined to stand up against fate and -get a new life for himself, being thus horribly, hopelessly cut off from -the old. The boy would not carry out his threat if he disappeared thus, -and was heard of no more. And all would be well with them, all would go -right, as he had meant it should when he gave up his life. - -By this time the sun had risen, the birds had begun to twitter and hold -their morning conversations about all the business of life before it was -time to tune up for the concert of the day. Where was he going? He had -left such things as he had brought with him at a little lonely wayside -public-house near the sea before he went to Yalton, but it was still too -early to get admittance there. He found himself on the shore before he -knew. Yalton was not above a few miles from the sea, or rather from the -Firth in its upper part, not far from the spot where that monstrous -prodigy of science, about which so many trumpets have been blown, the -Forth Bridge, now strides hideous across the lovely inlet--those golden -gates through which the westering sun was wont to stream unbroken from -the upper reaches of the great estuary upon the stronger tides below. -Dalyell came out upon it suddenly, forgetting in the intense -preoccupation of his thoughts where he was. The sun had risen beyond the -distant Grampians, touching the Fife villages all along the coast with -gold. The air was damp, yet sweet with the saltness of the sea in it, -and the breath of distance and the sensation of the vast unknown to -which this great, splendid ocean pathway was one of the ways. When -Dalyell came out thus upon the shore he was the one speck of animated -being in the whole still world. He sat down to rest for a little upon a -rock. At three o’clock in the morning there is nothing stirring, not -even the cattle, though they were waking and thinking of an early -breakfast in the fields. He sat there and noted, and thought over it all -again. He was very forlorn, but not angry with anybody, scarcely vexed -by the thought that he was so soon forgotten. He even laughed a little -at the thought of Pat Wedderburn. How had he got himself the length of -that idea of marrying? He divined old Pat’s thoughts, a little troubled -by the necessity, going bravely through it. He had no sense of -resentment towards any of them. As soon as there was any one stirring -about the “Dun Cow” he would steal in and get his things and some -breakfast, and take himself off at once and for ever--never, whatever -happened, to interfere again. - -But in the meantime there was some time to wait, and the sun was growing -warmer every moment, and the tide was in, and the little wavelets -rippling along the shore. Baths were not luxuries known at the “Dun -Cow,” and here was the bath he liked best, ready before him. It would be -the last time he would ever bathe in his native waters. He slipped out -of his clothes, laid them in a little heap, without even thinking how on -one supreme occasion he had done that before, and plunging from the -nearest rock launched himself into the sea and sunshine. It would brace -him up for the journeys and troubles of the day. - -Dalyell swam about for some time, and dived and sported in the water -like a boy, with a curious sudden lightness of heart. He could not make -up his mind to come out of the water. And the northern seas are cold at -three o’clock (getting on for four) in the morning, with the sun not yet -very strong, and but newly risen. What it was that happened there was no -one to tell. Perhaps it was the shock of the night’s proceedings, though -he had reasoned it away, which struck to his heart--perhaps it was the -cold of the water--it might be a cramp, which, had there been any one -near to help, would have been of little consequence. None of these -things would any one ever know. It was said afterwards that a cry was -heard, piercing the sober stillness of the morning, so that somebody -woke and got up at the “Dun Cow,” but finding no sign of harm, went to -bed again for another hour. And it is certainly true that the minister -woke in his manse, which is near the shore, and got up and opened his -window, and remarked upon the beauty of the morning, and the wonderful -delightful calm and brightness of the Firth. He thought after that it -must have been the drowning man’s cry that woke him, though he was not -conscious of the sound itself. - -Thus, with the strangest repetition, all the incidents of Dalyell’s -fictitious drowning were reproduced; and it did not fail to be remarked -in the papers that the accident up the Firth was singularly like the -accident that had happened nearly two years before to Mr. Dalyell, of -Yalton, on Portobello sands. It was a remarkable coincidence: but the -sufferer in this case, it was added, was a stranger, who had arrived at -the “Dun Cow” the night before, and was supposed to be a foreigner. The -body was found among the rocks, as if he had made a despairing grip upon -the seaweeds that covered them to save himself, from which it was judged -that the misadventure was wholly accidental; but, naturally, all was -conjecture, and this was a thing that never could be known. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Fred went to his mother’s room, about which an agitated crowd had -already gathered, the two girls and their maid, and an anxious domestic -or two from downstairs, besides Mrs. Dalyell’s own maid, who was with -her mistress. Foggo stood outside on the staircase, anxious to know if -he should go for the doctor, and still more anxious to know what had -happened, for there was already a conviction in the house that it was -not mere illness which had produced that shriek which startled -everybody. Mrs. Dalyell was not the kind of woman to shriek from -physical pain, and there had been a whisper in the house that the -horseman had been heard in the avenue, which, naturally, was a -preparation for trouble. Fred, however, was not admitted till some time -later, of which the poor young fellow was glad: for he was in no -condition to meet his mother in the nervous and excited state in which -she must be, while he himself was so shaken and miserable from the same -cause. He went to his own room and endeavoured there to calm himself, -and thrust away the appalling question that was now before him. How -lately he had said to himself that his father’s previsions had all been -mistaken, and instead of having to take upon himself the anxieties and -cares of the head of the house, to break off his studies and turn his -thoughts to the grave side of life, he had only been more free, more -independent, than before, since he had succeeded his father as Dalyell -of Yalton. Ah! but who could have thought of this, this further chapter -of disaster, unimaginable, incurable, which would involve the name of -Dalyell of Yalton in dishonour and shame--the name his ancestors had -borne in credit and pride, the name that poverty and ruin could not have -stained, but which must now perish amid records of deceit and fraud. -Fred’s very heart seemed to shrink and wither up within him when he -thought of what he had now to do. It would be his to put the stamp of -shame upon that name--to expose the whole disgraceful story, the -dishonest means by which downfall had been staved off, only to fall more -dreadfully upon the unhappy and innocent now. No, he must not palter -with right and wrong, he must not allow any sentiment of pity either -for the criminal or for himself to steal in. The criminal! Now that Fred -had time to think, that criminal--whose very name he could not endure to -think of--whom he had denounced and disowned with such force and almost -hatred--had looked at him, oh, with such fatherly eyes! He had scarcely -said anything, not a word in his own defence. Fred felt that if he had -stayed another minute his courage would have failed him, and the old -dear familiar image would have regained its power. The criminal!--worse -than a fraudulent bankrupt, almost worse than a suicide, and yet so -like--oh, so like----! Oh, he must not think, he must not allow himself -to fail in his duty. In a week’s time--that was what he had said--to -give full time for that fugitive to escape, that he might not be taken -or injured, or brought to justice. In a week’s time! There must be no -paltering with duty. It was clear before him what he had to do. - -And then there began to pluck as it were at the skirts of Fred’s mind -thoughts of what this thing was, of what it must have cost. Had not the -man died, had he not more than died? It was not suicide, but it was -worse. He had given his life while still a living man. Strange words -crept into Fred’s mind, which did not come there of themselves, as if -some one had thrown them into the surging sea of passion and pain which -was within him. Greater love hath no man than this. Oh, silence, -silence! these words were said of another, a greater--one Divine. -Greater love hath no man than this: they came back and back: as if they -could be applied to a man who was a sinner, who had committed a fraud, -and deceived his fellow men! Had he deceived them? Had he not died? Died -more terribly, more completely than the man in the family grave in -Yalton churchyard, who was not Robert Dalyell. Which would one choose if -one had to choose? Surely the home in the churchyard, the tablet on the -wall--and not the life of an outcast, the death in life of a man who had -no identity, who had neither name nor fame. Fred’s young soul was rent -asunder by these thoughts. There had been no relenting in him, no pity. -But now outraged nature avenged herself. Oh, how cruel he had been, how -harsh!--not a word of kindness in him, not a softening touch. And he -ought not to think of nature now, he ought not to be moved by kindness. -He ought to subdue all relenting. In a week’s time! He must set his -face like brass. He must think of nothing that could make him fail. - -It was late when Fred was called to his mother, and he went down as -timid as a child called to an interview of which it knows nothing, but -that it must involve terrific consequences. He had looked at himself -anxiously in the glass before he obeyed the summons, wishing that he -knew some way of making himself look less pale, his eyes less excited. -The girls knew ways of doing this, Fred believed, but he did not know. -He plunged his head into cold water to relieve the heaviness and heat he -felt, as of something bursting from his forehead; and then he went -downstairs, slowly labouring to collect his thoughts to think what he -should say. Mrs. Dalyell was in bed, her head with the background of the -red curtains looking at the first glance almost ghastly, her face very -pale, her eyes excited like his own. She grasped him by both hands and -made him sit down by her. The candles were still burning, but a faint -glimmer of blue showed between the curtains. She kept holding his hand, -but it was a minute or two before she spoke. - -“Fred, do you know if I said anything? What did I say? What did they -tell you? Did they say that I----?” She gasped for breath, and could not -finish the sentence, but did so with her eyes and with the pressure of -her hand. - -“I heard nothing, mother, but that you fainted.” - -She pressed his hand tightly again and said, “I didn’t faint. I let them -think so--to conceal--Though I was scarcely conscious of what I was -doing, I felt it gleam through me that to let them think I was -unconscious was best. But I never was unconscious for a moment, -Fred--you understand what I am saying?--nor was I asleep, nor could I -have been dreaming. You hear what I am saying, Fred?” - -“Yes, mother: but don’t, for heaven’s sake, excite yourself; it may make -you ill again.” - -“What will make me ill? I want you to understand. I’ve not been ill, -only--that they might have no suspicion. Fred, above all things I want -you to understand that I am in my full senses, meaning every word I -say.” - -“Yes, mother,” he said, pressing her hand. - -She renewed her grip upon it, as if she were holding fast to something -lest she should be carried away. “Well!” she said, with a long-drawn -breath. Then looking him fall in the eyes as if to defy -misunderstanding: “Fred,” she said, “I have seen your father!” - -“Mother!” he cried. - -“Hush--this was what I was afraid of--that you would think me out of my -senses. Look at me. I am not calm, perhaps, but I am as steady as you -are.” (That was not saying much; but absorbed in her own extraordinary -sensations, Mrs. Dalyell fortunately did not notice Fred.) “I was not -thinking of him, nor even questioning as I sometimes do. I was more -quiet than usual: when, just there, where the curtain is, I saw your -father!” - -“You must have been over-excited, mother, though you did not know it. My -coming home and the girls’ talk--and all of us making ourselves -disagreeable--without knowing it your mind must have----” - -“My mind was quite calm. I made allowance for you children. I could have -sympathised with you. But don’t go away with any such idea. I saw your -father--as plain as I ever saw him in my life.” - -What could Fred say? He patted her hand to soothe her, and shook his -head gently; he could not trust himself to speak. - -“It all passed in a moment,” she went on. “He said something. I feel -sure he used the word marriage, but I was too much startled to make out, -and I was so foolish as to give that cry. I can’t tell you what a -dreadful feeling came upon me. I am not a woman to scream, but I could -not help it. And he disappeared, and they all came rushing in.” - -“It must have been an optical illusion, mother--that’s what they call -those sort of things. You were disturbed by all of us, and your -imagination got excited.” - -“Don’t speak such nonsense to me. I saw your father as I see you. Fred, -that’s not half I’ve got to tell you.” She closed her fingers more and -more closely upon his hand, and drew him close to her. “He was changed,” -she said almost in a whisper. “He was not as he used to be.” She put her -face nearer to her son’s. “An apparition would have been nothing in -comparison. It would have been not wonderful, considering everything. -But this: Fred”--she drew him quite close and her fingers were upon his -hand like iron--“Fred, your father had grown a beard!” - -“Mother!” he cried again. - -“You think I’m mad, and I don’t wonder: but there’s more in what I say -than you think, Fred: a man who was dead could not do that. Fred, find -me words. I don’t know what to say. There is more in this than we know.” - -They looked at each other, the eyes of the one shooting light and -meaning into those of the other. How could the boy stand the keen -scrutiny of his mother’s eyes? He faltered before her and tried to avert -them, but failed. At last he faltered, “Mother! I think your guess is -right!” - -She seized him by the shoulder with her other hand and shook him in the -vehemence of her passion. “Have you known this all along? Have you known -and never said a word?” - -“No,” he said; “how could you think it? Could I have been a party to a -fraud? But I saw him too--to-night.” - -Mrs. Dalyell’s hands relaxed; she fell back upon her pillow, and, -covering her face with her hands, began to cry and moan. “Oh, how shall -I ever look him in the face! How shall I ever look him in the face!” - -Fred was prepared for many things on his mother’s part. He was prepared -to see her burst into indignation like his own; he could have understood -her stern and angry, or he could have understood her grieved and -miserable. He could even have understood it--had she been unreasonably -and foolishly glad. But ashamed, asking how she could look him in the -face!--this was beyond the knowledge of her son. After a little she -calmed down and said with the echo of a sob, “We will have something to -forgive each other--on both sides.” - -“Mother,” cried Fred, “do you realise all the difference it will make?” - -She was silent for a moment, with a flush upon her face. “Oh, my dear,” -she cried, with a look of awe, “how can we ever be sufficiently thankful -that we knew in time!” - -This was all she could think of, it seemed; and poor young Fred had to -return to his own troubled thoughts by himself without help from his -mother. She entertained, it would seem, no doubt as to her duty towards -her husband. The fraud did not weigh on her mind. He had come back--that -was all. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -In the afternoon of the miserable day which had begun in this wise, Fred -was sitting alone, trying to come to some conclusion in the crowd of his -unhappy thoughts. His mother had been able to rest after her agitation, -and sleep, but had sent for him again early to ask for his father--where -he was in the meantime, and when he was coming home? It had better, she -thought, be got over as quietly as possible, and all the friends -informed. Mr. Wedderburn was always fond of Robert: he would take it -very quietly; he would see that the less said the better for all -parties. Her mind was full of these thoughts. She had arranged -everything in her mind. There would be much to forgive--on both -sides--which perhaps on the whole was better than had it been entirely -on one. As for business matters, Mrs. Dalyell was aware there must be -troubles; but fortunately this was not her share of the business. Robert -and Mr. Wedderburn would settle these things. It all seemed so simple -as she put it, that Fred withdrew again with a sort of artificial calm -in his spirit, but had no sooner been alone for ten minutes than the -hurlyburly began over again. What was he to do? Inform the insurance -companies? But what could be done to raise the necessary money? Throw -Yalton into the market--or what? Anyhow, it must be ruin, whether the -father came home or disappeared again; anyhow, his own happy career was -over, and nothing but trouble was to come. - -In the meantime he did not know where his father was, or what had become -of him, and he had not yet the courage to question Janet, who no doubt -knew. Janet was at the bottom of it all. For all he could tell, it might -be she who had first suggested that dreadful expedient out of which all -this misery came. Oh! had the family been but ruined honestly, -naturally, two years ago! Fred felt, like a child, that it must be that -wretched old woman’s fault all through, and he could not subdue his mind -to the extent of asking her for information. It would come, he felt -sure, in good time. - -And so it did: that afternoon Foggo entered the library where his young -master was sitting, with a very mysterious air, and informed him that -there was “one” who desired to speak with him. Fred’s heart leapt to his -mouth, for his thoughts were bent solely on his father, and it seemed -certain that it could be no other than he. - -“A gentleman,” he added faintly, “with a beard?” It was the only -description he could venture upon. - -“No, Mr. Fred, not a gentleman at all--John Saunderson from the ‘Dun -Cow.’” - -“John Saunderson from the ‘Dun Cow’?” - -“It was to speak about something that had happened. He said that if the -young laird would have the kindness to step out at the gate--he’s no -just in trim for a grand house, and he would like to speak to yourself -in a private way.” - -“Bring him here, then, Foggo.” - -“No, Mr. Fred: he would take it far kinder if you would just step out to -the gate.” - -And this was what Fred finally did. He found the landlord of the “Dun -Cow” exceedingly embarrassed, not knowing how to begin his story. He -took off his blue bonnet at the sight of Fred, and began to twirl it -round and round in his hands. - -“It’s about an accident that’s happened,” said John. - -“Do you want me to do anything? I’m very much occupied; if it’s anything -Foggo could do----” - -“Na, it’s not Foggo I want” (he said Foggy, after the fashion of his -locality), “it’s just yoursel’. There was a gentleman came to lodge in -my house last night. We whiles get a stranger--that’s not very -particular.” - -“A gentleman?” - -“A gentleman with a beard.” The man eyed Fred very closely, who did not -know what to reply. - -“Yes,” he said, with a little catch of his breath, “and what then?” - -“The gentleman must have gone down, so far as we can see, very early to -take a bath in the sea. Nobody heard him go out. My own idea is he never -was in after he got his supper. He first went to the door for a smoke, -and my impression is----” - -“What happened?” said Fred. His mouth was so dry he could scarcely -speak. - -“He must have gone into the sea to take a bath awfu’ early in the -morning, before we were up. The wife she thought she heard a cry about -four o’clock, and I got up, for she gave me no peace, and looked about -and saw nothing. But later there was one came running and said a man’s -clo’es were on the sands, close by some rocks--just for all the world as -they were that time, ye mind, Mr. D’yell, when your father was lost. I -just took to my heels and ran all the way to the sands. And there was -his clo’es, sure enough.” - -“The man?” Fred gasped again. - -“They got him after a bittie, with his hands clasped full of the -seaweed, and his knee raised up upon a rock. He must have made a fight, -poor gentleman, for his life. Na, I see what you are thinking: it was -nae suicide. He had got up his knee upon a bit of rock, and his hands -were full of the weeds--nasty slimy unprofitable things.” There was a -pause, and the man lowered his voice a little significantly before he -said, “I would like much, Mr. Frederick, if you would come down and see -him.” - -Fred was not able to speak. He shrank more than he could say from this -dreadful sight. He shook his head in the impulse of his panic and -horror. - -“Sir,” said the man, “I’ve known your father, Mr. Robert D’yell, Yalton, -man and boy, for more than forty year. If I didna know he had been -drowned two years ago I would say yon was him.” - -It was with difficulty Fred found his voice: “I think that I know who it -was. It was a--near relation.” - -“Ah, I can well believe that,” said John Saunderson. He was something of -a genealogist himself, as so many people of his class are in country -life, and he threw a hasty backward glance over the scions of the house -of Yalton, which he had known all his life, and settled within himself -that there was no such near relation, no cousin that ever he had heard -of. He did not say this, nor his own profound conviction as to the -drowned man. - -“A man,” said Fred, “that we had thought to be dead--for years. He -frightened my mother with the likeness you speak of, and I am afraid he -did not get a good reception. Oh, Saunderson, you are sure it was not a -suicide?” - -“So far as I could judge--no. I am not surprised,” said Saunderson, -“that the mistress was terrified. It gave me a kind of a shock. ‘Lord -bless me,’ I said, and then I just held my peace, for I would not be one -to raise a scandal on the house of Yalton. But my ostler, confound him, -has a long tongue.” - -“I’m much obliged to you,” said Fred. “I’ll come down.” - -And there he saw, on the poor bed in the “Dun Cow,” surrounded by the -few rustic houses about, all excited and discussing the tragedy, his -father, at last hushed and safe, seized by the death which he had -cheated once, but could not cheat a second time. The dreadful drowning -look had departed from his face; he lay tranquil and calm, like a man -who had died in his bed, who had never wronged either man or woman. Whom -had he wronged? Perhaps the insurance companies--no one else. And Fred -at length came to the conclusion that there was now no occasion to -disturb the insurance companies. It had come to pass at last--the event -which had been supposed to be accomplished long ago. There was no reason -now for the confession he had intended, no need to expose his father’s -deception, to betray the secret of the house. Fred could scarcely -reconcile himself to the fact that this was so. It cost him a great deal -of trouble to make up his mind that his business now--now that all was -over, and his father gone for ever--was to be silent for ever. Mr. -Wedderburn had been summoned, and this was his advice, as well as the -almost imperious command of Fred’s mother. To throw a stain upon her -husband’s name was intolerable to Mrs. Dalyell--to attract attention to -the house and explain its secret history. She said, with tears, yet with -indignation, that it should not, it must not be. And old Pat Wedderburn, -who was strangely moved by the story, and who said not a word in blame -of his friend, supported her strongly. “They would have had to give the -money now, if not then,” he said, “and it’s not your part to open the -question. Let it alone. Let him rest in his grave at last--poor Bob! And -I hope in my presence no one will ever say an ill word of Bob D’yell.” - -There was a tear in the old lawyer’s eye. Perhaps he understood it best -of the three, though the other two were wife and son. Fred’s statement -that the drowned man was a relation made it possible to lay him in the -Yalton vault after all--his last and rightful home. Who the other was, -who had received that sad hospitality in the name of Robert Dalyell of -Yalton, they never knew, nor was it necessary to inquire. - -Somehow, however, there was no more question of Mrs. Dalyell’s marriage. -Neither bride or bridegroom ever spoke of it again. And Mr. Wedderburn -resumed something of the old easy relations after a while, and presided -at Susie’s marriage, and was the best friend of the house, as he had -always been. It was a conclusion which on the whole they all felt to be -the best. - - - THE END. - - * * * * * - - Stories of College Life - - THE UNIVERSITY SERIES - - -=I.= =Harvard Stories.=--Sketches of the Undergraduate. -By W. K. POST. Fifteenth edition. 12°, paper, -50 cts.; cloth $1.00 - - “Mr. Post’s manner of telling these tales is in its way inimitable. - The atmosphere of the book in its relation to the localities where - the scenes are laid is well-nigh perfect. The different types of - undergraduates are clearly drawn, and there is a dramatic element - in most of the stories that is very welcome. It goes without saying - that Harvard men will find keen pleasure in this volume, while for - those who desire a faithful picture of certain phases of American - student life it offers a noteworthy fund of instruction and - entertainment.”--_Literary News._ - - -=II.= =Yale Yarns.=--By J. S. WOOD. Fifth edition. -Illustrated. 12° $1.00 - - “This delightful little book will be read with intense interest by - all Yale men.”--_New Haven Eve. Leader._ - - “The Yale atmosphere is wonderfully reproduced in some of the - sketches, and very realistic pictures are drawn, particularly of - the old ‘fence’ and the ‘old brick row.’”--_Boston Times._ - - “College days are regarded by most educated men as the cream of - their lives, sweet with excellent flavor. They are not dull and - tame even, to the most devoted student, and this is a volume filled - with the pure cream of such existence, and many ‘a college joke to - cure the dumps’ is given. It is a bright, realistic picture of - college life, told in an easy conversational, or descriptive style, - and cannot fail to genuinely interest the reader who has the - slightest appreciation of humor. The volume is illustrated and is - just the book for an idle or a lonely hour.”--_Los Angeles Times._ - - -=The Babe=, =B.A.= The Uneventful History of a -Young Gentleman in Cambridge University. By -EDWARD F. BENSON, author of “Dodo,” etc. -Illustrated. 12° $1.00 - - “The story tells of the every-day life of a young man called the - Babe.... Cleverly written and one of the best this author has - written.”--_Leader_, New Haven. - - -=A Princetonian.= A Story of Undergraduate Life at -the College of New Jersey. By JAMES BARNES. -Illustrated. 12° $1.25 - - “Mr. Barnes is a loyal son of the College of New Jersey, with the - cleverness and zeal to write this story of undergraduate life in - the college, following his successful use of the pen in earlier - books, _For King and Country_, _Midshipman Farragut_, etc.... There - is enough of fiction in the story to give true liveliness to its - fact.... Mr. Barnes’s literary style is humorous and - vivid.”--_Boston Transcript._ - - - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS - - Works by Anna Katharine Green - - -=I.=--=THE LEAVENWORTH CASE.= A Lawyer’s Story. -4to, paper, 20 cents; 16°, paper, 50 cents; cloth $1 00 - - “She has worked up a _cause celèbre_ with a fertility of device and - ingenuity of treatment hardly second to Wilkie Collins or Edgar - Allan Poe.”--_Christian Union._ - - -=II.=--=BEHIND CLOSED DOORS.= 16°, paper, 50 cents; -cloth $1 00 - - “ ...She has never succeeded better in baffling the - reader.”--_Boston Christian Register._ - - -=III.=--=THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.= A Story of New -York Life. 16°, paper, 50 cents; cloth $1 00 - - “‘The Sword of Damocles’ is a book of great power, which far - surpasses either of its predecessors from her pen, and places her - high among American writers. The plot is complicated, and is - managed adroitly.... In the delineation of characters she has shown - both delicacy and vigor.”--_Congregationalist._ - - -=IV.=--=X. Y. Z.; A Detective Story.= 16°, paper 25 cents - - “Well written and extremely exciting and captivating.... She is a - perfect genius in the construction of a plot.”--_N. Y. Commercial - Advertiser._ - - -=V.=--=HAND AND RING.= In quarto, paper, 20 cents; 16°, -paper, illustrated, 50 cents; cloth $1 00 - - “It is a tribute to the author’s genius that she never tires and - never loses her readers.... It moves on clean and healthy.... It is - worked out powerfully and skilfully.”--- _N. Y. Independent._ - - -=VI.=--=A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE.= In quarto, paper, -20 cents; 16°, paper, 50 cents; cloth $1 00 - - “A most ingenious and absorbingly interesting story. The readers - are held spell-bound until the last page.”--_Cincinnati - Commercial._ - - -=VII.=--=THE MILL MYSTERY.= 16°, paper, 50 cents; -cloth $1 00 - - “Shows the author’s skill in the manufacture of entirely new and - original complications, and as the central figure is a fresh and - charming girl, the reader is absorbed and thrilled and wrought up - to the last degree in following her fortunes to their triumphant - sequel.”--_Commercial Advertiser._ - - * * * * * - - THE HUDSON LIBRARY - - - Published Monthly. Entered as second-class matter. Yearly - Subscription, $6.00 per volume, paper, 50 cents. Published also in - cloth. - -1. Love and Shawl-straps. By Annette Lucille Noble. - -2. Miss Hurd: An Enigma. By Anna Katharine Green, Author of “The -Leavenworth Case.” - -3. How Thankful was Bewitched. By Jas. K. Hosmer. - -4. A Woman of Impulse. By Justin Huntly McCarthy. - -5. The Countess Bettina. By Clinton Ross. - -6. Her Majesty. By E. K. Tompkins. - -7. God Forsaken. By Frederic Breton. - -8. An Island Princess. By Theodore Gift. - -9. Elizabeth’s Pretenders. By Hamilton Aide. - -10. At Tuxter’s. By G. B. Burgin. - -11. Cherryfield Hall. By F. H. Balfour. - -12. The Crime of the Century. By R. Ottolengui. - -13. The Things that Matter. By Francis Gribble. - -14. The Heart of Life. By W. H. Mallock. - -15. The Broken Ring. By Elizabeth K. Tompkins. - -16. The Strange Schemes of Randolph Mason. By Melville D. Post. - -17. That Affair Next Door. By Anna Katharine Green. - -18. In the Crucible. By Grace Denio Litchfield. - -19. Eyes Like the Sea. By Maurus Jókai. - -20. An Uncrowned King. By S. C. Grier. - -21. The Professor’s Dilemma. By A. L. Noble. - -22. The Ways of Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. - - - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, PUBLISHERS, - - NEW YORK AND LONDON. - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ways of Life, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WAYS OF LIFE *** - -***** This file should be named 55270-0.txt or 55270-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/2/7/55270/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Ways of Life - Two Stories - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: August 5, 2017 [EBook #55270] -[Last updated: October 22, 2017] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WAYS OF LIFE *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="352" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<h1>THE WAYS OF LIFE</h1> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<p class="cb">TWO STORIES -<br /><br /><br /> -BY<br /> - -MRS. OLIPHANT<br /><br /> -———<br /> -“<i>We have wrought no new deliverance in the earth</i>”<br /> -———<br /> -<br /> -<br />G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS<br /> -NEW YORK & LONDON<br /> -<span class="eng">The Knickerbocker Press</span><br /> -1897<br /><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span><small> -<br /><br /> -<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1897</span><br /> -BY<br /> -G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS<br /><br /> -<span class="eng">The Knickerbocker Press, New York</span></small></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#A_PREFACE">A PREFACE: ON THE EBB TIDE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_007">7</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#MR_SANDFORD">MR. SANDFORD</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_021">21</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_WONDERFUL_HISTORY">THE WONDERFUL HISTORY OF MR. ROBERT DALYELL</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_149">149</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> </p> - -<h1>THE WAYS OF LIFE.</h1> - -<h2><a name="A_PREFACE" id="A_PREFACE"></a>A PREFACE.<br /><br /> -ON THE EBB TIDE.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I do</span> not pretend to say that the two stories included in this volume are -conscious or intentional studies of the phase of human experience which -I can describe in no other way than by calling it the ebb, in -contradistinction to that tide in the affairs of men which we all know -is, to those who can identify and seize it, the great turning-point of -life, and leads on to fortune. But they were at least produced under the -influence of the strange discovery which a man makes when he finds -himself carried away by the retiring waters, no longer coming in upon -the top of the wave, but going out. This does not necessarily mean the -decline of life, the approach of age, or any natural crisis, but -something more poignant—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span>the wonderful and overwhelming revelation -which one time or other comes to most people, that their career, -whatever it may have been, has come to a stop: that such successes as -they may have achieved are over, and that henceforward they must -accustom themselves to the thought of going out with the tide. It is a -very startling discovery to one who has perhaps been going with a -tolerably full sail, without any consciousness of weakened energies or -failing power; and it usually is as sudden as it is strange, a thing -unforeseen by the sufferer himself, though probably other people have -already found it out, and traced the steps of its approach. Writers of -fiction, and those whose work it is to realise and exhibit, as far as in -them lies, the vicissitudes and alterations of life, are more usually -employed in illustrating the advance of that tide—in showing how it is -caught or lost, and with what an impetus, and what accompaniments it -flings itself higher and higher up upon the beach, with the sunshine -triumphant in the whirl of the big wave as it turns over and breaks into -foam, and the flood claps its hands with a rejoicing noise. But yet the -ebb has its poetry, too; the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> colours are more sombre, the sentiment is -different. The flood which in its rise seemed almost individual, -pervaded by something like conscious life of force and pleasure, becomes -like an abstract relentless fate when it pours back into the deep gulf -of a sea of forgetfulness, with a rush of whitened pebbles dragged from -the beach, or a long expanse of uncovered sands left bare, studded with -slippery fragments of rock and the bones of shipwrecked boats. These are -no more than symbols of the rising and falling again of human feeling, -which, in all its phases, is of the highest interest to those who -recognise, even in its imaginary developments, a shadow of their own.</p> - -<p>The moment when we first perceive that our individual tide has turned is -one which few persons will find it possible to forget. We look on with a -piteous surprise to see our little triumphs, our not-little hopes, the -future we had still believed in, the past in which we thought our name -and fame would still be to the good, whatever happened, all floating out -to sea to be lost there, out of sight of men. In the morning all might -seem as sure to go on for ever—that is, for our time, which means the -same thing—as the sky over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> us, or the earth beneath our feet; but -before evening there was a different story, and the tide was in full -retreat, carrying with it both convictions of the past and hope in the -future, not only our little laurels, all tossed and withered, and our -little projects, but also the very heart of exertion, our confidence in -ourselves and providence. The discovery comes in many different ways—in -the unresponsive silence which greets an orator who once was interrupted -by perpetual cheers, in the publishing of a book which drops and is -never heard of more, or, as in the present case, the unsold pictures: -and in the changed accent with which the fickle public pronounces a once -favoured name.</p> - -<p>There are some who salute this discovery with outcries of indignation -and refusal to believe. They think, like the French, that they are -betrayed, or, like many of us, that an enemy has done this: a malignant -critic perhaps, an ill-disposed publisher or dealer: and save their own -pride by putting forth explanations, and persuading themselves, if -nobody else, that the thing is temporary and an accident, or else that -it is due to cruel fate, and the machinations of evil-hearted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> men. But -when, amid the gifts of the artist, be they small or great, he happens -to retain the clearer reason, the common-sense of ordinary intelligence, -it is more difficult to take refuge in such self-deceptions, merciful -expedients of Nature as they may be to blind us to our own misfortunes. -The reasonable man has the worst of it in such cases. It is less -possible for him to believe in a mysterious fate or in malign -influences. He is obliged to allow to himself that the going out of the -tide is as natural as its coming in, and that he is no way exempted from -the operation of those laws which affect human reputation and comfort as -much as the rising and the falling affect the winds and the seas.</p> - -<p>These problems of the common life, though they are perhaps less -cheerful, are surely as fit subjects for fiction as are the easier -difficulties of youth. It is common to say that all the stories have -been told and every complication exhausted, so that we can do nothing -but repeat the old themes over again, with such variety of treatment as -our halting genius can suggest. Romance itself, they say, is gone, which -is an assertion strenuously contradicted by the most powerful of our -young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> writers, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, who replies to it in very energetic -tones, that, Here is a steam-engine, which is Romance incarnate, the -great poetry of form and purpose, a creation, as distinct as Hamlet or -Lear, a big, dutiful, but exigent giant which a touch can turn into a -destroyer, but loving guidance into the most useful servant and friend -of man. The tramp of its mighty feet across the wastes of the sea, -bringing the man home to his wife, the son to his mother, is poetry, is -joy to this eager spirit. I am disposed in moderation to accept the -belief of the young author who has a most broad and manful perception of -life as something more than love-making, and to acknowledge the -mysterious monstrous thing which he makes heroic. To show in his -masterful way how every consenting part of the big machine as it clanks -on with large unwieldy steps, so many beats to a minute, sounds a note -in the symphony of life and service, a voice in the great strain of song -which rises from earth to heaven, is more worthy than all the unsavoury -romances of all the decadents. Would not St. Francis, had he lived to -see it, have called to Brother Iron and Brother Steel,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> strong henchmen -of God, and Sister Steam, with her wreaths of snow, though her voice be -not sweet, to join the song of the Creatures in honour of the Maker, as -he called upon fire and water in his famous hymn? or that older minstrel -in the ancient ages, to whom “snow and vapour, wind and storms -fulfilling His word,” were already members of the great choir? It must -be added, however, when all is said, that it is the grimy engineer -behind watching every valve and guiding every stroke who makes the -romance of the machine, as interesting in his way as Romeo, who, though -he is the perennial hero, and attracts the greatest general interest, is -not so much of a man.</p> - -<p>I have often felt while sick or sorry, and craving a little rational -entertainment and distraction—which, in my opinion, it is one of the -highest aims of the novelist to supply—that the everlasting treatment -of the primary problem of youth, as if there was no other in the world, -was at once fatiguing to the reader and injudicious on the part of the -writer. When we want to be taken out of ourselves by the lively -presentment of other people’s difficulties and troubles, it is tiresome -to be always turned back to the disappointments<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> or the successes of -eighteen, or—in deference to the different standard of age held to be -interesting by this generation—let us say five-and-twenty. I do not in -the least deny the great advantages of that episode in life for -treatment in fiction. It is almost the only episode which comes to a -distinct, while it may be, at the same time, a cheerful, end; and its -popularity is obvious: and it is a subject which women, who form the -bulk of readers of fiction, are rarely tired of; all of which points are -important. The elder writers made it the chief thread in the web of -fancy, but surrounded the young people with plenty of fathers and -mothers, neighbours and servants, doctors, clergymen, lawyers, etc., and -all the paraphernalia of common life. But I weary of the two by -themselves, or almost by themselves, as happens so often; and if the -artifices, with which we are so familiar, by which they are brought -together, are fatiguing, how much more so are those uglier artifices by -which, being linked together, they are torn asunder again, and a fierce -duel of what is called passion is set before us against the lurid skies -as the chief object of interest in the world? Novelists make<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> a great -moan when they are hindered in the working out of such subjects, and cry -loudly to heaven and earth against the limited intelligences which -object to them, the British matron, the young person, and so forth. It -seems to me that they would be more reasonable if they complained of the -monotonous demand for a love-story which crushes out of court all the -rest of life—so infinite in variety, so full of complication, so -humorous, so mysterious, so natural and true.</p> - -<p>I have wondered often whether Macaulay and Darwin, and such great men, -whom it is the pride of the novel writer to quote as finding their -recreation in novels, were not of my opinion; though it is sadly -disconcerting to find from his own account that all Mr. Darwin wanted -was a story which ended happily—a judgment which is humbling to one’s -pride in a reader of whom one was so much inclined to boast. So do I -like a story which ends happily. And since the public is fond of such -small revelations, I may here confess that I have often begun a story -with the determination to be high-minded—to treat my young lovers -without indulgence, and either kill them or part them in deference to -the rules of Art.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> But my heart has generally failed me, and I have -rarely found courage to do them any harm. They will have plenty of -trouble in the world, one knows—why should one cross them in the -beginning of their career?</p> - -<p>These, however, are questions of a lighter mood than the one with which -I began, and a manifest digression from that theme. The two stories -which follow treat not of the joy and pride of life, but of those so -often unforeseen misfortunes and accidents which shape it towards its -end. Life appears under a very different aspect to the man who has felt -the turn of the tide. Probably the discovery has been quite sudden, -startling, and, so far as he knows, private to himself. His friends all -the time may go on hailing him as poet, creator—all manner of fine -things. If he discloses his discovery to them, he is met by reproaches -for his dejection, his distrust and gloomy views; the compliments which -he knows so well and believes so little are heaped again upon him; he is -out of health, out of spirits, overworked, they say, in want of rest; a -few weeks leisure and repose, and he will be himself again—as if it -were a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> mood or a freak of temper, and not a fact staring him in the -face. But usually he is too much stunned to speak. He is not dying, or -like to die, though his career has come or is coming to an end. It would -be far more appropriate, far more dramatic if he were; but death is -illogical, and will seldom come at the moment when it is wanted, when it -would most appropriately solve the problem of what is to be done -after?—which becomes the most pressing, the most necessary of -questions. Why did not Napoleon die at Waterloo? He lived to add a -pitiful postscript to his existence, to accumulate all kinds of squalid -miseries about his end, instead of the dramatic and clear-cut conclusion -which he might have attained by a merciful bullet or the thrust of a -bayonet. And how well it would be to end thus when we have discovered -that our day is over! But so far from that, the man has to go on, as if -nothing had happened, “in a cheerful despair,” as I have read in a -note-book—as if to-day were as yesterday, or perhaps more abundant.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“We poets in our youth, begin in gladness,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">But after comes in the end despondency and madness,”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span></p> - -<p class="nind">says Wordsworth. “We have wrought no deliverance in the earth,” says -with profounder meaning a much older poet. A man in such straits may -sometimes save himself as Hamlet would have done, with a bare bodkin, -had not the thought of that something after death which might be worse -even than present calamity deterred him; but if he is of other mettle -and cannot run away, or leave his post save at the lawful summons, the -question, What he is to do? is overwhelming. No hope of being carried to -any island valley of Avillion by stately queens in that boat which is -going out with the tide. And no rebellion against fate will do him the -slightest service. He has to hold his footing somehow—but how?</p> - -<p>I confess that I have not had the courage to follow this question, in -either of the cases treated here, to such depths of human discomfiture -as may have been, or may yet be. A greater artist might have done so, -and led the defeated man through all the depths of humiliation and -dismay; but my hand is not strong or firm enough to trace out to the -bounds of the catastrophe the last possibilities of the broken career. -What in the jargon of the age is called the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> psychological moment is -that in which the first discovery is made, and the startled victim -suddenly perceives what has happened to him, and feels in every plank of -his boat the downward drag of the ebb tide, and looks about him wildly -to see if there is anything he can lay hold of to arrest it, any -deliverance or any escape. This is the case of Mr. Sandford, the hero of -the first of the following tales: and of many others who are not -favoured by so speedy and so complete an answer to this bewildering -problem of life.</p> - -<p>The other story is different; for Robert Dalyell, the subject of that, -has laid his plans arbitrarily to escape out of it, doing what seems to -him the best he can for those who belonged to him. And here again there -is much more to say than has been said; for the condition of the man who -blots himself out of life without dying, and accepts a kind of moral -annihilation while yet all the sources of life are warm within him, -might well afford us one of the most tragic chapters of human history. -But I have shrunk from those darker colours with a compunction for him -whom I have made to suffer, which is quite fantastical and out of -reason, but yet true. To have brought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> him into the world for the mere -purpose of exhibiting his torments seems bad enough without searching -into the depths of them, and betraying those secrets which he himself -accepts with a robust commonplace of endurance as the natural -consequences of the step he has taken.</p> - -<p>I may add here that the circumstances of this latter story, which a just -but severe writer has upbraided me with taking from real life, are -indeed, so far as the central incident goes, facts in a family history, -but facts of which I know neither the date nor the personages involved, -all of whom are purely imaginary, as are most of the consequences that -follow, at least so far as is known to me.</p> - -<p>The reader, I hope, will forgive a writer very little given to -explanations, or to any personal appearance, for these prefatory words.</p> - -<p class="r"> -M. O. W. O.<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="MR_SANDFORD" id="MR_SANDFORD"></a>MR. SANDFORD.</h2> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I-a" id="CHAPTER_I-a"></a>CHAPTER I.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">He</span> was a man approaching sixty, but in perfect health, and with no -painful physical reminders that he had already accomplished the greater -part of life’s journey. He was a successful man, who had attained at a -comparatively early age the heights of his profession, and gained a name -for himself. No painter in England was better or more favourably known. -He had never been emphatically the fashion, or made one of those great -“hits” which are far from being invariably any test of genius; but his -pictures had always been looked for with pleasure, and attracted a large -and very even share of popular approbation. From year to year, for what -was really a very long time, though in his good health and cheerful -occupation the progress of time had never forced itself upon him unduly, -he had gone on doing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> very well, getting both praise and pudding—good -prices, constant commissions, and a great deal of agreeable applause. A -course of gentle uninterrupted success of this description has a -curiously tranquillising effect upon the mind. It did not seem to Mr. -Sandford, or his wife, or any of his belongings, that it could ever -fail. His income was more like an official income, coming in at slightly -irregular intervals, and with variations of amount, but wonderfully -equal at the year’s end, than the precarious revenues of an artist. And -this fact lulled him into security in respect to his pecuniary means. He -had a very pleasant, ample, agreeable life—a pretty and comfortable -house, full of desirable things; a pleasant, gay, not very profitable, -but pleasant family; and the agreeable atmosphere of applause and public -interest which gave a touch of perfection to all the other good things. -He had the consciousness of being pointed out in every assembly as -somebody worth looking at: “That’s Sandford, you know, the painter.” He -did not dislike it himself, and Mrs. Sandford liked it very much. -Altogether it would have been difficult to find a more pleasant and -delightful career.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span></p> - -<p>His wife had been the truest companion and helpmeet of all his early -life. She had made their small means do in the beginning when money was -not plentiful. She had managed to do him credit in all the many -appearances in society which a rising painter finds to his advantage, -while still spending very little on herself or her dress. She had kept -all going, and saved him from a thousand anxieties and cares. She had -sat to him when models proved expensive so often that it was a common -joke to say that some reflection of Mrs. Sandford’s face was in all his -pictures, from Joan of Arc to Queen Elizabeth. Now that the children -were grown up, perhaps the parents were a little less together than of -old. She had her daughters to look after, who were asked out a great -deal, and very anxious to be fashionable and to keep up with their fine -friends. The two grown-up girls were both pretty, animated, and pleasant -creatures, full of the chatter of society, yet likewise full of better -things. There were also two grown-up sons: one a young barrister, -briefless, and fond of society too; the other one of those agreeable -do-nothings who are more prevalent nowadays than ever before,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> a very -clever fellow, who had just not succeeded as he ought at the University -or elsewhere, but had plenty of brains for anything, and only wanted the -opportunity to distinguish himself. They were all full of faculty, both -boys and girls, but all took a good deal out of the family stores -without bringing anything in. Ever since these children grew up the -family life had been on a very easy, ample scale. There was never any -appearance of want of money, nor was the question ever discussed with -the young ones, who had really no way of knowing that there was anything -precarious in that well-established family income which provided them -with everything they could desire. Sometimes, indeed, Mrs. Sandford -would shake her head and declare that she “could not afford” some -particular luxury. “Oh, nonsense, mamma!” the girls would say, while -Harry would add, “That’s mother’s <i>rôle</i>, we all know. If she did not -say so she would not be acting up to her part.” They took it in this -way, with the same, or perhaps even a greater composure than if Mr. -Sandford’s revenues had been drawn from the three per cents.</p> - -<p>It was only after this position had been attained<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> that any anxieties -arose. At first it had seemed quite certain that Jack would speedily -distinguish himself at the bar, and become Lord Chancellor in course of -time; and that something would turn up for Harry—most likely a -Government appointment, which so well known a man as his father had a -right to expect. And Mrs. Sandford, with a sigh, had looked forward with -certainty to the early marriage of her girls. But some years had now -passed since Ada, who was the youngest, had been introduced, and as yet -nothing of that kind had happened. Harry was pleasantly about the world, -a great help in accompanying his sisters when Mrs. Sandford did not want -to go out, but no appointment had fallen in his way; and the briefs -which Jack had procured were very few and very trifling. Things went on -quite pleasantly all the same. The young people enjoyed themselves very -much—they were asked everywhere. Lizzie, who had a beautiful voice, was -an acquisition wherever she went, and helped her sister and her -brothers, who could all make themselves agreeable. The life of the -household flowed on in the pleasantest way imaginable; everything was -bright, delightful, easy. Mrs. Sandford was so good a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> manager that all -domestic arrangements went as on velvet. She was never put out if two or -three people appeared unexpectedly to lunch. An impromptu dinner party -even, though it might disturb cook, never disturbed mamma. There was no -extravagance, but everything delightfully liberal and full. The first -vague uneasiness that crept into the atmosphere was about the boys. It -was Mrs. Sandford herself who began this. “Did you speak to Lord Okeham -about Harry?” she said to her husband one day, when she had been -particularly elated by the appearance of that nobleman at her tea-table. -He had come to look at a picture, and he was very willing afterwards, it -appeared, to come into the drawing-room to tea.</p> - -<p>“How could I? I scarcely know him. It is difficult enough to ask a -friend—but a man I have only seen twice——”</p> - -<p>“Your money or your life,” said Harry, with a laugh. He was himself -quite tranquil about his appointment, never doubting that some day it -would turn up.</p> - -<p>“It is easier to ask a stranger than a friend,” said Mrs. Sandford. “It -is like trading on friendship with a man you know; but this man’s -nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> but a patron, or an admirer. I should have asked him like—I -mean at once.”</p> - -<p>“Mother was going to say like a shot—she is getting dreadfully slangy, -worse than any of us. Let’s hope old Okeham will come back; there’s not -much time lost,” said the cheerful youth.</p> - -<p>“When your father was your age he was making a good deal of money. We -were beginning to see our way,” said Mrs. Sandford, shaking her head.</p> - -<p>“What an awfully imprudent pair you must have been to marry so early!” -cried Jack.</p> - -<p>“I wonder what you would say to us if we suggested anything of the -kind?” said Miss Ada, who had made herself very agreeable to Lord -Okeham.</p> - -<p>“A poor painter!” said Lizzie, with a tone in her voice which her mother -understood—for, indeed Mrs. Sandford did not at all encourage the -attentions of poor painters, having still that early certainty of great -matches in her mind.</p> - -<p>The young people were quite fond of their parents, very proud of their -father, dutiful as far as was consistent with the traditions of their -generation: but naturally they were of opinion that fathers and mothers -were slightly antiquated, and did not possess the last lights.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span></p> - -<p>“The young ones are too many for you, Mary,” said Mr. Sandford; but he -added, “It’s true what your mother says; you oughtn’t to be about so -much as you are, doing nothing. You ought to grind as long as you’re -young——”</p> - -<p>“At what, sir?” said Harry, with mock reverence. Mr. Sandford did not -reply, for indeed he could not. Instead of giving an answer he went back -to the studio, which indeed he had begun to find a pleasant refuge in -the midst of all the flow of youthful talk and laughter, which was not -of the kind he had been used to in his youth. Young artists, those poor -painters whom Mrs. Sandford held at arms’ length, are not perhaps much -more sensible than other young men, but they have at least a subject on -which any amount of talk is possible, and which their elders can -understand. Mr. Sandford was proud of his children, and loved them -dearly. Their education, he believed, was much better than his own, and -they knew a great deal more on general subjects than he did. But their -jargon was not his jargon, and though it seemed very clever and knowing, -and even amusing for a while, it soon palled upon him. He went back to -his studio and to the picture he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> painting, for the daylight was -still good. It was the largest of his Academy pictures, and nearly -finished. It occurred to him as he stood looking at it critically from a -distance, with his head on one side and his hand shading now one part -now another, that Lord Okeham, though very complimentary, had not said -anything about a desire to possess in his small collection a specimen of -such a well-known master as ——. He remembered, now, that it was with -this desire that his lordship had been supposed to be coming. Daniells, -the picture dealer, had said as much. “He wants to come and see what -you’ve got on the stocks. Tell you w’at, old man, ’e’s as rich as -Cressus. Lay it on thick, ’e won’t mind—give you two thou’ as easy as -five ’undred.” This was what, with his usual elegant familiarity, Mr. -Daniells had said. It occurred to Mr. Sandford, with a curious little -pang of surprise, that Lord Okeham had not said a word on the subject. -He had admired everything, he had lingered upon some of the smaller -sketches, making little remarks in the way of criticism now and then -which the painter recognised as very judicious, but he had not said a -word about enriching his collection with a specimen, &c. The surprise -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> which Mr. Sandford noticed this had a sort of sting in it—a prick -like the barb of a fish-hook, like the thorn upon a rose. He did not at -the moment exactly perceive why he should have felt it so. After a -little while, indeed, he began to smile at the idea that it was from -Okeham that this sting came. What did one man’s favour, even though that -man was a cabinet minister, matter to him? It was not that, it was the -discussion that followed which had left him with a prick of disquiet, a -tingling spot in his mind. He must, he felt, speak to some one about -Harry—not Lord Okeham, whom he did not know, who had evidently changed -his mind about that specimen of so well-known, &c. He would not dream of -saying anything to him, a man not sympathetic, a stranger whom, though -he might offer him a cup of tea, he did not really know; but it was very -clear that Harry ought to have something to do.</p> - -<p>So ought Jack. Jack had a profession, but that did not seem to advance -him much. Mr. Sandford had early determined that his sons should not be -artists like himself—that they should have no precarious career, -dependent on the favour of picture dealers and patrons, notwithstanding -that he himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> had done very well in that way. He had always resolved -from the beginning to give them every advantage. Mr. Sandford recalled -to mind that a few years ago he had been very strenuous on this point, -talking of the duty of giving his children the very best education, -which was the best thing any father could do for his children. He had -been very confident indeed on that subject; now he paused and rubbed his -chin meditatively with his mahl-stick. Was it possible that he was not -quite so sure now? He shook himself free from this troublesome coil of -thought, and made up his mind that he must make an effort about Harry. -Then he put down his brushes and went out for his afternoon walk.</p> - -<p>In earlier days Mrs. Sandford would have come into the studio; she would -have talked Lord Okeham over. She would have said, “Oh, he did not like -that forest bit, didn’t he? Upon my word! I suppose my lord thinks he is -a judge!”</p> - -<p>“What he said was reasonable enough. He does know something about it. I -told you myself I was not satisfied with the balance of colour. The -shadow’s too dark. The middle distance——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Edward, don’t talk nonsense: that’s just<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> like you—you’re so -ridiculously modest. If the cook were to come in one morning and tell -you she thought your composition bad, you would say she approached the -picture without any bias, and probably what she said was quite true. -Come out for a walk.”</p> - -<p>This, be it clearly understood, was an imaginary conversation. It did -not take place for the excellent reason that Mrs. Sandford was in the -drawing-room, smiling at the witticisms of her young ones, and saying at -intervals, “Come, come, Lizzie!” and “Don’t be so satirical, Jack.” They -were not nearly such good company as her husband, nor did they want her -half so much, but she thought they did, and that it was her duty to be -there. So Mr. Sandford, who did not think of it at all as a grievance, -but only as a natural necessity, had nothing but an imaginary talk which -did not relieve him much, and went out for his walk by himself.</p> - -<p>It would be foolish to date absolutely from that day a slight change -that began to work in him—but it did come on about this time: and that -was an anxiety that the boys should get on and begin their life’s work -in earnest which had not affected him before. He had been too busy to -think much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> except about his work so long as the young ones were well; -and the period at which the young ones become men and women is not -always easy for a father to discern so long as they are all under his -roof as in their childish days. He, too, had let things flow along in -the well-being of the time without pausing to inquire how long it was to -last, or what was to come of it. A man of sixty who is in perfectly good -health does not feel himself to be old, nor think it necessary to -consider the approaching end of his career. Something, however, aroused -him now about these boys. He got a little irritable when he saw Harry -about, playing tennis with the girls, sometimes spending the whole day -in flannels. “Why can’t he do something?” he said to his wife.</p> - -<p>“Dear Edward,” said Mrs. Sandford, “what can the poor boy do? He is only -too anxious to do something. He is always talking to me about it. If -only Lord Okeham or some one would get a post for him. Is there no one -you can speak to about poor Harry?”</p> - -<p>This was turning the tables upon Harry’s father, who, to tell the truth, -was very slow to ask favours, and did not like it all. He did speak, -however—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span>not to Lord Okeham, but to an inferior potentate, and was told -that all the lists were full, although everybody would be delighted, of -course, to serve him if possible; and nothing came of that. Then there -was Jack. The young man came into dinner one day in the highest spirits. -He had got a brief—a real brief—a curiosity which he regarded with a -jocular admiration. “I shall be a rich man in no time,” he said.</p> - -<p>“How much is your fee?” asked one of the girls. “You must take us -somewhere with it Jack.”</p> - -<p>“It is two guineas,” Jack said, and then there was a general burst of -laughter—that laughter young and fresh which is sweet to the ears of -fathers and mothers.</p> - -<p>“That’s majestic,” Harry said; “lend us something, old fellow, for -luck,” and they all laughed again. They thought it a capital joke that -Jack should earn two guineas in six months. It did not hurt him or any -of them; he had everything he wanted as if he had been earning hundreds. -But Mr. Sandford did not laugh. This time it vexed and disturbed him to -hear all the cheerful banter and talk about Jack’s two guineas.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span></p> - -<p>“It is all very well to laugh,” he said to his wife afterwards, “but how -is he ever to live upon that?”</p> - -<p>“Dear Edward, it’s not like you to take their fun in earnest,” said the -mother. “The poor boy has such spirits—and then it’s always a -beginning.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid his spirits are too good. If he would only take life a -little more seriously——”</p> - -<p>“Why should he?” said Mrs. Sandford, taking high ground; “it is his -happiest time. If he wanted to marry and set up for himself it might be -different. But they have no cares—as yet. We ought to be thankful they -are all so happy at home. Few young men love their home like our boys. -We ought to be very thankful,” she repeated with a devout look upon her -upturned face. It took the words out of his mouth. He could not say any -more.</p> - -<p>But he kept on thinking. The time was passing away with great -rapidity—far more quickly than it had ever done. Sunday trod on the -heels of Sunday, and the months jostled each other as they flew along. -Presently it was Jack’s birthday, and there was a dance and a great deal -of affectionate pleasure; but when Mr. Sandford remembered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> how old the -boy was, it gave him a shock which none of the others felt. At that age -he himself had been Jack’s father, he had laid the foundation of his -reputation, and was a rising man. If they did not live at home and had -not everything provided for them, what would become of these boys? It -gave him a sort of panic to think of it. In the very midst of the dance, -when he was himself standing in the midst of a little knot of -respectable fathers watching the young ones enjoying themselves, this -thought overtook him and made him shiver.</p> - -<p>“Getting on, I hear, very well at the bar,” one of the gentlemen said.</p> - -<p>“He is not making very much money as yet,” replied Mr. Sandford.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nobody does that—at first, at least; but so long as he has you to -fall back upon,” this good-natured friend said, with a nod of his head.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford could not make any reply. He kept saying to himself, “Two -guineas—two guineas—he could not live very long on that.” And Harry -had not even two guineas. It fretted him to have this thought come back -at all manner of unlikely times. He did not seem able to shake it off. -And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> Mrs. Sandford was always on the defensive, seeing it in his eyes, -and making responses to it, speaking at it, always returning to the -subject. She dwelt upon the goodness of the boys, and their love of -their home, and how good it was for the girls to have them, and how -nobody made their mark all at once, “except people that have genius like -you,” she said with that wifely admiration and faith which is so sweet -to a man. What more could he say?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II-a" id="CHAPTER_II-a"></a>CHAPTER II.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">About</span> the same time, or a little later, another shadow rose up upon Mr. -Sandford’s life. It was like the cloud no bigger than a man’s hand, like -a mere film upon the blue sky at first. Perhaps the very first -appearance of it—the faintest shadow of a shade upon the blue—arose on -that day when Lord Okeham visited the studio and went away without -giving any commission. Not that great personages had not come before -with the same result; but that this time there had been supposed to be a -distinct purpose in his visit beyond that of taking a cup of tea with -the artist’s wife and daughters—and this purpose had not been carried -out. It was not the cloud, but it was a sort of <i>avant-coureur</i> of the -cloud, like the chill little momentary breath which sometimes heralds a -storm. No storm followed, but the shadow grew. The next thing that made -it really shape itself as a little more than a film was the fact of his -Academy picture, the principal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> one of the year, coming back—without -any explanation at all; not purchased, nor even with any application -from the print-sellers about an engraving; simply coming back as it had -gone into the exhibition. No doubt in the course of a long career such a -thing as this, too, had happened before. But there was generally -something to account for it, and the picture thus returned seldom dwelt -long in the painter’s hands. This time, however, it subsided quite -quietly into its place, lighting up the studio with a great deal of -colour and interest—“a pleasure to see,” Mrs. Sandford said, who had -often declared that the worst thing of being a painter’s wife was that -she never liked to see the pictures go away. This might be very true, -and it is quite possible that it was a pleasure to behold, standing on -its easel against a wall which generally was enlivened only with the -earliest of sketches, and against which a lay figure grinned and -sprawled.</p> - -<p>But the prospect was not quite agreeable to the painter. However -cheerfully he went into his studio in the morning, he always grew grave -when he came in front of that brilliant canvas. It was the “Black Prince -at Limoges,” a picture<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> full of life and action, with all the aid of -mediæval costume and picturesque groups—such a picture as commanded -everybody’s interest in Mr. Sandford’s younger days. He would go and -stand before it for an hour at a time, trying to find some fault in the -composition, or in the flesh tints, or the arrangements of the -draperies. It took away his thoughts from the subject he was then -engaged in working out. Sometimes he would put up his hand to separate -one portion from another, sometimes divide it with a screen of paper, -sometimes even alter an outline with chalk, or mellow a spot of colour -with his brush. There was very little fault to be found with the -picture. It carried out all the rules of composition to which the -painter had been bred. The group of women which formed the central light -was full of beauty; the sick warrior to whom they appealed was a marvel -of strength and ferocity, made all the keener by the pallor of his -illness. There was nothing to be said against the picture; except, -perhaps, that, had not this been Mr. Sandford’s profession, there was no -occasion for its existence at all.</p> - -<p>When the mind has once been filled with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> new idea it is astounding how -many events occur to heighten it. Other distinguished visitors came to -the studio, like Lord Okeham, and went away again, having left a great -deal of praise and a little criticism, but nothing else, behind them. -These were not, perhaps, of importance enough to have produced much -effect at an ordinary moment, but they added to the general -discouragement. Mr. Sandford smiled within himself at the mistakes the -amateurs made, and the small amount of real knowledge which they showed; -but when they were gone the smile became something like that which is -generally and vulgarly described as being on the wrong side of the -mouth. It was all very well to smile at the amateurs—but it was in the -long run their taste, and not that of the heaven-born artist, which -carried the day; and when a man takes away in his pocket the sum which -ought to supply your balance at your banker’s, the sight of his back as -he goes out at the door is not pleasant. Mr. Sandford had not come to -that pitch yet; but he laughed no longer, and felt a certain ruefulness -in his own look when one after another departed without a word of a -commission. There were other things,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> too, not really of the slightest -importance, which deepened the impression—the chatter of Jack’s -friends, for instance, some of whom were young journalists, and talked -the familiar jargon of critics. He came into the drawing-room one day -during one of his wife’s teas, and found two or three young men, -sprawling about with legs stretched out over the limited space, who were -pulling to pieces a recent exhibition of the works of a Royal -Academician. “You would think you had got among half a dozen different -sorts of people dressed for private theatricals,” said one of the -youths. “Old models got up as Shakespearian kings, and that sort of -thing. <i>You</i> know, Mrs. Sandford; conventional groups trying to look as -if they were historical.”</p> - -<p>“I remember Mr. White’s pictures very well,” said Mrs. Sandford. “I used -to think them beautiful. We all rushed to see what he had in the -exhibition, upon the private view day, when I did not know so much about -it as I do now.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes; before you knew so much about it,” said the art authority. -“You would think very differently to-day.”</p> - -<p>“The whole school is like that,” said another.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> “Historical painting is -gone out like historical novel-writing. The public is tired of costume. -Life is too short for that sort of thing. We want a far more profound -knowledge of the human figure and beauty in the abstract——”</p> - -<p>“Stuff!” said Harry; “the British public doesn’t want your nudities, -whatever you may think.”</p> - -<p>“The British public likes babies, and sick girls getting well, and -beautiful young gentlemen saying eternal adieux to lovely young ladies,” -said one of the girls.</p> - -<p>“To be sure, that sort of thing always goes on; but everybody must feel -that in cultured circles there is a far greater sense of the beauty of -colour for itself and art for art than in those ridiculous old days when -the subject was everything——”</p> - -<p>“You confuse me with your new lights,” said Mrs. Sandford. “I always did -think there was a great deal in a good subject.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Mrs. Sandford!” cried one of the young men, laughing; while -another added, with the solemnity of his kind—</p> - -<p>“People really did think so at one time. It was a genuine belief so long -as it lasted. I am not one of those who laugh at faith so <i>naïf</i>. -Whatever is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> true even for a time has a right to be respected,” said -this profound young man.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford came in at this point, having paused a little to enjoy the -fun, as he said to himself. It was wonderful to hear how they -chattered—these babes. “I am glad to hear that you are all so tolerant -of the old fogeys,” he said, with a laugh as he showed himself. And one -at least of the young men had the good taste to jump up as if he were -ashamed of himself, and to take his legs out of the way.</p> - -<p>“I suppose that’s the new creed that those fellows were giving forth,” -he said to Jack, when the other young men were gone.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said Jack, with an embarrassed laugh. “We all -of us say our say.”</p> - -<p>“But that is the say of most of you, I suppose,” said his father.</p> - -<p>“Well, sir, I suppose every generation has its own standard. ‘The old -order changeth,’ don’t you know—in art as well as in other things.”</p> - -<p>“I see; and you think we know precious little about it,” said Mr. -Sandford, with a joyless smile which curled his lip without obeying any -mirthful impulse. He felt angry and unreasonably annoyed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> at the silly -boys who knew so little. “But they know how to put that rubbish into -words, and they get it published, and it affects the general opinion,” -he said to himself, with perhaps a feeling, not unnatural in the -circumstances, that he would like to drown those kittens with their -miauling about things they knew nothing about. Angry moods, however, did -not last long in Mr. Sandford’s mind. He went back to his studio and -looked at the “Black Prince” in the light of these criticisms. And he -found that some of the old courtiers in attendance on the sick warrior -did look unfeignedly like old models, which indeed they were, and that -there was more composition than life in the attitudes of the women. “I -always thought that arm should come like this,” he said to himself, -taking up his chalk.</p> - -<p>One day about this time he had a visit from Daniells, the picture -dealer, leading a millionaire—a newly-fledged one—who was making a -gallery and buying right and left. Daniells, though he was very dubious -about his h’s, was a good fellow, and always ready to stand by a friend. -He was taking his millionaire a round of the studios, and especially to -those in which there was something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> which had not “come off,” according -to his phraseology. The millionaire was exceptionally ignorant and -outspoken, expressing his own opinion freely. “What sort of a thing have -we got here?” he said, walking up to the “Black Prince;” “uncommon nice -lot of girls, certainly; but what are they all doing round the fellow -out of the hospital? I say, is it something catching?” he cried, giving -Mr. Sandford a dig with his elbow. Daniells laughed at this long and -loudly, but it was the utmost the painter could do to conjure up a -simple smile. He explained as well as he could that they were begging -for life, and that the town was being sacked, a terrible event of which -his visitor might have heard.</p> - -<p>“Sacked,” said the millionaire; “you mean that they’re factory hands and -have got the sack, or that they have been just told they’ve got to work -short time. I understand that; and it shows how human nature’s just the -same in all ages. But I can tell you that in Lancashire it’s a nice -rowing he’d have got instead of all these sweet looks. They would not -have let him off like that, don’t you think it. Wherever you get your -women from, ours ain’t of that kind.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span></p> - -<p>Sandford tried to explain what kind of a sack it was, but he did not -succeed, for the rich man was much pleased with his own view.</p> - -<p>“It’s a fine picture,” said Daniells; “Mr. Sandford, he’s one of the -very best of our modern masters, sir. He has got a great name, and -beautiful his pictures look in a gallery with the others to set ’em off. -Hung on the line in the Academy, and collected crowds. I shouldn’t ’a -been surprised if they’d ’ad to put a rail round it like they did to Mr. -Frith’s.”</p> - -<p>He gave a wink at Mr. Sandford as he spoke, which made our poor painter -sick.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got one of Frith’s,” said the millionaire.</p> - -<p>“You’ll ’ave got one of every modern artist worth counting when you’ve -got Mr. Sandford’s,” said Daniells, with a pat upon the shoulder to his -wealthy client. That gentleman turned round, putting his hands into his -pockets.</p> - -<p>“I’ve seen some pictures as I liked better,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. You’ve seen that one o’ Millais’, a regular stunner; but, -God bless you, that’s but one figger, and twice the money. Look at the -work in that,” cried the dealer, turning his man round<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> again, who gave -the picture another condescending inspection from one corner to the -other.</p> - -<p>“I don’t deny there’s a deal of work in it,” he said, “if it’s painted -fair with everything from the life; and I don’t mind taking it to -complete my collection; but I’ll expect to have that considered in the -price,” he added, turning once more on the painter. “You see, Mr. —— -(What’s the gentleman’s name, Daniells?) I am not death on the picture -for itself. It’s a fine showy picture, and I don’t doubt ’t’ll look well -when it’s hung; but big things like that, as don’t tell their story -plain, they’re not exactly my taste. However, it’s all right since -Daniells says so. The only man I know that goes in for that sort of -thing thinks all the world of Daniells. ‘Go to Daniells,’ he says, ‘and -you’ll be all right.’ So I’ll take the picture, but I’ll expect a -hundred or two off for ready money. I suppose there’s discount in all -trades.”</p> - -<p>“Say fifty off, and you’ll do very well, and get a fine thing cheap,” -said Daniells.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford’s countenance had darkened. He was very amiable, very -courteous, much indisposed to bargaining, but he felt as if his customer -had jumped upon him, and it was all he could do to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> contain himself. “I -never make——” he began, with a little haughtiness most unusual to him; -but before he had said the final words he caught Daniells’ eye, who was -making anxious signs to him. The picture dealer twisted his face into a -great many contortions. He raised his eyebrows, he moved his lips, he -made all kinds of gestures; at last, under a pretence of looking at a -sketch, he darted between Mr. Sandford and the other, and in a hoarse -whisper said “Take it,” imperatively, in the painter’s ear.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford came to an astonished pause. He looked at the uncouth -patron of art, and at the dealer, and at the picture, in turn. It was on -his lips to say that nothing would induce him to let the “Black Prince” -go; but something stopped and chilled him—something, he could not tell -what. He paused a moment, then retired suddenly to the back of the -studio. “I’m not good at making bargains—I will leave myself,” he said, -“in Mr. Daniells’ hands.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, a bad system—a bad system. Every man ought to make his own -bargains,” said the rich man.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford did not listen. He began to turn over a portfolio of old -sketches as if that were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> the most important thing in the world. He -heard the voices murmur on, sometimes louder, sometimes lower, broken by -more than one sharp exclamation, but restrained himself and did not -interfere. Many thoughts went through his mind while he stooped over the -big portfolio, and turned over, without seeing them, sketch after -sketch. Why should he be bidden to “take it” in that imperative way? -What did Daniells know which made him interfere with such a high hand? -He was tempted again and again to turn round, to put a stop to the -negotiation, to say, as he had the best right, “I’ll have none of this;” -but he did not do it, though he could not even to himself explain why.</p> - -<p>He found eventually that Daniells had sold the picture for him at a -reduction of fifty guineas from the original price, which was a thing of -no importance. He hated the bargain, but the little sacrifice of the -money moved him not at all. He recovered his temper or his composure -when the arrangement was completed, and smiled with a reserved -acceptance of the millionaire’s invitation to “come to my place and see -it hung,” as he showed the pair away. They were a well-matched pair, and -Daniells was no doubt far better adapted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> to deal with each a man than a -sensitive, proud artist, who did not like to have his toes trodden upon. -After a while, indeed, Mr. Sandford felt himself quite able to smile at -the incident, and shook off all his annoyance. He went in to luncheon -with the cheque in his hand.</p> - -<p>“I have sold the ‘Black Prince,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> he said, with a certain pleasure, even -triumph, in his voice, remembering how Jack’s friends had scoffed, if -not at the picture, at least at the school to which it belonged.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried Mrs. Sandford, half pleased, half regretful. “I knew we -should not have to give it house-room long.” She gave a glance round her -as if she had heard something derogatory to the picture too.</p> - -<p>“Who have you taken in and done for this time, father?” said Harry, who -was given to banter.</p> - -<p>“Was it that horrid man who came with Mr. Daniells?” cried Lizzie. “Oh, -papa, I should not have thought you would have sold a nice picture to -such a man.”</p> - -<p>“Art-patrons are like gift-horses; we must not look them in the mouth,” -said the painter. “There are quantities of h’s, no doubt, to be found -about the studio; but if we stood upon that—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“So long as he doesn’t leave out anything, either h’s or 0’s, in his -cheque.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford felt slightly, unreasonably offended by any reference to -the cheque. He gave it to his wife to send to the bank, with an annoyed -apprehension that she would make some remark upon the fifty guineas -which were left out. But Mrs. Sandford had not been his wife for thirty -years without being able to read the annoyance in his face. And though -she did not know what was its cause she respected it, and said not a -word about the difference which her quick eye saw at once. Could it be -that which had vexed Edward? she asked herself—he was not usually a man -who counted his pounds in that way.</p> - -<p>The sending off of the “Black Prince,” its packing and directing, and -all the details of its departure, occupied him for some time. It was -August, the beginning of holiday time, when, though never without a -protest at the loss of the light days, even a painter idles a little. -And the youngest boy had come from school, and they were all going to -the seaside. Mr. Sandford did not like the bustle of the moment. He -proposed to stay in town for a few days after the family, and join them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> -when they had settled down in their new quarters. Before they went, -however, he had an interview with one of those friends of Jack’s who -were always about the house, and whose opinions on art were so different -from Mr. Sandford’s, which gave another touch of excitement to the -household. The young fellow wanted to marry Lizzie, as had been a long -time apparent to everybody but her father. There was nothing to be said -against him except that he had not much money; but Mr. Sandford thought -that young Moulton looked startled when he had to inform him that Lizzie -would have no fortune. “Of course that was not of the least -consequence,” he said, but he gave his future father-in-law a curious -and startled look.</p> - -<p>“I think he was disappointed that there was no money,” the painter said -afterwards to his wife.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Edward! there is nothing mercenary about him!” said Mrs. Sandford; -but she sighed and added, “If there only had been a little for her—just -enough for her clothes. It makes such a difference to a young married -woman. It is hard to have to ask your husband for everything.”</p> - -<p>“Did you think so, Mary?” he asked, with a smile but a sense of pain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span></p> - -<p>“I—but we were not like ordinary people, we were just two fools -together,” said the wife, with a smile which brightened all her face; -“but,” she added, shaking her head, “we don’t marry our daughters like -that.”</p> - -<p>“If she is half as good to him as you have been to me——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t speak,” she said, putting up her hand to stop his mouth. -“Lance Moulton can never be the hundredth part so good as <i>my</i> husband.” -But she stopped after this little outburst, and laughed, and again -shaking her head, repeated, “But we don’t marry our daughters like -that.”</p> - -<p>He felt inclined to ask, but did not, why?</p> - -<p>When they all went away Mr. Sandford felt a little lonely, left by -himself in the house, and perhaps it was that as much as anything else -that set him thinking again. His wife had pressed the question of what -Lizzie would want if she married young Moulton, who was only a -journalist, on several occasions, until at last they had both decided -that a small allowance might be made to her in place of a fortune.</p> - -<p>“Fifty pounds is the interest of a thousand, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> that is what she will -have when we die,” Mrs. Sandford said, who was not learned in per cents. -“I think we might give her fifty pounds a year, Edward.”</p> - -<p>“Fifty pounds will not do much good,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Not in their housekeeping, perhaps; but to have even fifty pounds will -be a great thing for <i>her</i>. It will make her so much more comfortable.” -Thus they concluded the matter between them, though not without a -certain hesitation on Mr. Sandford’s part. It was strange that he should -hesitate. He had always been so liberal, ready to give. There was no -reason why he should take fright now. There was the millionaire’s cheque -for the “Black Prince,” which had just been paid into the bank, leaving -a comfortable balance to their credit. There was no pressure of any kind -for the moment. To those who had known what it was to await their next -payment very anxiously in order to pay very pressing debts, and had seen -the little stream of money flowing, flowing away, till it almost seemed -to be on the point of disappearing altogether, the ease of having a -considerable sum to their credit was indescribable; but Mrs. Sandford -was more and more wrapped up in the children,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> and though never -indifferent, yet a little detached in every-day thought and action from -her husband. She did not ask him as usual about his commissions and his -future work. She seemed altogether at ease in her mind about everything -that was not the boys and the girls.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III-a" id="CHAPTER_III-a"></a>CHAPTER III.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> house was very quiet when they were all away. Merely to look into -the drawing-room was enough to give any one a chill. The sense of -emptiness where generally every corner was full, and silence where there -were always so many voices, was very depressing. Mr. Sandford consoled -himself by a very hard day’s work the first day of the absence of his -family, getting on very well indeed, and making a great advance in the -picture he was painting—a small picture intended for one of his oldest -friends. In the evening, as he had nothing else to occupy him, he moved -about the studio, not going into the other parts of the house at all, -and amused himself by making a little study of the moonlight as it came -in upon the plants in the conservatory. His house was in a quarter not -fashionable, somewhere between St. John’s Wood and Regent’s Park, and -consequently there was more room than is usual in London, a pretty -garden and plenty of air. The effect of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> the moonlight and the black -exaggerated shadows amused him. The thought passed through his mind that -if perhaps he were one of the newfangled school which Jack’s friends -believed in, he might turn that unreal scene which was so indubitable a -fact into a picture and probably make a great success as an -impressionist—an idea at which he smiled with a milder but not less -genuine contempt than the young impressionist might have felt for Mr. -Sandford’s school. He had half a mind to do it—to conceal his name and -send it to one of the lesser exhibitions, so as afterwards to have a -laugh at the young men, and prove to them how easy the trick was, and -that any old fogey who took the trouble could beat them in their own -way. Next morning, however, he threw the sketch into a portfolio, with a -horror of the black and white extravagance which in the daylight -offended his artist-eye, and which he had a suspicion was not so good -after all, or so easy a proof of the facility of doing that sort of -thing as he had supposed. And that day his work did not advance so -quickly or so satisfactorily. He listened for the swing of the door at -the other end of the passage which connected the studio with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> house, -though he knew well enough there was no one who could come to disturb -him. There are days when it is so agreeable to be disturbed! And it was -when he was painting in this languid way, and, as was natural, not at -all pleasing himself with his work, that there suddenly and most -distinctly came before him, as if some one had come in and said it, a -thing—a fact—which strangely enough he had not even thought of before. -When it first occurred to him his hand suddenly stopped work with an -action of its own before the mind had time to influence it, and there -was a sudden rush of heat to his head. He felt drops of moisture come -out on his forehead; his heart for a second paused too. His whole being -received a shock—a start. For the first moment he could scarcely make -out what this extraordinary sudden commotion, for which his mind seemed -only partially responsible, could be.</p> - -<p>This was what had in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, occurred to -the painter. He had, of course, been aware of it before without giving -any particular importance to the fact. The fact, indeed, in a -precarious, uncertain profession like his, in which a piece of good -fortune might occur<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> at any moment, was really not of the first -importance; but it flashed upon him now in a significance and with a -force which no such thing had ever held before. It was this—that when -he had completed the little picture upon which he was working he had no -other commission of any kind on hand. It sounds very prosaic to be a -thing capable of giving such a tragic shot—but it was not prosaic. One -can even conceive circumstances in which despair and death might be in -such words; and to no one in Mr. Sandford’s position could they be -pleasant. Even if the fact represented no material loss, it would -represent loss—which at his age could never be made up—loss of -acceptance, loss of position, that kind of failure which is popularly -represented as being “shelved,” put aside as a thing that is done with; -always a keen and grievous pang. But to our painter the words meant more -than that. They meant a cutting off of the ground from under his feet, a -sudden arrest of everything, a full stop, which in his fully flowing -liberal life was a tragic horror and impossibility, a something far more -terrible than death. It had upon him something of the character of a -paralytic stroke. His hand, as we have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> said, stopped work sharply, -suddenly; it trembled, and the brush with which he was painting fell -from it; his limbs tottered under him, his under lip dropped, his heart -gave a leap and then a dead pause. He stumbled backwards for a few steps -and sank into a chair.</p> - -<p>Well! it was only for a few moments that he remained under the influence -of this shock. He picked himself up again, and then picked up his brush -and dried the perspiration from his forehead, and his heart with a -louder beat went on again as if also crying out “Well!” When he had -recovered the power of thought—which was not for a moment or two—he -smiled to himself and said, “What then?” Such a thing had happened -before. In an artist’s life there are often hair-breadth ’scapes, and -now and then the most prosperous comes, as it were, to a dead -wall—which is always battered through by a little perseverance or else -opens by itself, melting asunder at the touch of some heaven-sent patron -or happy accident, and so all goes on more prosperously than before. Mr. -Sandford had passed through many such crises at the beginning of his -career, and even when fully established had never been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> entirely certain -from whence his next year’s income was to come. But it had always come; -there had never been any real break in it—no failure of the continuity. -He had seemed to himself to be as thoroughly justified in reckoning upon -this continuity as any man in an office with so much a year. It might be -a little more or a little less, and there was always that not unpleasant -character of vagueness about it. It might even by a lucky chance for one -fortunate year be almost doubled, and this had happened on rare -occasions; but very seldom had there been any marked diminution in the -yearly incomings. He said, “Pooh, pooh,” to himself as he went up to his -picture again smiling, with his brush in his hand; not for such a matter -as that was he going to be discouraged. It was a thing that had happened -before, and would no doubt happen again. He began to work at his -picture, and went on with great spirit for perhaps a quarter of an hour, -painting in (for he had no model that morning) a piece of drapery from a -lay figure, and catching just the tone he wanted on the beautiful bit of -brocade which figured in the picture as part of a Venetian lady’s -majestic dress. He was unusually successful in his work, and also<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> -succeeded for ten perhaps of these fifteen minutes in amusing himself -and distracting his thoughts from that discovery. A bit of success is -very exhilarating; it made him more confident than anything else could -have done. But when he had got his effect his smile began to fade away, -and his face grew grave again, and his hand trembled once more. After a -while he was obliged to give up and take a rest, putting down his -palette and brush with a sort of impatience and relief in getting rid of -them. Could he have gone straight to his wife and made her take a turn -with him in the garden, or even talked it over with her in the studio, -no doubt the impression would have died off; but she was absent, and he -could not do that; most likely, indeed, if she had been at home she -would have been absorbed in some calculation about Lizzie’s wedding, and -would not have noticed his preoccupation at all.</p> - -<p>He sat down again in that chair, and said once more to himself, “What -then?” and thought over the times in which this accident had happened -before. But there now suddenly occurred to him another thought which was -like the chill of an icy hand touching his heart. The same thing had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> -happened before—but he had never been sixty before. He felt himself -struck by this as if some one had given him a blow. It was quite true; -he had called himself laughingly an old fogey, and when he and his old -friends were together they talked a great deal about their age and about -the young fellows pushing them from their seats. How much the old -fellows mean when they say this, heaven knows. So long as they are -strong and well they mean very little. It is an amusing kind of adoption -of the folly of the young which seems to show what folly it is—a sort -of brag in its way of their own superiority to all such decrepitudes, -and easy power of laughing at what does not really touch them. But alone -in their own private retirements, when a thought like this suddenly -comes, a sharp and sudden realisation of age and what it means, no doubt -the effect is different. For the moment Mr. Sandford was appalled by the -discovery he had made, which had never entered his mind before. Ah! a -pause in one’s means of making one’s living, a sudden stop in the wheels -of one’s life, is a little alarming, a little exciting, perhaps a -discouragement, perhaps a sharp and keen stimulant at other times: at -forty, even at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> fifty, it may be the latter; but at sixty!—this gives -at once a new character to the experience—a character never apprehended -before. His heart, which had begun to spring up with an elasticity -natural to him, stopped again—nay, did not stop, but fell into a sudden -dulness of beating, a subdued silence as if ice-bound. Sensation was too -much for thought; his mind could not go into it; he only felt it, with a -dumb pang which was deeper than either words or thought.</p> - -<p>He could not do any more work that day. He tried again two or three -times, but ended by putting down his palette with a sense of incapacity -such as he thought he had never felt before. As a matter of fact, he -might have felt it a hundred times and attached no importance to it; he -would have gone into the house, leaving his studio, and talked or read, -or gone out for a walk, or to his club, or to see a friend, saying he -did not feel up to work to-day, and there would have been an end of it. -But he was alone, and none of these distractions were possible to him. -Luncheon came, however, which he could not eat, but sat over drearily, -not able to get away from the impression of that thought. Afterwards it -occurred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> to him that he would go and see Daniells and ask him—he was -not quite clear what. He could not go to one of his friends and ask, “Am -I falling off—do you see it? Has my hand lost its cunning—am I getting -old and is my mind going?” He could not ask any one such questions as -these. He smiled at it dolefully, feeling all the ridicule of the -suggestion. He knew his mind was not going—but—— At last he made up -his mind what he would do. It was a long walk to Bond Street, but it was -now afternoon and getting cooler, and the walk did him good. He reached -Daniells’ just before the picture dealer left off business for the day. -He was showing some one out very obsequiously through the outer room all -hung with pictures when he saw Sandford coming in. The stranger looked -much interested and pleased when he heard Sandford’s name.</p> - -<p>“Introduce me, please,” he said, “if this is the great Mr. Sandford, -Daniells.”</p> - -<p>“It is, Sir William,” said Daniells; and Sir William offered his hand -with the greatest effusion. “This is a pleasure that I have long -desired,” he said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span>Mr. Sandford was surprised—he was taken unawares, and the greeting -touched his heart. “After all, perhaps it isn’t <i>that</i>,” he said to -himself.</p> - -<p>“What a piece of luck that you should have come in just then! Why, -that’s Sir William Bloomfield—just the very man for you to know.”</p> - -<p>“Why for me more than another? I know his name, of course,” said Mr. -Sandford, “and he seems pleasant; but I’m too old for new friends.”</p> - -<p>“Too old; stuff and nonsense! You’re always a-harping on that string. -He’s just the man for you, just the man,” said Daniells, rubbing his -hands.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford was amused—perhaps a little pleased by this encounter; and -the pressure of his heavy thoughts was stilled. He began to look at the -new pictures which had come into the gallery, to admire some and -criticise others. Daniells had the good sense always to listen to Mr. -Sandford’s criticisms with attention. They had furnished him with a -great many telling phrases, and given to his own rough and practical -knowledge of art a little occasional polish which surprised and overawed -many of his customers. He listened admiringly now as usual.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span></p> - -<p>“What a deal you do know, to be sure!” he said after a while. “I don’t -know one of them that can make a thing clear like you, old man. It’s a -shame——” and here he coughed and broke off, as if endeavouring to -swallow his last words.</p> - -<p>“What is a shame?” The broken sentence changed Mr. Sandford’s mood -again—the momentary cheer died away. “Daniells,” he said, “I want you -to tell me what you meant the other day by forcing me to accept that -man’s offer. Yes, you did. I should not have let him have the picture -but for you.”</p> - -<p>“Forcing him! Oh, that’s a nice thing to say—the most obstinate fellow -in all London!”</p> - -<p>“Never mind that; I can see you are fencing. Come, why did you do it?”</p> - -<p>Daniells paused for some time. He said a great many things to stave off -his confusion, many half-things which involved others, and made his -answer perhaps more clear than if he had put it directly into words.</p> - -<p>“I see,” Mr. Sandford said at last, “you thought it very unlikely that I -should sell it at all to any one who knew better.”</p> - -<p>“It ain’t that. They don’t know half enough,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> hang ’em! or they wouldn’t -run after a booby like Blank and neglect you.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford smiled what he felt to be a very sickly smile. “We must let -Blank have his day,” he said, “I don’t grudge it him; but I’d like to -know why my chances are so bad. I have always sold my pictures.”</p> - -<p>Daniells gave him a sudden look, as if he would have spoken; then -thought better of it, and said nothing.</p> - -<p>“I have had no reason to complain,” Mr. Sandford continued; “I have done -very well on the whole. I have never had extravagant prices like Em or -En.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Daniells; “you see, you’ve never made an ’it. You’ve gone on -doing good work, and you’ve always done good work. I’d say that if I -were to die for it; but you’ve never made an ’it.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose that’s true; but you need not put it so very frankly,” said -the painter, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“Frankly! I’ve got occasion to put it frankly; and I say it’s a d——d -shame—that’s what it is,” cried Daniells, raising his voice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span></p> - -<p>“You’ve had occasion? Now that we’re on this subject, I should like to -get to the bottom of it. You’ve had occasion?”</p> - -<p>“Well, of course,” said the picture dealer, “if you drive me into a -corner. I’m in the middle of everything, and I hear what people say——”</p> - -<p>“What do they say? That I’ve lost my sense of colour like old Millrain, -or fallen into my dotage like——”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, Sandford! You know it’s nothing of the kind. Don’t talk such -confounded nonsense. You are painting quite as well as ever, you know -you are. They—people don’t care for that sort of thing. It’s too good -for them, or you’re too good for them, or I don’t know what.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford kept smiling—not for pleasure; he was conscious of that -sort of fixed smile that might be thought a sneer, at those people for -whom he was too good. “And you’ve had occasion,” he said, “to prove -this?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t smile at me like that—don’t look like that. If you knew how I’ve -argued and put it all before ’em—— I’ve said a hundred times if I’ve -said once, ‘Sandford! why, Sandford’s one of the best. There isn’t a -better educated painter not in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> England. You can’t pick a hole in his -pictures, try as you like.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Am I indeed so much discussed?” said the victim. “I did not know I was -of such importance. And on what ground have you held this discussion, -Daniells? There must have been some occasion for it. I don’t see -anything here of mine.”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” cried the picture dealer, roused, “if you won’t believe -me.” He opened the door of an inner room, into which Mr. Sandford -followed him. And there, with their faces turned to the wall, were three -pictures in a row. The shape of them gave him a faint, uneasy feeling. -By this time Daniells had been wound up to self-defence, and thought of -the painter’s feelings no more.</p> - -<p>“Look ’ere,” he said, “I shouldn’t have said a word if you had let well -alone—but look ’ere.” Before one of the pictures was visible Mr. -Sandford knew what he was going to see. Three pictures of his own, of a -kind for which he had been famous—cabinet pictures, for which there had -always been the readiest market. He recognised them all with a faintness -that made his brain swim and the light go from his eyes. They seemed so -familiar, like children. At the first glance, without looking at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> them, -he knew what they were and all about them, and had a sick longing that -the earth would open and swallow them, and hide his shame, for so it -seemed.</p> - -<p>“If that don’t show how I’ve trusted you, nothing can,” said the dealer. -“I thought they were as safe as the bank. I bought them all on spec, -thinking I’d get a customer as soon as they were in the shop—and, if -you’ll believe me, nobody’ll have them. I can’t tell what people are -thinking of, but that’s the truth.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford stood with the light going out of his eyes, gazing straight -before him. “In that case—in that case,” he began, “you should—I -must——”</p> - -<p>“I say, don’t take it like that, old man. It’s the fortune of war. One -up and another down. It can’t be helped, don’t you know. Sandford, I -say, why, it’ll come all right again in half-a-dozen years or so. It’ll -come all right after a time.”</p> - -<p>“What did you say?” said Mr. Sandford, dazed. Then he answered vaguely, -“Oh yes; all right—all right.”</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter? I’ve been a wretched fool. Sandford, here, I say, -have a glass of wine.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span></p> - -<p>“There’s nothing the matter. It seems to me a little—cold. I know—I -know it’s not a cold day; but there’s a chill wind about, -penetrating—thanks, Daniells, you’ve cleared up my problem very well. -Now, I think—I think I understand.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t go now, Sandford; don’t go like this.”</p> - -<p>“I want,” he said, smiling again, “to think it over. Much obliged to -you, Daniells, for helping me to understand.”</p> - -<p>“Sandford, don’t go like this. You make me awfully anxious—I’m sure -you’re ill. I can’t let you go out of my place, looking so dreadfully -ill, without some one with you.”</p> - -<p>“Some one with me! I hope you don’t mean to insult me, Daniells. I am -perfectly well—a little startled, but that’s all. I shall go and take a -walk, and blow away the cobwebs, and—think it over. That’s the best -thing. I’m much obliged to you, Daniells. Good-bye.”</p> - -<p>“Have a hansom, at least,” Daniells said.</p> - -<p>“No hansom,” Mr. Sandford answered, turning upon the dealer with a -curious smile. He even laughed a little—low, but quite distinct. “No, -I’ll have no hansom. Good-bye, Daniells, good-bye.”</p> - -<p>And in a minute he was gone. The picture<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> dealer went out to the door -after him, and followed him with his eyes until his figure was lost in -the crowd. Daniells was alarmed. He blamed himself for his frankness. “I -never thought he’d have taken it to heart like that,” he said to -himself. “Yes, I did; or I might have done—he’s awful proud. But I’m -’asty. I can’t help it; I’m always doing things I’m sorry for. Anyhow, -he must have found it out some time, sooner or later,” the dealer said -to himself; and this philosophy silenced his fears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV-a" id="CHAPTER_IV-a"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Sandford</span> knew nothing till he found himself in the Regent’s Park, -not far from his house. He had passed through the crowds in the street -with his life and thoughts suspended, feeling that to think was -impossible, seeing only before him the line of the three pictures -standing against the wall. They seemed to accompany him on his way, -showing against the front of the houses wherever he turned his eyes. -Three pictures, painted cheerfully, without a premonition, or any sense -of failure, or a moment’s fear that they would ever stand with their -faces against a dealer’s wall. One of them had been a great favourite -with his wife. The youngest girl—little Mary—had sat for one of the -figures, and Mrs. Sandford had not wished to let it go. “I wish we could -afford to keep this,” she said; “it is like selling our own flesh and -blood.” But most painters have to accustom themselves to that small -trouble, and even she had laughed at herself. And now to think that it -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> never been sold at all—that it was unsaleable, oh, heaven! The -sense of a dreadful humiliation, far more than was reasonable, filled -the painter’s mind. The man whom he had always liked, but partly -despised—Daniells, who was as ignorant as a pig, who knew a picture -indeed when he saw it, but had not a notion why he liked it, nor could -render a reason or tell how he knew one to be bad or another good—that -he should be losing by his kindness, should be out of pocket, burdened -by three “Sandfords” with their faces against the wall! Mr. Sandford’s -gentle contempt came back upon him with a shock of humiliation and -shame. To sneer at a man who had suffered by him, who had given money -for his unsaleable work—a man who had thus shown himself a better man -than he: for Daniells had never said a word, probably never would have -said a word, listened to the painter’s calm assumptions and taken no -notice, having it in his power all the time to shame him! Nay, he had -done even more than this—he had brought his own customer out of his -way, in pity and friendship, to buy that “Black Prince,” no doubt -equally unsaleable, though—heaven help the poor painter!—he had not -found it out. The pang<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> of this humiliation, mingled with tingling shame -and a painful gratitude and admiration, quivered through and through -him, penetrating the dark dismay and pain of his suspended thoughts.</p> - -<p>He began to notice everything more clearly when he got into the park. -The August afternoon was softening every moment into the deeper -sweetness of the evening. He avoided instinctively the frequented parts, -where the children were playing and people walking about, and made a -long circuit round the outskirts of the park, where only a rare -passenger was to be met with now and then. The air was sweet, though it -was the air of town. The leaves were fluttering in a light breeze, the -birds singing their evening songs, thrushes repeating a hundred -questions, blackbirds unconditional, piping loud and clear, almost as -good as nightingales. He was a man who was not hard to please, and even -Regent’s Park delighted him on a summer evening. He felt it even now, -notwithstanding the shadow that was over him. Never, up to this time, -had care hung so heavy on Mr. Sandford but what he could escape from it -by help of the artist-eye, ever ready to seize a passing effect, or by -the gentle heart which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> was full of sympathy with every human emotion or -even whim of passing fancy. His heart was unaccustomed to anything -tragical. It tried even now to beguile him and escape; to withdraw his -attention to the long, streaming, level rays of the sinking sun; to get -him out of himself to the aid of the child who had broken its toy and -was crying with such passion—far more than a man can show for losses -the most terrible—by the side of the road. And these expedients -answered for the moment. But what had befallen him now was not to be -eluded as other troubles had been. He could not escape from it. The most -ingenious imagination could not lessen it by turning it over and over. -Behind the sunset rays a strange vision of the unsold pictures came out -into the very sky. They shaped themselves behind the child, whom it was -so easy to pacify with a shilling, against the park palings. -Three—which was one of the complete numbers, as if to prove the fulness -of the disaster—three pictures unsold in Daniells’ inner room, and not -a commission in hand, nothing wanted from him, no one to buy. After thus -trying every device to escape, his heart grew low and faint within<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> him, -giving up the conflict; he felt a dull buzzing in his ears, and a dull -throbbing in his breast.</p> - -<p>But thinking was not so easy a matter as it seemed. Think it over? How -was he to think it over? If it were possible to imagine the case of a -man who, walking serenely over a wide and peaceful country, should -suddenly, with the softest, scarcely audible, roll of the pebbles under -his feet, see the earth yawn before him and find himself on the brink of -a fearful precipice, that would have been like his case: but not so bad -as his case, for the man would have it in his power to draw back, to -retire to the peaceful fields behind: whereas, to Mr. Sandford, there -were no peaceful fields, but a gulf all round that one spot of -undermined earth on which he stood. Presently he found himself at his -own door, very tired and a little dazed in mind, thinking of that -precipice, of nothing more distinct. The house stood very solid, very -tranquil, its red roof all illumined with the last level line of the -sun, the garden stretching into shady corners under the trees, the -flower-beds blazing in lavish colours, the little lawn all burnt bare by -the ardent sun and worn with the feet of the tennis players: all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> so -peaceful, certain, secure—an old-established home with deep -foundations, and the assured, immovable look of household tranquillity -and peace. If the walls had been tottering, the garden relapsing into -weeds and wildness, he would not have been surprised—that would have -been suitable to his circumstances. The thing unsuitable was to come -back to that trim order and well-being, to that modest wealth and -comfort and beauty, and to know that all this too, like himself, was on -the edge of the precipice. Tired as he was, he went round the garden -before he went in, and gazed wistfully at the pleasant dwelling with its -open windows, wondering, when the next shock of the earthquake came, -whether it would all fall to pieces like a house of cards, and everybody -become aware that the earth was rent and a great chasm yawning before -the peaceful door.</p> - -<p>He never seemed to have realised, before now, how full of modest luxury -and exquisite comfort that house was. It was not yet covered up and -dismantled, though the fingers of the maid-servants had been itching to -get at that delightful task since ever “the family” left. All was empty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> -and still, but all in good order; no false pretension or show, -everything temperate and well chosen; rich, soft carpets in which the -foot sank, curtains hanging in graceful folds, the cosiest chairs, -Italian cabinets, Venice glass, pictures, not only of his own but of -many contemporary artists—a delightful interior, without a bare corner -or vacant spot anywhere. He went over it with a sort of despairing -pleasure and admiration, his head aching and giddy, with a sense that at -any moment the next shock might come, and everything collapse like the -shadows of a dream. Presently he was served with his dinner, which he -could not eat, in the cool dining-room, with a large window opening to -the garden and the sweet air breathing about him as he sat down at the -vacant table. What a mockery of all certitude and safety it was!—for -nothing could seem more firmly established, more solid and secure. If he -had been a prince of the blood he might have had a more splendid -dwelling, but not more comfort, more pleasantness. All that a sober mind -could desire was there—the utmost refinement of comfort, beautiful -things all around, every colour subdued into perfection, no noise or -anything to break the spell. He was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> glad that the others were -absent—it was the only alleviation to the dismay within him. There -would have been questions as to what was the matter—“Are you ill, -Edward?” “What is wrong with papa?” and other such questions, which he -could not have borne.</p> - -<p>Afterwards he went into the studio. The first thing that caught his eye -was the glow of that piece of drapery which he had painted under the -keen stimulant of the first warning. It had been a stimulant then, and -he was startled by the splendour of the colour he had put into that -piece of stuff—the roundness of it, the clear transparence of the -shadows. It stood out upon the picture like something by another hand, -painted in another age. Had he done that only a few hours ago—he with -the same brushes which had produced the rest of the picture which looked -so pale and insignificant beside it? How had he done it? it made all the -rest of the picture fade. He recognised in a moment the jogtrot, the -ordinary course of life, and against it the flush of the sudden -inspiration, the stronger handling, the glory and glow of the colour. He -had never done anything better in his life; he whose pictures were drugs -in the market,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> who had not a commission to look forward to. He stood -and looked at it for a long time, growing sadder and sadder. He was not -a man who had failed, and who could rail against the world; he was a man -who had succeeded; not a painter in England but would laugh out if any -one said that Sandford had been a failure. Why, who had been successful -if he had not? they would have said. He had not a word to say against -fate. Nobody was to blame, not even himself, seeing that now, in the -midst of all, he could still paint like that. He knew the value of that -as well as any man could know it. He could not shut his eyes to it -because he himself had done it. If he saw such a bit of painting in a -young fellow’s picture he would say, “Well done;” he would say, “Paint -like that, and you have your fortune in your own hand.” Ah, but he was -himself no longer a young fellow. Success was not before him; he had -grasped her, held her, and now it seemed his day was past.</p> - -<p>It is never cheerful to have to allow that your day is past. But there -are circumstances which make it less difficult. Sometimes a man accepts -gracefully enough that message of dismissal. Then he will retire with a -certain dignity, enjoying the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> ease which he has purchased with his hard -work, and looking on henceforward at the struggle of the others, not -sorry, perhaps, or at least saying to the world that he is not sorry, to -be out of that conflict. Mr. Sandford said to himself that in other -circumstances he might have been capable of this; might have laid aside -his pencil, occupied himself with guiding the younger, helping the less -strong, standing umpire, perhaps, in the strife, giving place to those -who represented the future, and whose day was but beginning. Such a -retirement must always seem a fit and seemly thing: but not now; not in -what he felt was but the fulness of his career; not, above all—and this -gave the sting to all—not while he was still depending upon his -profession for his daily bread. His daily bread, and what was worse than -that, the daily bread of those he loved. How many things that simple -phrase involved! Oh for the simplicity of those days when it meant but -what it said! He asked himself with a curious, fantastic, half-amused, -half-despairing curiosity whether it had ever meant mere bread? Bread -and a little fruit, perhaps; a cake, and a draught from a spring in the -primitive Eastern days when the phrase was invented. “Day<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span> by day our -daily bread:” a loaf like that of Elijah which the angel brought him: -the cakes of manna in the wilderness of which only enough was gathered -to suffice for one day: and the tent at night to retire to, or a cave, -perhaps—a shelter which cost nothing. How different now was daily -bread; so many things involved in it, that careful product of many men’s -work, the house which was his home: and all the costly nameless -necessities, so much more than food and clothing; the dainty and -pleasant things, the flowers and gardens, the amusements, the trifles -that make life delightful and sweet. Give us our daily bread: had it -ever been supposed to mean all that? All these many years these -necessities had been supplied, and all had gone on as if it were part of -the constitution of the world. But now the time had come when the -machinery was stopped, when everything was brought to a conclusion. Mr. -Sandford turned his eye from that bit of painting which stood out upon -his picture as if the sun had touched it, to the sheaves of old studies -and sketches in the portfolios, the half-finished bits about the walls, -all those scraps and fragments, full of suggestion, full of beautiful -thoughts, which make the studio of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> great painter rich. He had thought -a few days ago that all this meant wealth. Now his eyes were opened, and -he saw that it meant nothing, that all about him was rubbish not worth -the collection, and himself, who could work no longer, who was no more -good for anything, only one piece of lumber the more, the most valueless -of all.</p> - -<p>He paused, and tried to say to himself that this was morbid. But it was -not morbid, it was true. With that curious hurrying of the thoughts -which a great calamity brings about, he had already glimpsed everything, -seeing the whole situation and all that was involved. There was a -certain sum of money in the bank, no more anywhere, except after his own -death. There were his insurances, a little for every one, enough, he had -hoped, though in a much changed and subdued manner, to support his wife -and the girls, enough for that daily bread of which he had been -thinking; but it could not be had till he died; and that was all. There -was nothing, nothing more; nothing to live upon, nothing to turn to. If -you have losses, if your income is reduced, you can retrench and -diminish your expenses. But when everything is cut off in a moment, when -you have no income at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> all? such utter loss paralyses the unfortunate. -He stood in his studio with a sort of vague smile upon his face, and -something of the imbecility of utter helplessness taking possession of -him. Everything cut off. Nothing to turn to. Vague visions passed -through his mind of the expenses of that seaside house, for instance, -which could not be got rid of now; of Lizzie’s fifty pounds a year which -he had promised not without forebodings; of Jack’s fee of two guineas -which the children had all made so merry about; of the easy course of -their existence, their life, which was so blameless, so innocent, so -kind: they were all ready to give, ready to be hospitable; none of the -family could see another in want and not eagerly offer what they had. -Good God! and to think they had nothing, nothing! It was not a question -of enough, it was that there was nothing; that all the streams were -closed, and all the doors shut, and the successful man, with his large -income, had suddenly become like a navvy out of work, like a dock -labourer, or whatever was most pitifully unprovided for in the world.</p> - -<p>It made Mr. Sandford’s brain whirl. So much in the bank, and after that -nothing; and all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> liberal life going on; the servants, who could not -be sent off at a moment’s notice; the house, which could not be -abandoned; the family, all so cheerful in their false security, who had -no presentiment of evil. He asked himself what people did who were -ruined? He had no great acquaintance with such things. What did they do? -He was very helpless. He could not realise the possibility of breaking -up the house, having no home; of dispersing all the pleasant things -which had been part of his being so long; of stopping short—— He could -not understand how such things were done. And those people who were -ruined generally had something upon which they could fall back. A -merchant could begin again. He might have friends who would help him to -a new start, and there was always hope that he might do as well at last -as at first. But an artist (at sixty) could have no new start. The -public would have none of him. He had done his best; he could not begin -anew. His career when once closed was over, and nothing more could be -made of it. He remembered with a forlorn self-reproach of having himself -said that So-and-so should retire; that it would be more dignified to -give up work before work gave him up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> Ah! so easy a thing to say, so -cruel a thing to say; but he had not realised that it was cruel, or that -such an end was cruel. He had never supposed it possible that such a -thing could happen to himself.</p> - -<p>The insurances: yes, there were always the insurances: a thousand pounds -for each child, that was the calculation they had made. They had said to -each other in the old times, Mary and he, that they never could save -money enough to make any appreciable provision for so many children, but -that if they could but secure for each a thousand pounds, that would -always be something. It would help to give the boys a start; it would be -something for the girls. That the boys should all have professions in -which they would be doing well, and the girls husbands to provide for -them, had seemed too commonplace a certainty even to be dwelt upon: and -a thousand pounds is never to be despised; it would help the young ones -over any early struggle, it would make all the difference. “So long as -we live,” Mrs. Sandford had said, “they will always have us to fall back -upon: and afterwards—what a thing it would have been for us, Edward, to -have a thousand pounds to the good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> to begin upon!” They had thought -they made everything safe so, for the young ones. Mr. Sandford, indeed, -still felt a faint lightening of his heart as he thought of the -insurances. It had always done him good to think of them; that would be -something at least to leave behind. But then it was necessary first that -he should die.</p> - -<p>He had never thought urgently of that necessity. So long as there is -nothing pressing about it, no appearance of its approach, it is easy -enough to speak of that conclusion. Sometimes there is even a pensive -pleasure in it. “When I am out of the way,” “When our day is over,” are -things quite simple to say. For of course that must come one time or -another, as everybody knows. It is more serious, but still not anything -very bad, to speak now and then of what is to be done “if anything -happens.” These things make but little impression upon the mind, even -when old age is on its way. And Mr. Sandford at sixty had as yet felt -very few premonitions of old age. He had called himself an old man with -a laugh, for his eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated; and it -was still pleasantly absurd to think that he could be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> supposed an old -man. But now all this took a different aspect. He felt no older, indeed, -but his position was altogether changed. In the shock of his new -circumstances he stood helpless, not knowing how to meet this unfeared, -unthought-of contingency. But his mind went off with a spring to further -eventualities. The only comfort was this, they had a thousand pounds -apiece laid up for them. But it would be necessary first that he should -die.</p> - -<p>Thinking it all over, he thought, on the whole, that this was the best -thing that could happen. The changes which he surveyed with such a sense -of impossibility, not knowing how they could be brought about, would -become quite natural if he died. There was always a change on the death -of the father. It was the natural time for remodelling life, for -altering everything. The family would not be able, of course, to remain -in this house, to keep up their present superstructure of existence: but -then in the change of circumstances that would seem quite natural and -they would not feel it. They could put everything, then, upon a simpler -footing. And they would have an income, not much of an income, perhaps, -but yet something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> that would come in punctually to the day, and which -would be independent of anything they did, which would have nothing to -do with picture dealers or patrons of art, or the changes of taste that -affected them. What a thing that was, when one came to think of it, to -have an income—something which came in all the same whether you worked -or not, whether you were ill or well, whether you were in a good vein -and could get on with your picture, or whether it dragged and did not -satisfy you! It gave him a sensation of pleasure to think of it: but -then he reflected on the one preliminary which was not so easy to bring -about, which no planning of his could accomplish just when it was -wanted, just when it would be of most use.</p> - -<p>For before this state of things could ensue, it would be necessary that -Mr. Sandford should be dead; and so far as he was aware there was no -immediate prospect of anything of the kind. People do not die when it is -most necessary, when it would be most expedient. It is a thing -independent of your own will, horribly uncertain, happening just when it -is not wanted. This difficulty, when he had begun to take a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> -comfort in the possible arrangement of everything, sent the painter back -into all the confusion of miserable thoughts. Was it possible that he -was in circumstances which made it impossible for him to do anything, -even to die?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V-a" id="CHAPTER_V-a"></a>CHAPTER V.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Sandford</span> went down next day to the seaside to join his family. They -had got a very pleasant house, in full sight of the sea. “What was the -use of going to the sea at all,” Mrs. Sandford said, “unless you got the -full good of it? All the sunsets and effects, and its aspect at every -hour of the day, which was so very different from having merely glimpses -of it—that is what my husband likes,” she said. And of course this -meant the most expensive place. He was met at the station by his wife -and little Mary, the youngest, who was always considered papa’s -favourite. The others had all gone along the coast with a large pic-nic -party, some of them in a boat, some riding—for there were fine -sands—and a delightful gallop along that crisp firm road, almost within -the flash of the waves, was most invigorating. “They all look ever so -much the better for it already,” said the fond mother.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span></p> - -<p>“There was not much the matter with them before that I could see.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing the matter! But they do so enjoy the sea. And I find there -are a great many people here whom we know—more than usual; and a great -deal going on.”</p> - -<p>“There is generally a good deal going on.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Edward, staying behind has not been good for you; you are -looking pale; and I never heard you grudge the children their little -pleasures before.”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> stayed at home, papa,” said little Mary, not willing to be -unappreciated, “to be the first to see you.”</p> - -<p>“You are always a good little girl,” said the father gratefully.</p> - -<p>“I assure you they were all anxious to stay: but I did not think you -would like them to give up a pleasure,” said Mrs. Sandford, never -willing to have any of her children subjected to an unfavourable -comparison.</p> - -<p>“No; oh no,” he said, with a sigh. It was almost impossible not to feel -a grudge at the thought of that careless enjoyment, no one taking any -thought; but he could not burst out with any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> disclosures of his trouble -before little Mary, looking up wistfully in his face with a child’s -sensitiveness to the perception of something wrong. Mary was more ready -to perceive this than Mrs. Sandford, who only thought that her husband -was perhaps a little out of temper, or annoyed by some trifling matter, -or merely affected by the natural misanthropy of three days’ solitude. -She clasped his arm caressingly with her hand as she led him along.</p> - -<p>“You have got some cobwebs into your mind,” she said, “but the sea -breezes will soon blow them away.”</p> - -<p>The sea breezes were very fresh; the sea itself spread out under the -sunshine a dazzling stretch of blue; the wide vault of heaven all belted -with lines of summer cloud, “which landward stretched along the deep” -like celestial countries far away. The air was filled with the soft -plash of the water, the softened sound of voices. The whole population -seemed out of doors, and all in full enjoyment of the heavenly afternoon -and the sights and sounds of the sea. Walking along through these -holiday groups, with his wife by his side and his little girl holding -his hand, Mr. Sandford felt an unreasonable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> calm—a sense of soothing -quiet—come over him. He could not dismiss the phantom which -overshadowed him, but he felt for the moment that he could ignore it. It -was necessary that he should ignore it. He could not communicate to his -wife so tragical a discovery there and then, in her ease and cheerful -holiday mood. He must prepare her for it. Not all in a moment could that -revelation burst upon her. Poor Mary! so happy in her children, so full -of their plans and pleasures, so secure in the certainty of prosperous -life: even the child, strange to think it, understood him better, being -nearer, he supposed, to those springs of life where there are no shades -of intervening feeling, but all is either happiness or despair. A -profound sorrow for these innocent creatures came into his mind; he -could not overcloud them, either the mother or the child. They were so -glad to have him again; so proud to walk on either side of him, pointing -out everything: and all was so happy, were it not for one thing; nothing -to trouble them, all well, all full of pleasure, confidence, health, -lightheartedness; not a cloud—except that one.</p> - -<p>“You have been tiring yourself—doing too much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> while you have been -alone; the servants have made you uncomfortable; they have been pulling -everything, to pieces, though I left the most stringent orders——”</p> - -<p>“No, the servants were very good; they disturbed nothing, though they -were longing to get at it.”</p> - -<p>“They always are; they take a positive pleasure in making the house look -as desolate as possible—as if nobody was ever going to live in it any -more.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody going to live in it more!” he repeated the words with a faint -smile. “No—on the contrary, it looked the most liveable place I ever -saw. I never felt its home-look so much.”</p> - -<p>“It is a nice little place,” she said, with a little pressure of his -arm. “Whatever may happen to the children in after life, we can always -feel that they have had a happy youth and a bright home.”</p> - -<p>“What should happen to them?” he said, alarmed with a sudden fear that -she must know.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing, I hope, but what is good; but the first change in the -family always makes one think. I hope you won’t mind, Edward: Lance -Moulton is here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he is here!”</p> - -<p>“If it is really to be so, Edward, don’t you think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> it is better they -should see as much of each other as possible?” his wife said, with -another tender pressure of his arm. “And somehow, when there is a thing -of that kind in the air, everything seems quickened; I am sure I can’t -tell how it is. It gives a ‘go’ to all they are doing. There are no end -of plans and schemes among them. Of course, Lance has a friend or two -about, and the Dropmores are here, who are such friends of our girls.”</p> - -<p>“And all is fun and nonsense, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Well, if you call it so—all pleasure, and kindness, and real -delightful holiday. Oh, Edward,” said Mrs. Sandford, with the ghost of a -tear in her eye, “don’t let us check it! It is the brightest time of -their lives.”</p> - -<p>The sunset was blazing in glory upon the sea, the belts of cloud all -reddening and glowing, soft puffs of vapour like roses floating across -the blue of the sky. And the air full of young voices softened and -musical, children playing, lovers wandering about, happy mothers -watching the sport, all tender gaiety, and security, and peace. -Everything joyful—save one thing. “No; God forbid that I should check -it,” he said hastily, with a sigh that might have been a groan.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span></p> - -<p>They all came back not long after, full of high spirits and endless -talk; they were all glad to see their father, who had never been any -restraint upon their pleasure, whose grave, gentle presence had never -checked or stilled them. They were sure of his sympathy more or less. If -he did not share their fun, he had at least never discouraged it. And -soon in the plenitude of their own affairs they forgot him, as was so -natural, and filled the room with laughing consultations over -to-morrow’s pleasure, and plans for it. “What are we going to do?” they -all cried, one after another, even Lizzie and Lance, coming in a little -dazzled from the balcony, where they had been enjoying the last fading -lights of the ending day, while the others had clamoured for lamps and -candles inside; “What are we going to do?” Mrs. Sandford sat beaming -upon them, hearing all the suggestions, offering a new idea now and -then. “I must know to-night, that the hampers may be got ready,” she -said; and then there was an echoing laugh all round. “Mother’s always so -practical.” Mr. Sandford sat a little outside of that lively circle with -a book in his hand. But he was not reading; he was watching them with a -strange fascination;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> not willing to check them; oh no! feeling a -helpless sort of wonder that they should play such pranks on the edge of -the precipice, and that none of them should divine—that even his wife -should not divine! The animated group, full in the light of the -lamps—girls and young men in the frank familiarity of the family -interrupting each other, contradicting each other, discussing and -arguing—was as charming a study as a painter could have desired; the -mother in the midst with her pencil in her hand and a sheet of white -paper on the table before her, which threw back the light; and behind, -the lovers stealing in out of the soft twilight shadows, the faint -glimmer of distant sea and sky. He watched it with a strange dull ache -under the pleasure of the father and the painter: the light touching -those graceful outlines, shining in those young eyes, the glimmer of -shining hair, the play of animated features, the soft, dreamlike, -suggestive shadows of the two behind. And yet the precipice yawning, -gaping at their feet, though nobody knew.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said suddenly a small voice in his ear, “I am not going -to-morrow. I want to stay with you.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span></p> - -<p>“My little Mary! But I am a dull old fellow, not worth staying with.”</p> - -<p>“You are sorry about something, papa!”</p> - -<p>“Sorry? There are a great many things in the world to be sorry about,” -he said, stroking her brown head. The child had clasped her hands about -his arm, and was nestling close up to him whispering. They were -altogether outside of the lively group at the table. This little -consoler comforted Mr. Sandford more than words could say.</p> - -<p>It was thus that the holiday life went on. The young people were always -consulting what to do, making up endless excursions and expeditions, -Mrs. Sandford always explaining for them. What was the use of being at -the seaside if they did not take full advantage of it? What was the use -of coming to a new part of the country if they did not see everything? -Sometimes she went with them, compelled by the addition of various -strangers with whom the girls could not go without a chaperon; sometimes -stayed at home with her husband, calculating where they would be by this -time; whether they had found a pleasant spot for their luncheon; when -they might be expected back. Meanwhile, Mr. Sandford took long solitary -walks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span>—very long, very solitary—along the endless line of the sands, -within sight and sound of the sea. Little Mary and her next brother, the -schoolboy, always started with him; but the fascination of the rocks and -pools was too much for these little people, and the father, not -ill-pleased, went on with a promise of picking them up again on his way -back. He would walk on and on for the whole of the fresh shining -morning, with the sea on one side and the green country on the other, -and all the wonderful magical lights of the sky and water shining as if -for him alone. They beguiled him out of himself with their miraculous -play and shimmer and wealth of heavenly reflection; and sometimes he -seemed to feel a higher sensation still—the feeling as of a silent -great Companion who filled the heavenly space, yet moved with him, an -all-embracing, all-responsive sympathy, till he thought of God coming -down to the cool of the garden and walking with His creatures, and all -his trouble seemed to breathe away in a heavenly hush, which every -little wave repeated, softly lapping at his feet.</p> - -<p>But when he came back into the midst of his cheerful family other -subjects got the upper hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> There was not the least harm in the gaiety -that was about him—not the least harm; it was mere exuberance of -youthful life and pleasure. If things had been running their usual -course, and his usual year’s work had been in front of him, Mr. Sandford -said to himself that he too would have come out to the door to see the -children start on their expeditions, as his wife did, with pleasure in -their good looks, and in the family union and happiness. He might have -grumbled a little over Harry’s idleness, or even shaken his head over -the expense; but he too would have liked it—he would have admired his -young ones, and taken pleasure in seeing them happy. But to stand by and -watch all that, and know that presently the revenue which kept it all up -would stop, and the ground be cut from under their feet, sheer down, -like a precipice! Already he had begun to familiarise himself with this -idea. It had a sort of paralysing effect, as well as one of panic and -horror. It is not a thing that happens often. People grow poorer, or -even they get ruined at a blow, but there is generally something -remaining upon which economy will tell; he went over these differences -in his lonely hours, imagining a hundred cases. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> merchant, for -instance, who ruins himself by speculation, if he is an honourable man, -has means at his disposal of trying again, or at least can get a -situation in an office (at the worst), where he will still have an -income—a steady income, though it may be small; his friends, and the -people who had business relations with him, would be sure to exert -themselves to secure him that; or if his losses were but partial, of -course nothing could be easier than to retrench and live at a lower -rate. So Mr. Sandford said to himself. But what can a few economies do -when at a critical moment, at a period close at hand, all incoming must -cease, and nothing remain? It did not now give him the violent shock of -sensation which he had felt at first when this fact came uppermost. He -had become accustomed to it. It was not <i>après moi</i>, but in three months -or so, the deluge: an end to everything, no half measures, no -retrenchment, but the end. He began to wonder when that time came what -would be done. The house could be sold, and all that was in it, but -where then would they go for shelter? They would have to pay for the -poorest lodgings, and at least there was nothing to pay for the house. -Mr. Sandford was not a man of business, he was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> man of few resources; -he did not know what to do, or where to turn when his natural occupation -failed him.</p> - -<p>These thoughts went through his mind in a painful round. Three months or -so, and then an end of everything. Three months, and then the precipice -so near that the next step must be over it. Perhaps in other -circumstances, or if he had not been known to be so near the head of his -profession, he might have thought of artists’ work of some other kind -which he could do. He might have tried to illustrate books, to take up -one of the art manufactures; might have become a designer, a decorator, -something that would bring in money. But in this respect he was so -helpless, he knew no more what to do than the most ignorant; his heart -failed him when he tried to penetrate into the darkness of that future. -The only thing that came uppermost was the thought of the insurances, -and of the thousand pounds for each which the children would have. It -was not very much, but still it was something, a something real and -tangible, not like a workman’s wages for work, which may fail in a -moment as soon as he fails to please his employer, or loses his skill, -or grows too old for it. It had never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> occurred to Mr. Sandford before -how precarious these wages are, how little to be relied on. To think of -a number of people depending for their whole living upon the skill of -one man’s hand, upon the clearness of his sight, the truth of his -instincts, even the fashion of the moment! It seems, when you look at it -in the light of a discovery such as that which he had made, so mad, so -fatal! A thing that may cease in a moment as if it had never been, yet -with all the complicated machinery of life built upon it, based on the -strange theory that it would go on for ever! On the other hand a -thousand pounds is a solid thing; it would be a certainty for each of -them. Harry might go to one of the colonies and get an excellent start -with a thousand pounds in his pocket. Jack would no doubt be startled -into energy by the sense of having something which it would be fatal to -lose, yet which could not be lived upon. A thousand pounds would make -all the difference to Lizzie on her marriage. When he thought of his -wife a quiver of pain went over him, and yet he tried to calculate all -the chances there would be for her. All friends would be stirred in -sympathy for her; they would get her a pension, they would gather round -her: it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> would be made easy for her to break up this expensive way of -living, and begin on a smaller footing. There would be the house, which -would bring her in a little secure income if it was let. Whatever she -had would be secure—it would be based on something solid, certain—not -on a man’s work, which might lose its excellence or go out of fashion. -He felt himself smile with a kind of pleasure at the contemplation of -this steady certainty—which he never had possessed, which he never -could possess, but which poor Mary, with a pension and the rent of the -house, would at last obtain. Poor Mary! his lip quivered when he thought -of her. He wondered if the children would absorb her interest as much -when he was no longer in the background, whether she would be able to -find in them all that she wanted, and consolation for his absence. It -was not with any sense of blame that this thought went through his mind. -Blame her! oh no. To think of her children was surely a mother’s first -duty. She was not aware that her husband wanted consolation and help -more than they did. How could she know when he did not tell her? And he -felt incapable of telling her. He had meant to do it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> When he came he -had intended as soon as possible to prepare her for it, to lead by -degrees to that revelation which could not but be given. But to break in -upon all their innocent gaieties, to stop her as she stood kissing her -hand to the merry cavalcade as they set out, her eyes shining with a -mother’s delight and pride; to call her away from among her pretty -daughters (she, her husband thought the fairest of them all), and their -pleasant babble about pleasures past and to come, and pour black despair -into the cheerful heart, how could he do it, how could any one do it? -Such happiness was sacred. He could not interrupt it, he could not -destroy it; it was pathetic, tragic, beyond words: on the edge of the -precipice! Oh no, no! not now, he could not tell her. Let the holidays -be over, let common life resume again, and then—unless by the grace of -God something else might happen before.</p> - -<p>They all noticed, however, that papa was dull—which was the way in -which it struck the young people—that he had no sympathy with their -gaiety, that he was “grumpy,” which was what it came to. Lizzie thought -that this probably arose from dissatisfaction with her marriage, and -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> indignant. “If he doesn’t think Lance good enough, I wonder what -would please him. Did he expect one of the princes to propose to me?” -she cried.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lizzie, my love, don’t speak so of your father!”</p> - -<p>“Well, mamma, he should not look at us so,” cried the girl.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sandford herself was a little indignant too. Her sympathies were -all with the children. She saw disapproval in his subdued looks, and was -ready at any moment to spring to arms in defence of her children. And -indeed sometimes, in his great trouble, which no one divined, Mr. -Sandford would sometimes become impatient.</p> - -<p>“I wish,” he would say, “that Jack would do something—does he never do -anything at all? It frets me to see a young man so idle.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Edward!” cried his wife, “it is the Long Vacation. What should -he have to do?”</p> - -<p>“And Harry?” Mr. Sandford said.</p> - -<p>“Poor boy! You know he would give his little finger to have anything to -do. He has nothing to do. How can he help that? When we go back to town -you must really put your shoulder to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> wheel. Among all your friends -surely, surely, something could be got for Harry,” said his mother, thus -turning the tables. “And in the meantime,” she added, “to get all the -health he can, and the full good of the sea, is certainly the best thing -the poor fellow could do.”</p> - -<p>What answer could be made to this? Mr. Sandford went out for his -walk—that long silent walk, in which the great Consoler came down from -amid all the silvery lights and shining skies, and walked with him in -the freshness of the morning, all silent in tenderness and great -solemnity and awe.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VI-a" id="CHAPTER_VI-a"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h3> - -<p>“Unless, by the grace of God, something should happen”—that was what he -kept saying to himself when he reflected on the disclosure which must be -made when the seaside season was over. The great events of life rarely -happen according to our will. A man cannot die when he wishes it, though -there should be every argument in favour of such an event, and its -advantages most palpable. The moment passes in which that conclusion -would have all the force and satisfactory character of a great tragedy, -and a dreary postscript of existence drivels on, destructive of all -dignity and appropriateness. We live when we should do much better to -die, and we die sometimes when every circumstance calls upon us to live.</p> - -<p>Most people will think that it was a very dreary hope that moved Mr. -Sandford’s mind—perhaps even that it was not the expedient of a brave -man to desire to leave his wife and children to endure the change and -the struggle from which he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> shrank in his own person. But this was not -how it appeared to him. He thought, and with some reason, that the -change which becomes inevitable on the death of the head of a house is -without humiliation, without the pang of downfall which would be -involved in an entire reversal of life which had not that excuse; he -thought that everybody who knew him would regret the change, and that -every effort would be made to help those who were left behind. It would -be no shame to them to accept that help; it would seem to them a tribute -to his position rather than pity for them. His wife would believe that -her husband, a great painter, one of the first of the day, had fully -earned that recognition, and would be proud of the pension or the money -raised for her as of a monument in his honour. And then the insurances. -There could be no doubt, he said to himself, with a rueful smile, that -so much substantial money would be much better to have than a man who -could earn nothing, who had become incapable, whose work nobody wanted. -He had no doubt whatever that it would be by far the best solution. It -would rouse the boys by a sharp and unmistakable necessity; it might, he -thought,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> be the making of the boys, who had no fault in particular -except the disposition to take things easily, which was the weakness of -this generation. And as for the others, they would be taken care of—no -doubt they would be taken care of. Their condition would appeal to the -kindness of every friend who had ever bought a “Sandford” or thought it -an honour to know the painter. He would even himself be restored to -honour and estimation by the act of dying, which often is a very -ingratiating thing, and makes the public change its opinion. All these -arguments were so strongly in favour of it that to think there was no -means of securing it depressed Mr. Sandford’s mind more than all. By the -grace of God. But it is certain that the Disposer of events does not -always see matters as His creatures see them. No one can make sure, -however warmly such a decree might be wished for, or even prayed for, -that it will be given. If only that would happen! But it was still more -impossible to secure its happening than to open a new market for the -pictures, or cause commissions to pour in again.</p> - -<p>It may be asked whether Mr. Sandford’s conviction, which was so strong -on this subject, ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> moved him to do anything to bring about his -desire. It was impossible, perhaps, that the idea should not have -crossed his mind—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“When we ourselves can our demission make<br /></span> -<span class="i1">With a bare bodkin.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And we can scarcely say that it was, like Hamlet, the fear of something -after death that restrained him. It was a stronger sentiment still. It -was the feeling that to give one’s self one’s dismissal is quite a -different thing. It is a flight—it is a running away; all the arguments -against the selfishness of desiring to leave his wife and children to a -struggle from which he had escaped came into action against that. What -would be well if accomplished by the grace of God would be miserable if -done by the will of the man who might be mistaken in his estimate of the -good it would do. And then another practical thought, more tragical than -any in its extreme materialism and matter-of-fact character, it would -vitiate the insurances! If the children were to gain nothing by his -death, then it would certainly be better for them that he should live. -On that score there could be no doubt. This made suicide as completely -out of the question<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> from a physical point of view as it was already -from a spiritual. He could not discharge himself from God’s service on -earth, though he should be very thankful if God would discharge him; and -he could not do anything to endanger the precious provision he had made -for his family. It can scarcely be said that Mr. Sandford considered -this case at leisure or with comparison of the arguments for and -against, for his decision was instinctive and immediate; nevertheless -the idea floated uppermost sometimes in the surging and whirl up and -down of many thoughts, but always to be dismissed in the same way.</p> - -<p>Two or three weeks had passed in this way when one evening Mr. Sandford -received a letter from Daniells, the dealer, inviting him to join a -party on the Yorkshire moors. Daniells was well enough off to be able to -deny himself nothing. He was not a gentleman, yet the sports that -gentlemen love were within reach of his wealth, and gentlemen not so -well off as he showed much willingness to share in his good things. Some -fine people whose names it was a pleasure to read were on his list, and -some painters who were celebrated enough to eclipse the fine people. -That all these should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> be gathered together by a man who was as ignorant -as a pig, and not much better bred, was wonderful; but so it was. -Perhaps the fact that Daniells was really at heart a good fellow had -something to do with it: but even had this not been the case, it is -probable that he could still have found guests to shoot on his moor, and -eat the birds they had shot. Mr. Sandford was no sportsman, and at first -he had little inclination to accept. It was his wife who urged him to do -so.</p> - -<p>“You are not enjoying Broadbeach as you usually do,” she said; “you are -bored by it. Oh, don’t tell me, Edward, I can see it in your eyes.”</p> - -<p>“If you think so, my dear, no denial of mine——”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, shaking her head; “nothing you say will change my -opinion. I am dreadfully sorry, for I am fond of the place; but I have -made up my mind already never to come here again: for you are bored—it -is as plain as possible: you want a change: you must go.”</p> - -<p>“It is not much of a change to visit Daniells,” said Mr. Sandford.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it isn’t Daniells; it’s the company, and the distance, and all you -will find there. I have no objection to Mr. Daniells, Edward.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span></p> - -<p>“Nor I; he is a good fellow in spite of his ’h’s.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t care about his ’h’s.’ He’s very hospitable and very friendly, -and all the nice people go to him. I saw in the papers that Lord Okeham -was there. You might be able to speak a word for Harry.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford smiled. “I am to go, then, as a business speculation,” he -said; but his smile faded away very soon, for he reflected that Lord -Okeham was the first to give him that sensation of being wanted no -longer, of having nobody to employ him, which had risen to such a tragic -height since then.</p> - -<p>“Don’t laugh,” said his wife. “I do think indeed it is your -duty—anything that may help on the children; and you do like Mr. -Daniells, Edward.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I do like Daniells; he is a very good fellow.”</p> - -<p>“And the change will do you good. You must go.”</p> - -<p>It was arranged so almost without any voluntary action on his part. His -wife’s anxiety that he should “speak a word for Harry” seemed to him -half-pathetic, half-ridiculous in what he knew to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> the position of -affairs; but then she did not know. It can scarcely be said that it was -other than a relief to him to leave his family to their own -light-hearted devices, or that the young ones were not at least -half-pleased when he went away. “Papa was not a bit like himself,” they -said; probably it was because the heat was too much for him (he -preferred cold weather), and the freshness of the moors would put him -all right. Mrs. Sandford was by no means willing to confess to herself -that she, too, was relieved by her husband’s departure. It was the first -time she had ever been conscious of that feeling in thirty years of -married life; but she, too, said that he would be the better of the -freshness of the moors, and they all gave themselves up to “fun” with a -new rush of pleasure when his grave countenance was away.</p> - -<p>“I am sure he did not mean it,” said Lizzie, “but I could not help -feeling that it was poor Lance that was the cause.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing of the sort, my dear,” said Mrs. Sandford. “Your father would -have told you if he had any objections. No; I know what it is; he is -very anxious about the boys—and so am I.”</p> - -<p>No one, however, who had seen her among them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> could have believed that -Mrs. Sandford was very anxious. She was so glad that they should enjoy -themselves. Afterwards, when the holidays were over, when they were all -back in town again, then something, no doubt, must be done about Harry. -He was very thoughtless, to be sure; he took no trouble about what was -going to happen to him. Mrs. Sandford threw off any shade of distress, -however, by saying to herself that now his father was fully roused to -the necessity of doing something, now that he was about to meet Lord -Okeham and other influential people, something <i>must</i> be found for -Harry, and then all would go well. But the look in her husband’s eyes -haunted her, nevertheless, for the rest of the day. She had gone to the -railway with him to see him off, as she always did, and when the train -was just moving, he looked at her, waving his hand to her. The look in -his eyes was so strange and so sad, that Mrs. Sandford felt disposed to -rush after her husband by the next train. Failing that, she drew her -veil over her face as she turned away and shed tears, she could not tell -why, as if he had been going away never to return. How ridiculous! how -absurd! when he was only a little out of sorts and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> sure to be set right -by the freshness of the moors. The impression very soon wore out, and -the young people had already organised a little impromptu dance for the -evening, which gave Mrs. Sandford plenty to do.</p> - -<p>“It looks a little like taking advantage of your father’s absence—as if -you were glad he was gone.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” they all cried. “What a dreadful idea! The only thing is -that it would have bored him horribly; otherwise,” added Harry, “we are -always glad of my father’s company,” with an air of protection and -patronage which made the others laugh. And Mrs. Sandford keenly enjoyed -the dance, and felt it better that her husband’s face, never so grave -before, should not be there to over-shadow the evening’s entertainment. -He would be so much more in his element discussing light and shade with -the other R.A.s, or talking a little moderate politics with Lord Okeham, -or breathing in the freshness of the moors.</p> - -<p>And he did like the freshness of the moors, and the talk of his brother -artists, and the discussions among the men. It was entirely a man’s -party, and perhaps a very domestic man like Mr. Sandford, a little -neglected amid the exuberances<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> of a young family, his very wife drawn -away from him by the exigencies of their amusements, is specially open -to the occasional refreshment of a party of his fellows, when congenial -pursuits and matured views, and something of a like experience—at all -events something which is a real experience of life—draw individuals -together. The “sport” of the painters was apt to be interrupted by -realisations of the “effects” about them, and by discussions on various -artistic-scientific points which only masters in the art could settle; -and that semi-professional flavour of the party was extremely -interesting to the other men, the public personages and society -magnates, who found it very piquant to be thrown amid the painters, and -who were inspired thereby to talk their best, and tell their most -entertaining stories. No atmosphere of failure accompanied Mr. Sandford -into this circle, which was kept hilarious by the host’s jovialities and -social mistakes. If anybody knew that Daniells kept in his inner room -three “Sandfords” which he could not sell, there was no hint of that -knowledge in anything that was said, or in the manner of the other -painters towards their fellow, to whom all appealed as to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> as great an -authority as could be found on all questions of art. He was restored, -thus, to the position which, indeed, nobody could take from him, though -he should never sell a picture again. It soothed him to feel and see -that, to all his brethren, he was as much as ever one of the first -painters of his time, and to give his opinion and sustain it with the -experience of his long professional life, and much experiment in art. A -forlorn hope had been in his mind that Daniells might have some good -news for him; that he might say some day, “That was all a false alarm, -old man—I’ve sold the pictures;” but this unfortunately did not come to -pass. Daniells never said it was a false alarm; he even said some things -in his rough but not unkindly way which to Mr. Sandford’s ear, quickened -by trouble, confirmed the disaster; but perhaps Daniells, who had no -particular delicacy of perception, did not intend this.</p> - -<p>The change, however, did Mr. Sandford a great deal of good: though -sometimes, when he found himself alone, the settled shadow of calamity -which had closed upon his life, and which must soon be known to all, -came over him with almost greater force than at first. It was but seldom -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> he was alone, when he was indoors: yet now and then he would find -himself on the moors in the sun-setting, when the western sky was still -one blaze of yellow or orange light, varied by bands of cloudy red, with -the low hills and sweeps of moor standing black against that waning -brightness which, magnificent as it was, sent out little light. Mr. -Sandford did not compare his own going out of practical life and -possibility, yet preservation of a glow of fame which neither warmed nor -enlightened, with that show in the west. People seldom see allegories of -their own disaster. But as he strayed along with the sense of dreariness -in his heart which the dead and spectral aspect of hill and tree was so -well calculated to give, his own circumstances came back to him in -tragic glimpses. He thought of the gay group he had left behind, the -heedless young creatures singing and dancing on the edge of the -precipice, and of the peaceful home lying silent awaiting them, to which -they had no doubt of returning, with all its security of comfort and -peace, but on the edge of the precipice too. And he thought of Jack’s -fee, his two guineas, which they had all taken as the best joke in the -world, and of Lizzie, who was to have fifty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> pounds a year from her -father, and of Harry, quite happy and content on his schoolboy -allowance; and all this going on as if it were the course of nature, -unchangeable as the stars or the pillars of the earth. These things -glided before him as he looked over all the inequalities of the moor -standing black against the western sky. They were the true facts about -him, notwithstanding that in the shelter of this momentary pause he only -felt them as at a distance, and less strongly than before realised the -ease it would bring if by the grace of God something -happened—before——</p> - -<p>It was the time of the year when there are various race meetings in the -north, and Mr. Daniells had planned to carry his party to the most -famous of them. He had his landau and a brake, royally charged with -provisions, and filled with his guests. Mr. Sandford had done his best -to get off this unnecessary festivity, for which he had little taste. -But all his friends, who by this time had begun to perceive that his -spirits were not in their usual equable state, resisted and protested. -He must come, they said: to leave one behind would spoil the party; he -was not to be left alone with all the moorland effects to steal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> a march -upon the other painters. And he had not sufficient energy to stand -against their remonstrances. It was easier to yield, and he yielded. The -race was not unamusing. Even with all his preoccupation, he took a -little pleasure in it, more or less, as most Englishmen do: though it -glanced across his mind that somebody might say afterwards, “Sandford -was there, amusing himself on the edge of the precipice.” These vague -voices and glimpses of things were not enough to stand against the -remonstrances and banter of his friends: and after all, what did it -matter? The plunge over the precipice is not less terrible because you -may have performed a dance of despair on the edge. It was about sunset -on a lovely September evening when the party set out on their return -home. They were merry; not that there had been any excess or indulgence -unbecoming of English gentlemen. Daniells, it is true, who was not a -gentleman, had, perhaps, a little more champagne under his belt than was -good for him. But his guests were only merry, talking a little more -loudly than usual about the events of the day and the exploits of the -favourite, and settling some moderate bets which neither harmed nor -elated any one. Mr. Sandford,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> who had not betted, was the most silent -of party; the lively talk of the others left him free to retire to his -own thoughts. He had got rather into a tangle of dim calculations about -his insurances, and how the money would be divided, when somebody -suddenly called out “Hallo! we’ve got off the road!”</p> - -<p>For some time Mr. Sandford was the only one who paid any attention to -this statement. Looking out with a little start, he saw the same scene -against which his musings had taken form on previous nights. A sky -glowing with a stormy splendour, deep burning orange on the horizon -rising through zones of yellow to the daffodil sky above, every object -standing out black in the absence of light; not the hedgerows and white -line of the road alone, but the blunt inequalities of the moor, here a -lump of gorse or gnarled hawthorn bush, there a treacherous hollow with -a gleam of water gathered as in a cup. The coachman and grooms had not -been so prudent as their masters; their potations had been heavier than -champagne. How they had left the road and got upon the moor could never -be discovered. It was partly the perplexing glow above and blackness -below, partly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> the fumes of a long day’s successive drinkings in their -brains; partly, perhaps, as one of the passengers thought, something -else. The horses had taken the unusual obstacles on their path with -wonderful steadiness at first, but by the time the attention of the -gentlemen was fully attracted to what was happening, the coachman had -altogether lost control of the kicking and plunging animals. The man was -not too far gone to have driven home by the road, but his brain was -incapable of any effort to meet such an emergency. He began to flog the -horses wildly, to swear at them, to pull savagely at the reins. The -groom jumped down to rush to their heads, and in doing so, as they made -a plunge at the moment, fell on the roadside, and in a moment more was -left behind as the terrified horses dashed on. By this time everybody -was roused, and the danger was evident. Mr. Sandford sat quite still; he -was not learned about horses, while many of his companions were. One of -them got on to the box beside the terrified coachman to try what could -be done, the others gave startled and sometimes contradictory -suggestions and directions. He was quite calm in the tumult of alarm and -eager preparation for any event. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> was sensible, profoundly sensible, -of the wonderful effect of the scene: the orange glow which no pigments -in the world could reproduce, the blackness of the indistinguishable -objects which stood up against it like low dark billows of a motionless -sea. The shocks of the jolting carriage affected him little, any more -than the shouts of the alarmed and excited men. He did not even remark, -then, that some sprang off and that others held themselves ready to -follow. His sensations were those of perfect calm. He thought of the -precipice no more, nor even of the insurances. Some one shook him by the -shoulder, but it did not disturb him. The effect was wonderful; the -orange growing intense, darker, the yellow light pervading the -illuminated sky. And then a sudden wild whirl, a shock of sudden -sensation, and he saw or felt no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VII-a" id="CHAPTER_VII-a"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Presently</span> the light came back to Mr. Sandford’s eyes. He was lying upon -the dry heather on the side of the moor, the brown seed-pods nestling -against his cheek, the yellow glow in the west, to which his eyes -instinctively turned, having scarcely faded at all since he had looked -at it from the carriage. A confused sound of noises, loud speaking, and -moans of pain reached him where he lay, but scarcely moved him to -curiosity. His first sensation was one of curious ease and security. He -did not attempt to budge, but lay quite peacefully smiling at the -sunset, like a child. His head was confused, but there was in it a vague -sense of danger escaped, and of some kind of puzzled deliverance from he -knew not what, which gave the strangest feeling of soothing and rest. He -felt no temptation to jump up hastily, to go to the help of the people -who were moaning, or to inquire into the accident, as in another case he -would have done. He lay still, quite at his ease, hearing these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> voices -as if he heard them not, and smiling with a confused pleasure at the -glow of orange light in the sky.</p> - -<p>He did not know how long it was till some one knelt down and spoke to -him anxiously. “Sandford, are you badly hurt? Sandford, my dear fellow, -do you know me? Can you speak to me?”</p> - -<p>He burst into a laugh at this address.</p> - -<p>“Speak to you? Know you? What nonsense! I am not hurt at all. I am quite -comfortable.”</p> - -<p>“Thank God!” said the other. “Duncan, I fear, has a broken leg, and the -coachman is—— It was his fault, the unfortunate wretch. Give me your -hand, and I’ll help you to get up.”</p> - -<p>To get up? That was quite a different matter. He did not feel the least -desire to try. He felt, before trying and without any sense of alarm, -that he could not get up; then said to himself that this was nonsense -too, and that to lie there, however comfortably, when he might be -helping the others, was not to be thought of. He gave his hand -accordingly to his friend, and made an effort to rise. But it would have -been as easy (he said to himself) for a log of wood to attempt to rise. -He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> felt rather like that, as if his legs had turned to wood—not stone, -for that would have been cold and uncomfortable. “I don’t know how it -is,” he said, still smiling, “but I can’t budge. There’s nothing the -matter with me, I’m quite easy and comfortable, but I can’t move a limb. -I’ll be all right in a few minutes. Look after the others. Never mind -me.” He thought the face of the man who was bending over him looked -strangely scared, but nothing more was said. A rug was put over him and -one of the cushions of the carriage under his head, and there he lay, -vaguely hearing the groans of the man whose leg was broken as -(apparently) they moved him, and all the exclamations and questions and -directions given by one and another. What was more wonderful was the -dying out of that wild orange light in the sky. It paled gradually, as -if it had been glowing metal, and the cold night air breathing on it had -paled and dwindled that ineffectual fire. A hundred lessening tints and -tones of colour—yellows and faint greens, with shades of purple and -creamy whiteness breaking the edges—melted and shimmered in the -distance. It was like an exhibition got up for him alone, relieved by -that black underground,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> now traversed by gigantic ebony figures of a -horse and man, moving irregularly across the moor. A star came out with -a keen blue sparkle, like some power of heaven triumphant over that -illumination of earth. What a spectacle it was! And all for him alone!</p> - -<p>The next thing he was conscious of was two or three figures about -him—one the doctor, whose professional touch he soon discovered on his -pulse and his limbs. “We are going to lift you. Don’t take any trouble; -it will give you no pain,” some one said. And before he could protest, -which he was about to do good-humouredly, that there was no occasion, he -found himself softly raised upon some flat and even surface, more -comfortable, after all, than the lumps of the heather. Then there was a -curious interval of motion along the road, no doubt, though all he saw -was the sky with the stars coming gradually out; neither the road nor -his bearers, except now and then a dark outline coming within the line -of his vision; but always the deep blue of the mid sky shining above. -The world seemed to have concentrated in that, and it was not this -world, but another world.</p> - -<p>He remembered little more, except by snatches;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> an unknown -face—probably the doctor’s—looking exceedingly grave, bending over -him; then Daniells’ usually jovial countenance with all the lines -drooping and the colour blanched out of it, and a sound of low voices -talking something over, of which he could only make out the words -“Telegraph at once;” then, “Too late! It must not be too late. She must -come at once.” He wondered vaguely who this was, and why there should be -such a hurry. And then, all at once, it seemed to him that it was -daylight and his wife was standing by his bedside. He had just woke up -from what seemed a very long, confused, and feverish night—how long he -never knew. But when he woke everything was clear to him. Unless, by the -grace of God, something were to happen—— Something was about to -happen, by the grace of God.</p> - -<p>“Mary!” he cried, with a flush of joy. “You here!”</p> - -<p>“Of course, my dearest,” she said, with a cheerful look, “as soon as I -heard there had been an accident.”</p> - -<p>He took her hand between his and drew her to him. “This was all I -wanted,” he said. “God is very good; He gives me everything.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, Edward!” This pitiful protest, remonstrance, appeal to heaven and -earth—for all these were in her cry—came from her unawares.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “my dear, everything has happened as I desired. I -understand it all now. I thought I was not hurt; now I see. I am not -hurt, I am killed, like the boy—don’t you remember?—in Browning’s -ballad. Don’t be shocked, dear. Why shouldn’t I be cheerful? I am -not—sorry.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Edward!” she cried again, the passion of her trouble exasperated by -his composure; “not to leave—us all?”</p> - -<p>He held her hand between his, smiling at her. “It was what I wanted,” he -said—“not to leave you; but don’t you believe, my darling, there must -be something about that leaving which is not so dreadful, which is made -easy to the man who goes away? Certainly, I don’t want to leave you; but -it’s so much for your good—for the children’s good——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never, Edward, never!”</p> - -<p>“Yes; it’s new to you, but I’ve been thinking about it a long time—so -much that I once thought it would almost have been worth the while, but -for the insurances, to have—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Edward!” She looked at him with an agonised cry.</p> - -<p>“No, dear—nothing of the kind. I never would, I never could have done -it. It would have been contrary to nature. The accident—was without any -will or action of mine. By the grace of God——”</p> - -<p>“Edward, Edward! Oh, don’t say that; by His hand, heavy, heavy upon us!”</p> - -<p>“It is you that should not say that, Mary. If you only knew, my dear. I -want you to understand so long as I am here to tell you——”</p> - -<p>“He must not talk so much,” said the voice of the doctor behind; “his -strength must be husbanded. Mrs. Sandford, you must not allow him to -exhaust himself.”</p> - -<p>“Doctor,” said Mr. Sandford, “I take it for granted you’re a man of -sense. What can you do for me? Spin out my life by a few more feeble -hours. Which would you rather have yourself? That, or the power of -saying everything to the person you love best in the world?”</p> - -<p>“Let him talk,” said the doctor, turning away; “I have no answer to -make. Give him a little of this if he turns faint. And send for me if -you want me, Mrs. Sandford.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span></p> - -<p>“Thanks, doctor. That is a man of sense, Mary. I feel quite well, quite -able to tell you everything.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Edward, when that is the case, things cannot be so bad! If you will -only take care, only try to save your strength, to keep up. Oh, my dear! -The will to get well does so much! Try! try! Edward, for the love of -God.”</p> - -<p>“My own Mary: always believing that everything’s to be done by an -effort, as all women do. I am glad it is out of my power. If I were in -any pain there might be some hope for you, but I’m in no pain. There’s -nothing the matter with me but dying. And I have long felt that was the -only way.”</p> - -<p>“Dying?—not when you were with us at the sea?”</p> - -<p>“Most of all then,” he said, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Edward, Edward! and I full of amusements, of pleasure, leaving you -alone.”</p> - -<p>“It was better so. I am glad of every hour’s respite you have had. And -now you’ll be able easily to break up the house, which would have been a -hard thing and a bitter downfall in my lifetime. It will be quite -natural now. They will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> give you a pension, and there will be the -insurance money.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot bear it,” she cried wildly. “I cannot have you speak like -this.”</p> - -<p>“Not when it is the utmost ease to my mind—the utmost comfort——”</p> - -<p>She clasped her hands firmly together. “Say anything you wish, Edward.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my poor dear.” He was very, very sorry for his wife. It burst upon -her without preparation, without a word of warning. Oh, he was sorry for -her! But for himself it was a supreme consolation to pour it all forth, -to tell her everything. “If I were going to be left behind,” he said, -soothingly, “my heart would be broken: but it is softened somehow to -those that are going away. I can’t tell you how. It is, though; it is -all so vague and soft. I know I’ll lose you, Mary, as you will lose me, -but I don’t feel it. My dearest, I had not a commission, not one. And -there are three pictures of mine unsold in Daniells’ inner shop. He’ll -tell you if you ask him. The three last. That one of the little Queen -and her little Maries, that our little Mary sat for, that you liked so -much, you remember? It’s standing in Daniells’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> room; three of them. I -think I see them against the wall.”</p> - -<p>“Edward!”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, my head is not going. I only <i>think</i> I see them. And it was the -merest chance that the ‘Black Prince’ sold; and not a commission, not a -commission. Think of that, Mary. It is true such a thing has happened -before, but I never was sixty before. Do you forget I am an old man, and -my day is over?”</p> - -<p>“No, no, no,” she cried with passion; “it is not so.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; facts are stubborn things—it is so. And what should we have -done if our income had stopped in a moment, as it would have done? A -precipice before our feet, and nothing, nothing beyond. Now for you, my -darling, it will be far easier. You can sell the house and all that is -in it. And they will give you a pension, and the children will have -something to begin upon.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the children!” she cried, taking his hand into hers, bowing down -her face upon it. “Oh, Edward, what are the children between you and -me?” She cast them away in that supreme<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> moment; the young creatures all -so well, so gay, so hopeful. In her despair and passion she flung their -crowding images from her—those images which had forced her husband from -her heart.</p> - -<p>He laughed a low, quiet laugh. “God bless them,” he said; “but I like to -have you all to myself, you and me only, for the last moment, Mary. You -have been always the best wife that ever was—nay, I won’t say have -been—you are my dear, my wife. We don’t understand anything about -widows, you and I. Death’s nothing, I think. It looks dreadful when -you’re not going. But God manages all that so well. It is as if it were -nothing to me. Mary, where are you?”</p> - -<p>“Here, Edward, holding your hand. Oh, my dear, don’t you see me?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” he said, with a faint laugh, as if ashamed at some mistake -he had made, and put his other hand over hers with a slight groping -movement. “It’s getting late,” he said; “it’s getting rather dark. What -time is it? Seven o’clock? You’ll not go down to dinner, Mary? Stay with -me. They can bring you something upstairs.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span></p> - -<p>“Go down? Oh, no, no. Do you think I would leave you, Edward?” She had -made a little pause of terror before she spoke, for, indeed, it was -broad day, the full afternoon sunshine still bright outside, and nothing -to suggest the twilight. He sighed again—a soft, pleasurable sigh.</p> - -<p>“If you don’t mind just sitting by me a little. I see your dear face in -glimpses, sometimes as if you had wings and were hovering over me. My -head’s swimming a little. Don’t light the candles. I like the -half-light; you know I always did. So long as I can see you by it, Mary. -Is that a comfortable chair? Then sit down, my love, and let me keep -your hand, and I think I’ll get a little sleep.”</p> - -<p>“It will do you good,” said the poor wife.</p> - -<p>“Who knows?” he said, with another smile. “But don’t let them light the -candles.”</p> - -<p>Light the candles! She could see, where she sat there, the red sunshine -falling in a blaze upon a ruddy heathery hill, and beating upon the dark -firs which stood out like ink against that background. There is perhaps -nothing that so wrings the heart of the watcher as this pathetic mistake -of day for night which betrays the eyes from which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> all light is -failing. He lay within the shadow of the curtain, always holding her -hand fast, and fell asleep—a sleep which, for a time, was soft and -quiet enough, but afterwards got a little disturbed. She sat quite -still, not moving, scarcely breathing, that she might not disturb him; -not a tear in her eye, her whole being wound up into an external calm -which was so strangely unlike the tumult within. And she had forsaken -him—left him to meet calamity without her support, without sympathy or -aid! She had been immersed in the pleasures of the children, their -expeditions, their amusements. She remembered, with a shudder, that it -had been a little relief to get him away, to have their dance -undisturbed. Their dance! Her heart swelled as if it would burst. She -had been his faithful wife since she was little more than a child. All -her life was his—she had no thought, no wish, apart from him. And yet -she had left him to bear this worst of evils alone!</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sandford dared not break the sacred calm by a sob or a sigh. She -dared not even let the tears come to her eyes, lest he should wake and -be troubled by the sight of them. What thoughts went through her mind as -she sat there, not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> moving! Her past life all over, which, until that -telegram came, had seemed the easy tenor of every day; and the future, -so dark, so awful, so unknown—a world which she did not understand -without him.</p> - -<p>After an interval he began to speak again, but so that she saw he was -either asleep still or wandering in those vague regions between -consciousness and nothingness. “All against the wall—with the faces -turned,” he said. “Three—all the last ones: the one my wife liked so. -In the inner room: Daniells is a good fellow. He spared me the sight of -them outside. Three—that’s one of the perfect numbers—that’s—I could -always see them: on the road and on the moor, and at the races: then—I -wonder—all the way up—on the road to heaven? no, no. One of the -angels—would come and turn them round—turn them round. Nothing like -that in the presence of God. It would be disrespectful—disrespectful. -Turn them round—with their faces——” He paused; his eyes were closed, -an ineffable smile came over his mouth. “He—will see what’s best in -them,” he said.</p> - -<p>After this for a time silence reigned, broken only now and then by a -word sometimes unintelligible.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> Once his wife thought she caught -something about the “four square walls in the new Jerusalem,” sometimes -tender words about herself, but nothing clear. It was not till night -that he woke, surprising them with an outcry as to the light, as he had -previously spoken about the darkness.</p> - -<p>“You need not,” he said, “light such an illumination for me—<i>al giorno</i> -as the Italians say; but I like it—I like it. Daniells—has the soul of -a prince.” Then he put out his hands feebly, calling “Mary! Mary!” and -drew her closer to him, and whispered a long, earnest communication; but -what it was the poor lady never knew. She listened intently, but she -could not make out a word. What was it? What was it? Whatever it was, to -have said it was an infinite satisfaction to him. He dropped back upon -his pillows with an air of content indescribable, and silent pleasure. -He had done everything, he had said everything. And in this mood slept -again, and woke no more.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Mr. Sandford’s previsions were all justified. The house was sold to -advantage, at what the agent called a fancy price, because it had been -his house—with its best furniture undisturbed. Everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> was -miserable enough indeed, but there was no humiliation in the breaking up -of the establishment, which was evidently too costly for the widow. She -got her pension at once, and a satisfactory one, and retired with her -younger children to a small house, which was more suited to her -circumstances. And Lord Okeham, touched by the fact that Sandford’s -death had taken place under the same roof, in a room next to his own -(though that, to be sure, in an age of competition and personal merit -was nothing), found somehow, as a Cabinet Minister no doubt can if he -will, a post for Harry, in which he got on just as well as other young -men, and settled down into a very good servant of the State. And Jack, -being thus suddenly sobered and called back to himself, and eager to get -rid of the intolerable thought that he, too, had weighed upon his -father’s mind, and made his latter days more sad, took to his profession -with zeal, and got on, as no doubt any determined man does when he -adopts one line and holds by it. The others settled down with their -mother in a humbler way of living, yet did not lose their friends, as it -is common to say people do. Perhaps they were not asked any longer to -the occasional “smart” parties to which the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> pretty daughters and -well-bred sons of Sandford the famous painter, who could dispense -tickets for Academy soirées and private views, were invited, more or -less on sufferance. These failed them, their names falling out of the -invitation books; but what did that matter, seeing they had never been -but outsiders, flattered by the cards of a countess, but never really -penetrating beyond the threshold?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sandford believed that she could not live when her husband was thus -taken from her. The remembrance of that brief but dreadful time when she -had abandoned him, when the children and their amusements had stolen her -heart away, was heavy upon her, and though she steeled herself to carry -out all his wishes, and to arrange everything as he would have had it -done, yet she did all with a sense that the time was short, and that -when her duty was thus accomplished she would follow him. This softened -everything to her in the most wonderful way. She felt herself to be -acting as his deputy through all these changes, glad that he should be -saved the trouble, and that humiliation and confession of downfall which -was not now involved in any alteration of life she could make,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> and -fully confident that when all was completed she would receive her -dismissal and join him where he was. But she was a very natural woman, -with all the springs of life in her unimpaired. And by-and-by, with much -surprise, with a pang of disappointment, and yet a rising of her heart -to the new inevitable solitary life which was so different, which was -not solitary at all, but full of the stir and hum of living, yet all -silent in the most intimate and closest circle, Mrs. Sandford recognised -that she was not to die. It was a strange thing, yet one which happens -often: for we neither live nor die according to our own will and -previsions—save sometimes in such a case as that of our painter, to -whom, as to his beloved, God accorded sleep.</p> - -<p>And more—the coming true of everything that he had believed. After -doing his best for his own, and for all who depended upon him in his -life, he did better still, as he had foreseen, by dying. Daniells sold -the three pictures at prices higher than he had dreamed of, for a -Sandford was now a thing with a settled value, it being sure that no new -flood of them would ever come into the market. And all went well. -Perhaps with some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> of us, too, that dying which it is a terror to look -forward to, seeing that it means the destruction of a home, may prove, -like the painter’s, a better thing than living even for those who love -us best. But it is not to every one that it is given to die at the right -moment, as Mr. Sandford had the happiness to do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> </p> - -<h2><a name="THE_WONDERFUL_HISTORY" id="THE_WONDERFUL_HISTORY"></a>THE WONDERFUL HISTORY<br /><br /> -OF<br /><br /> -<big>MR. ROBERT DALYELL.</big></h2> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I-b" id="CHAPTER_I-b"></a>CHAPTER I.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a September night, rather chilly and dreary, as the evening often -becomes at that season, even when the day has been beautiful. There was -a little cold wailing wind about, like the ghost of an autumn breeze, -which came in puffs of air, only strong enough to dislodge a fluttering -yellow leaf or two, and sometimes with a few drops of rain upon it, -which it dashed in your face with an elfish moan—not a night to walk in -the garden for pleasure. It was, however, a custom with Mr. Dalyell to -smoke his cigar out-of-doors after dinner in all weathers, and Fred, who -was his eldest son, was proud to be his father’s companion and share -this indulgence—too proud to make any opposition<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> to the chill of the -night or the occasional dash of rain. All that was visible from the -windows of the Yalton drawing-room, across which now and then a white -figure would flutter, with a glance out were the red fire-tips of the -two cigars, moving now quickly, now slowly, stopping altogether for a -moment, going on with renewed rapidity—which was papa’s way.</p> - -<p>You could not see a prettier old house than Yalton in all the eastern -shires. It had the mixture of French with native Scotch architecture -which distinguishes a period in history. There were turrets, which the -profane called pepper-boxes, at the corners, and lines of many windows -in the commodious, comfortable <i>corps de logis</i>, now shining through the -night with cheerful lights. Two terraces stood between the altitude of -the house and the walk in which the father and son were, with lines of -stone balustrades all overgrown by creeping plants and adorned with -great vases in which the garish flowers of autumn were still fully -blooming, though they were unseen in the darkness. On the lower level -was the little temple of a fountain, which was reduced to a small and -broken jet by age and negligence. The scent of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> mignonette in the -borders, the faint dripping of the water in the fountain, communicated -to the atmosphere a little half-artificial speciality of character, like -the terraces and great vases, not altogether natural to the locality, -yet not uncongenial in its quaint double nationality. The two dark -figures walking up and down, made visible by those red points, were yet -undistinguishable, save by the fact that one was slim and slight, a -boyish figure, and the other round and solid in the complete development -of the man. The lad had been unfolding to his father the many novelties -and wonders of his first year at the University, with that delightful -force of conviction that such pleasant and wonderful experiences had -never happened to anybody before which is the perennial belief of the -young: while the father listened with that half-amused, half-pensive -sympathy, made up of recollections fond and familiar, and the -half-provoked, half-pleased sensation of amazement at finding those -experiences re-embodied in the person of his son, which is habitual to -the old. But, indeed, to say old is merely to express a comparative -quality, for Mr. Dalyell of Yalton was a man under fifty, in the full -force and vigour of life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span></p> - -<p>“Ah, yes,” he said, “Fred, it’s fine times for you now, my boy. But you -must remember that life is not made up of bumps and bump-suppers, and -that there are worse things than a proctor waiting for you, perhaps, -round the next corner. I don’t want you not to play—but you must learn -to work a little, too.”</p> - -<p>“All right, father,” said Fred; “I’ll pull through. I sha’n’t disgrace -the old house.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Mr. Dalyell. “I don’t suppose you will: but you might perhaps -go a little farther than that.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t think,” said Fred, surprised, “that you intended me to do more -than a good pass. I never supposed there was—any need for hard work.”</p> - -<p>“Need? I never said there was need: but it does a young fellow good to -be thought to work: even if it does no more it does that. It’s well for -you to be thought to work, Fred.”</p> - -<p>“If that’s all,” said the young man, “I don’t fancy I want to get a -reputation in that way.”</p> - -<p>“Then you’re a silly boy,” said his father. “It’s a capital thing to -have a good reputation. You don’t know what it might do for you.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span></p> - -<p>“Well,” said the lad, with a laugh, “I don’t fancy that matters so much, -so long as you do everything for me, father.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just the point, Fred. That’s what I wanted to show you. I -sha’n’t always be here to do everything for you.”</p> - -<p>“Why,” said Fred, “you’re almost as young as I am!”</p> - -<p>“I’m not particularly old: but no man’s life is secure, however young he -may be; it’s not to be lippened to, as old Janet says. You ought to -contemplate what your position would be if I were taken away. Think what -happens to many a young fellow, Fred, whose father dies—perhaps just -when he is where you are: and he has to stop all his pleasant ways and -turn to, perhaps to work for his mother and the rest, perhaps only to -look after them and take care of them—but at all events to be the head -of the family instead of a careless boy.” Mr. Dalyell had stopped in his -walk to enforce what he said, which was a way he had. “I’ve known a boy -of your age,” he said, “that had to give up everything, and go into an -office, and work like a slave: instead of your bump-suppers, Fred.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span></p> - -<p>“I’ve heard of such a thing myself,” said Fred; “though you don’t think -much of my experience, father. It happened to Surtees of New, a fellow a -little senior to me. It was awfully hard upon him. He would have been in -the ‘eight’ if he had stayed another year. What he felt most was leaving -the ‘Varsity without getting his blue. But,” added the lad, “if it -matters about what people think, as you were saying, he was thought no -end of for it. He went abroad, I think, to look after some business -there.”</p> - -<p>“And dropped, I suppose, never to be heard of more—among his old chums -at least?”</p> - -<p>“It was awfully hard upon him,” said Fred, regretfully.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Mr. Dalyell, “that’s what may happen to any one of you -whose fathers are in business. You ought to remember that such a -contingency is always on the cards.”</p> - -<p>“Why, father——!” cried Fred. The boy was unwilling to make any -application, to seem to think that there could be anything in their own -circumstances to suggest this conversation: but he threw an involuntary -glance at the house behind him with all its cheerful lights, and at the -dark<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> clouds of trees all round in the distance, which marked the great -extent of the park and woods of Yalton. He did not add a word, and -indeed the whole movement was involuntary—a sort of appeal from the -lugubrious remarks on one side to all these unending signs of wealth on -the other.</p> - -<p>“You mean to say there’s Yalton; and though I’m in business, I’m not all -in business,” said Mr. Dalyell with a laugh. “I was not speaking of -ourselves, my boy; but of the vicissitudes of life. I hope there will be -Dalyells of Yalton as long as Edinburgh Castle stands upon a rock; and -one can’t say more than that. Still, there are wonderful changes in -life, and I’d like to think—if you force me to an application—that you -were up to anything that might happen. You’d have to take the command, -you know, Fred,” he added after a moment, knocking the ash off his cigar -against the balustrade of the terrace, with another curious laugh. “Your -dear mother has never been used to anything but to be taken care of. You -had better not bother her by asking advice from her if you should ever -be in that position.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would not say such dreadful things,” said Fred petulantly. -“Why should we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> talk of what I hope to heaven will never happen?—you -make me quite uncomfortable, papa.”</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear boy,” said Mr. Dalyell, “that’s the penalty, don’t you -know, of being grown up—like shaving, and other disadvantages. You -rather like the shaving—which implies an imaginary beard: but you don’t -like to hear of the much more important responsibilities.”</p> - -<p>“Shaving’s inevitable,” said Fred, giving a little furtive twirl to an -almost imaginary moustache.</p> - -<p>“Oh, is it?” said his father, with a more cheerful laugh. “Not for years -yet; don’t flatter yourself. When do you start for your ball to-morrow? -It’s fine to be an eligible young man, and sought after for all the -dances. That’s a pleasant consequence of being a ‘Varsity man, and heir -of Yalton, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Well, father,” said Fred, “seeing I’ve known the Scrymgeours all my -life, we needn’t put it on that ground. Whatever I was—if I was heir to -nothing—it would be the same to them.”</p> - -<p>“Let’s hope so,” said Mr. Dalyell, and he breathed a sigh, which somehow -got mingled with the little wail of the wind, and echoed into Fred’s -heart with a poignant suggestion. There was no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> reason to fear anything, -and he was angry with himself. It was childish and superstitious to -shiver as he did, as if the cold had caught him. There was no occasion -in the world for anything of the sort. He was not a fellow to catch -cold, he said to himself indignantly, nor to have presentiments, both of -which things were equally absurd. There was nothing but prosperity and -peace known in Yalton, and his father had the constitution of an -elephant. But the night was eerie, the horizon had a sort of weird -clearness upon it in the far distance, like a light showing through the -openings of the clouds. The trees stood up black in billows of -half-distinguishable shade, and the hills beyond them marked out their -outlines wistfully against the clearness in the west. It was cold, and -the air breathed of coming winter. A leaf drifting on the wind caught -him on the cheek like a soft blow. Altogether the night was eerie, wild, -full of possibilities. There was no ghost at Yalton; but sometimes old -Janet said there was a sound in the avenue that meant trouble, like a -horseman riding up to the house who never arrived. Fred involuntarily -listened, as if he might have heard that horseman, which was as good as -inviting trouble,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> but he did not think of that. However, there was no -sound, nor ghost of a sound, except what was purely natural—the wild -bitter wind wailing, driving a few leaves about, and bending, with a -soft swish of the dark unseen foliage, the light branches of the trees.</p> - -<p>“Come, let’s go in, Fred; I’ve finished my cigar,” said Mr. Dalyell; and -then, as though a brain wave, as scientific people say, had passed from -one to another—Fred’s unspoken thought of old Janet suggested her to -his father’s mind. They were going up one of the sets of stone steps -which led from one terrace to the other, when Mr. Dalyell suddenly put -his hand on his son’s arm:</p> - -<p>“You’ll laugh,” he said, but not himself in a laughing tone, “at what -I’m going to say. But if you should be in any difficulty what to do in -case of my absence, or—or anything of that sort—do you know, Fred, -whom I’d advise you to consult? The last person you would think of, -probably, by yourself—old Janet! You know she’s been about Yalton all -her life. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for any of us—and she’s an -extraordinarily sensible old woman, full of resource, and with a head on -her shoulders—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“I’m not fond of old Janet,” said Fred sturdily.</p> - -<p>“No, none of you are. Your mother never could be got to like her. It’s a -prejudice. She’s been invaluable to me.”</p> - -<p>“If it’s all the same to you, father,” said Fred stiffly, “I’d rather -not turn to an old wife for advice, an old nurse. What can she know? Of -course your good opinion goes a very long way——”</p> - -<p>“For or against? I’m afraid, so far as your mother is concerned, it is -rather against. However, we need say no more about it. But, remember! as -King Charles said.”</p> - -<p>They had paused on the landing between two flights of stairs. A great -trail of yellow nasturtium, dropping from the vase at the corner, showed -even in the dark a ghost of colour, and thrust its pungent odour into -Fred’s nostril. The faint billows of the trees stretched out dark and -darker over the landscape below, and the cold clear light in the sky -seemed to look on like a spectator who knows far more than the actors -what is and is going to be. Fred once more gave a little shiver, and -elevated his shoulders to his ears.</p> - -<p>“You’d better go and take some camphor, boy. You’ve caught cold,” his -father said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span></p> - -<p>The drawing-room of Yalton was on the first floor, unlike the generality -of country houses, which gave it a great advantage in respect to the -landscape. On the ground floor a great deal of space was taken up with -the hall, which opened into a large portico, and was scarcely light -enough to be made much use of, in a climate where there is seldom too -much sun. It happened, fortunately, that Mrs. Dalyell, who was a nervous -and somewhat fantastic woman, was fond of a great deal of light, so that -the large windows, which made the turreted Scotch house like a wing of -the Louvre, were not displeasing to her. The curtains were but partially -drawn over the central windows even now, so that it was possible to turn -at any moment from the light and warmth of the interior to the wide -landscape out-of-doors, with its wild breadth of sky and wailing winds. -But within it was exceedingly bright with a number of lamps and candles -and that pleasant blaze of a fire which it is an agreeable tradition in -Scotch country houses to keep up in the evening, whether it is wanted or -not. In September it is generally wanted; but it cannot be said there -was any necessity for it on this particular night. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> company in the -drawing-room consisted of Mrs. Dalyell, her two daughters, and a -gentleman of middle age and manners very ingratiating and friendly, if a -little formal—Mr. Patrick Wedderburn, than whom no man was more -respected in Edinburgh, a W.S. of the first eminence, learned in the -law, and a favourite everywhere. He belonged, it need scarcely be said, -to a good Scotch family, and was any man’s equal in Scotland, though he -acted as a “man of business” to many of his friends. He was one of the -dearest friends of Robert Dalyell of Yalton, and was a more constant -visitor than any other of the many familiar associates who called the -laird of Yalton “Bob,” and knew him and his affairs to the -finger-points. Pat Wedderburn, as the visitor was commonly called, was -an old bachelor, and therefore had no family to call him to a fireside -centre of his own. He was as much in Yalton as he was in his own -handsome but dull house in Ainslie Place, where, except when he had a -dinner-party, the rooms were so silent, the solitude so serious. Neither -the girls nor their mother made “company” of Mr. Wedderburn. He was -seated in a deep chair, reading the papers while<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> they talked, as if he -were an uncle at the least, and he did not hesitate to interrupt their -conversation now and then by reading out a bit of news or making a -remark. He did not hesitate to correct Susie, who sometimes ventured -upon a big word with which she was not familiar, and used it wrongly, or -to tell Alice that she was a fidget, and could not keep still for five -minutes; and as this was done from behind the newspaper, in the most -accidental manner, it deepened still more the impression that nowhere -could Mr. Wedderburn have been more perfectly at home. The papers, it -may be added—that is to say, the London papers—arrived in Edinburgh in -the evening. The conversation which was going on when Mr. Dalyell came -into the drawing-room was, however, confined to the young people, and -was chiefly on the subject of the Scrymgeour ball, to which Fred was -going next day.</p> - -<p>“I think they might have asked me,” said Susie in an aggrieved tone. “I -am just the same age as Lucy Scrymgeour. It isn’t my fault mother, that -you’ve never taken me out yet. I am seventeen and <i>past</i>, as everybody -knows.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span></p> - -<p>“No, it’s not your fault. I am sure you have badgered me enough about -it,” said Mrs. Dalyell; “but though you think you can do anything you -like with me, I have my opinions about some things. And one of them is -that a girl should not go out too soon. People are quite capable of -saying, ten or twenty years hence, ‘Oh, Susie Dalyell, I can tell you -her age to a day! She came out in such a year, and she must have been -nineteen at the least.’ That is exactly how people talk.”</p> - -<p>“And if they did,” cries Susie, “what would it matter? Farmer thinks I -look quite eighteen when I have my hair nicely dressed.”</p> - -<p>“That is all very well now, my dear; but wait till you are thirty or -thirty-five. You would like to put on a year or two now, but you will -like to take them off at the other end.”</p> - -<p>“Let’s hope,” said Mr. Wedderburn from behind his paper, “that she’ll -not be Susie Dalyell then.”</p> - -<p>“What difference will that make?” said Susie scornfully. “If I were -forty I should never make a mystery about it. What is the use of trying -to hide it, if you do have one foot in the grave?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span></p> - -<p>“Mother’s forty—or more,” said Alice, “and nobody would say she had one -foot in the grave.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, what does it matter,” cried Susie again, “at that time of life, -when you are medeval and antediluvious? It is now that one minds.”</p> - -<p>“Susie, don’t call mamma such dreadful names.”</p> - -<p>“Mediæval and antediluvian, Susie”—from behind the paper, in an -undertone.</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Mrs. Dalyell tartly, “that Mr. Wedderburn thinks that -quite appropriate. Gentlemen always think a girl’s impertinence is -amusing when it’s directed against her mother; but you ought to know -better, Susie, than to hold me up to ridicule. I am sure, whatever else -I may be, I have been a careful mother to you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma! As if I meant anything like that,” cried Susie petulantly, -flinging herself upon her mother. “I only mean you don’t care now. It’s -nothing to you to think of Lucy dancing all night in billows of tulle, -like the girls in the novels, and me going to bed at ten o’clock. They -will only just have begun then. And to think they should have asked -Fred! and me Lucy’s greatest friend and contemporaneous, and friends -with Davie all my life—and that they never thought of asking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> me—never -even tried! Perhaps if they had asked me—and it’s such an opportunity -and such old friends—you would have let me go.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what, Susie,” said Fred, who had just come in; “I’ll ride -over to-morrow morning first thing and ask them to ask you. I dare say -they will for my sake.”</p> - -<p>Susie looked at him for a moment with a flush of hope, and then her face -clouded. “For your sake!” she said, with a sister’s frank contempt. “If -it’s only for your sake, I’ll stay at home. I am not a nobody like that. -I’m Lucy Scrymgeour’s oldest friend. If she doesn’t of her own -account—and Davie too,” cried the girl with an access of -indignation—“it’s more than any one can bear!”</p> - -<p>“I would never speak to one of them again,” said Alice, “if it was me.”</p> - -<p>“And what good would that do?” cried Susie, with the tear still in her -eye, turning upon her sister. “Lose the ball and a friend too! I suppose -they had some reason. Perhaps there were too many girls already—else -why should they ask Fred? Or, perhaps—— Yes, I’ll speak to Lucy again, -the first time I see her; but I shall<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> be very dignified, and pretend -that I didn’t care a bit.”</p> - -<p>“But you couldn’t if you tried; dignified, my dear—that would be rather -difficult.”</p> - -<p>“Is there anything in the paper, Pat?” said Mr. Dalyell.</p> - -<p>“Not much. But it’s ill talking between a full man and a fasting. I’ve -seen what there is, and you’ve not. Here’s the <i>Times</i>. Munro’s in for -that place in the North.”</p> - -<p>“Bless my soul! and you call that nothing? Another firebrand, and as -good as two lost in our majority. That’s bad, Pat; that’s bad.”</p> - -<p>“I never think anything of a bye-election. They’re all in the nature of -accidents. There’s a good speech of Gladstone’s at one of the Lancaster -towns, and John Bright flaming on the side of peace like a house on -fire.”</p> - -<p>“And he says there’s nothing in the paper!” said Mr. Dalyell, as he -dropped into an easy-chair in his turn with the great broad-sheet of the -<i>Times</i> in his hand.</p> - -<p>“When gentlemen begin talking politics,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “I always -think it is time for the ladies to retire. But you have begun early -to-night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> Are you going into town at your usual hour to-morrow, Robert? -I hope you’ll be home early, for, with Fred away, there will be no man -but only the servants in the house.”</p> - -<p>“And what the worse will you be for that, Amelia? There are plenty to -protect you, I hope, if I were never to be seen again.”</p> - -<p>“Robert! that’s not a thing to joke about. I never feel safe, you know, -in this big, rambling old house when you’re not here—if it was only the -rats——”</p> - -<p>“What could the rats do to you, mother?”</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace, Fred!” said Mrs. Dalyell. “I sometimes think of Bishop -Hatto in that poem you used all to be so fond of—and those in the Pied -Piper. If you just heard some of old Janet Macalister’s stories, they -would make your hair stand on end.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll be back in time, Bob, not to keep her uneasy,” said Mr. -Wedderburn behind the <i>Standard</i>, which he had just taken up, to his -friend behind the <i>Times</i>.</p> - -<p>Dalyell answered carelessly, “Yes, yes. Why shouldn’t I be back in -time?” Then, with a laugh, to his wife, “You should never mind old -Janet. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> dare say you were interfering with some hiding-holes of hers -that she did not want disturbed. She’s a kind of familiar spirit of the -house, that old woman. She knows it better than any of us; and there’s -all sorts of uncanny corners about this house. It would be to keep you -out of the secret chamber that she told you daft stories about the -rats.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe in any nonsense about secret chambers,” said Mrs. -Dalyell. “That’s all very well in Glamis, and such places: but Yalton’s -not good enough for that.”</p> - -<p>“Yalton’s good enough for anything, mamma,” cried Susie, indignant. “I -heard the horseman in the avenue a week ago, as clear as——”</p> - -<p>“What’s that you’re saying, Susie?” said Mr. Dalyell sharply.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said the girl tremulously, “I mean the rain pattering in that -place, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Susie is always hearing some nonsense,” said her mother. “Gather up -your work and things, children, for it is time you were going to your -beds.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II-b" id="CHAPTER_II-b"></a>CHAPTER II.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Wedderburn</span> went into Edinburgh by the early train, the train which -conveyed all the gentlemen who were business men. But Mr. Dalyell, who -was not exactly a man in business, went in later. He had a great deal to -do with that busy world, but he was not actually in harness with an -office which claimed his daily attention. He was a director of a railway -company, and he had something to do with a great insurance office, and -there were other more speculative concerns in which he was believed to -have an interest: and there were few days in the week in which he did -not go “in,” as everybody said, to Edinburgh; but still it was not a -matter of necessity. He was up earlier than his wont that morning—for -Yalton was not an early house in general—and “pottered about,” as his -wife said fretfully, from his dressing-room to the library and from the -library back to his dressing-room, disturbing her morning’s rest. He -seemed to have a quantity of little things to do. Even after the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> -breakfast bell had rung he ran twice into the library for something -which he said he had forgotten. “You seem to have as many things to -remember as if you were the Prime Minister,” said Mrs. Dalyell, who had -already poured out his coffee, and who was more annoyed when he left his -breakfast to get cold than by any other of his peccadilloes. “<i>Robert!</i>” -she cried from the door in a tone of exasperation, “there will be -nothing fit to eat!” “I am coming, I am coming!” he cried. The curious -thing was that he did not mind if his bacon was cold: but his wife -minded for him and fumed and fretted. “What is the use of trying to get -anything comfortable for your father?” she would say complainingly, -“Well, mother, I like my kidneys hot,” said Fred; “so they’re not thrown -away at least.” Mrs. Dalyell looked at her son as if his tastes were a -matter of much indifference, but softened when she met the lad’s -good-humoured blue eyes. He was not remarkable in appearance, but like -dozens of other Scotch lads all about—light-brown hair, curling so -strongly that it was difficult sometimes to comb it out; nice eyes, with -a smile in them; tolerable features, the nose turned up a little; not a -giant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> by any means, but well developed, well set up—a natural, -pleasant boy of twenty, not without his failings, and perhaps a little -careless, a little superficial, having had no occasion as yet to fathom -any of the depths of life. He nodded at her over the dish of kidneys -with a smile which was contagious. Mrs. Dalyell was by no means a -light-hearted person. She was easily put out. She did not like anybody -to have a different way of thinking from her own on the points that -interested her. To let your tea stand till it was cold was an offence to -Mrs. Dalyell. As for more serious matters she did not much interfere -with them. That was the gentlemen’s part of the business. To have -breakfast in good condition and attend to the comfort of the house was -hers, which perhaps is a view of the question which will commend itself -to many. In return for this she expected to have a great deal of the -trouble of life taken off her shoulders. She declared constantly that -she knew nothing of business. She preferred to get her money just when -she wanted it, instead of having a banking account of her own, as most -ladies like to have nowadays, or a settled allowance. In short, Mrs. -Dalyell was a woman whose very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> existence necessitated a husband behind -her to do the rough work and see to the supplies. Within these limits -there could not be a better mistress of a household. And she was -exceedingly annoyed when her husband allowed his breakfast to get cold. -It was a trick of his, of which it was her constant effort to mend him; -but he was seldom so bad as this day.</p> - -<p>“Go and tell your father,” she said at last, “that it is almost time for -the train. And to let him go without his breakfast is what I will not -do. So just tell him, once for all, if he does not come at once he must -just give up all thoughts of going in to Edinburgh to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Here I am—here I am, Amelia,” said Mr. Dalyell, running in and taking -his seat at table. “What have you got there, Fred? Kidneys!—and this is -bacon.”</p> - -<p>“All just as cold as chucky-stones,” said the lady of the house -solemnly.</p> - -<p>“You know I don’t mind, my dear. I’ll have a little of that kidney—and -a cup of coffee with plenty of milk. How often am I to tell you you -should never mind me?”</p> - -<p>“Just as often as I tell you I will mind you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> Robert. Who should be -minded if it’s not the master of the house?”</p> - -<p>He cast upon her a look—which Fred, who had nearly but not quite -forgotten the conversation of last night, caught and wondered at with a -vague sense of pain, though his mother did not remark it. There was a -great deal of affection and tenderness in the glance; but something else -that puzzled him. There was trouble in it—but what trouble could there -be in his father’s eyes looking at his mother? There was something in it -which made him say quite inconsequently, looking up from his plateful of -devilled kidney, “You’re not going away anywhere, are you, father?”</p> - -<p>Then his father’s eyes fixed on himself with a startled glance: “Away?” -he said. “Where should I be going? and what’s put that into your head?”</p> - -<p>Fred replied with the familiar subterfuge of youth: “Oh, nothing!” But -his mind was not satisfied; for that was no answer. And there passed -through his thoughts a vague idea that if, later in the day, there came -a telegram saying that Mr. Dalyell had been obliged to go to London on -business, he would not be surprised.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span></p> - -<p>“Where indeed!” said Mrs. Dalyell. “It’s not the time for business, -which is a comfort: for you can’t be running up to London at a moment’s -notice, as you did in the spring. You would find nobody there.”</p> - -<p>“That is just it,” said Mr. Dalyell. And after he had made this -unquestioned observation, he added, “I shall perhaps run down to -Portobello and get a swim. Nothing puts a man right like the sea. I’ll -just take a plunge and be back by the four o’clock train.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you’ll have somebody with you; and don’t you be too venturesome -with your plunging and your swimming.”</p> - -<p>“Too venturesome on Portobello sands! I’ll get Pat Wedderburn to come -and look after me,” said Mr. Dalyell with a laugh. He laughed with his -lips, but his eyes were quite grave—which was all the more remarkable -since he had laughing eyes, with humorous puckers all about them, -exceedingly ready to light up at such a joke as that of being taken care -of by Pat Wedderburn. He had still half-a-dozen things which kept him -running out and in before he was ready to start, which his way, but -always a source of exasperation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> to his orderly wife. Finally, when -there was hardly time to catch the train, he dashed upstairs three steps -at a time, explaining that he had forgotten something. Mrs. Dalyell -stood wringing her hands at the open door.</p> - -<p>“I wish you had ordered the dog-cart, Fred. He’ll never catch the train. -You should remember your father’s ways, and that this is always what -happens: and then he’ll just fly and get out of breath and -over-heated—the very worst things for him. Dear, dear me! I might have -had more sense. I might have ordered the dog-cart myself, there’s only -ten minutes——”</p> - -<p>“If he does lose the train I suppose it won’t matter so much,” said -easy-minded Fred.</p> - -<p>“Not if he would think so,” replied the mother, “nothing at all—but -when he sets his mind on a thing, possible or impossible, he will carry -it out. <span class="smcap">Robert</span>!” she cried, in capitals, going to the bottom of the -stairs.</p> - -<p>“I’m coming, I’m coming!” he shouted. His voice came not from the -direction of his room but from the west passage, where he had nothing to -do, a fact which awoke a vague surprise in Mrs. Dalyell’s mind. He came -downstairs “like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> a tempest,” she said afterwards, making as much noise, -and caught her in his arms, to her great astonishment. “Good-bye, my -dearest, good-bye!” he cried, giving her a loving kiss (“before the -bairns, and that man Foggo looking on!”). “Keep well and don’t distress -yourself about me.” He was gone almost before she could ask him why she -should distress herself about him, flying down the road with Fred after -him, which, indeed, was his usual way of catching a train. She stood at -the door looking after him, and though he was in such a hurry and not a -moment to lose, what did Robert do but turn round and take off his hat -and wave his hand to her! Such nonsense! as if he were going away for -years. She made a sign of impatience, hurrying him on. “Do you think -they will do it this time, Foggo?” she said to the butler, who was also -looking after them. Foggo had been standing ready to help his master on -with his coat. But Mr. Dalyell had time only to snatch it and throw it -over his shoulder, partly because of that unnecessary embrace which had -so confused his wife under the servant’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Oh, ay, ma’am,” said Foggo, “they’ll do it;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> the maister’s aye just on -the edge—but he’s never missed her yet——”</p> - -<p>Mr. Dalyell, when he rushed upstairs, had not gone to his dressing-room -as he proposed to do. He had darted down the west passage, a long vacant -corridor with a few doors of unused bedrooms on one side. He went down -to the end room of all, and opened the door. An old woman in a -tremendous mutch and tartan shawl came forward to meet him. “I have come -to say good-bye, Janet, my woman,” he said, grasping her hand. “And -you’ll remember what you’ve promised.”</p> - -<p>“That I will, my bonnie man: if you’re sure you must do it. As long as I -live—but then I, may be, have not very long to live.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll have to trust for that,” he said, holding both her hands.</p> - -<p>“Could you no trust for other things? I’ve preachit to ye till I’m -weariet, maister Robert! Nobody trusted yet and was disappointed.”</p> - -<p>“We’ve gone over all that,” he said. “No, no, there’s no other way. We -can’t ask the Lord for money, Janet.”</p> - -<p>“What for no? And now I can scarce say<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> God’s blessing on ye—for how -can I ask His blessing when it’s for a——?”</p> - -<p>“No more, Janet, no more. Good-bye!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, maister Robert, bide a moment. Do you mind the Psalm:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘If in your heart ye sin regard<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The Lord you will not hear?’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Think of that! How can I bid Him bless ye, when——?”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, my dear old woman, good-bye!”</p> - -<p>And it was at this moment that Mrs. Dalyell’s voice calling “Robert!” -came small in the distance up the echoing passage. And in another moment -he was gone.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Dalyell went to her kitchen to give her orders to the cook as soon -as her husband was out of sight. She was an excellent housekeeper, and -enjoyed this part of her duties far too much to depute them to any -other, although indeed in the tide of prosperity which Mr. Dalyell’s -business had brought to Yalton she might have had a housekeeper had she -pleased, and a much larger establishment. But she had thrifty instincts -and that distrust of business which old-fashioned ladies<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> used to have, -with an inward conviction that it always collapsed at one time or -another, and that the estate was the sheet-anchor: which had prevented -her ever from launching out into expense. She dismissed the thoughts of -Robert’s unusual embrace—for domestic endearments are sedulously kept -in the background in Scotch houses of the old-fashioned type—and of any -little peculiarity there might have been about him this morning more -than other mornings—from her mind: which it required no effort to do, -for she was not given to investigations below the surface, or reading -between the lines, and a parting kiss (though absurd) was a parting kiss -to Mrs. Dalyell, and it was nothing more. She took pains to order her -husband a very good dinner, with due consideration of his special -likings, which perhaps was as good a thing as she could have done. Then -after luncheon there was Fred to send off in good time, so that he might -not put out any of the Scrymgeours’ arrangements by arriving too late. -He had a seven-miles drive, and never would have recollected to order -the dog-cart in time if his mother had not taken that duty upon herself; -and she likewise cast a glance at his other arrangements<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> to make sure -that his white ties were in good condition and his pumps as they ought -to be—precautions quite unnecessary and rather distasteful to the young -man in his new conviction, acquired at Oxford, that he knew better than -any one what was essential to a perfect turn-out, either for horse or -man. Susie, who was liberated from lessons after luncheon, spent her -time in preparing messages for Lucy Scrymgeour which were intended to -disturb and plant thorns in that young person’s mind. “You can tell her -I never was so surprised in my life as when it came for you and not for -me: for you never were such friends with them as me. But you’re only -asked as a man. They must be badly off for men; though when one thinks -of all the officers in the garrison—and Davie such friends with all of -them! I don’t think you have got any amatory instincts, Fred—for you’ve -no friends but Oxford men; and what good would they be to us if we had a -ball? But you can tell Davie <i>from me</i>——”</p> - -<p>“Has Davie amatory instincts?” cried Fred. “The little beast—I’ll take -him no messages from you.”</p> - -<p>“What on earth is the child talking of?” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> Mrs. Dalyell. “Where did -she hear such a word? Amatory!”</p> - -<p>“It means friendship,” cried Susie, with a burning blush. “I know—I -know it does! I mean Davie has such lots of friends—and Fred has none; -or at least none that would be of any use if we were to have a ball.”</p> - -<p>“But we are not going to have a ball,” said the mother; “it is a great -deal too much trouble. Ask the Scrymgeours what they think a week hence. -The whole house will be turned upside down, and the servants put out of -the way, and everybody made wretched. No, Susie, there will be no ball.”</p> - -<p>“Then am I never to come out at all?” said Susie in a voice from which -consternation had driven all the lighter tones. This was too solemn a -thought to be expressed except with the gravity of fate.</p> - -<p>“You should present her, mother,” said Fred; “that’s the right thing for -a girl.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “that’s a great trouble too! The gowns -alone would cost about a hundred pounds; and your father, you know, -never stays a day longer in London than he can help—and what would -Susie and me do, two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> women by ourselves in that great big place? -Besides, to make it worth the while we would need to know a number of -people and get invitations. I’ve often heard of country people, very -well thought of in their own place, that have just been humiliated to -the very dust in London, with nobody to ask them out, or to call on them -or anything. She’ll have to be content with something nearer home.”</p> - -<p>“That is all because things are so conventionary and nothing natural,” -said Susie; “that is what they say in all the books. But if papa would -go up with us in his Deputy Lieutenant’s uniform, and knowing such -quantities and quantities of people—and perhaps if you were to tell -Mrs. Wauchope she might speak to the Duchess, and the Duchess would say -just a little word to one of the Princesses—and then perhaps the -Queen——”</p> - -<p>“Are you out of your senses, Susie? What do you expect that the Queen -would do?”</p> - -<p>“Well! they might say we belonged to D’yell of Yalton that saved the -life of James the Fourth, who is the Queen’s great, great, great (I -don’t know how many greats) grandfather. And if she was passing this -way, you know, mamma, my father<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> would have to come out and offer her a -drink of milk upon his knees. And it is a real old rule for thousands of -years, a feudacious tenor, or something of that kind——”</p> - -<p>“Where did you find all that, Susie? Is it true, mother? Do we hold -Yalton like that?” cried Fred in great delight. “I never knew we were -such distinguished people before.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see any distinction about it,” said Mrs. Dalyell: “I never paid -much attention to such old stories. Oh, if you believe all the Dalyell -stories—— By the way, Susie, I wish you to pronounce the name as I -do—as everybody is doing now. ’D’yell’ is so common—it is what the -ploughmen say.”</p> - -<p>“It is the right old antiquous way,” said Susie with energy, “and I like -it far the best. I heard about the horseman too—what it means,” she -added in a low tone. “Papa will never let me speak, but I could tell you -such things, Fred, if——” And here the little girl made various -telegraphic signs, meaning that enlightenment might be afforded if they -were alone together, with the mother well out of the way. These designs, -however, were frustrated unconsciously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> by Mrs. Dalyell, who gave her -daughter something to do in the way of replying to notes, which kept -Susie busy until it was time for Fred to depart.</p> - -<p>But yet there was a little time for talk when the girls went with him -round to the stables to remind the groom that he must not be late.</p> - -<p>“Where did you hear about that feudal business, Susie?” said Fred. “Did -you get it out of a book?”</p> - -<p>“I got it out of something much funnier. I got it out of old Janet. You -should just hear her; she knows more about us—oh! so much more—than we -know about ourselves. She told me about——”</p> - -<p>“Old Janet!” said Fred. He had forgotten his father’s grave talk and all -that had passed on the terrace, and it was not till he had thought it -over for a minute or two that it slowly came back to him what -association that was which was linked with the name of old Janet. Not -that he had not perfect acquaintance with her, as a matter of fact. She -had been Mr. Dalyell’s nurse, and had always possessed a room of her own -at Yalton, where she lived in a curious isolation and -independence—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span>respected, and, perhaps, a little feared by the household -in general. Fred endeavoured to remember what it was as Susie’s voice -ran on, and then it suddenly burst upon him. It was to her his father -had advised him to go if he wanted help, in the supposed contingency of -his own removal—old Janet, of all people in the world! The recollection -made Fred indignant, yet gave him a sort of shiver of alarmed -presentiment as well. Could his father have meant anything more than a -mere passing fancy? Yet surely he must have meant something. And under -what possible circumstances could he, Fred, a University-man, and -acquainted with the world, require to take counsel with old Janet? It -gave him the strangest thrill to his very finger-points. It must mean -something different from what it seemed to mean. His father would never -have given him such a recommendation without a reason. Fred thought with -a sensation of horror of the family secrets which such an old woman -might possess. She might know something that would ruin them all—there -might be something hanging over them, something which she had to break -to him. Fred flung this fancy out of his mind as if it had been a stone -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> some one had thrown into it, and came back to what Susie was -saying. Indifferent to the fact that he was not listening, Susie was -recounting the story of the family warning.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>And since that time there has always been a sound in the avenue as if -some horseman was coming, heavy dunts on the road, and the tinkle of the -bridle,’ she says. Always when there is trouble coming. I am sure it -must be very fatiguing for a ghost, and monotonious—oh! just beyond -description—to ride that little bit of road and never come near the -house, and all just to frighten a person. I would dash into the hall and -shake my bridle at them if it was me.”</p> - -<p>“If you were a ghost, Susie?” said Alice with a shiver. “Oh, how can you -think of yourself as a ghost?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t: I’m not diaphanious,” said Susie; “but if you were to be a -ghost at all it would be better to have something more to do than just -dunting, dunting, over one bit of road.”</p> - -<p>“Janet must have been telling you a lot of lies and nonsense,” said Fred -indignantly; “I’ll have to speak to her if she goes on like that.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span></p> - -<p>“Or tell papa,” said Alice. “He never likes to hear about the horseman.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, or tell papa,” said Fred. He could not tell what it meant, but he -had a strange feeling as if it were he himself that must do this and -shield his sisters from things that might frighten them—as if his -father somehow had not much to do with it. But he was greatly shocked -with himself when he became conscious of this thought. He was so much -absorbed, indeed, in the uncomfortable fancies called up by Janet’s -name, that Susie’s story of the King’s hunting and danger of his life, -and how the goodwife of Yalton brought him a bowl of milk, and how the -lands, as much as they could ride round in a day, according to the most -approved romantic fashion, were bestowed upon the D’yells for that -service, had little effect upon her brother. And presently the dog-cart -came round to the door, and the sight of Fred seated in it with his -portmanteau diverted Susie’s thoughts also and brought back her -grievance. She stood watching his departure by the side of her mother, -who had come out as was her wont to see the boy off.</p> - -<p>“There he goes!” said Susie. “Oh, what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> fossilized hearts boys have! He -never thinks of me that has to stay at home. Tell Lucy Scrymgeour if she -thinks I will ask her to our ball she is in the greatest mistake, and it -will be just as much splendider than theirs, as Yalton is better than -Westwood. And tell her mamma is going to take me to London to be -presented and make my three obeysances to the Queen, and when I have -done that I can go to every place, and all the other queens are obliged -to ask me. Well, if mamma doesn’t, it’s not my fault; but you can always -tell her, Fred: and just say to that ichthyosaurious Davie that I’ll -have all the grand guardsmen and equerries to talk to, and I wouldn’t -look at him.”</p> - -<p>“But it’s not his fault, Susie,” said Alice; “and perhaps he’ll tell -Fred he is very sorry.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think he will, for boys have no hearts: they have vegetable -things instead, when they are not fossilized. If he says he is sorry, -Fred, you can say I don’t mind very much, only I’ll never speak to them -again.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you’ll have a nice ball, Fred,” said Mrs. Dalyell. “Come back as -early as you can to-morrow, for there are some people coming to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> tea. -And you may bring over Lucy and David, and any other young ones that are -staying at Westwood. We can give them their tea on the terrace, it’s not -too cold for that; and I am sure Mrs. Scrymgeour will be thankful to any -one that will take them out of her way.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III-b" id="CHAPTER_III-b"></a>CHAPTER III.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">About</span> the time when Fred was starting from Yalton Mr. Wedderburn, the -friend of the family, might have been seen in his office in a condition -very unlike his usual calm. That he was very much disturbed about -something was evident. His table was covered with all those -carefully-arranged letters and docketed papers which are essential to -the pose of a man of business; and by intervals he wrote a letter—or, -rather, part of a letter—to which he added a line whenever he could fix -his thoughts to it; but these intervals were scattered through the -reflections and calculations of several hours, to which Mr. Wedderburn -returned, from minute to minute, laying down his pen and falling back -into some more absorbing subject of thought. Sometimes he got up and -walked about the room, going from one window to the other, and staring -out at each as if the slight variation of the view could afford him some -light upon the subject over which he puckered his brows. Now and then he -said to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> himself audibly, “I must go out to-night.” He was not a man who -indulged in the habit of speaking to himself, nor was there much in -these words which could throw light upon the subject of his thoughts; -but it was evidently a sort of relief to him to say this as he paced -heavily about the room and looked out, staring blankly, neither seeing, -nor expecting to see, anything that would clear up the trouble on his -face. “I must go out to-night.” This phrase, however, meant a great deal -to the sober and reserved Edinburgh lawyer.</p> - -<p>It meant that to the house which he visited so often, receiving -hospitality, kindness, and a sense of almost family well-being, for -which he gave back nothing but a steady, undemonstrative friendship, the -moment had now come when he must go in another character—in the -character, indeed, of an anxious brother and helper, but yet as -announcing an approaching catastrophe and the breaking-up of a -superstructure of long-established prosperity and peace. He had not been -convinced of the necessity of this till to-day. Whispers, indeed, had -come to his ears of doubtful speculations and a position which was -beginning to be assailed by questions which never should arise<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> as to -the position of a man in business. But he had lent a deaf ear to all -that was malicious, and brushed away all friendly fears. “Bob D’yell’s -as sensible a fellow as ever stepped. It’ll take strong evidence to make -me believe that he’s been playing ducks and drakes with his money.” This -confident speech from a man of Pat Wedderburn’s authority (in Edinburgh, -as in fashionable circles, the well-known members of the community are -generally distinguished by their Christian names) had done much to -support a credit which was not so robust as it had been. But this -morning Mr. Wedderburn had heard very unpleasant things—things which -had gone to his heart, and wounded both his affection and his pride. He -had a pride in his friend’s credit as in his own. And when he thought of -the cheerful household and all its innocent indulgences, Mr. Wedderburn -struck the table with his fist in the trouble of his heart. To think -that they might have to leave Yalton, to give up their little luxuries, -their social rank, all the pleasures of their life, affected this old -bachelor as probably it would not at all affect themselves. He could -have shed angry tears over the “putting down” of Mrs. Dalyell’s carriage -and the girls’ ponies, which,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> if it came to that, and they were aware -that their position required such sacrifices, these ladies would give up -without a murmur; and, perhaps, none of them would have much objection -to come “in” to a house in Edinburgh instead of Yalton, which was a -possibility which made Mr. Wedderburn swear. He was very unhappy about -them, one and all, and about his life-long friend, Bob D’yell, who must -no doubt have been in the wrong, and whom sometimes in his heart he -blamed angrily and bitterly, thinking what the effect of his rashness -would be to the others. Pat Wedderburn was grieved to the heart. He -could as easily have believed in himself going wrong; “But, God bless -us!” he said to himself, “it’s not going wrong. He has been taken in; he -was always a sanguine fellow, and he’s been deceived.” His thoughts -finally resolved themselves into the necessity, above and before all -things, of having a long talk with Bob; and he repeated, as he once more -stared mechanically out of the further window, “I must go out to-night.”</p> - -<p>He could not, however, go “out” before the usual time, and in the -interval he could not rest. Finally, he took his hat and left his office -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> a better inspiration. If he could find his friend at one of the -establishments in which he had an interest, the talk might be had at -once, without any need, at least for to-night, of disturbing the -peaceful echoes of Yalton. Mr. Wedderburn went out for this purpose with -very tender thoughts of his friend mingled with his anger. “Why couldn’t -the fellow tell me in time? But the Lord grant it may still be in time! -There’s things I might have done. I’m not without funds nor resources, -nor ideas, either, for that matter.” And as Mr. Wedderburn went along -the orderly Edinburgh street, he burst out into a kind of laugh, such as -is among many elderly Scotchmen the last evidence of emotion, and said -within himself: “To the half of my kingdom!” The humour of the contrast -between that romantic phrase and the very prosaic, rapid calculation he -had gone through as to the money he—not a romantic person at all, an -Edinburgh W.S., of fifty-five, and of the most humdrum appearance—could -command: and the true feeling with which he had realised his friend’s -misfortune, burst forth in that anomalous sound. A woman who was passing -turned round and looked at him with puzzled alarm; and a boy, one of -those rude<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> commentators who spare nobody’s feelings, called out, -“That’s a daft man; he’s laughing to himsel’.” “Laughing,” said Mr. -Wedderburn with something like a groan: “there is little laughing in my -head.” And so he went on to the Railway Office, and the Insurance -Office, to ask for Mr. Dalyell.</p> - -<p>At the railway he had not been seen that day, at the other office he had -appeared for about half an hour only.</p> - -<p>“He will have returned home, I suppose,” Wedderburn said indifferently.</p> - -<p>“Well, no, sir; not at once,” said the clerk who answered his questions. -“I heard him saying he was feeling fagged, and that he was going out to -Portobello for a dip in the sea and a good swim.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a little cold for that,” said Wedderburn.</p> - -<p>“Well, it may be a little cold,” admitted the clerk cautiously, “but Mr. -D’yell is a great man for the sea.”</p> - -<p>“He will probably be going out by the usual train,” Mr. Wedderburn said -to himself as he turned away. But there was no appearance of Dalyell in -the train. The lawyer walked to Yalton through the cornfields, in which -the harvest had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> begun, just as the sun was sinking. The ruddy autumnal -light came into his eyes, half blinding him with its long, level rays. -Everything was rosy with the brilliancy of the sunset; the blue sky -flushed with ruddy clouds, the warm colour of the sheaves catching a -still warmer tone from the sun. All was peaceful, wealthy, full of -external comfort and riches, and the house of Yalton caught the sinking -gleams from the west upon its high roof and pinnacles like a -benediction. The trees were taking the autumn livery here and there, -giving as yet only a little additional warmth to the landscape. To go -from Yalton to Melville Street, or some other dread abode of stony -gentility in Edinburgh, how could they ever bear it? Mr. Wedderburn had -been going over all his resources as he made his little journey, and he -had reckoned up what he could spare to set his friend on his legs again. -Perhaps there might yet be time!</p> - -<p>When he went into the drawing-room where Mrs. Dalyell was sitting, she -raised her head from her work, with a smile on her face. And then he -observed a little alteration—oh, not so much as a cloud upon her face, -not even a look that could be called disappointment, but only the -slightest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> scarcely perceptible change of expression. “Mr. Wedderburn!” -she said. “I’m very glad to see you: but I thought it was Robert,” and -she held out her hand to him with all the easy confidence of habitual -friendship. She was not disappointed; there was no doubt in her mind -that Robert was coming, if not behind his friend, at least with the next -train.</p> - -<p>“You will be surprised to see me so soon again,” he said, feeling a -little embarrassed. “You will think you are never to be quit of that old -fellow—but I wanted to have a long talk with Bob on some business; and -as I could not find him at the office——”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Mrs. Dalyell; “he said as soon as he could get his business -over he was going down to Portobello for a dip in the sea. I never knew -such a man for the sea. No doubt that has made him lose his train—for -he’s generally very punctual by this train.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I thought,” said Mr. Wedderburn. “I thought I would meet -him and come out with him. But the next will bring him, no doubt.”</p> - -<p>“In about three-quarters of an hour,” said Mrs. Dalyell, calmly: and she -added, “It’s a beautiful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> evening, and it’s a pity to keep you in the -house. We should take the good of the fine weather as long as it lasts. -Never mind me: you will find the girls upon the terrace somewhere. But -take a cup of tea before you go out.”</p> - -<p>“I will take a cup of tea,” said the visitor, “thankfully. But why not -come out upon the terrace yourself? It is the most lovely afternoon, and -the wind, as much as there is, is from the west. It’s a sin to stay in -the house when you have such a place to see the sunset from. Now if you -were in Melville Street, for instance——”</p> - -<p>“Why Melville Street?” said Mrs. Dalyell with a laugh—but she did not -wait for an answer. “If I had to live in Edinburgh I would never go -there. I would prefer the south side—or old George’s Square where the -houses are so good. I sometimes think we will have to come in for the -winter now that Susie’s of an age for parties, for there is little -gaiety for a young thing here.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true,” said Mr. Wedderburn, and he gave her a look in which -there was an inquiry and a moment’s doubt. Did she perhaps know -something? Had Bob D’yell confided some hint of approaching calamity or -necessary retrenchment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> to the wife of his bosom? What so natural, what -so wise? Mrs. Dalyell’s head was a little bent over the table where she -stood pouring out a cup of tea for the visitor; but she raised it, -meeting that inquiring look with the perfect frankness of her usual -demeanour and the calm of a woman round whom there had never been any -mysteries. She was struck, however, by his look. “Is there anything the -matter?” she said. “You are looking very serious.” Then, for heaven -knows what womanish reason, it occurred to her that Mr. Wedderburn was -himself in trouble, and wanting something of her husband. “You know,” -she said with a little emphasis, “that whatever might be the matter, if -there’s anything that Robert could do, Mr. Wedderburn, you are as sure -of him as of a brother.” “God bless her innocence!” the lawyer said to -himself.</p> - -<p>“Not a bit,” he said. “There’s nothing the matter: but thank you all the -same for saying that. Bob D’yell’s been to me as a brother, since we -were boys together—and will be I hope till the end.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Dalyell put out her soft hand to him over the tea-table with a -smile. There was water in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> eyes, though, fortunately, as he stood -with his back to the light, it could not be seen—but there was none in -hers. Her eyes were as serene as the evening skies; and her soft hand, -which perhaps was a little too soft, with no bones in it to speak of, -the hand of a woman never used to do much for herself, met his strong -grasp, in which there was more than many an oath of fidelity, with a -moderate and simple kindness which showed at once how natural and -genuine was the friendship to which she thus pledged her husband, and -how devoid of all tragical elements so far as her comprehension went. -She was a little surprised by Mr. Wedderburn’s grip, which rather hurt -that soft hand, but led the way to the terrace, after he had taken his -tea, with all her usual serenity. She took a shawl from the stand in the -hall and wrapped herself in it as she went out. In Scotland even in July -it is wise to take a shawl when you go out to see the sunset; how much -more in September! Indeed, after she had taken two or three turns upon -the terrace, she went in again, saying that it was all very well for -“you young things” (with a smile at Mr. Wedderburn), but that she knew -what rheumatism was. Susie and Alice were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> very good company on the -terrace, and they had a thousand things to say to their old friend, so -that, though he had looked occasionally at his watch, he had not taken -very decided note of the passage of time, until an hour after, when Mrs. -Dalyell came back again, with a shawl this time over her head. The sun -had quite gone down, the shadows were lengthening, and twilight stealing -on. “Do you mean to say,” Mrs. Dalyell said as she came down the steps -to the terrace, “that your father’s not here? I made sure he must be -here with you: the train’s been in this half-hour, and there’s not -another till nine—and no telegram. I don’t know what it can mean.”</p> - -<p>It could not be said, perhaps, that she was anxious, but she was uneasy, -not knowing what to think. Mr. Wedderburn, for his part, started, as if -the fault had somehow been his. “Bless me!” he said, “I had forgotten -all about it. I might have gone down and met the train.”</p> - -<p>“That would have done little good,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “for if he had -come by it he would have been here before now: the thing that astonishes -me is there’s no telegram. Sometimes Robert, like other people, is -detained. Every<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> business man must be detained now and then: but he -always sends a telegram. I never knew him to fail.”</p> - -<p>“That is the worst,” said Mr. Wedderburn, “of being too exact in your -ways. If you ever depart from them by any accident everybody thinks -something must have happened.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think something must have happened,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “but I -don’t understand it. It’s so unlike him. He would rather take any -trouble than keep me anxious; and I told him particularly we should be -alone to-night, with no man except servants in the house. It’s not like -Robert. It must have been something quite unforeseen.”</p> - -<p>“Such things are always happening, my dear lady. He may have had to meet -some man from London; he may even have had to go to London himself.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me!” said Mrs. Dalyell, “you don’t think that’s likely? Without so -much as a clean shirt! Besides, he would have sent a telegram,” she -repeated, going back to the one thing of which she was sure.</p> - -<p>“It’s the telegram you miss more than the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> man,” said Mr. Wedderburn -with a laugh. It was very very little of a laugh. He was more miserable -than she, for her anxiety was quite unmixed by any deeper sense of a -possible reason for her husband’s absence. There was no reason for it, -none whatever to her consciousness.</p> - -<p>“That is just it. I want the telegram to explain the man. Of course, he -might be called away. Would I have him tied to my apron-string? But a -word of warning, that’s what I look for. ‘Kept by business and will not -be back till the late train,’ or ‘Dining at the Lord President’s,’ -or—it does not matter what it is. I am always glad that Robert should -enjoy himself, so long as I have my telegram. But as it’s evident he’s -not coming,” said Mrs. Dalyell, looking at her watch, “we must just take -our dinner and hope he’s getting as good a one. He will be coming by the -nine train.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Wedderburn went in with very painful fancies, which he could not -shake off. The moment would have come, perhaps, when Bob D’yell had to -tell his family that he was a ruined man, and he would be shrinking from -that stern necessity. His friend pictured him wandering about the dark -streets, or sitting in the rooms<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> above the Insurance Office, where -there was space to receive on occasion a belated director, and counting -up all he had—alas! would it not rather be all the debts he -had—reckoning them, and asking himself how long it would be before the -storm burst, and how he was to tell <i>her</i>, and what the poor children -would do? That was what the poor fellow would be thinking, wherever he -was. Instead of coming back—the good lawyer exclaimed within himself in -a little attempt at anger, to keep his sympathy from becoming too -heart-rending—to one that might have helped him! But that would be just -like Bob D’yell—ready enough to come to you if you were in trouble, to -give all his mind to what was to be done: but not if the trouble was his -own: more likely then to hide himself, to think shame of it, as if -misfortune was a man’s own fault. Mr. Wedderburn did not know what to -do, whether to hurry into Edinburgh to make inquiries, or to wait on, -and see whether he would arrive by the late train. Somehow he had very -little faith that his friend would come home. He might go away, -thinking, perhaps, that the creditors would be more gentle with his -family if he were gone. And that would be called<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> absconding! Heaven -only could tell what in his despair the poor fellow might do.</p> - -<p>Except suicide: there never occurred to his friend, in the endless -thoughts he had on the subject, any fear of that, which to a Frenchman -would be the first thing to be thought of—the natural refuge for a -bankrupt. No, no!—come what might there was no need to think of that -dark contingency. Besides, Mr. Wedderburn reflected, with a sense of the -grim humour of the suggestion, that Dalyell, as the director of an -insurance company, knew too well that such a step would take away the -last resource his children might have. No, no!—not that. But he might -go away. He might not be able to bear the sight of ruin as affecting -them. That was what chiefly weighed upon himself—the woman and her -children; the girls, who would not know what it meant; and poor Fred, -who would know what it meant—who would have to abandon everything on -which his heart was most set. Had Wedderburn been aware of the -conversation which had taken place between Fred and his father his -troubled thoughts would have been still more serious: as it was, all he -could do was to keep his countenance,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> to look as like his ordinary as -possible, not to frighten the poor things too soon.</p> - -<p>But the dinner went over well enough. Mrs. Dalyell kept looking at the -door every time it opened, though she knew it was only to admit a new -dish, expecting her telegram. But it did not come. And the nine o’clock -train arrived, and there was still no appearance of the master of the -house. The footman was sent down to meet the train, and Wedderburn put -on his coat, and said shyly that he would just take a turn and meet the -truant. And the girls ran out by the terrace, and one strayed down the -avenue to bring papa home. And though it was cold, Mrs. Dalyell opened -one of the drawing-room windows that she might hear him coming. She was -not alarmed: but she was so much surprised that it made her a little -uneasy, for in all her married life such a thing had never happened to -her before.</p> - -<p>When it proved that he had not come by the nine o’clock train nobody -knew what to think. By this time the telegraph-office was closed at the -village, and there was no longer any hope of news that way: which, -strangely enough, was a thing that rather calmed than otherwise Mrs. -Dalyell’s mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span></p> - -<p>“He must be coming by the midnight express,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Would you like me to go in and see if there was anything the matter?” -said Mr. Wedderburn.</p> - -<p>“What could be the matter?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he might be ill—or there might have been an accident!”</p> - -<p>“In that case,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “Robert never would have omitted to -send a telegram—or the people at the office, or wherever he was, would -have done it. No, no! You would go in to Edinburgh anxious, and we could -not let you know that he had got the express to stop. Just stay where -you are. And we’ll hear all about it when he comes. And it’s a comfort -to have you in the house.”</p> - -<p>To this request Mr. Wedderburn at once yielded. If the poor fellow did -come home, miserable and disheartened, it was better that he should see -a friend’s face, and take counsel with a man who was ready to help and -advise before he told <i>her</i>. Besides, it was better for her, poor thing, -to have somebody to stand by her. And, oddly enough, now that there was -no chance of that telegram she was not so anxious. She had no doubt of -Robert<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> coming by the express. She let Alice stay up beyond her bedtime -to make up a rubber for Mr. Wedderburn, and took her share in the game -quite cheerfully. She did not believe in either illness or accident. “He -would have had no peace till I was by his bedside,” she said; “and -anybody could have sent a telegram.” No, no, she had no fear of that: -and expected now quite calmly the last train.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Dalyell did not come by the midnight express.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV-b" id="CHAPTER_IV-b"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> is something dreadful in the aspect of a room from which its -habitual occupant is absent unexpectedly all night. Its good order, its -cold whiteness, the unused articles in tidy array, undisturbed by any -careless natural movements, strike a chill to the heart. In any case, -even when the usual tenant is pleasantly absent, or gone on a visit, -there is something ominous in the empty room. It seems to breathe of a -time when the familiar person will be gone for ever. And how much more -when the beloved occupant has gone mysteriously—absent, lost in the -unknown—no one knowing where he has passed the night! Mrs. Dalyell was -not a fanciful woman, she was not given to morbid imaginations, but when -she glanced into her husband’s dressing-room next morning her heart sank -for a moment with this chill, that would not be reasoned away. She did -reason it away, however, and recovered her composure. For, after all, -what was it?—nothing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> A man in active life has a hundred calls upon -him. He might be whipped off to London upon some railway business -without any warning. The only thing that really troubled her was the -absence of that telegram. It was still almost summer weather; nothing to -interrupt the working of the telegraph anywhere. Already even she might -have had one had he telegraphed from any station on the way up to -London. This was the thing which she could not understand.</p> - -<p>“No, there is no word,” she said. “I have made up my mind he must have -been called off at a moment’s notice to London; but why he didn’t -telegraph, I can’t imagine—even from Berwick he might have done it, and -I should have had it by this time. I never knew Robert so careless -before.”</p> - -<p>“Here it is, mother,” cried Alice, rushing in with the famous yellow -envelope, the hideous messenger of so much trouble. But when Mrs. -Dalyell took it, she flung it back again almost with indignation, and -turned upon the girl with a sort of fury.</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t you see,” she cried, “that it was for Mr. Wedderburn?” The -poor lady had kept her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> nerves quiet and her imagination suppressed till -now. But this felt to her like an injury. She got up from the -breakfast-table, and paced about the room, wringing her hands. It had -come, but it was not for her! This seemed to put terror into the -anxiety, an increase of every involuntary tremor. In the sickness of the -disappointment tears came rushing to her eyes. She took Alice by the -shoulders and gave her a shake. “Couldn’t you see? you little careless -monkey!” Poor Mrs. Dalyell was unjust in the heat of her disappointment. -But after a while reason once more resumed its sway. “I am letting it -get upon my nerves,” she said with a tremulous laugh, as she came back -to the table. Then, with a glance at Mr. Wedderburn’s disturbed face, -“It is not by any chance—about Robert?” she cried.</p> - -<p>“No—no—I’ve no reason to suppose it is. It’s from my managing clerk. -He says: ‘Something requiring your instant attention. Fear bad——’ -No—no—no reason in the world to suppose that D’yell has anything to do -with it. I must just hurry away. I’m called upon often, you know,” he -added with a sickly explanatory smile, “on urgent—personal affairs.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “we know that well; and no better or kinder -counsellor. But you have had no breakfast——”</p> - -<p>“I must not stop a moment longer—there is just time for the early -train.”</p> - -<p>The girls caught their hats from the stand in the hall and ran down with -him, Alice speeding on in front like a greyhound to bid the -station-master keep back the train for a minute—a kindly arrangement -which often was made for the convenience of Yalton. Mr. Wedderburn gave -forth a few breathless instructions to Susie as he hurried along. “If I -were you I would send over for Fred. He should be at home in the -circumstances: and don’t let your mother be troubled.”</p> - -<p>“But, dear Mr. Wedderburn, what are the circumstances?” said Susie. “Is -there anything wrong with papa?”</p> - -<p>“I hope not, my dear, I hope not. I’ve no reason to think that there is -anything wrong: but just—I would have Fred at home as early as -possible. And if I hear anything in town, I’ll send you word directly. -And you may calculate on seeing me before dinner. Then we’ll know what -to think.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span></p> - -<p>“I hope papa will be home before then: and he’ll laugh at us -cardiatically.”</p> - -<p>“Susie, my dear—there’s no such word.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, Mr. Wedderburn, for cardiac means from the heart; and that’s -the only way it will go.”</p> - -<p>He turned round upon her, and smiled with the strangest mixture of -fatherly kindness and pity and sorrow. Susie was silenced by this -strange look. Her eyes were startled with a sudden anxious question, her -soft lips dropped apart with fear and wonder. “Oh, why are you so sorry -for me, Mr. Wedderburn?” she cried. But they were just arriving at the -railway, and the train was waiting. Susie, with her young sister -clinging to her arm, both a little breathless with their run, in their -light morning dresses and careless garden hats, the rose of morning -health and brightness in their soft, shaded faces, the morning sun -shining upon them and round them, distinguishing them upon the rustic -platform by the soft little shadow they threw, was a sight the good -lawyer never forgot. “The innocent things!” he said to himself.</p> - -<p>When he was safe from their eyes, whirling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> along over the country, he -took once more the telegram from his pocket: “Something requiring your -immediate attention. Fear bad news. Sent for last night. Too late to -communicate, please lose no time.” Well! after all, there was nothing in -that to indicate Bob D’yell. It might be Mrs. Davidson’s business. It -might be that scapegrace young Faulkner again. The devil fly away with -all young spendthrifts! To give an honest man a fright like this for -him! Mr. Wedderburn, with a momentary relief, noted, a gleam of fun -coming into his eyes, two superfluous words in the telegram: -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Please’—the blockhead! What man in his senses says ‘please’ when he -has to pay a ha’penny for it?” he said with a little hoarse laugh to -himself. For surely it must be young Faulkner—the born fool! There was -absolutely nothing to connect it with Bob D’yell.</p> - -<p>When he entered his office, however, he was met with a very grave face -by his managing clerk. “It was a man from Musselburgh, sir, last night. -He came to the office, and finding it shut, as it naturally would be at -that hour, came on to me at my house. You know, sir, I live out at -Morningside—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“It would be strange if I did not know where you live—get on, man, get -on!”</p> - -<p>“I say that to account for it being so late. Well, sir, he told me—if -it was Musselburgh or if it was Portobello, I can’t quite say, but it’s -written down, and I sent off young Gibson by skreigh of day to make -inquiries. He told me, sir, that a heap of clothes had been found on the -sands belonging to somebody, it would seem, that was bathing in the sea. -They lay there all the afternoon and no one took any notice, but at last -one of the fisherwomen getting bait came in and said it was a -gentleman’s clothes, and his watch and all lying. And the things were -examined, and in the pockets were a number of letters——”</p> - -<p>Mr. Wedderburn gave a gasp, inarticulate but impatient, with a vehement -wave of his hand. The clerk handed him, with a look of deep -commiseration and sympathy which filled the lawyer with sudden rage, a -little packet on the table.</p> - -<p>Ah!—had he not known it all the time?</p> - -<p>He sank into a chair, speechless for the moment, but half with rage at -Martin standing there gently shaking his head, with the look that a -sympathetic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> acquaintance wears at a funeral—as if it were anything to -him! “Robert Dalyell, Esq., Yalton,” the familiar commonplace address, -that meant nothing except the merest everyday necessity—that meant a -whole tragedy now.</p> - -<p>“Found lying on the sands. But was that all—was that all? For God’s -sake, man, speak out, whatever you have to say.”</p> - -<p>Martin excused Mr. Wedderburn’s hastiness with a slight wave of his -hand, and said all there was to say. It was very little: Mr. Dalyell, a -man very well known, had been seen to arrive at the station, and had -been met by various people on his way to the sea. He was not in the -habit of using the bathing machines, as indeed few gentlemen were. There -was no special danger about the spot, and it was a calm day, and he was -a good swimmer. Of course the place was a little out of the way, and -east of the sands, as was indispensable when gentlemen bathed without -any machine; but nothing out of the ordinary—many men did the same, and -Mr. Dalyell did it constantly. No cry of distress had been heard, nor -any other signs of a catastrophe. This little mound of clothes, flung -down with the conviction<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> of perfect security, the watch in the pocket, -a shilling or two dropped on the sands as the things were moved—this -was all. “The body,” Martin said, dropping his already subdued voice, -“had not been found.”</p> - -<p>The body! Surely it was premature still to talk of that.</p> - -<p>“He might have been carried along by the current further east and got to -land there.”</p> - -<p>“A naked man, sir—without any clothes! There would soon have been word -of such a wonder as that—and somebody sent on for the things. We took -all that into consideration.”</p> - -<p>“I must go down myself at once,” said the lawyer.</p> - -<p>“I sent Gibson, sir, the first thing.”</p> - -<p>“What’s Gibson to me?” said Mr. Wedderburn, with a sort of roar of -trouble, anger, and misery combined. “I must go myself.”</p> - -<p>“There are a number of letters,” said Martin, “that might want -answering.”</p> - -<p>“Letters! when Bob Dalyell’s lying somewhere dead or dying.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir,” said Martin, “in the midst of life we are in death. If it’s -poor Mr. D’yell—and there’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> no reasonable doubt on the subject—he’s -dead long, long before now.”</p> - -<p>Wedderburn made a dash through the air with his clenched fist, as if he -had been knocking down a too sympathetic clerk, and took his hat, and -darted away.</p> - -<p>“Old Pat’s in one of his grandest tempers,” a young clerk permitted -himself to say in Mr. Martin’s hearing, as the door closed with a -violent swing behind their employer.</p> - -<p>“Old Pat!—if it’s our respected superior, Mr. Wedderburn, that ye mean -by that familiar no to say contemptuous epithet,” said Mr. Martin—“he -has just heard of the loss of his dearest friend. You would do better to -feel for him than to mock at a good man in trouble, my young friend.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Wedderburn rushed to Portobello as fast as the train would take him, -following in the track of his young clerk, who had already exhausted -every means of information, but who fortunately met the lawyer on the -way and gave him the result of his inquiries. These inquiries seemed to -leave no doubt as to the catastrophe, and Wedderburn found to his horror -that it was already very generally known, and that there had been a -paragraph<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> on the subject in the <i>Scotsman</i>, fortunately not giving the -name of the sufferer, but indicating the general fear that a well-known -member of society had been the victim. “They never read the papers,” Mr. -Wedderburn said to himself, “and she would never think it was—<i>him</i>” -(already it seemed too familiar to say Bob). When some one came hurrying -up to him, grasping his hand and asking, “Is this awful news true?—is -it out of doubt that it’s poor D’yell?”—the broken-hearted man felt -once more fiercely angry at the question, as if it was not a thing to be -discussed in ordinary words. But this was morbid, he knew. The -questioner was Mr. Scrymgeour, Fred’s host, the giver of the ball on the -previous night, who explained that he had seen the paragraph in the -papers, and had secured it at once and come in to Edinburgh to inquire, -that the poor boy should hear nothing till he could ascertain if it were -true. And even while he spoke, others came pressing upon them with grave -faces: “Was it true? Could it be D’yell?” The sensation was -extraordinary. “He was said to be a little shaky in business matters,” -said one. “That was all rubbish,” said another. “A man with a good -estate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> at his back and plenty of friends—no fear but he would have -pulled through.” “And Chili stock is looking up again, which was -supposed to be his danger.” Thus they stood and talked him over. “I -suppose there is no doubt it was an accident?” said another cautiously. -This remark caught the lawyer’s anxious ear, upon whose own heart a -heavy cloud of dread was hanging. But there was a chorus (thank God!) of -assurances. No, no!—Bob D’yell was the best fellow in the world. He was -a man always confident in his own mind, a man that had every inducement -to live—with a fine family, his son at Oxford, with a good estate -behind him, and an excellent character and plenty of friends. Even if -there might be a little temporary embarrassment—that would soon have -blown over. There were men that would have stuck by him through thick -and thin. “Me, for instance,” said Mr. Wedderburn, careless of grammar. -“I went out especially last night to tell him, if there really was -trouble, I would see him through it——” “Poor fellow! Poor Bob! Poor -D’yell!” the bystanders said in their various tones. Nobody had the -faintest hope that he could have escaped. Such a prodigy as a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> -without clothes would soon have been known along the coast. And of -course he would have hurried back, if he had been saved, to ease the -anxieties of his friends. It was only Mr. Wedderburn who insisted upon -every means being taken to secure the poor remains, and that not for -certainty of the fact, but for decent burial. There is no coroner’s -inquest in Scotland; but an inquiry into all the circumstances was -immediately set on foot, an inquiry at first in which there was no -certain evidence but the piteous heap of clothes, the respectable -garments in which every man of business goes to town. The papers left in -the pocket, the few shillings on the sands, the notes in his -pocket-book, were all so many unconscious witnesses to the accident, all -proving how accidental, how unlooked-for, was this cutting short of his -career. There was even a withered rose in his coat, a pale China rose -from one corner of the terrace at Yalton, which Mr. Wedderburn -recognised with a pang, as if it had been one of the children. The tears -blinded the middle-aged lawyer’s eyes as he took this faded thing out of -his friend’s coat, brushed off the sand from the withered leaves, and -put it in his pocket-book<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> reverently. All who were present looked on at -this little incident as if it had been a religious rite.</p> - -<p>It may be added here that the naked remains of a drowned man were found -a few weeks afterwards on the east sands of Portobello. Needless to say -that they were quite unrecognisable; but the height and size, and the -absence of clothing, made it as nearly certain as any such thing could -be that this was all that remained of Robert Dalyell.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile that fatal day passed over at Yalton, the first part very -quietly, as usual, in the ordinary occupations of the household. It was -a beautiful morning, full of comfort and good hope, and Mrs. Dalyell was -busy in her house. It was the day for the overseeing and paying of the -weekly bills, and there were various repairs necessary before the winter -set in which she had to look after, and a great deal of linen—napery as -she called it—had come in from the laundry, which it was essential to -examine to see what wanted renewing and what it would be possible to -darn and keep in use. Old Janet Macalister was famous for her darning. -Old as she was, it was still, Mrs. Dalyell said, “a pleasure to see” her -work. It was an ornament<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> to the tablecloths rather than a blemish. Old -Janet was in great activity, almost agitation. She appeared in the -house, as she very rarely did, and talked so much in an excited way, -that the servants thought her “fey.” She went with Mrs. Dalyell to the -housekeeper’s room, uninvited, to examine the linen. “Dinna put that -away. I can darn that fine,” old Janet said to many articles over which -her mistress shook her head. “Losh! what’s the good o’ me, eatin’ bread -and burnin’ fire this mony mony a year, if I canna keep the napery in -order!” she cried. Her head, which was slightly palsied, nodded more -than usual, her large pale hands shook; but her voice was strong, and -she ended every sentence with a harsh laugh.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid you are not very well to-day, Janet,” said Mrs. Dalyell.</p> - -<p>“Oh, ’deed am I, very well; but ye must give me work, mistress, ye must -give me work. Without work there are o’er many thoughts in a person’s -head for comfort. And that fine darning, it just takes everything out of -ye: it takes up baith body and mind.”</p> - -<p>When her survey of the linen was over, Mrs. Dalyell came back to the -drawing-room, having<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> sent old Janet back to her room with an armful of -sheets and tablecloths. And she was glad to escape from the old woman. -There was a gleam in her eyes, often fixed upon her mistress with a -penetrating look, as if she knew something, and her unusual flurry of -speech and the harsh laugh of agitation which occurred so often, which -Mrs. Dalyell did not understand, and which alarmed her—she could not -tell why. Then came luncheon, to which she sat down with her girls, with -a forlorn sense of the two empty seats which Foggo had placed as usual. -“I thought, mem,” he said in his solemn way, “that Mr. Fred would have -been home, if not the maister.”</p> - -<p>“Why should you think Mr. Fred would have been at home?” she asked -almost angrily.</p> - -<p>“He is coming in the afternoon with some of the young people from -Westwood for tea. We shall want tea on the terrace at half-past four, -and there will probably be five or six people.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, mem,” said Foggo, more solemn than ever, and with a look -which, like Janet’s, meant more than his words.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Dalyell had something like an <i>attaque des nerfs</i>, which was a -malady unknown to her. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> could not eat anything. In order that the -servants might not suppose there was anything irregular in their -master’s proceedings, she said nothing before Foggo about her anxiety. -She said she was tired, looking over all that weary linen. “And old -Janet, that was stranger than ever, and she always was a strange -creature. I think I will lie down for a little after lunch. And I almost -wish that I had not bidden Fred to bring over the Scrymgeours with him -for the afternoon.” If this was said to throw dust in Foggo’s eyes, Mrs. -Dalyell might have spared herself the trouble. For Foggo had read his -<i>Scotsman</i> that morning, and had heard a murmur of dismay which had come -to Yalton by the backstairs, by the kitchen—nobody knew how. “God help -the poor woman!” Foggo said, when he retired to his own domain, with -more feeling than respect. “She’s full of trouble, but she will not let -on, and though she’s in horror of something, it’s not half so bad as -what has come to pass.”</p> - -<p>“If that story’s true,” said the cook, who was too much disturbed and -too anxious to hear everything to take any trouble about her own work, -which the kitchen-maid was accomplishing sadly while her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> principal -talked and cried over the dreadful rumour which had swept hither on the -wings of the wind. “Oh, it’s true enough,” said Foggo, whose disposition -was dismal—“and there’s little dinner will be wanted here this night, -for sooner or later they must hear. It was more than I could well bear -to hear them talking of the big tea on the terrace and who was coming. I -hope the Scrymgeour people will not be so mad as to let their young ones -come: and nobody else will come, for it’s well known over the country by -this time, though she doesn’t know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my poor bonnie lady,” said the cook weeping—“and the kind maister, -that had a pleasant word for everybody.”</p> - -<p>“Not so pleasant a word for them that crossed him,” said Foggo. “Not -that I would say a word against him, and him a drowned man.”</p> - -<p>Early in the afternoon Fred came home. It was a house that stood always -with open doors and windows, so that there was no need to open to any -familiar comer; but Foggo was in the hall, chiefly because he too was -excited and eager to have the first of any news that might arrive, when -the youth with his light step came in. His eager<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> question, “Is my -father at home?” made the grave butler more solemn than ever.</p> - -<p>“No, sir, the master has not been back since he left the house yesterday -morning,” said Foggo.</p> - -<p>But though his looks were so significant, that the very dogs saw that -something was the matter, Fred neither gave nor communicated any news. -He rushed upstairs three steps at a time, and burst into the -drawing-room, where his mother was sitting. She had tried to lie down, -as she had said, but Mrs. Dalyell could not rest: her nerves would not -be stilled, and her thoughts grew so many that they buzzed in her ears, -and seemed to suffocate her in her throat. She was sitting at the window -which commanded the gate, so that she might see who appeared, ever -watching for that telegraph boy, who in a moment might set all right.</p> - -<p>“You have come back early, Fred,” she said. “And have you come alone?”</p> - -<p>“Mother, what’s this I hear, that my father has never come home?”</p> - -<p>“Who has told you such a thing? Your father has many affairs in his -hands; he’s often been called away in a hurry.”</p> - -<p>“You knew then he was going somewhere? It’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> all right, then, thank -God!” said Fred; “and that dreadful thing in the papers has nothing to -do with him.”</p> - -<p>“What dreadful thing in the papers?” cried Mrs. Dalyell. It was not till -Fred had thus committed himself in his haste and anxiety that he felt -how foolish it was to refer to a report which as yet was not -authenticated. He went to look for the papers, cursing his own rashness. -But Foggo had more sense than might have been supposed. He had conveyed -that <i>Scotsman</i> out of the way.</p> - -<p>Alas! as if it were of any use to try to stave off the knowledge of such -a calamity! An hour later Mr. Wedderburn’s sober step sounded upon the -gravel, coming up from the train. Mrs. Dalyell sat still in her chair, -not running to meet him as the others did. “Oh, I shall hear it soon -enough—I shall hear it soon enough!” she said to herself.</p> - -<p>His very step had tragedy in it; and she knew before she saw him that -something dreadful had happened, that the failure of that telegram, -which Robert had never before omitted to send her, was but too well -explained. Something like a sweeping gust of fatal wind seemed to flow -through the house—a chill consciousness of coming trouble, calling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> out -everybody from above and below to hear the news. And then there was a -terrible cry, and then a dread stillness fell over Yalton—like the -stillness before a storm.</p> - -<p>There was one strange thing, however, which happened that fatal -afternoon, and which Fred could never forget. As he went upstairs to his -own room, which was in the upper storey, a pale and miserable ghost of -the cheerful youth he had been yesterday, he saw old Janet standing at -the end of the passage which led to her room. She put out her long arm, -out of the folds of her tartan shawl. “How is she taking it, Mr. Fred?” -she asked. Janet’s eyes were deep, and shone with a strange fire. Her -face was full of excitement and agitation—but not of grief, although -she had been devoted to the master, who was also her nursling. “How is -your mother taking it?” There was a gleam of strange curiosity in her -eyes.</p> - -<p>“Taking it?” cried Fred. “Have you no heart that you ask such a -question? My mother is heartbroken—as we all are,” said the lad, his -voice giving way to the half-arrested sob, which he was too young to be -able to restrain.</p> - -<p>“But no me—that’s what you’re thinking:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> though the Lord knows he’s -more to me than everything else in this world. Laddie, you’re -young—young; and so is your mother. But me, I’m a very old woman. I’ve -seen many a strange thing. You’ll mind that you’re to come and ask me if -you’re ever very sore troubled in your mind.”</p> - -<p>“You!” cried Fred. There was something like scorn in his tone. The first -distress of youth seems always final, insurmountable, so that it is half -an insult to suggest that it will be lived through and other troubles -come. But then a sudden chill of horror came over the lad. “You!” he -said again, with a pang which he did not himself understand. He -remembered what his father had said: “Go to old Janet.” Did she know -what his father had said? Had she been aware that this great trouble, -this more than trouble, this misery, calamity, was coming? Fred gave the -old woman an awed and terrified look—and fled: from her and his own -thoughts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V-b" id="CHAPTER_V-b"></a>CHAPTER V.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> is no coroner’s inquest in Scotland, as has been said; -nevertheless there was a careful examination into all the circumstances -of Mr. Dalyell’s death. It was known that he was going to Portobello to -bathe. This he had stated not only to his family, but to the clerks at -the insurance office and other persons whom he had met. One gentleman -appeared who had travelled that little journey with him by the train, -whom he had almost persuaded to join him in his swim, and who parted -with him only at the corner of the road leading down to the sands; the -porter at the station had seen him arrive, had seen the two walk off -together. There was no mystery or concealment about anything he had -done. It was his usual place for bathing, there was nothing -extraordinary about the matter, up to the moment when the clothes were -found on the sands and the man was gone. Every step was traced of his -ordinary career, nor could one suspicious circumstance be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> found. The -mere fact of the heap of clothing, the money in the pockets, the watch, -all the familiar careless evidences of a day which was to be as any -other day, with no auguries of evil in it, was all there was to account -for his disappearance. But that was pathetically distinct and -unimpeachable. And when after so much delay the body was found—which, -indeed, no one could tell to be Robert Dalyell’s body, but which by -every law of probability might be considered so—the question dropped, -and all the endless talk and speculation to which it had given rise. Of -course there were doubts at first whether it might be suicide. But why, -of all people in the world, should Robert Dalyell drown himself? No -doubt there had been rumours of unfortunate speculations, and possible -pecuniary disaster. But everybody knew now that Pat Wedderburn, a man of -considerable wealth and unlimited credit, had put his means at his -friend’s disposal. It is true that what Mr. Wedderburn had said was that -he was about to do so; but these fine shades are too much to be -preserved when a statement is sent about from mouth to mouth, and all -Edinburgh was persuaded that Mr. Wedderburn’s means made Dalyell’s -position secure—if,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> indeed, it ever was insecure, with a good estate -behind him, and all his connections. But what a fatality! What a -catastrophe! A man in the prime of life, with a nice wife and delightful -children, a charming place, an excellent position, everything smiling -upon him. That he should be carried away from all that in a moment by -some confounded cramp, some momentary weakness. What a lesson it was! In -the midst of life we are in death. This was what, with many regrets for -Bob D’yell and sorrow for his family, and a great sensation among all -who knew him, Edinburgh said. And then the event was displaced by -another event, and his name was transferred from the papers and -everybody’s mouth to a tablet in Yalton Church, and Robert Dalyell was -as if he had never been.</p> - -<p>It proved that his life was very heavily insured—to a much larger sum -than anybody had been aware of, and in several offices. Neither Mrs. -Dalyell, nor any of his advisers knew the reason for these unusual -liberalities of arrangement, if not that Mr. Dalyell, being himself -concerned in an insurance office, thought it right to set an example to -others by the number and value of his own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> Enough was obtained in this -sorrowful way to clear off everything that was wrong in his affairs, and -to secure Fred, when he should come of age, in unencumbered possession -of Yalton, as well as to leave the portions of the girls intact. So far -as this went, and though it was a dreadful thing to think, much more to -say, no doubt it passed through Mr. Wedderburn’s mind, who was the sole -executor, with the exception of Mrs. Dalyell, that the moment of poor -Bob’s death was singularly well chosen. Mrs. Dalyell left everything in -his hands, so that the conclusion was in no way forced upon her, nor -would she have entertained it if it had occurred to her. Nothing would -have persuaded her that her Robert had drowned himself, and she knew no -reason why. She was not a woman who demanded explanations, who searched -into the motives of things. She accepted the event when it happened with -sorrow or with thankfulness, according as it was good or bad, but she -did not demand to have the secret told her of how it came about. And she -grieved deeply for her good husband; the earth was altogether overcast -to her for a time. She felt no warmth in the sun, no beauty in the -world—a pall hung over everything.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> Robert was gone—what was the good -of all those secondary things, the comforts and ease of life, which were -not him, nor ever could bring him back? She would have accepted joyfully -a life of poverty and privation with Robert instead of this dreadful -comfortable blank without him. Her emotions were as sincere as they were -sober and unexaggerated. But, as was natural, this gloom of early -bereavement did not last. After a few months she was capable of taking a -little pleasure in the spring weather, of watching the flowers come up. -And though the first notice she took of these ameliorating circumstances -was to say with tears, “How pleased your father always was to see the -crocuses!” yet it was the beginning of a better time. Mrs. Dalyell was -still in the forties; she was in excellent health, and she was of a -mild, unimpassioned temperament. It was not possible that the clouds -should hang for ever about such a tranquil sky.</p> - -<p>But there were two of the mourners who were not so simply constituted. -Fred, who had been so light-hearted a boy when his father talked to him -on the terrace and bade him think of the catastrophes which overturned -so many young lives,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> was greatly changed. He could not get that -conversation out of his mind, nor the strange recommendation his father -had given him, nor the stranger repetition by old Janet of what Mr. -Dalyell had said. How did she know? Had the father confided to her what -was about to happen? Confided?—a thing which was an accident, an -unforeseen calamity, or—— what else? Confided to Janet that next day -he was going to die? Fred turned this over in his mind, over and over, -till he was nearly mad. How did she know? How did she know? Was it -second-sight, witchcraft of one kind or another? But Fred was a young -man of his time—or rather he was not sufficiently a young man of his -time to believe in witchcraft or any occult power. How was it?—how was -it?—how was it? This question went on in his mind so constantly that it -became a sort of mechanical rhyme running through everything. How did -old Janet know? Had it been discovered by her somehow by mystic art? Had -it been confided to her? He could not turn his mind away from this -question or forget it. How did she know?—what did she know? Fred felt -as if he should have informed the commissioners who had investigated the -circumstances<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> of his father’s death of that conversation on the -terrace. It might be only a coincidence; but it was a very curious -coincidence. He ought to have reported it, made it known, that everybody -might draw his own conclusions. Here was a man who as a matter of fact -died by some mysterious accident next day, and who had talked to his son -of what he might have to do were he left with the family on his hands, -and advised whom he should take counsel with in difficulties: and the -proposed counsellor had apparently been communicated with too. What -would the little court of inquiry, he wondered, have said to that? What -would the insurance people have said? Was it his duty to have told the -strange and terrible detail? Was it better to have remained silent? Poor -Fred could not tell what he ought to have done—what he ought to do. He -was but a boy after all, when all was said. He had not been accustomed -to form such momentous decisions for himself, and he was overwhelmed -with grief and misery, not able to think. He remained silent, not -betraying even to Mr. Wedderburn, who was now the guide of the -household, looking after everything, what he felt. But the lad was very -unhappy. There was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> no reason why he should not return to Oxford; but he -had no desire to return. He did not care to do anything. He wandered -about the grounds asking himself what his father meant, if he had it all -in his mind then as he walked along the terrace in the dark, listening -to his boy’s chatter of college jokes and light-hearted nonsense. Was he -thinking then of what was to be done next day? Had he planned it all? -and left perhaps his last instructions with Janet, the unlikeliest -repository of such secrets. Could it be this? or only coincidence, a -series of coincidences, such as may occur and sometimes do occur, -perplexing and confusing every calculation? All this made him very -miserable, as he pondered, many a weary monotonous night and day. He -stole out in the evenings after dinner and strolled along the terrace, -as his father had been used to do, with a sort of vague hope of -enlightenment, of some influence that might come to him, or even voice -that he might hear. But he never heard anything more than the wind -moaning in the trees, which drove him indoors with the melancholy of -their unseen rustling, and the eerie sounds of the night, rising over -all the invisible country, tinkle of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> water, and sweeping sound of the -winds and the drop of the autumnal leaves falling, the hoot of an owl, -the stirring of unseen things in the woods and fields. But when he was -indoors again, still less could Fred bear the cheerful air of the -drawing-room with its bright fire and lamps, and the voices of his -sisters which began after a time of silence to whisper and chatter again -in the irrepressible vitality of their youth. Had it all been planned -before that night? Did his father already well know what was going to -happen on the morrow—all the incidents of the tragedy? And did Janet -know? Fred repeated these questions to himself till his brain felt as if -it were giving way.</p> - -<p>All this time he kept himself carefully away from speech or look of -Janet, who had been, strange as it was, less affected by the calamity -than any one in the house, and had a look in her dry eyes which Fred -could not understand. His heart revolted against her; a woman without -feeling, who had no tears for the man who had surrounded her with -comforts and ensured her well-being for her life—the man who was her -child, whom she had nursed, but never mourned.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> A sort of hatred sprang -up in the lad’s mind towards this old woman. He felt it a wrong and -almost insult that he should have been bidden to take her advice—and -avoided her as if she had been the plague. Janet, on the contrary, -seemed to seek opportunities of encountering him, appearing suddenly -about the house, as she had never hitherto done, in all kinds of -unlikely places. Her unobtrusiveness had been one of her great qualities -in former times. She had never been seen on the stairs or in the -corridor, scarcely at all, except at the opening of the passage leading -to her own room, or sitting in the sun by the laundry door, or about the -servants’ part of the house. But now old Janet seemed to be everywhere. -Fred met her in the hall, lingering about the library, in the gallery -above which encircled the hall, everywhere save in his mother’s -drawing-room. And whenever she met him, though she did nothing to stop -him, she gave him a look full of significance. It seemed to say, “When -are you coming to consult me? I want to be consulted,” till the young -man became exasperated, and fled from her with an ever-growing sense of -trouble or fear. Her apparition in her large<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> white mutch, with a black -ribbon round it, tied in a great bow on the top of her head, with her -black and white shepherd’s plaid shawl, which she had adopted, instead -of the old red and green tartan, in compliment to the family -mourning—gave him a sensation of shivering, as if old Janet had -included in her own person the properties of all the Fates. He was -afraid of what she might have to say to him—afraid lest there should be -something to tell which would be hateful to hear; afraid for his -father’s good name and his own peace.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wedderburn had no such addition to the many cares which this -catastrophe had introduced into his placid life. He knew nothing about -Janet, or any secret she might have in her keeping, nor had he any idea -of that last interview which lay so heavily upon Fred’s mind; but he was -not at ease. The public mind had been entirely reassured on the subject -of Dalyell’s embarrassed circumstances by the announcement that Pat -Wedderburn had taken upon him all the responsibility and was indeed the -principal in Dalyell’s speculations, using him only as an agent, which -was what Wedderburn’s statement on the subject had now grown to. But -Wedderburn knew very well that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> he had only intended to make this offer -to his friend, and that Dalyell’s troubles about money were weighing -very heavily upon him when he went down to Portobello for his swim. And -he knew that the very opportune cramp or failure of heart which caused -his death accomplished at the same time the complete deliverance from -all those cares, of his children and his wife. Everything was -appropriate, perfectly convenient to the moment and to the needs of the -man who gave his life for his family as much as if he had defended them -to the death on the ramparts of some besieged city—with this only -exception, that the weapons with which he fought were equivocal, if not -dishonest. For the insurance money would never have been paid to the -representatives of a suicide. Poor Bob! poor Bob! it was unworthy, it -was dreadful to associate that title with his honest name. And yet—if -it had been a planned thing, it was not an honest thing, although he had -paid for it by the sacrifice of his life. This thought rankled in Mr. -Wedderburn’s mind. Dalyell had been, so to speak, absolved by public -opinion from that guilt. The payment of the insurances was in itself a -full acquittal, and no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> one ventured to say or even think that the -catastrophe on the Portobello sands was anything but a fatal accident. -But Wedderburn’s mind was haunted by this doubt. It was not for him to -bring it forward, to hint a suspicion which could never be proved, which -would be ruinous to the prospects of those whose interests were in his -hands. No, never to any soul would he hint such a doubt. But yet—he -said to himself that poor Bob would have been capable of it. A thing -that you are willing to give your life to purchase—it is difficult to -believe that what is bought at such a sacrifice could be wronging any -one, or a sin against the commonwealth. The suicide would be a sin -before God, but many a desperate creature is ready to encounter that, -with a pathetic trust in the understanding and pity of the great Father. -But to die dishonestly for the good of your family, that was a different -thing. Bob Dalyell, perhaps, was not a man who would attach any idea of -guilt to this way of cheating the insurance companies, even his own -office; but Wedderburn, who might have been capable of the sacrifice, -would have stood at that. His idea of honour and probity was perhaps -more abstract than that of a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> who was involved in sharp business -transactions, in speculation and commercial adventure, and who was, -besides, a man with a family, bent upon saving them from ruin. He shook -his head and acknowledged to himself that poor Bob was capable of not -having taken that divergence from strict integrity into account. Had he -made up his mind to die for his family he would not have considered the -ease of the insurance companies. The thought of wronging them would have -sat lightly on his soul.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wedderburn took from this self-discussion a habit which remained -with him for all the rest of his life, the habit of shaking his head, -slowly, sadly to himself, as it were, as if in the course of some -remark. It was while he questioned, and doubted, and laid things -together, excusing his friend even while he judged him, that this habit -was acquired. It was not a bad habit for a lawyer who was consulted by -his clients on many delicate questions. It gave an air of regretful -decision, of compassion and sympathy, when he had conclusions to -announce that were not pleasant to his clients. And he never lost this -gesture of reflection and compassion, which was as sacred to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> Bob -Dalyell as his tombstone. It was thus, with many a vexing doubt and -fear, that he mourned the friend of his youth.</p> - -<p>The female members of the party were happily exempted from all these -discussions. It does not often happen that the women have the lightest -part to bear in any such calamity. But in this case it was so. Mrs. -Dalyell mourned her husband most sincerely and deeply, forgetting every -little flaw in his character, and gradually elevating him into the -position of a perfect man—the best husband, the kindest father! And the -girls mourned him with torrents of youthful tears, with a conviction -that they never could smile again, never get beyond the blackness of the -first grief, the awful sensation of the catastrophe. But there was -nothing but pure sorrow in their minds. They thought no more of the -insurance companies than the birds in the garden think of the crumbs -miraculously provided for them when snow is on the ground. Neither had -the slightest doubt ever entered their minds as to what they were told -of his death. They knew every detail, laying it up in their hearts. How -he had parted smiling from his friend at the corner of the street, and -gone off<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> to the sands with his buoyant step, in such health and -strength, in such good-will and good-humour with all the world. This was -what the girls said to themselves, trying to picture his last look upon -life. And they hoped it was some unsuspected failure of the heart, which -the doctor said was most likely—a thing which would give no pain, which -would be over in a moment, so that he would never know he was dying, or -have any pang of anxiety for those he was leaving behind. This was how -the girls realised their father’s death: and their mother’s picture of -it was not dissimilar. She felt that there must have been a moment in -which he thought of her and of “the bairns.” Mrs. Dalyell added that to -the imaginary scene—a moment in which, as people said was the case in -drowning, all his life would rush through his brain, and he would think -of her as he died. They had the best of it. Their innocent thoughts -conceived no ulterior scheme, no darkness of doubt. Had they realised -that any such doubt existed, it is probable that they would have -canonised poor Robert Dalyell on the spot as a hero and martyr, dying -for those he loved, and still never have thought of the insurance -companies; but, happily,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> no such imagination entered at all into their -simple thoughts.</p> - -<p>The household had settled down completely into the habits of its new -life, when Fred Dalyell came home from a long wandering tour he had made -about Europe, not so much for love of travelling or desire to see -beautiful things and places, as to distract his mind from the miserable -thoughts that had gained so complete an empire over him. He had -succeeded very well in that, for the most persistent trouble yields to -such treatment at twenty; but the first return to Yalton, and all the -recollections that were waiting for him under those familiar trees, -brought back on the first coming much of the old trouble to the lad’s -sensitive mind. It was now May, and Yalton was almost as cheerful as -ever, though in a subdued way. The girls, “poor things,” as their mother -said, had recovered their spirits. They were so young!—and Fred’s -coming home had been a thing much looked for, like the beginning of a -new era to the young creatures over whom the winter of gloom was -naturally passing away. Susie and Alice were much disappointed by the -cloud that came over Fred after the first joy of their greetings. -Instead<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> of sitting with them and telling them everything, he -disappeared on the first evening, with a sort of impatient, almost -angry, resistance of their blandishments.</p> - -<p>“Oh, let me alone; I have a thousand things to think of,” he said, -pushing them away as the manner of big brothers is. Susie and Alice -forgave Fred when they saw the little red tip of his cigar on the -terrace, and realised that he had gone there “to think of father.” For a -moment it was debated between them whether one of them should not go to -him to share his solitude and thoughts; but they decided, with a better -inspiration, to leave him alone, and even withdrew delicately from the -drawing-room window, not to seem to spy upon his sacred thoughts.</p> - -<p>“Oh, do you mind how papa used to go up and down, up and down?” said -Alice to Susie.</p> - -<p>“Do I mind?” said Susie, half indignant. “Could I ever forget?” And they -shed a few tears together, then hurried off to the table in the full -light of the lamps, where Fred’s curiosities which he had brought home, -and all his little presents, were laid out for inspection, and began to -laugh<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> and twitter over them, and compare this with that, like two -birds.</p> - -<p>Yes, this was just the place where father had stood when he had suddenly -changed the conversation about the bump-suppers, and all the joys of -Oxford, to that strange and sober talk about the vicissitudes of life, -and what a difference a day might make in the position of a happy lad at -college, thinking of nothing but fun and frolic. Fred remembered every -word, every look—the wail of the autumnal wind, the clear break of sky -among the clouds towards the west, the half shock, half amusement, with -which he had felt that sudden change into what in those days of levity -he had called the didactic in his father’s tone. It had seemed to him a -sermon at the time; and then it had seemed to him—he knew not what—an -awful advertisement of what was coming: a prophecy conscious or -unconscious. He walked up and down, up and down under the trees, hearing -the same sounds, the tinkle of the half-choked fountain, the rustling of -the wind among the branches. The sentiment of the night was different, -for that had been in September, and this was full of the soft and -hopeful stir of May. The leaves were falling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> then; now they were but -just opened, hanging in clusters of vivid young green, which almost -forced colour upon the paleness of the wistful night. But nothing else -was as it had been then. His father was gone, swept from the earth as -though he had never been. Yet this great change had not brought the -other changes which Mr. Dalyell anticipated. Fred had not been forced -into the premature development of a young head of the family. He had not -been plunged into care and trouble, into work and anxiety. If anything, -he had been more free than before. He was still only a youth dallying -upon the edge of life, not a man entering into serious duties. The -contrast struck him strangely. This was not what his father had -foreseen. It gave him a vague new trouble in his mind to perceive that -this was so. He ought to be less free, perhaps more occupied, more -responsible. He could not all at once decide what the difference was.</p> - -<p>Here he was suddenly disturbed by the sound of a step upon the -gravel—and it is to be feared that Fred uttered within himself an -impatient exclamation, as he threw away the end of his cigar. “Here is -one of those bothering girls,” he said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> to himself, though we know with -what high reason and feeling Susie and Alice had withdrawn, even from -the window, not to seem to spy upon their brother. He got up to meet -them, remembering that he had just come home and that it would be brutal -to show any impatience of their affection. But Fred might have known -that the heavy, slow step which approached him was not that of either of -the girls. A tall figure shaped itself out of the darkness—the white -mutch, the bow of black ribbon, the checked shawl, became dimly visible.</p> - -<p>“Eh, Mr. Fred,” said old Janet, “but I’m blythe to see you home!”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” he said, “it’s you!” in a tone which was not encouraging. He had -forgotten old Janet, happily, and it was with anything but pleasure that -he felt her image thus thrust upon him again.</p> - -<p>“Who should it be but me?” she said. “There is none that can take such -an interest. And, Mr. Fred, it is time you should be taking your ain -place. This house of Yalton should go into no other hands but them it -belongs to. Oh, I canna speak more plain; but you must rouse yourself -up, and you must take your ain place.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you have to do with it,” cried Fred angrily, “nor why -you should thrust your advice upon me. I am here in my own place. What -do you mean? I ought to be at Oxford, that would be my own place.”</p> - -<p>“Na, na! that would be just more schooling,” said Janet, “and it’s no -schooling you want, but to stand up like a man, and be maister of your -father’s house, as is your right. Oh, laddie, I tell you I canna speak -more plain; but take you my word, it’ll save more trouble, and worse -trouble, if you will just grip the reins in your hands and take your ain -place!”</p> - -<p>He laughed contemptuously in his impatience and anger. “You had better -save your advice for things you understand,” he said. “Don’t you know -the law considers me an infant, and that I can do nothing till I’m of -age—if there was anything to do? But all is going as well as can -be—almost too well—as if he were not missed,” the young man cried -abruptly with a movement of feeling, which indeed was momentary and had -not come into his mind before. Perhaps it was an influence from the -brain of the old woman beside him which sent it there now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span></p> - -<p>“That’s just what I wanted to say,” said old Janet—“as if <i>he</i> were not -missed. All settled for her, and smoothed down and made fair and easy, -as if <i>himsel</i>’ were to the fore. There’s trouble in the air, Mr. Fred, -and if you dinna bestir yourself, and take your ain place, and get a -grip of the reins in your ain hand——”</p> - -<p>“Rubbish!” said Fred. “How can I get the reins, till I come of age? If -there was any need, which there is not, my mother knows better than half -a dozen of me.”</p> - -<p>“Your mother!” said old Janet, with the natural contempt of an old -servant for the mistress; then she added in a different tone: “if it was -only your mother”—shaking her old head.</p> - -<p>“Who else?” said Fred with indignation. But Janet made no reply. She -turned her back upon him and went off along the terrace, always shaking -her head, which was slightly palsied and had a faint nodding motion -besides. Something in this confirmed movement which was comic, and the -jealousy of his mother, which had always been a well-known feature in -old Janet, tended to give a ludicrous character to her appeal. Instead -of deepening the sadness of his thoughts, it lightened<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> them with a -curious sense of relief. It seemed to take away at once the gravity of -the recollection of his father’s reference to her, and the painful -suggestion in it which had caused Fred so much trouble, when old Janet -thus displayed herself in an absurd rather than a tragical light.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VI-b" id="CHAPTER_VI-b"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Wedderburn</span> entered very naturally into the charge of his friend’s -affairs. He had been Dalyell’s counsellor already on many occasions in -his life, and knew much about his concerns, the resources of the estate, -and all the original sources of income which Dalyell had increased, yet -fatally risked, by his speculations. No one was better fitted than he to -apply the welcome aid of the insurance moneys to the relief of Yalton -from all the encumbrances which the dead man’s other affairs had -imported into his life. A man so familiar with the household and all its -affairs, nobody could know so well as he how to guide the revenues of -the household so as to afford their usual comforts to Mrs. Dalyell and -the girls without injuring Fred’s interests, or forgetting the very near -approach of the time when he should take the control into his own hands. -It was evident that changes were inevitable then; either that Mrs. -Dalyell should retire to a house of her own, or that she should remain -as Fred’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> housekeeper, with her authority contingent upon his plans, -and liable to be destroyed whenever the young man should think of -marriage—a position in which the faithful friend of the house was -unwilling to contemplate the mistress of Yalton. It was not a thing that -would have affected Mrs. Dalyell. It would not have occurred to her to -think that the house was less hers by being Fred’s. But Mr. Wedderburn -was jealous of her dignity, and it wounded a certain imaginative sense -of fitness for which no one would have given the dry old lawyer -credit—the notion that the woman whom he had so long admired and liked -should be dependent on her boy’s caprice and whether it should please -him or not to marry. The event which would make another change, so -great, in her position, troubled him more than he could say. Was it not -enough, he asked himself, that she should have had this shock to bear, -and her life rent in two, that she should now have to yield all -authority to Fred, and be dependent upon him for her home and dignity? -The thought did not disturb Mrs. Dalyell, who felt it as natural to -continue as before at the head of a house, which was no less hers -because her son was now its formal head, as to perform any other act<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> of -life. But it did disturb her champion and guardian, who made it more and -more his office from day to day to watch over her comfort and spare her -trouble.</p> - -<p>It was astonishing how Pat Wedderburn, who had not for many years, -indeed for all his independent life, known more of the sweets of -domesticity than those which he shared at second-hand in the houses of -his friends, and especially at Yalton, fell into the ways of the head of -a family. He did not, indeed, come out to Yalton every night as poor -Dalyell had done, but he spent at least half of his evenings there, and -gave his mind to the consideration of what was wanted in the house, and -what would be agreeable to both mother and girls, with a curious -familiar devotion which was at once amusing and touching. No father -probably ever was so mindful of the tastes of his children as Mr. -Wedderburn was of Susie and Alice. He remembered what they liked, and -noted every expression of a wish with an affectionate vigilance and -thoughtfulness which surprised even the girls, though they were well -accustomed to have their little caprices considered. As for Mrs. -Dalyell, no wife ever had her likings more sedulously consulted,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> her -suggestions more carefully carried out, than were hers by her -co-executor, her trustee, and fellow-guardian of the children. She had -but to speak to Mr. Wedderburn about any trifling obstacle and it was -immediately removed out of their way. He regarded her wants and wishes -as things which were sacred; not as a husband does, whose natural -impulse it is to contest, if not to deny. Life had never been made so -easy for the ladies of Yalton. When he came out it was almost certain -that some pleasant surprise accompanied him—a book, a present, -something that either girls or mother had wished for. And they all took -Mr. Wedderburn as completely for granted as if this devotion had been -the most natural thing in the world.</p> - -<p>And it would be impossible to describe the sweetness that came into the -life of old Pat Wedderburn (as Edinburgh profanely called him) from this -amateur performance, so to speak, of the duties of husband and father. -He had long been in the habit of considering Yalton as a sort of home. -But yet his visits there, though he was always so welcome, were more or -less at the pleasure of his hosts, and he had kept up the form, though -it was not much more than a form,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> of being invited. Now no such -restraint (though it had never been much of a restraint) existed. He put -a certain limit upon himself, but save for that the house of his wards -was to him as his own, always open, always ready. They were all his -wards, the mother not less than the children. It is true she was joined -with him in the trust, and that she was a woman, as he said to himself, -of a great deal of sense, who could give him advice upon many subjects, -and even took or appeared to take an intelligent interest in -investments, and knew whether the claims of the farmers were just, and -what was right in respect to repairs, &c., better than Mr. Wedderburn -himself. But she had never been accustomed to do anything for herself, -to act independently, to take any step without advice and active help. -It is impossible to say how pleasant it was to the middle-aged bachelor -to be thus referred to at every moment asked about everything, consulted -in every domestic contingency. He would not have minded even had he been -called upon to settle difficulties with the servants, or subdue a -refractory cook, nor would it have bored him to have a housekeeper’s -afflictions in this way poured into his ears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span></p> - -<p>Happily, however, in the large easy-going household at Yalton there were -few difficulties of that kind. Mrs. Dalyell was an excellent manager, -but she was not exacting, and her servants were chiefly old servants, -who ruled the less permanent kitchen-maids, footboys, &c., under them -with rods of iron, but did not trouble the mistress with their -imperfections. When a house has been long established on such a footing, -and there is no overwhelming necessity for economy, or interfering -dispositions on the part of its head, it is wonderful how smoothly it -will roll on, notwithstanding all human weaknesses. And the shadow of -grief glided away. There could not have been a more desirable house, or -a more pleasant routine of life. The very neighbourhood breathed peace -into Wedderburn’s being. Before he had reached the gates the atmosphere -of content enveloped him. He had something in his pocket for the -girls—he had something to consult their mother about, generally her own -business, but sometimes even his, so great a confidence was he acquiring -in her common-sense. To think that the loss of poor Bob Dalyell should -have brought so great an acquisition of happiness into his life! He was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> -ashamed when he came to think of it, and felt a compunction as if he had -profited by his friend’s disaster. But it was no fault of his.</p> - -<p>And there was no doubt that Mr. Wedderburn enjoyed Yalton and the life -there a great deal more than if he had been really the father whose -office as far as possible he had taken upon himself. He was not -responsible for the faults or aggrieved by the imperfections of the -children, as a man is to whom they belong. The very distance between -them increased the charm. Although it would have been death to him to -have been thrust out of that paradise, it would perhaps have lessened -its charm had he been absolutely swept into it, bound to it, by law and -necessity. The freedom of the voluntary tie added sweetness to the bond. -He was far more at the orders of his adopted family than any father -would have been; but that shyness of old bachelorhood, which is as real -as the reserve of old maidenhood and very similar, though it is little -remarked, was in no way ruffled or wounded by the present arrangement. -And thus good came out of all the evil, to one at least of the little -circle who had been so deeply affected by it. Poor Bob D’yell!—to think -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> he should have lost all this, and that his most devoted friend -should have acquired it by his loss! This gave Mr. Wedderburn a -compunction which was of course entirely fictitious and visionary—for -had he not taken that position it would have been much worse for the -family as well as for himself.</p> - -<p>This state of affairs was scarcely interrupted by Fred’s majority, for -Fred, no more than any other member of the household, considered that it -made any difference. Of course, in the progress of time he would marry, -and probably desire to be as his father had been. But, in the meantime, -he felt himself no less a boy on the morning after his twenty-first -birthday than he had done the morning before; and the idea of taking the -reins out of his mother’s hands or desiring more freedom than he -actually possessed, especially the freedom of turning her out of the -house which was now legally his, or disturbing any of her arrangements, -never occurred to Fred. Young people brought up under such an easy sway -as that of Mrs. Dalyell do not feel the temptation of rushing wildly -into freedom as soon as it is legally their own. Fred had always been -free, and he could not be more so,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> because his name was now at the head -of all the family affairs, and Frederick Dalyell, Esq., was now the -official proprietor at Yalton. What difference did it make? The family -generally said none. Of course, Fred, as the only son and the eldest, -would have been paramount in the house under any circumstances; he could -not be more than paramount now. But it was not to Fred that Mrs. Dalyell -looked for help and advice, any more than it had been before; this -birthday did not add experience or wisdom to the boy. And Mr. Wedderburn -came and went just the same, looking after Fred’s interests, spoiling -the girls, always ready to be referred to. It made no difference, nor -did anybody wish that it should, except perhaps old Janet, whose opinion -was not thought much of, whom Fred avoided carefully, and whose very -existence was scarcely realised by the adviser of the house. As for Fred -himself, his troubled thoughts had worn themselves out. Whatever trouble -there may be in the mind respecting a man who has been in his grave for -more than a year, it dies away under the progress of gentle time. To -keep up the pressure of such misery there must be new events occurring -or to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> dreaded. What is altogether past affects the spirit in a -different way. If there was a tragic secret unrevealed in the story of -Robert Dalyell’s death, it was hidden for ever in the bitter waves that -had swallowed him up: and the course of his young life had gradually -swept from Fred’s mind the burden of his father’s tragedy. He had -decided to go back to Oxford at the end of the first year, and he was -still continuing his unlaborious studies there when the second had -ended, and October, with its shortening days and windy skies, returned -again. The vacation had been a lively one to Fred, and Mrs. Dalyell had -been obliged to come out of the seclusion of her widowhood on account of -Susie, whose introduction to the world could not be postponed any -longer. Mrs. Dalyell herself was not unwilling that it should be so. She -was entirely contented in her home-life, yet pleased to vary it when -need was, and the more smiling and brilliant side of things no longer -jarred upon her feelings. And Susie, in all the fervour of her first -season (though it was only in Edinburgh), was as happy as the day.</p> - -<p>Thus it was, upon a household as cheerful as could be seen, that the -shadows began to lengthen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> in that October, a little before the end of -the vacation, when Fred, who had exhausted his own covers with the -assistance of his friends, was flitting about the country in a series of -“last days” before he went back to his college. Fred’s friends of the -shooting parties had made the house very gay for the girls, and Mr. -Wedderburn had thought it expedient to “put in an appearance,” as he -said, even more frequently than usual, to support Mrs. Dalyell and help -to preserve the balance of the house. He came “out” four or five nights -in the week to the house which became daily more and more like his home, -and found a continually increasing charm in the sight of the pleasure of -the young ones and in the company of their mother. While they were -carrying on their amusements, he considered it only his duty to sit by -Mrs. Dalyell and keep her as far as possible from feeling the blank of -the empty place. They could talk to each other, as only old friends -can—of the people and places they had mutually known all their lives, -of the different dispositions of the children, of Robert, how pleased he -would have been to see them so happy, of the beasts in the little -home-farm; and of the new leases, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> the new Lord of Session, and the -Queen’s visit to Edinburgh, and everything indeed that came within the -range of their kindly world. It was very pleasant: Mrs. Dalyell found it -so, who was thus able to relieve her mind of any remark that occurred to -her, which the young ones were too hasty or too much occupied to listen -to; and Mr. Wedderburn liked it still better, feeling that he himself, -who had never ventured to risk any of the great undertakings of life, -had thus come to have the cream and perfection of quiet social comfort, -without paying for it, without cost to himself or wrong to any one in -life.</p> - -<p>On one such evening Mrs. Dalyell had been called away on some domestic -errand, and Mr. Wedderburn, feeling thus a little left to himself, -strolled out upon the terrace to look at the rising moon and to enjoy -the softness of the evening, one of the last perhaps before the winter -came on. It was a still night, and the temperature was high for the time -of year. The country had been blazing in the sunlight with all the -colours of the autumn, and even the moon brought out the yellow -lightness in the waving birches, if not the russet reds and browns of -the deeper foliage.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> Nothing could be more still: the sky resplendent, -with here and there a puff of ethereal whiteness, a cloud scarcely to be -called a cloud, imperceptibly floating upon a breeze that was scarcely -to be called a breeze—a soft sigh of night air. It was so warm that he -did not hesitate to sit down, though at fifty-seven one is cautions -about sitting down in the open-air in October, even in the day. But the -night was very soft, and so were Mr. Wedderburn’s thoughts. It cannot be -said they were sentimental, much less impassioned. He wanted no more -than he possessed, the loving kindness of this house, the affection of -the children, the friendship and trust of their mother. He was entirely -satisfied to come and go, to feel that he was of use to them, to enjoy -their society. A great sense of well-being filled his mind as he sat -there and heard the sound of their young voices gay and sweet coming -from the billiard-room, where Fred and a friend or two were amusing the -girls. There was something like a suggestion that more might come of -that partnership of jest and play which was springing up between pretty -Susie and one of these young men—dear little Susie!—who had given up -her big words, but whom her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> father’s friend still corrected and petted -with fatherly tenderness. If it were possible to feel more fatherly than -old Pat Wedderburn, the dry old Edinburgh lawyer, felt as he sat there -and smiled in the dark at the sound of Susie’s voice, I do not know what -that quintessence of paternity could be.</p> - -<p>He was thus sitting in quiet enjoyment of the solitude (which is so much -sweeter a thing with the sense of the near vicinity of those we love -than when we are really alone) and his own thoughts, when he saw, as -Fred had done on a previous occasion, a tall figure rise as it were out -of the soil and approach through the dark—a shadow, but with that -independent movement of a living creature which is so instantly -distinguishable from any combination of shadows. Mr. Wedderburn was not -superstitious, but the figure as it came slowly towards him was one -which he did not recognise, and he was astonished at its intrusion here. -He rose up to intercept it—whether it was an unlawful visitor prowling -round perhaps to see the handiest way of entry into an unsuspicious -house, or some lover bound for a rendezvous, or some servant come out -unconscious of observation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> to take the air. But the new-comer was not -afraid of his observation, and he now made out that it was a large old -woman in her checked shawl and white cap. Even then Mr. Wedderburn did -not recognise the old woman, with whose appearance he was but slightly -acquainted. She stopped when they met and made him a slow curtsey, -leaning upon a stick. It was too dark for him to see her face.</p> - -<p>“Did you want anything with me, my woman?” said Mr. Wedderburn.</p> - -<p>“Ay, sir,” she said, “I just do that. You’ll maybe not know me. I’m -Janet Macalister, that was nurse to Mr. Robert D’yell.”</p> - -<p>“I have often heard of you,” said Mr. Wedderburn, “and I am glad to see -you, Janet; not that I do see you, for the night’s dark. And this is not -an hour for you to be out at your years. If you have anything to say to -me we would be better in the library or the hall.”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said Janet, “what I have to say is not for any place where we can -be seen. I came out here that naebody might suspect I took such a thing -upon me; and yet I’m forced to it—though I canna tell you why.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span></p> - -<p>“This sounds very mysterious,” said Mr. Wedderburn; “but I hope there’s -nothing very wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Wedderburn,” said Janet, “you’re very often at our house.”</p> - -<p>“Eh!” cried Mr. Wedderburn, in amazement, “at your house? Oh, you mean -at Yalton, I suppose. And have you any objections to that?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir,” said Janet firmly, “the greatest of objections. Do you not -know, Mr. Wedderburn, that the mistress is still but a young woman (to -have such a family), and that she is a widow with naebody to defend her -good name—and here are you, a marriageable man, haunting her house -every night of your life. Bide a moment, sir, and listen to me. Oh, it’s -nothing to laugh at—it’s just very serious. You are here morning, noon, -and night”—(here there was a murmur from the unfortunate man of “No, -no! not so bad as that”)—“and I ask ye to take your ain sense and -judgment to your help and tell me what folk will think that sees that?”</p> - -<p>“Think!” faltered Mr. Wedderburn. “Woman, you must have taken leave of -your senses. What is it you mean?—and what should they think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> but that -I’m the friend of the family and a very attached one, and that it’s my -business to be here?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir, ye’ll not content your ain judgment with that, far less the -rest of the world! It’s no business that brings ye here. Ye come because -you’re fain and fond to come. I am the oldest person about the house, -and it would ill become me to see my bairn’s wife put in a wrong -position, and never say a word. Sir, the mistress is a bonnie and a -pleasant woman.”</p> - -<p>“I have nothing to say against that.”</p> - -<p>“And no age to speak of. And you yoursel’ what are ye? Comparatively -speaking, a young man.”</p> - -<p>“Comparatively in the furthest sense. I am much obliged to you, Janet.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t think, sir,” said Janet, solemnly, “that you can carry it off -with a laugh. I will not see the mistress put in a wrong position, and -never say a word. It may be want of thought; but you must see, if you -consider, that she’s not like a young lass to be courted and married. -And still less is she one to be made a talk of in all the country side. -I will not have my mistress exposed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> to detractions, and none to the -fore to put a stop to them!” said Janet with excitement, striking her -staff on the gravel.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wedderburn stood, feeling the old woman tower over him with her -palsied head and threatening air; he was half angry, half amused, wholly -discomfited and startled. The situation was ludicrous, and yet it was -embarrassing. To be startled out of the happiness of his thoughts by -such an interruption, brought to book by an old servant, warned as it -were off the premises by the nurse, was almost too whimsical and absurd -a position to be treated as serious; and yet there was an uncomfortable -reality at the bottom which he could not elude.</p> - -<p>“Janet,” he said, “my woman—do you not think you are going a little too -far? I was just as often at this house when Robert D’yell himself was -here.”</p> - -<p>“No, Mr. Wedderburn, not half so often.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, woman, much more often! and in any way I am not answerable to -you. The last thing I could think of,” he added in a troubled tone, -“would be to—would be—— You are daft, Janet! I’m their trustee and -the nearest of their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> friends; how dare you say a word about my visits? -I will say nothing to your mistress, but I must request you to refrain -from such remarks, or else——”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” cried Janet, “you needna threaten me, for you’re not the master -here!”</p> - -<p>“No, I am not the master here,” said Mr. Wedderburn; “but if you think -anybody will have encouragement to set up ill stories about—— No,” he -said, checking himself, “I will not blame you with that. You’ve made a -mistake; but no doubt your meaning was good—only never let me hear it -any more.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir,” cried Janet, “the human heart’s an awfu’ deceitful thing. I -could find it in my heart to go down on my knees, and beg you—oh, for -the Lord’s sake!—to go away before there’s any harm done from this -misfortunate house.”</p> - -<p>“The woman’s daft!” cried Mr. Wedderburn.</p> - -<p>But it gave him a dazed and troubled look when he appeared in the -drawing-room some time later. He was very silent all the rest of the -evening, sometimes casting an almost furtive look round him from one -face to another; sometimes red, sometimes pale. Once or twice he broke -out into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> a curious laugh when there seemed little occasion for it. “I -am afraid you have taken cold, Mr. Wedderburn; it was too late to be -sitting out on an October night,” said Mrs. Dalyell.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I’ve taken cold—but I think I’ll return to my room, with -your kind permission, for I have some things to plan out,” said the -lawyer. It was so unlike him that they all agreed something must be the -matter. Had he got bad news? Had he been troubled about business? -“Perhaps he had taken something that had disagreed with him,” Mrs. -Dalyell suggested. Whatever it was, he was not like himself.</p> - -<p>No, he was very unlike himself. He gave a shame-faced look in the glass -when he went to his room, and burst out into a low, long laugh. “I’m a -pretty person!” he said to himself. And then he became suddenly -grave—graver, almost, than he had ever been in all his serious life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VII-b" id="CHAPTER_VII-b"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was not until Fred Dalyell’s return from Oxford in the spring that he -became aware of the rumour which had already begun to spread through the -neighbourhood and to be discussed in the Edinburgh drawing-rooms, that -his mother was about to marry again. He had seen when he returned home -that the girls were a little overcast and subdued, and that there was a -little flush as of uneasiness and embarrassment on Mrs. Dalyell’s face. -It is difficult at first for a long absent member of a family coming -back, to find such a cloud in the air, to discover whether this is only -the moment of a storm, whether it means some trifling disagreement—for -trifles become great in the inclosure of the household walls—or whether -something important and fundamental is intimated by these restrained -phrases and averted looks. He thought that perhaps there had been a -“breeze,” that Susie was getting into the wilful stage, and, distracted -by hopes and prospects of her own,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span> had been opposing or defying her -mother; that the tenants had been troublesome, backward on rent-day, or -bothering about those eternal repairs, which he wondered that old -Wedderburn could allow to worry his mother. But this did not seem enough -to account for the visible but unexplained trouble in the house. When he -caught Susie by the arm and drew her aside to ask, “What’s the matter?” -she shook off his hand with a cry of “Oh, don’t ask me, Fred,” and -escaped from him, leaving him more bewildered than ever. What could it -mean? It seemed to the young man that they all avoided him on this first -evening of his return. His mother did not call him into her room to ask -those minute and repeated questions with which mothers are so apt to -tease their boys. “Oh, confound it! Now I am going to be put through my -catechism!” he said usually, when he was called to one of these -examinations; but its omission gave him a shock which was still more -disagreeable. Could it be possible that his mother did not want to see -him alone, and that the girls were afraid to be questioned by him? Fred -felt very uncomfortable, without the faintest notion what could be the -cause of it, when he perceived<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> this constrained condition of the house. -Then it suddenly occurred to him that old Pat Wedderburn, as he was -generally and profanely called, had not come to meet him as had -invariably been the case till now.</p> - -<p>“By the by,” he cried, “I felt that something was wanting, but I -couldn’t make out what it was. What has become of old Pat?”</p> - -<p>“You should speak a little more respectfully, Fred, of our oldest -friend,” said his mother reproachfully; but she did not look at him, and -the flush grew deeper on her face, which was bent over her work. As for -Susie, she pushed her chair away, and almost turned her back upon her -mother. Fred immediately divined that old Pat had been objecting to some -of Susie’s flirtations, which was odd, as Susie was known to be his -favourite of all.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m respectful enough,” he said. “I don’t mean any harm. The house -doesn’t seem natural without him. Why isn’t he here to-night?”</p> - -<p>“He has not been with us quite so much of late,” said Mrs. Dalyell, -never lifting her eyes from her work; “but he is coming out to-morrow, -and he will tell you himself, Fred.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span></p> - -<p>“Has anything gone wrong?” he asked amazed; for the girls, whose voices -generally ran chattering through everything, and who on an ordinary -occasion would have thrown in half-a-dozen remarks, sat still as two -stone images, Susie with her head averted, Alice buried in a book, which -she held between her and the light.</p> - -<p>“I request,” said Mrs. Dalyell, in a voice somewhat high-pitched and -imperative, as if she expected to encounter opposition, “that there be -no more about it till to-morrow night.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if it is me you mean, mamma, you may be sure there will be no more -about it—till Doomsday—from me!”</p> - -<p>“Susie!” cried her brother in amazement. But Susie’s only reply was to -burst from the room in a flush of rage and opposition, such as Fred had -never seen in his quiet home before. Alice followed her quickly, and the -young man thought that now at last there was some chance of having it -out. “I suppose,” he said, “that old Pat has been at her for -flirting—the little pussy that she has grown.”</p> - -<p>But before he had finished his little speech Mrs. Dalyell, too, had -risen from her chair, and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span> standing with her back to him, was putting -her work away.</p> - -<p>“You must excuse me,” she said, “my dear boy, if I don’t enter into it -to-night. I’m—a little tired and put out. I must go and look after -those girls; and though it’s your first night at home, it’s late, and I -don’t think I shall come down again. After your journey, Fred, you -should go early to bed.”</p> - -<p>“After my journey!” he cried with angry dismay. “What has my journey to -do with it? But never mind, mother, if you’re tired. I’ll come to your -room, and have a talk over the fire.”</p> - -<p>“Not to-night,” she said, and kissed him. She lingered a moment, patting -him on the shoulder with her hand. “I know it must seem strange to you, -Fred—but not to-night, not to-night.”</p> - -<p>As a matter of fact, the least imaginative of lookers-on will allow that -the position of a middle-aged mother who has to tell her grown-up son -that she is going to marry again must be an embarrassing one. Mrs. -Dalyell was not like a girl expecting ecstatic happiness in the union -with the man she loves. It was an arrangement which had come to seem -natural, partly because she wanted someone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> to lean upon, and -ill-natured gossips (as she heard) objected to that constant, easy, -unembarrassing presence of the household friend, which she and her -children had found so comfortable—without the existence of some closer -bond. She would rather honestly have had Mr. Wedderburn on his old -footing; but, if she could not have him on his old footing, it was -better to marry him than to lose him. This had been the unimpassioned -fashion of Mrs. Dalyell’s thoughts. And he wished it. A man, it -appeared, even at fifty-seven, could not content himself with the -friendship which was quite enough for a woman. Perhaps she was a little -flattered to know that this was so, and that in her mature matronhood -she still had charms. And she had thought, as he assured her, that it -would draw the family bonds closer and make so little difference. The -chief difference would be that he would come of right, instead of only -for love, and that the interests of her family would be his own, not -only much more than his own, as they were at present. It had seemed very -plausible, as he set all the advantages forth, which indeed Pat -Wedderburn had done, not only to calm her scruples, but also his own; -for, had she but known<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> it, he too was very well contented with the -existing position of affairs. But if Mrs. Dalyell had known the trouble -it would have given her—the wild vexation of the girls, and the -horrible necessity of having to tell Fred! No, that last was what she -could not do. She had intended to do it on his return, but her courage -had failed her. Tell your grown-up son that you are going to marry! No, -no, she could not do it. And when two years had not yet elapsed from his -father’s death! “Oh,” she said to herself, “it was no wrong to Robert! -Oh, no, no wrong to Robert! It was a different thing, not to be thought -of in the same way.” But still, when it came to the point, she could not -do it, it was beyond her power.</p> - -<p>Fred could not tell what to think: he was angry and vexed and cast down -by the strange reception he had received. The first night at home, which -was always so pleasant, the girls hanging about him with a hundred -things to ask and to tell, his mother beaming with affection and -pleasure on her united family. And here he was left alone, the lamps -burning with a sort of calm intelligence as if they knew all about it, -the clock chuckling at him on the mantel-piece. Foggo came in with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> -tea-tray, and looked round in astonishment for the ladies, then shook -his head solemnly and went away, leaving the little silver kettle -boiling over its spirit-lamp. Foggo knew too. The very kettle puffed out -its steam in Fred’s face like a mockery. Everybody knew—except the -forlorn young master of the house, who knew nothing, and could not even -form a guess what the mystery could be.</p> - -<p>He was not however destined to spend that night in uncertainty. As he -went upstairs, passing with a sense of injury the closed doors of his -mother’s and his sisters’ rooms, Fred heard himself called in a whisper -from the end of the corridor. Had he reflected for a moment he would -have known who it must be. But with his mind full of his present trouble -he did not reflect; he turned round quickly, hoping to see one of his -sisters, and it was not till he found himself in the clutches of old -Janet that he recognised the danger of her interference. “Has she told -ye, Mr. Fred?” whispered the old woman, approaching her formidable head -in the big mutch, and with its little palsied movement, to the young -man’s face. “Told me what?” he cried with impatience. “Oh, my bonnie -lad, dinna lose your temper—you’ll have need of all your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> patience. -That she’s going to be married upon Pat Wedderburn!”</p> - -<p>Fred gave a hoarse cry, which ran along the whole corridor into his -mother’s closed room, who heard it and trembled—and to Susie’s, who sat -half desperate over her fire longing for her brother. Not for a moment -did Fred doubt the news: it explained everything; but he fled from the -creature of ill-omen, the woman who gave it, with a sense of hatred and -rage, for which indeed there was no warrant so far as she was concerned. -“This is your doing!” he cried with fantastic bitterness. Why should he -hate Janet, and how could it be her doing? he asked himself afterwards. -But at the moment it seemed to the distracted young man as if this old -retainer was one of the Fates, the enemy, not the friend of the house. -He would not wait to hear another word, but rushed upstairs and shut -himself in his room, as if some evil thing had been at his heels. -Married!—his mother, his father’s wife, the first authority of his -life—the woman without reproach—mamma! With that last baby-cry the cup -was filled. The young man flung himself upon his face on his bed. And -what an unhappy house it was which the darkness held that night<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> -concealed in its outer mantle of peace! Unhappy without any cause, for -there was no evil going to be done—no harm: so far as any of these -troubled people knew.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wedderburn, who came “out” next day with an embarrassment not less -than that of Mrs. Dalyell, was roused a little by the desperate -self-repression with which Fred received the official announcement. “My -boy,” he said, “it may vex you that there should be any change, but what -we are doing is no wrong to you—nor to any man.”</p> - -<p>“I have not said it was,” said Fred sullenly.</p> - -<p>“No, you have not said it was—but you seem to think it’s an -unpardonable step. It is nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Wedderburn, -indignant. “The time will come when you will think fit to marry, and -then your mother will be turned out of her house; and that will seem the -most natural thing in the world. Why should she not have one by her side -that will make her comfort his care? Your father would have wished it. -She’s not a person to stand alone to fight with the world.”</p> - -<p>“She has her children.”</p> - -<p>“Her children! Susie, who will have a husband of her own as soon as the -lad has enough to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> live on; and Alice, who will follow her sister’s -example; and you—when are you here to keep your mother company? A month -in the vacations when the house is full—and a marriage whenever it -strikes your fancy, with her turned adrift. No, no, my young man! You -may not like it, you may scorn both her and me for it. But that -face!—as if you were wronged and shamed. Come, come, Fred, that’s not -an air to put on with an old and faithful friend like me.”</p> - -<p>“I know you are a faithful friend,” cried the young man resentfully. “I -never doubted you for a moment.”</p> - -<p>“But never dreamed that I would push my devotion so far? Well, I have -done it, you see. And it’s your business, my young man, to make the best -of it, and accept what all the powers on earth shall not prevent, I -promise you,” cried the old lawyer with some heat. There were many -people throughout Scotland who were aware that it was not a safe thing -to go too far with old Pat Wedderburn.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Dalyell, however, insisted upon one thing—that the marriage should -not take place until two years after her husband’s death, so that there -were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> yet several months of discomfort to get through. However it might -end, there could be little doubt that in the meantime an element of -extreme discomfort was brought into the house. Mr. Wedderburn, whose -happiness had been to spend half the evenings of his life at Yalton, -came less frequently and was not happy when he came. Susie had turned -into a little firebrand, all the more disdainful and offended by her -mother’s intentions that she was on the eve of a similar change in her -own person. Little Alice swayed from one party to the other, sometimes -impertinent, sometimes mournful. The step which was to bring additional -happiness in the end (or so it is the conventional necessity to suppose) -in the meantime brought nothing but discord, division and doubt, and -made the entire party unhappy. How much better, even the two principals -secretly thought in their hearts, to have gone on in the old happy -routine as things were!</p> - -<p>Fred came home again in June after various wanderings, visits here and -there. He intended to go away before the marriage, and in the existing -state of circumstances to make as short a stay as he could at Yalton, -from which his mother meant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> to remove after this event, leaving the -house to be taken possession of by her son. Naturally it was not a very -joyful visit: the mother held her domestic place with a kind of -unsmiling composure, doing everything as before, ignoring as much as -possible the difference in her children’s faces; and a little polite -conversation went on between those who had been so happily united, and -twittered and chattered like the birds a few months before. Mrs. Dalyell -would not allow herself to be moved, would not show the impatience which -possessed her, kept firm with an immovable steadiness, letting the young -ones go and come without remark. It was more difficult for them, who -could not ignore her, and whose foolish young hearts were eagerly bent -on sending little darts into her, saying things between themselves which -she could scarcely resent, yet which went to her heart. And the girls -would drag their brother to the other end of the long drawing-room, -hanging one on each arm, talking low in his ear, while their mother sat -at the table by the lamp, apparently taking no notice. They were very -cruel to her, chiefly in ignorance, resenting the fact that she did not -mind, and unable to feel any human charity for her, as she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> sat there -isolated, conscious of their conspiracy against her. Mrs. Dalyell’s -spirit was roused a little by this persecution. She had been doubtful -enough of the expediency of what she was about to do from the first, but -she became more and more determined to hold to her resolution as they -thus united against her: and—what she never thought could have been the -case—began to long for the day when she should be delivered from this -domestic tyranny and once more breathe freely in an atmosphere where she -would not be constrained. Thus it may be supposed there was little -comfort one way or another in the troubled house; and it became the -order of the day to make the evening as short as possible, to go to bed -early, to finish upon any terms, at the earliest moment, the dreary, -unattractive evening hours.</p> - -<p>Fred was following the little line of ladies with their candles up the -stairs, when he was once more stopped, but this time openly, by old -Janet. She came to the edge of the great staircase in her nodding mutch -and checked shawl. “Will you give me two or three minutes, Mr. Fred,” -she said.</p> - -<p>“For what do you want two or three minutes? I have no time at present,” -he said quickly, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> Susie, who was nearest to him in the procession, -had stopped upon the stairs, holding up her candle and looking back upon -him. She was like a picture, with her light held up and falling upon her -white dress.</p> - -<p>“But you must come,” said Janet in a shrill whisper. “You must come. -Remember what your father said—and this time it’s a matter of life and -death.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know what my father said?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, that’s a question. Come with me, my bonnie man—oh, come with me -and you shall know all.”</p> - -<p>Susie stood like a little light-bearer holding up the candle. “Who are -you talking to there, Fred, in the dark?”</p> - -<p>“No one,” he said, with the prompt unconscious impulse of a child -accused.</p> - -<p>“No one! Why, it’s Janet. Oh, is that all?” said Susie. She lowered her -light at once and turned away with the profoundest indifference. The -sight of Janet conveyed no sense of excitement or mystery to the girl -who saw her every day.</p> - -<p>Fred obeyed the old woman sulkily and with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> greatest reluctance. He -would not have done so at all had not Susie seen her. But he could not -show to Susie that he had any reluctance to speak to old Janet, whom the -younger members of the family had always held by against all the -objections of the younger servants. He went mechanically after her, with -a strong return of that resentment which he had felt against his father -for the recommendation to consult her. It was grievous to be made to -think of that at such a moment, when his father had become more sacred -to him than ever, in face of the desecrating change that was about to -take place, the injury to that beloved memory. It was the only grievance -Fred had against his father. He tried to force it from his mind, to have -patience with the old woman as he followed her. She belonged to <i>him</i>. -She had been faithful to him all his life. Perhaps she wanted to make -sure that she should be provided for when his mother left the place, -when Yalton was in his possession alone. Oh, certainly she should be -provided for, till her last hour! The only one that was faithful to -<i>him</i>. Neither friend nor wife had been faithful to him, but his old -nurse was faithful. She was sacred to his son for his sake.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span></p> - -<p>Fred made his heart soft with these thoughts; he overcame his own -opposition almost altogether, partly with the sentiment of the nurse’s -faithfulness, partly with his resentment against the others; and he was -ready when he found himself in Janet’s room, face to face with her in -the light of her lamp, to offer her any assurance of his protection and -certainty she might require as to her living and her home. Janet, -however, put no question to him on any such score. She shut the door and -came up close to him in the lamp-light. “Mr. Fred,” she said, “you maun -take courage, my bonnie man. There are dreadful things to be said to you -to-night. Just summon all your strength and read that.”</p> - -<p>Fred started at the sight of the paper she put before his eyes. “I see,” -he said, “it is my father’s writing. But you need not show me any -letter. He told me himself, the day before he died——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, laddie, laddie! take it and read it before I go out o’ my senses,” -Janet cried.</p> - -<p>He took the paper into his hands. His father’s handwriting, there could -be no doubt; but no suspicion of the truth was in Fred’s mind. He -glanced over it, and thought to himself that he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> gone out of his -senses, as Janet said, or had lost himself in some incoherent dream. “My -wife’s marriage must be stopped.” What did that mean? A man who died two -years ago, how could he write about an event of to-day? Was he going -mad? Was he in a dream? Was it some delusion which she had put by -witchcraft before his eyes? “My wife’s marriage must be stopped.” “How -could he know?” he asked with blanched lips. “How could he tell there -would be a marriage?” He turned upon her a face blank of all expression, -pale, in a horror of enlightenment about to come.</p> - -<p>“Oh, boy, boy! cannot ye see?” cried Janet. She put forth a long -trembling finger and thrust it at the paper, pointing to the date. Fred -looked and read. He read it a second time aloud, a strange terror -growing upon him: “June 3, 18—.” “Why,” he said, “why——.” Then, -stammering and stumbling over the words, broke down. “Why, why,” he -began again with a laugh, “we cannot all be mad and going to Bedlam! -It’s this year: June 3, 18—.”</p> - -<p>The old woman grasped him by both his hands. “It’s this year—and we’re -no mad, though often, often I’ve felt on the edge of it. We’re no mad,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> -she repeated, “and it’s this year, and the man that wrote that is in the -house this blessed night, Mr. Fred!”</p> - -<p>God help the lad! He had but turned his black and terrible countenance -upon her, holding the letter helplessly in his hands, when there sounded -through the house, cutting the silence like a knife, a sudden wild cry, -a shriek, lasting only for a second, but piercing to the heart of the -night, to the heart of the house, like some sudden horrible event. It -was followed almost immediately after by a rush of muffled feet along -the passage: the door was pushed open violently, yet silently, and -someone came in like a shot from a pistol, as sudden and unexpected. -Fred felt himself shrink towards the wall in his horror and amaze. It -was a man who had come in—a man with a beard which covered half his -face, yet showed a curious kind of smile coming out of the midst of it, -though the eyes were full of an almost tragic seriousness. Fred had -fallen back against the wall as this new-comer appeared. The room swam -round and round in his eyes, a darkness came over him, he saw nothing -for a moment: then slowly came to himself, and saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span> again, within reach -of him, so near that he could have touched him, this man—whom he had -never seen before. Oh, could he but have been sure that he had never -seen him before! His heart stopped beating—and then with a flutter and -a spring went on again, as if it would have leaped out of his breast. -The shock of the supernatural, the horror of an awful discovery, came -into the young man’s brain and almost paralysed it as they clashed -together. Ah, had it been but the supernatural! But as that face emerged -out of the mist, Fred saw that it was that of a living man—and that he -heard it talking—<i>it</i>—as living men do.</p> - -<p>“You have told him, Janet?”</p> - -<p>“No a moment too soon—just as you were coming. Let the laddie be, let -him come to himself. And what was it you were doing? Did she—or -you——?”</p> - -<p>“I have given her a fright that will put a stop to that,” he said, with -a strange laugh, hard and harsh: and then he flung himself into a chair, -throwing off a dark cloak in which he had been wrapped from head to -foot. He added after a moment with a groan, “The way of transgressors is -hard!” and hid his face in his hands.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span></p> - -<p>Fred had not moved nor said a word, neither had this strange intruder, -save for one glance, taken any notice of him. The young man stood up -against the wall, supporting himself by it in a sort of conscious swoon -and suspense of being. A moment is like an hour in such a horror of -discovery; the idea that was too dreadful to entertain becomes possible, -certain, familiar, before you have had time to draw a second breath. His -father not dead—not a shameful suicide to cheat the insurance companies -as his son had once feared—but a still more shameful survivor, having -cheated them, having saved his family and cleared his name by the most -dreadful, the most false of frauds, the most tremendous of lies. Fred’s -whole being surged up like a stormy sea in fierce and violent reaction -as soon as he got command again of his stunned faculties—he who had -suffered so much misery from the thought that his father had taken his -own life in his despair, but who had of late become so tender of his -memory, so indignant with those who forgot or were faithless to him! And -lo, all his pangs were unnecessary, all his love deceived, and here was -the man, living!—a swindler, and a cheat, worse than a bankrupt—having -saved his reputation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> and the comfort of his family by a cheat, the -worst of frauds, the most disgraceful. Fred had been ready to defy the -world for his father when he came upstairs that evening. He turned now -with loathing from the name. Father! What did the word mean?—a cheat, a -swindler, the most prodigious and incredible of liars. The youth was -hard, as youth is, stern and inexorable. He took nothing into account, -neither the motive nor the tremendous sacrifice involved, nor least of -all the thought that he himself had profited by this dreadful act. -Profited?—he?—Fred? His first act must be to denounce the fraud, to -offer restitution. The man should escape first—that he would allow, but -no more.</p> - -<p>Old Janet came up to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Oh, Mr. -Fred, are you not going to say a word to him?—not a word of kindness? -Oh, Mr. Fred, your father! that has sacrificed just everything in the -world.”</p> - -<p>“I have no father,” said Fred hoarsely. “My father is dead.”</p> - -<p>The unfortunate man raised his head from his hands, and the familiar -eyes, the eyes that had smiled upon the boy’s childhood, but which -smiled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span> no more, tragic in the misery of a renunciation which was more -bitter—but, alas! not honourable like death—turned towards the stern -and angry boy with a strange look, not of appeal, but of surprise. The -offender knew very well all that was involved to himself in what he had -done. He knew that it cut him off as a living man from all knowledge of -his family, from all possibility of reunion—that he was dead and worse, -so far as old surroundings were concerned; but he was not prepared for -his son’s stern condemnation. He had anticipated wonder, -consternation—but, oh, surely some touch of pleasure in seeing him -restored from the dead, some burst of welcome from Fred! He uncovered -his face and looked with a ghastly astonishment at the son who thus cast -him off without a word.</p> - -<p>“Maister Freddie, for God’s sake! think what you are saying. Speak a -word to him!”</p> - -<p>“I have nothing to say,” said Fred. “I will make the truth known in a -week from this time—if it is the truth. I will be no party to a fraud. -I loved my father that died, and his memory, but I can be no party to a -fraud. In a week’s time——”</p> - -<p>The stranger never said a word; he sat gazing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> with things unutterable -in his eyes, wonder above all. His boy! it was cruel, barbarous, -inhuman; but—this strange visitor did not condemn the youth. He looked -at him with an inconceivable surprise—his boy—Fred! He did not make -any protest, but sat up, strangely awakened—wondering: even the object -of his visit fading in comparison with this shock for which he was not -prepared.</p> - -<p>All this time there had been sounds of rushing footsteps and ringing of -bells through the house, the commotion of some sudden event breaking -into the quiet of the night. And then came a distant sound of Susie’s -voice, calling: “Fred! Fred!” The young man’s heart was rent with -passionate emotion, such as he had never known in his life before.</p> - -<p>“Nobody must come in here,” he said, “to find a stranger in the house. -If my mother has been frightened, I will tell her. But not if I can help -it. Now, the only thing remaining for me is to make the truth -known—when——” He paused. He could not address that dreadful spectre -directly; his heart was bitter within him at the man who had thus killed -for ever his father’s memory, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> ideal which he had cherished in his -father’s name. “When——he has decided what to do.”</p> - -<p>There was a dreadful pause in Janet’s room when the young man went away. -Then the stranger said in a musing tone: “So that’s what Fred has come -to in a couple of years. You see, Janet, you have not been so successful -as you thought.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my man, oh, my bonnie man! the callant is just distracted with -wonder and fear.”</p> - -<p>“There’s more in it than that—and he’s right, Janet. We were wrong, you -and I. And I must just abide the consequences. I’ll lie down on your bed -for an hour or two, if you’re sure it’s safe. And then I’ll take the -gate. It will be for ever this time, you can tell that boy. I’ll neither -make nor meddle more; and if he’s wise he’ll let sleeping dogs lie.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIII-b" id="CHAPTER_VIII-b"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Robert Dalyell</span> stole forth from the house which was his own, yet could -never more be his, in what would have been the dead of night had it been -any other season but June and any place but a northern country. It was -already daylight, with a pearl-like radiance as of spiritual day, and -something more mystic and almost awful in the silence of night, combined -with this diffusion of lovely light, than any darkness could have been. -He seemed to see the great spreading landscape like a picture, with his -own single and solitary figure in it, with a momentary terror of himself -alone in that great surrounding silence. He was not afraid of being -seen, as he was when he had stolen under cover of the brief darkness -into the house; but it occurred to him that anybody who should look out -of a curtained window or from the crevice of a closed shutter, and see -him walking along at an hour when nobody was abroad, would be afraid of -him as an unnatural wanderer in the wide brightness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> which was night. He -was in point of fact a ghost, as he had been believed to be—a man with -no place or meaning in the world, with his name upon a funeral tablet, -and his place knowing him no more; and like a ghost he passed through -the pale diffused light which cast no shadow. Never man was in a -position more strange and cruel. He had made the sacrifice of his life, -not as his son and his friend had feared, by suicide, but in a more -dreadful way. He had put himself to death, and yet he lived. The man had -been in this living death for nearly two years. He had lost -everything—himself, his name, and his personal identity, as well as -wife and children, and home and living. And yet he had never fully -realised what it was till now. Something of the Bohemian, something of -the adventurer in the man, which had been hidden under the most decorous -exterior for nearly fifty years, had made that curious new start in -existence almost amusing to him in its absolute novelty and relief from -the long monotony of usual life.</p> - -<p>Even his sudden going home, with the object of frightening his wife out -of a marriage which would have been no marriage, had something of the -character of a jest in it. But there was no longer<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> any jest in the -matter. He had seen his wife, he had seen his son, and he was at last -aware of what it was he had done—the darker aspect of it—the dishonour -to others, the deadly extinction of himself, the end of everything which -he had accomplished, almost with a light heart. A ghost indeed, -offending the eyes and chilling the very soul of those who were most -near and dear to him. “A swindler,” the boy had said. Was he a swindler? -To be sure the insurance offices would never have paid that money had -they known; but surely he had paid the price for it. He had died to all -intents and purposes. He had given himself for his children—a living -sacrifice—not less, but more than if he had really died and been thrown -up by the sea, as everybody believed, on Portobello sands. It is hard to -see guilt in a transaction, not for your own advantage, for which you -have given your life. Robert Dalyell did not blame his son; he could -perceive that there was much in what Fred said, though his heart swelled -in his breast against that injustice. He was not angry with Fred, but -much impressed, and moved (strangely enough) to something like -satisfaction by his son’s demeanour. The boy was a good boy, wounded in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> -his honour, and therefore inexorable, but only as a good man would wish -his boy to be. He was glad Fred was an honourable fellow, feeling it -like that. Poor Dalyell himself had all the instincts and habits of mind -of an honourable man; he had not seen the dishonour in it; he had -thought that, giving his life for it as he had done, there was nothing -morally wrong in his act. Surely he had bought the money dear: it was -not for him; it was for them, and for their good. There they were, all -of them—the wife who was about to give him a successor within two -years, and the boy who was himself his successor—safe in Yalton, -honoured, respected, enjoying the position to which they were born: -while he was an outcast, without anything but what he made for himself, -and the boy called him a swindler! He was an honest boy for all that, -and Dalyell’s mind had a certain forlorn satisfaction in it: though a -more forlorn being than he, walking, walking like a ghost through that -morning light which began in its pearly paleness to warm to the rising -of the sun, could not be. It was wonderful at what leisure he was, in -the utter forlornness of his being, to think of them all. He was not -sorry that he had given himself to save<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> them. The only thing he was -sorry for was that, being dead, he had interfered at all. He ought to -have gone upon his own way—married, too, as he might have done, and got -himself new ties in his new life. He believed now that there would have -been no harm in that. There would be no harm in it. He would get away as -quickly as it was practicable, and get back to his new world, and this -time he would feel himself really emancipated. He would think no more of -the bonds of the past. She should be free to marry if she liked, and so -would he. This old world and he had nothing to do with each other any -more.</p> - -<p>The foolish thing was that he had come at all on this fool’s errand. It -was all the old woman’s fault. It had been weak of him to let her into -his secret, to keep himself up with news of home, to be moved by her -horror at this marriage. Why should not she marry if she wished to do -so? She had been a good wife to him, and he had made her a widow. He had -known that she was not a woman who could act for herself, that she was -one who must have a caretaker, a manager of external matters? Why should -he interfere with her? It was all that confounded old woman’s scruples.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> -But Dalyell decided that he would interfere no more, that he would go -back whence he came and marry too, and thus justify his wife. The man’s -heart was very heavy in his breast when he made this resolution; but yet -he had a great courage, and was determined to stand up against fate and -get a new life for himself, being thus horribly, hopelessly cut off from -the old. The boy would not carry out his threat if he disappeared thus, -and was heard of no more. And all would be well with them, all would go -right, as he had meant it should when he gave up his life.</p> - -<p>By this time the sun had risen, the birds had begun to twitter and hold -their morning conversations about all the business of life before it was -time to tune up for the concert of the day. Where was he going? He had -left such things as he had brought with him at a little lonely wayside -public-house near the sea before he went to Yalton, but it was still too -early to get admittance there. He found himself on the shore before he -knew. Yalton was not above a few miles from the sea, or rather from the -Firth in its upper part, not far from the spot where that monstrous -prodigy of science, about which so many trumpets have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span> blown, the -Forth Bridge, now strides hideous across the lovely inlet—those golden -gates through which the westering sun was wont to stream unbroken from -the upper reaches of the great estuary upon the stronger tides below. -Dalyell came out upon it suddenly, forgetting in the intense -preoccupation of his thoughts where he was. The sun had risen beyond the -distant Grampians, touching the Fife villages all along the coast with -gold. The air was damp, yet sweet with the saltness of the sea in it, -and the breath of distance and the sensation of the vast unknown to -which this great, splendid ocean pathway was one of the ways. When -Dalyell came out thus upon the shore he was the one speck of animated -being in the whole still world. He sat down to rest for a little upon a -rock. At three o’clock in the morning there is nothing stirring, not -even the cattle, though they were waking and thinking of an early -breakfast in the fields. He sat there and noted, and thought over it all -again. He was very forlorn, but not angry with anybody, scarcely vexed -by the thought that he was so soon forgotten. He even laughed a little -at the thought of Pat Wedderburn. How had he got himself the length of -that idea of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> marrying? He divined old Pat’s thoughts, a little troubled -by the necessity, going bravely through it. He had no sense of -resentment towards any of them. As soon as there was any one stirring -about the “Dun Cow” he would steal in and get his things and some -breakfast, and take himself off at once and for ever—never, whatever -happened, to interfere again.</p> - -<p>But in the meantime there was some time to wait, and the sun was growing -warmer every moment, and the tide was in, and the little wavelets -rippling along the shore. Baths were not luxuries known at the “Dun -Cow,” and here was the bath he liked best, ready before him. It would be -the last time he would ever bathe in his native waters. He slipped out -of his clothes, laid them in a little heap, without even thinking how on -one supreme occasion he had done that before, and plunging from the -nearest rock launched himself into the sea and sunshine. It would brace -him up for the journeys and troubles of the day.</p> - -<p>Dalyell swam about for some time, and dived and sported in the water -like a boy, with a curious sudden lightness of heart. He could not make -up his mind to come out of the water. And the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span> northern seas are cold at -three o’clock (getting on for four) in the morning, with the sun not yet -very strong, and but newly risen. What it was that happened there was no -one to tell. Perhaps it was the shock of the night’s proceedings, though -he had reasoned it away, which struck to his heart—perhaps it was the -cold of the water—it might be a cramp, which, had there been any one -near to help, would have been of little consequence. None of these -things would any one ever know. It was said afterwards that a cry was -heard, piercing the sober stillness of the morning, so that somebody -woke and got up at the “Dun Cow,” but finding no sign of harm, went to -bed again for another hour. And it is certainly true that the minister -woke in his manse, which is near the shore, and got up and opened his -window, and remarked upon the beauty of the morning, and the wonderful -delightful calm and brightness of the Firth. He thought after that it -must have been the drowning man’s cry that woke him, though he was not -conscious of the sound itself.</p> - -<p>Thus, with the strangest repetition, all the incidents of Dalyell’s -fictitious drowning were reproduced; and it did not fail to be remarked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> -in the papers that the accident up the Firth was singularly like the -accident that had happened nearly two years before to Mr. Dalyell, of -Yalton, on Portobello sands. It was a remarkable coincidence: but the -sufferer in this case, it was added, was a stranger, who had arrived at -the “Dun Cow” the night before, and was supposed to be a foreigner. The -body was found among the rocks, as if he had made a despairing grip upon -the seaweeds that covered them to save himself, from which it was judged -that the misadventure was wholly accidental; but, naturally, all was -conjecture, and this was a thing that never could be known.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IX-b" id="CHAPTER_IX-b"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Fred</span> went to his mother’s room, about which an agitated crowd had -already gathered, the two girls and their maid, and an anxious domestic -or two from downstairs, besides Mrs. Dalyell’s own maid, who was with -her mistress. Foggo stood outside on the staircase, anxious to know if -he should go for the doctor, and still more anxious to know what had -happened, for there was already a conviction in the house that it was -not mere illness which had produced that shriek which startled -everybody. Mrs. Dalyell was not the kind of woman to shriek from -physical pain, and there had been a whisper in the house that the -horseman had been heard in the avenue, which, naturally, was a -preparation for trouble. Fred, however, was not admitted till some time -later, of which the poor young fellow was glad: for he was in no -condition to meet his mother in the nervous and excited state in which -she must be, while he himself was so shaken and miserable from the same -cause. He went to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> own room and endeavoured there to calm himself, -and thrust away the appalling question that was now before him. How -lately he had said to himself that his father’s previsions had all been -mistaken, and instead of having to take upon himself the anxieties and -cares of the head of the house, to break off his studies and turn his -thoughts to the grave side of life, he had only been more free, more -independent, than before, since he had succeeded his father as Dalyell -of Yalton. Ah! but who could have thought of this, this further chapter -of disaster, unimaginable, incurable, which would involve the name of -Dalyell of Yalton in dishonour and shame—the name his ancestors had -borne in credit and pride, the name that poverty and ruin could not have -stained, but which must now perish amid records of deceit and fraud. -Fred’s very heart seemed to shrink and wither up within him when he -thought of what he had now to do. It would be his to put the stamp of -shame upon that name—to expose the whole disgraceful story, the -dishonest means by which downfall had been staved off, only to fall more -dreadfully upon the unhappy and innocent now. No, he must not palter -with right and wrong, he must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> not allow any sentiment of pity either -for the criminal or for himself to steal in. The criminal! Now that Fred -had time to think, that criminal—whose very name he could not endure to -think of—whom he had denounced and disowned with such force and almost -hatred—had looked at him, oh, with such fatherly eyes! He had scarcely -said anything, not a word in his own defence. Fred felt that if he had -stayed another minute his courage would have failed him, and the old -dear familiar image would have regained its power. The criminal!—worse -than a fraudulent bankrupt, almost worse than a suicide, and yet so -like—oh, so like——! Oh, he must not think, he must not allow himself -to fail in his duty. In a week’s time—that was what he had said—to -give full time for that fugitive to escape, that he might not be taken -or injured, or brought to justice. In a week’s time! There must be no -paltering with duty. It was clear before him what he had to do.</p> - -<p>And then there began to pluck as it were at the skirts of Fred’s mind -thoughts of what this thing was, of what it must have cost. Had not the -man died, had he not more than died? It was not suicide, but it was -worse. He had given his life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> while still a living man. Strange words -crept into Fred’s mind, which did not come there of themselves, as if -some one had thrown them into the surging sea of passion and pain which -was within him. Greater love hath no man than this. Oh, silence, -silence! these words were said of another, a greater—one Divine. -Greater love hath no man than this: they came back and back: as if they -could be applied to a man who was a sinner, who had committed a fraud, -and deceived his fellow men! Had he deceived them? Had he not died? Died -more terribly, more completely than the man in the family grave in -Yalton churchyard, who was not Robert Dalyell. Which would one choose if -one had to choose? Surely the home in the churchyard, the tablet on the -wall—and not the life of an outcast, the death in life of a man who had -no identity, who had neither name nor fame. Fred’s young soul was rent -asunder by these thoughts. There had been no relenting in him, no pity. -But now outraged nature avenged herself. Oh, how cruel he had been, how -harsh!—not a word of kindness in him, not a softening touch. And he -ought not to think of nature now, he ought not to be moved by kindness. -He ought to subdue all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span> relenting. In a week’s time! He must set his -face like brass. He must think of nothing that could make him fail.</p> - -<p>It was late when Fred was called to his mother, and he went down as -timid as a child called to an interview of which it knows nothing, but -that it must involve terrific consequences. He had looked at himself -anxiously in the glass before he obeyed the summons, wishing that he -knew some way of making himself look less pale, his eyes less excited. -The girls knew ways of doing this, Fred believed, but he did not know. -He plunged his head into cold water to relieve the heaviness and heat he -felt, as of something bursting from his forehead; and then he went -downstairs, slowly labouring to collect his thoughts to think what he -should say. Mrs. Dalyell was in bed, her head with the background of the -red curtains looking at the first glance almost ghastly, her face very -pale, her eyes excited like his own. She grasped him by both hands and -made him sit down by her. The candles were still burning, but a faint -glimmer of blue showed between the curtains. She kept holding his hand, -but it was a minute or two before she spoke.</p> - -<p>“Fred, do you know if I said anything? What<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> did I say? What did they -tell you? Did they say that I——?” She gasped for breath, and could not -finish the sentence, but did so with her eyes and with the pressure of -her hand.</p> - -<p>“I heard nothing, mother, but that you fainted.”</p> - -<p>She pressed his hand tightly again and said, “I didn’t faint. I let them -think so—to conceal—Though I was scarcely conscious of what I was -doing, I felt it gleam through me that to let them think I was -unconscious was best. But I never was unconscious for a moment, -Fred—you understand what I am saying?—nor was I asleep, nor could I -have been dreaming. You hear what I am saying, Fred?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mother: but don’t, for heaven’s sake, excite yourself; it may make -you ill again.”</p> - -<p>“What will make me ill? I want you to understand. I’ve not been ill, -only—that they might have no suspicion. Fred, above all things I want -you to understand that I am in my full senses, meaning every word I -say.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mother,” he said, pressing her hand.</p> - -<p>She renewed her grip upon it, as if she were holding fast to something -lest she should be carried away. “Well!” she said, with a long-drawn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> -breath. Then looking him fall in the eyes as if to defy -misunderstanding: “Fred,” she said, “I have seen your father!”</p> - -<p>“Mother!” he cried.</p> - -<p>“Hush—this was what I was afraid of—that you would think me out of my -senses. Look at me. I am not calm, perhaps, but I am as steady as you -are.” (That was not saying much; but absorbed in her own extraordinary -sensations, Mrs. Dalyell fortunately did not notice Fred.) “I was not -thinking of him, nor even questioning as I sometimes do. I was more -quiet than usual: when, just there, where the curtain is, I saw your -father!”</p> - -<p>“You must have been over-excited, mother, though you did not know it. My -coming home and the girls’ talk—and all of us making ourselves -disagreeable—without knowing it your mind must have——”</p> - -<p>“My mind was quite calm. I made allowance for you children. I could have -sympathised with you. But don’t go away with any such idea. I saw your -father—as plain as I ever saw him in my life.”</p> - -<p>What could Fred say? He patted her hand to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> soothe her, and shook his -head gently; he could not trust himself to speak.</p> - -<p>“It all passed in a moment,” she went on. “He said something. I feel -sure he used the word marriage, but I was too much startled to make out, -and I was so foolish as to give that cry. I can’t tell you what a -dreadful feeling came upon me. I am not a woman to scream, but I could -not help it. And he disappeared, and they all came rushing in.”</p> - -<p>“It must have been an optical illusion, mother—that’s what they call -those sort of things. You were disturbed by all of us, and your -imagination got excited.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak such nonsense to me. I saw your father as I see you. Fred, -that’s not half I’ve got to tell you.” She closed her fingers more and -more closely upon his hand, and drew him close to her. “He was changed,” -she said almost in a whisper. “He was not as he used to be.” She put her -face nearer to her son’s. “An apparition would have been nothing in -comparison. It would have been not wonderful, considering everything. -But this: Fred”—she drew him quite close and her fingers were upon his -hand like iron—“Fred, your father had grown a beard!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span></p> - -<p>“Mother!” he cried again.</p> - -<p>“You think I’m mad, and I don’t wonder: but there’s more in what I say -than you think, Fred: a man who was dead could not do that. Fred, find -me words. I don’t know what to say. There is more in this than we know.”</p> - -<p>They looked at each other, the eyes of the one shooting light and -meaning into those of the other. How could the boy stand the keen -scrutiny of his mother’s eyes? He faltered before her and tried to avert -them, but failed. At last he faltered, “Mother! I think your guess is -right!”</p> - -<p>She seized him by the shoulder with her other hand and shook him in the -vehemence of her passion. “Have you known this all along? Have you known -and never said a word?”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said; “how could you think it? Could I have been a party to a -fraud? But I saw him too—to-night.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Dalyell’s hands relaxed; she fell back upon her pillow, and, -covering her face with her hands, began to cry and moan. “Oh, how shall -I ever look him in the face! How shall I ever look him in the face!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span></p> - -<p>Fred was prepared for many things on his mother’s part. He was prepared -to see her burst into indignation like his own; he could have understood -her stern and angry, or he could have understood her grieved and -miserable. He could even have understood it—had she been unreasonably -and foolishly glad. But ashamed, asking how she could look him in the -face!—this was beyond the knowledge of her son. After a little she -calmed down and said with the echo of a sob, “We will have something to -forgive each other—on both sides.”</p> - -<p>“Mother,” cried Fred, “do you realise all the difference it will make?”</p> - -<p>She was silent for a moment, with a flush upon her face. “Oh, my dear,” -she cried, with a look of awe, “how can we ever be sufficiently thankful -that we knew in time!”</p> - -<p>This was all she could think of, it seemed; and poor young Fred had to -return to his own troubled thoughts by himself without help from his -mother. She entertained, it would seem, no doubt as to her duty towards -her husband. The fraud did not weigh on her mind. He had come back—that -was all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_X-b" id="CHAPTER_X-b"></a>CHAPTER X.</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the afternoon of the miserable day which had begun in this wise, Fred -was sitting alone, trying to come to some conclusion in the crowd of his -unhappy thoughts. His mother had been able to rest after her agitation, -and sleep, but had sent for him again early to ask for his father—where -he was in the meantime, and when he was coming home? It had better, she -thought, be got over as quietly as possible, and all the friends -informed. Mr. Wedderburn was always fond of Robert: he would take it -very quietly; he would see that the less said the better for all -parties. Her mind was full of these thoughts. She had arranged -everything in her mind. There would be much to forgive—on both -sides—which perhaps on the whole was better than had it been entirely -on one. As for business matters, Mrs. Dalyell was aware there must be -troubles; but fortunately this was not her share of the business. Robert -and Mr. Wedderburn would settle these things. It all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> seemed so simple -as she put it, that Fred withdrew again with a sort of artificial calm -in his spirit, but had no sooner been alone for ten minutes than the -hurlyburly began over again. What was he to do? Inform the insurance -companies? But what could be done to raise the necessary money? Throw -Yalton into the market—or what? Anyhow, it must be ruin, whether the -father came home or disappeared again; anyhow, his own happy career was -over, and nothing but trouble was to come.</p> - -<p>In the meantime he did not know where his father was, or what had become -of him, and he had not yet the courage to question Janet, who no doubt -knew. Janet was at the bottom of it all. For all he could tell, it might -be she who had first suggested that dreadful expedient out of which all -this misery came. Oh! had the family been but ruined honestly, -naturally, two years ago! Fred felt, like a child, that it must be that -wretched old woman’s fault all through, and he could not subdue his mind -to the extent of asking her for information. It would come, he felt -sure, in good time.</p> - -<p>And so it did: that afternoon Foggo entered the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span> library where his young -master was sitting, with a very mysterious air, and informed him that -there was “one” who desired to speak with him. Fred’s heart leapt to his -mouth, for his thoughts were bent solely on his father, and it seemed -certain that it could be no other than he.</p> - -<p>“A gentleman,” he added faintly, “with a beard?” It was the only -description he could venture upon.</p> - -<p>“No, Mr. Fred, not a gentleman at all—John Saunderson from the ‘Dun -Cow.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“John Saunderson from the ‘Dun Cow’?”</p> - -<p>“It was to speak about something that had happened. He said that if the -young laird would have the kindness to step out at the gate—he’s no -just in trim for a grand house, and he would like to speak to yourself -in a private way.”</p> - -<p>“Bring him here, then, Foggo.”</p> - -<p>“No, Mr. Fred: he would take it far kinder if you would just step out to -the gate.”</p> - -<p>And this was what Fred finally did. He found the landlord of the “Dun -Cow” exceedingly embarrassed, not knowing how to begin his story. He -took off his blue bonnet at the sight of Fred, and began to twirl it -round and round in his hands.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span></p> - -<p>“It’s about an accident that’s happened,” said John.</p> - -<p>“Do you want me to do anything? I’m very much occupied; if it’s anything -Foggo could do——”</p> - -<p>“Na, it’s not Foggo I want” (he said Foggy, after the fashion of his -locality), “it’s just yoursel’. There was a gentleman came to lodge in -my house last night. We whiles get a stranger—that’s not very -particular.”</p> - -<p>“A gentleman?”</p> - -<p>“A gentleman with a beard.” The man eyed Fred very closely, who did not -know what to reply.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, with a little catch of his breath, “and what then?”</p> - -<p>“The gentleman must have gone down, so far as we can see, very early to -take a bath in the sea. Nobody heard him go out. My own idea is he never -was in after he got his supper. He first went to the door for a smoke, -and my impression is——”</p> - -<p>“What happened?” said Fred. His mouth was so dry he could scarcely -speak.</p> - -<p>“He must have gone into the sea to take a bath awfu’ early in the -morning, before we were up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> The wife she thought she heard a cry about -four o’clock, and I got up, for she gave me no peace, and looked about -and saw nothing. But later there was one came running and said a man’s -clo’es were on the sands, close by some rocks—just for all the world as -they were that time, ye mind, Mr. D’yell, when your father was lost. I -just took to my heels and ran all the way to the sands. And there was -his clo’es, sure enough.”</p> - -<p>“The man?” Fred gasped again.</p> - -<p>“They got him after a bittie, with his hands clasped full of the -seaweed, and his knee raised up upon a rock. He must have made a fight, -poor gentleman, for his life. Na, I see what you are thinking: it was -nae suicide. He had got up his knee upon a bit of rock, and his hands -were full of the weeds—nasty slimy unprofitable things.” There was a -pause, and the man lowered his voice a little significantly before he -said, “I would like much, Mr. Frederick, if you would come down and see -him.”</p> - -<p>Fred was not able to speak. He shrank more than he could say from this -dreadful sight. He shook his head in the impulse of his panic and -horror.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span></p> - -<p>“Sir,” said the man, “I’ve known your father, Mr. Robert D’yell, Yalton, -man and boy, for more than forty year. If I didna know he had been -drowned two years ago I would say yon was him.”</p> - -<p>It was with difficulty Fred found his voice: “I think that I know who it -was. It was a—near relation.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I can well believe that,” said John Saunderson. He was something of -a genealogist himself, as so many people of his class are in country -life, and he threw a hasty backward glance over the scions of the house -of Yalton, which he had known all his life, and settled within himself -that there was no such near relation, no cousin that ever he had heard -of. He did not say this, nor his own profound conviction as to the -drowned man.</p> - -<p>“A man,” said Fred, “that we had thought to be dead—for years. He -frightened my mother with the likeness you speak of, and I am afraid he -did not get a good reception. Oh, Saunderson, you are sure it was not a -suicide?”</p> - -<p>“So far as I could judge—no. I am not surprised,” said Saunderson, -“that the mistress was terrified. It gave me a kind of a shock.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span> ‘Lord -bless me,’ I said, and then I just held my peace, for I would not be one -to raise a scandal on the house of Yalton. But my ostler, confound him, -has a long tongue.”</p> - -<p>“I’m much obliged to you,” said Fred. “I’ll come down.”</p> - -<p>And there he saw, on the poor bed in the “Dun Cow,” surrounded by the -few rustic houses about, all excited and discussing the tragedy, his -father, at last hushed and safe, seized by the death which he had -cheated once, but could not cheat a second time. The dreadful drowning -look had departed from his face; he lay tranquil and calm, like a man -who had died in his bed, who had never wronged either man or woman. Whom -had he wronged? Perhaps the insurance companies—no one else. And Fred -at length came to the conclusion that there was now no occasion to -disturb the insurance companies. It had come to pass at last—the event -which had been supposed to be accomplished long ago. There was no reason -now for the confession he had intended, no need to expose his father’s -deception, to betray the secret of the house. Fred could scarcely -reconcile himself to the fact that this was so. It cost him a great deal -of trouble to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> make up his mind that his business now—now that all was -over, and his father gone for ever—was to be silent for ever. Mr. -Wedderburn had been summoned, and this was his advice, as well as the -almost imperious command of Fred’s mother. To throw a stain upon her -husband’s name was intolerable to Mrs. Dalyell—to attract attention to -the house and explain its secret history. She said, with tears, yet with -indignation, that it should not, it must not be. And old Pat Wedderburn, -who was strangely moved by the story, and who said not a word in blame -of his friend, supported her strongly. “They would have had to give the -money now, if not then,” he said, “and it’s not your part to open the -question. Let it alone. Let him rest in his grave at last—poor Bob! And -I hope in my presence no one will ever say an ill word of Bob D’yell.”</p> - -<p>There was a tear in the old lawyer’s eye. Perhaps he understood it best -of the three, though the other two were wife and son. Fred’s statement -that the drowned man was a relation made it possible to lay him in the -Yalton vault after all—his last and rightful home. Who the other was, -who had received that sad hospitality in the name<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> of Robert Dalyell of -Yalton, they never knew, nor was it necessary to inquire.</p> - -<p>Somehow, however, there was no more question of Mrs. Dalyell’s marriage. -Neither bride or bridegroom ever spoke of it again. And Mr. Wedderburn -resumed something of the old easy relations after a while, and presided -at Susie’s marriage, and was the best friend of the house, as he had -always been. It was a conclusion which on the whole they all felt to be -the best.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c"><span class="eng">Stories of College Life</span></p> - -<p class="c">THE UNIVERSITY SERIES</p> - -<p class="c"> -<b>I.</b> <b>Harvard Stories.</b>—Sketches of the Undergraduate.<br /> -By <span class="smcap">W. K. Post</span>. Fifteenth edition. 12°, paper,<br /> -50 cts.; cloth $1.00<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Mr. Post’s manner of telling these tales is in its way inimitable. -The atmosphere of the book in its relation to the localities where -the scenes are laid is well-nigh perfect. The different types of -undergraduates are clearly drawn, and there is a dramatic element -in most of the stories that is very welcome. It goes without saying -that Harvard men will find keen pleasure in this volume, while for -those who desire a faithful picture of certain phases of American -student life it offers a noteworthy fund of instruction and -entertainment.”—<i>Literary News.</i> </p></div> - -<p class="c"> -<b>II.</b> <b>Yale Yarns.</b>—By <span class="smcap">J. S. Wood</span>. Fifth edition.<br /> -Illustrated. 12° $1.00<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“This delightful little book will be read with intense interest by -all Yale men.”—<i>New Haven Eve. Leader.</i></p> - -<p>“The Yale atmosphere is wonderfully reproduced in some of the -sketches, and very realistic pictures are drawn, particularly of -the old ‘fence’ and the ‘old brick row.’<span class="lftspc">”</span>—<i>Boston Times.</i></p> - -<p>“College days are regarded by most educated men as the cream of -their lives, sweet with excellent flavor. They are not dull and -tame even, to the most devoted student, and this is a volume filled -with the pure cream of such existence, and many ‘a college joke to -cure the dumps’ is given. It is a bright, realistic picture of -college life, told in an easy conversational, or descriptive style, -and cannot fail to genuinely interest the reader who has the -slightest appreciation of humor. The volume is illustrated and is -just the book for an idle or a lonely hour.”—<i>Los Angeles Times.</i> </p></div> - -<p class="c"> -<b>The Babe</b>, <b>B.A.</b> The Uneventful History of a<br /> -Young Gentleman in Cambridge University. By<br /> -<span class="smcap">Edward F. Benson</span>, author of “Dodo,” etc.<br /> -Illustrated. 12° $1.00<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“The story tells of the every-day life of a young man called the -Babe.... Cleverly written and one of the best this author has -written.”—<i>Leader</i>, New Haven. </p></div> - -<p class="c"> -<b>A Princetonian.</b> A Story of Undergraduate Life at<br /> -the College of New Jersey. By <span class="smcap">James Barnes</span>.<br /> -Illustrated. 12° $1.25<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Mr. Barnes is a loyal son of the College of New Jersey, with the -cleverness and zeal to write this story of undergraduate life in -the college, following his successful use of the pen in earlier -books, <i>For King and Country</i>, <i>Midshipman Farragut</i>, etc.... There -is enough of fiction in the story to give true liveliness to its -fact.... Mr. Barnes’s literary style is humorous and -vivid.”—<i>Boston Transcript.</i> </p></div> - -<p class="c"> -G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span><br /> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"> -<big><big>Works by Anna Katharine Green</big></big><br /> -</p> - -<p class="c"> -<b>I.</b>—<b>THE LEAVENWORTH CASE.</b> A Lawyer’s Story.<br /> -4to, paper, 20 cents; 16°, paper, 50 cents; cloth $1 00<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“She has worked up a <i>cause celèbre</i> with a fertility of device and -ingenuity of treatment hardly second to Wilkie Collins or Edgar -Allan Poe.”—<i>Christian Union.</i> </p></div> - -<p class="c"> -<b>II.</b>—<b>BEHIND CLOSED DOORS.</b> 16°, paper, 50 cents;<br /> -cloth $1 00<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“ ...She has never succeeded better in baffling the -reader.”—<i>Boston Christian Register.</i> </p></div> - -<p class="c"> -<b>III.</b>—<b>THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.</b> A Story of New<br /> -York Life. 16°, paper, 50 cents; cloth $1 00<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>The Sword of Damocles’ is a book of great power, which far -surpasses either of its predecessors from her pen, and places her -high among American writers. The plot is complicated, and is -managed adroitly.... In the delineation of characters she has shown -both delicacy and vigor.”—<i>Congregationalist.</i> </p></div> - -<p class="c"> -<b>IV.</b>—<b>X. Y. Z.; A Detective Story.</b> 16°, paper 25 cents<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Well written and extremely exciting and captivating.... She is a -perfect genius in the construction of a plot.”—<i>N. Y. Commercial -Advertiser.</i> </p></div> - -<p class="c"> -<b>V.</b>—<b>HAND AND RING.</b> In quarto, paper, 20 cents; 16°,<br /> -paper, illustrated, 50 cents; cloth $1 00<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“It is a tribute to the author’s genius that she never tires and -never loses her readers.... It moves on clean and healthy.... It is -worked out powerfully and skilfully.”—- <i>N. Y. Independent.</i> </p></div> - -<p class="c"> -<b>VI.</b>—<b>A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE.</b> In quarto, paper,<br /> -20 cents; 16°, paper, 50 cents; cloth $1 00<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“A most ingenious and absorbingly interesting story. The readers -are held spell-bound until the last page.”—<i>Cincinnati -Commercial.</i> </p></div> - -<p class="c"> -<b>VII.</b>—<b>THE MILL MYSTERY.</b> 16°, paper, 50 cents;<br /> -cloth $1 00<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Shows the author’s skill in the manufacture of entirely new and -original complications, and as the central figure is a fresh and -charming girl, the reader is absorbed and thrilled and wrought up -to the last degree in following her fortunes to their triumphant -sequel.”—<i>Commercial Advertiser.</i> </p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c"> -<big><big><span class="smcap">The Hudson Library</span></big></big><br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Published Monthly. Entered as second-class matter. Yearly -Subscription, $6.00 per volume, paper, 50 cents. Published also in -cloth. </p></div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt">1.</td><td align="left">Love and Shawl-straps. By Annette Lucille Noble.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">2.</td><td align="left">Miss Hurd: An Enigma. By Anna Katharine Green, Author of “The Leavenworth Case.”</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">3.</td><td align="left">How Thankful was Bewitched. By Jas. K. Hosmer.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">4.</td><td align="left">A Woman of Impulse. By Justin Huntly McCarthy.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">5.</td><td align="left">The Countess Bettina. By Clinton Ross.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">6.</td><td align="left">Her Majesty. By E. K. Tompkins.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">7.</td><td align="left">God Forsaken. By Frederic Breton.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">8.</td><td align="left">An Island Princess. By Theodore Gift.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">9.</td><td align="left">Elizabeth’s Pretenders. By Hamilton Aide.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">10.</td><td align="left">At Tuxter’s. By G. B. Burgin.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">11.</td><td align="left">Cherryfield Hall. By F. H. Balfour.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">12.</td><td align="left">The Crime of the Century. By R. Ottolengui.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">13.</td><td align="left">The Things that Matter. By Francis Gribble.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">14.</td><td align="left">The Heart of Life. By W. H. Mallock.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">15.</td><td align="left">The Broken Ring. By Elizabeth K. Tompkins.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">16.</td><td align="left">The Strange Schemes of Randolph Mason. By Melville D. Post.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">17.</td><td align="left">That Affair Next Door. By Anna Katharine Green.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">18.</td><td align="left">In the Crucible. By Grace Denio Litchfield.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">19.</td><td align="left">Eyes Like the Sea. By Maurus Jókai.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">20.</td><td align="left">An Uncrowned King. By S. C. Grier.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">21.</td><td align="left">The Professor’s Dilemma. By A. L. Noble.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">22.</td><td align="left">The Ways of Life. By Mrs. Oliphant.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="c">G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, <span class="smcap">Publishers</span>,</p> - -<p class="c">NEW YORK AND LONDON.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ways of Life, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WAYS OF LIFE *** - -***** This file should be named 55270-h.htm or 55270-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/2/7/55270/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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