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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/75875-0.txt b/75875-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c2144c7 --- /dev/null +++ b/75875-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7334 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75875 *** + + + + + + Transcriber’s Note + Italic text displayed as: _italic_ + + + + +LUCIUS DAVOREN + + + + + LONDON: + ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. + + + + + LUCIUS DAVOREN + + OR + + PUBLICANS AND SINNERS + + A Novel + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + ‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET’ + ETC. ETC. ETC. + + IN THREE VOLUMES + + VOL. I. + + [Illustration: Decoration] + + LONDON + JOHN MAXWELL AND CO. + 4 SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET + 1873 + [_All rights reserved_] + + + + + This Book is Inscribed + + TO + + VISCOUNT MILTON, M.P. F.R.G.S. + ETC. + + IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE AID DERIVED FROM HIS + ADMIRABLE BOOK OF TRAVELS, + ‘THE NORTH-WEST PASSAGE OVERLAND,’ + TO WHICH THE AUTHOR IS INDEBTED FOR THE + SCENERY IN THE PROLOGUE. + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. I. + + + Prologue:—In the Far West. + + CHAP. PAGE + + I. ‘WHERE THE SUN IS SILENT’ 1 + + II. ‘MUSIC HATH CHARMS’ 10 + + III. HOW THEY LOST THE TRAIL 34 + + IV. ‘ALL’S CHEERLESS, DARK, AND DEADLY’ 47 + + V. ‘O, THAT WAY MADNESS LIES’ 57 + + + Book the First. + + I. LOOKING BACKWARDS 71 + + II. HOMER SIVEWRIGHT 95 + + III. HARD HIT 132 + + IV. ‘O WORLD, HOW APT THE POOR ARE TO BE PROUD!’ 155 + + V. ‘I HAD A SON, NOW OUTLAW’D FROM MY BLOOD’ 171 + + VI. ‘BY HEAVEN, I LOVE THEE BETTER THAN MYSELF’ 193 + + VII. ‘SORROW HAS NEED OF FRIENDS’ 213 + + VIII. GEOFFREY INCLINES TO SUSPICION 227 + + IX. SOMETHING TOO MUCH FOR GRATITUDE 245 + + X. A DAUGHTER’S LOVE, AND A LOVER’S HOPE 259 + + XI. THE BIOGRAPHY OF A SCOUNDREL 270 + + XII. LUCIUS HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH A FAMOUS PERSONAGE 293 + + XIII. HE FEARS HIS FATE TOO MUCH 307 + + + + +LUCIUS DAVOREN + + + + +Prologue:—In the Far West. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +‘WHERE THE SUN IS SILENT.’ + + +Winter round them: not a winter in city streets, lamplit and glowing, +or on a fair English countryside, dotted with cottage-roofs, humble +village homes, sending up their incense of blue-gray smoke to the +hearth goddess; not the winter of civilisation, with all means and +appliances at hand to loosen the grip of the frost-fiend: but winter in +its bleakest aspect, amid trackless forests, where the trapper walks +alone; winter in a solitude so drear that the sound of a human voice +seems more strange and awful than the prevailing silence; winter in a +pine-forest in British North America, westward of the Rocky Mountains. +It is December, the bleakest, dreariest month in the long winter; for +spring is still far off. + +Three men sit crouching over the wood-fire in a roughly-built log-hut +in the middle of a forest, which seems to stretch away indefinitely +into infinite space. The men have trodden that silent region for many +a day, and have found no outlet on either side, only here and there +a frozen lake, to whose margin, ere the waters were changed to ice, +the forest denizens came down to gorge themselves with the small fish +that abound there. They are travellers who have penetrated this dismal +region for pleasure; yet each moved by a different desire. The first, +Lucius Davoren, surgeon, has been impelled by that deep-rooted thirst +of knowledge which in some minds is a passion. He wants to know what +this strange wild territory is like—this unfamiliar land between Fort +Garry and Victoria, across the Rocky Mountains—and if there lies not +here a fair road for the English emigrant. He has even cherished the +hope of some day pushing his way to the northward, up to the ice-bound +shores of the polar sea. He looks upon this trapper-expedition as +a mere experimental business, an education for grander things, the +explorer’s preparatory school. + +So much for Lucius Davoren, surgeon without a practice. Mark him as +he sits in his dusky corner by the fire. The hut boasts a couple of +windows, but they are only of elk-skin, through which the winter light +steals dimly. Mark the strongly-defined profile, the broad forehead, +the clear gray eyes. The well-cut mouth and resolute chin are hidden +by that bushy untrimmed beard, which stiffens with his frozen breath +when he ventures outside the hut; but the broad square forehead, the +Saxon type of brow, and clear penetrating eyes, are in themselves +all-sufficient indications of the man’s character. Here are firmness +and patience, or, in one word, the noblest attribute of the human +mind—constancy. + +On the opposite side of that rude hearth sits Geoffrey Hossack, three +years ago an undergraduate at Balliol, great at hammer-throwing and the +long jump, doubtful as to divinity exam., and with vague ideas trending +towards travel and adventure in the Far West as the easiest solution of +_that_ difficulty. Young, handsome, ardent, fickle, strong as a lion, +gentle as a sucking dove, Geoffrey has been the delight and glory of +the band in its sunnier days; he is the one spot of sunlight in the +picture now, when the horizon has darkened to so deep a gloom. + +The last of the trio is Absalom Schanck, a native of Hamburg, small and +plump, with a perennial plumpness which has not suffered even from +a diet of mouldy pemmican, and rare meals of buffalo or moose flesh, +which has survived intervals of semi-starvation, blank dismal days when +there was absolutely nothing for these explorers to eat. + +At such trying periods Absalom is wont to wax plaintive, but it is not +of turtle or venison he dreams; no vision of callipash or callipee, no +mocking simulacrum of a lordly Aberdeen salmon or an aldermanic turbot, +no mirage picture of sirloin or Christmas turkey, torments his soul; +but his feverish mouth waters for the putrid cabbage and rancid pork of +his fatherland; and the sharpest torture which fancy can create for him +is the tempting suggestion of a certain boiled sausage which his soul +loveth. + +He has joined the expedition with half-defined ideas upon the subject +of a new company of dealers in skins, to be established beyond the +precincts of Hudson’s Bay; and not a little influenced by a genuine +love of exploration, and a lurking notion that he has in him the stuff +that makes a Van Diemen. + +From first to last it is, and has been, essentially an amateur +expedition. No contribution from the government of any nation has +aided these wanderers. They have come, as Geoffrey Hossack forcibly +expresses the fact, ‘on their own hook.’ Geoffrey suggests that +they should found a city, by and by, after the manner of classical +adventurers: whence should arise in remote future ages some new Empire +of the West. + +‘Hossack’s Gate would be rather a good name for it,’ he says, between +two puffs of his meerschaum; ‘and our descendants would doubtless be +known as the Hossackides, and the Davorenides, and do their very best +to annihilate one another, you know, Lucius.’ + +‘We Chermans have giv more names to blaizes than you Englishers,’ +chimes in Mr. Schanck with dignity. ‘It is our dalend to disgover.’ + +‘I wish you’d disgover something to eat, then, my friend Absalom,’ +replies the Oxonian irreverently; ‘that mouthful of pemmican Lucius +doled out to us just now has only served as a whet for my appetite. +Like the half-dozen Ostend oysters they give one as the overture to a +French dinner.’ + +‘Ah, they are goot the oysders of Osdend,’ says Mr. Schanck with a +sigh, ‘and zo are ze muzzles of Blankenberk. I dreamt ze ozer night I +vas in heafen eading muzzles sdewed in _vin de madère_.’ + +‘Don’t,’ cries Geoffrey emphatically; ‘if we begin to talk about +eating, we shall go mad, or eat each other. How nice you would be, +Schanck, stuffed with chestnuts, and roasted, like a Norfolk turkey +dressed French fashion! It’s rather a pity that one’s friends are +reported to be indigestible; but I believe that’s merely a fable, +designed as a deterring influence. The Maories cannibalised from the +beginning of time; fed in and in, as well as bred in and in. One +nice old man, a chieftain of Rakiraki, kept a register of his own +consumption of prisoners, by means of a row of stones, which, when +reckoned up after the old gentleman’s demise, amounted to eight hundred +and seventy-two: and yet these Maories were a healthy race enough when +civilisation looked them up.’ + +Lucius Davoren takes no heed of this frivolous talk. He is lying on the +floor of the log-hut, with a large chart spread under him, studying it +intensely, and sticking pins here and there as he pores over it. He has +ideas of his own, fixed and definite, which neither of his companions +shares in the smallest degree. Hossack has come to these wild regions +with an Englishman’s unalloyed love of adventure, as well as for a +quiet escape from the trusting relatives who would have urged him +to go up for Divinity. Schanck has been beguiled hither by the fond +expectation of finding himself in a paradise of tame polar bears and +silver foxes, who would lie down at his feet, and mutely beseech him +to convert them into carriage-rugs. They are waiting for the return of +their guide, an Indian, who has gone to hunt for the lost trail, and to +make his way back to a far distant fort in quest of provisions. If he +should find the journey impossible, or fall dead upon the way, their +last hope must perish with the failure of his mission, their one only +chance of succour must die with his death. + +Very shrunken are the stores which Lucius Davoren guards with jealous +care. He doles out each man’s meagre portion day by day with a Spartan +severity, and a measurement so just that even hunger cannot dispute his +administration; the tobacco, that sweet solacer of weary hours, begins +to shrink in the barrel, and Geoffrey Hossack’s lips linger lovingly +over the final puffs of his short black-muzzled meerschaum, with a +doleful looking forward to the broad abyss of empty hours which must be +bridged over before he refills the bowl. Unless the guide returns with +supplies there is hardly any hope that these reckless adventurers will +ever reach the broad blue waters of the Pacific, and accomplish the end +of that adventurous scheme which brought them to these barren regions. +Unless help comes to them in this way, or in some fortuitous fashion, +they are doomed to perish. They have considered this fact among +themselves many times, sitting huddled together under the low roof of +their log-hut, by the feeble glimmer of their lantern. + +Of the three wanderers Absalom Schanck is the only experienced +traveller. He is a naturalised Englishman, and a captain in the +merchant navy; having traded prosperously for some years as the owner +of a ship—a sea-carrier in a small way—he had sold his vessel, and +built himself a water-side villa at Battersea, half Hamburgian, half +nautical in design; a cross between a house in Hamburg and half-a-dozen +ships’ cabins packed neatly together; everything planned with as strict +an economy of space as if the dainty little habitation were destined to +put to sea as soon as she was finished. As many shelves and drawers and +hatches in the kitchen as in a steward’s cabin; stairs winding up the +heart of the house, like a companion-ladder; a flat roof, from which +Mr. Schanck can see the sunset beyond the westward-lying swamps of +Fulham, and which he fondly calls the admiral’s poop. + +But even this comfortable habitation has palled upon the mind of the +professional rover. Dull are those suburban flats to the eye that for +twenty years has ranged over the vast and various ocean. Absalom has +found the consolation of pipe and case-bottle inadequate; and with +speculative ideas of the vaguest nature, has joined Geoffrey Hossack’s +expedition to the Far West. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +‘MUSIC HATH CHARMS.’ + + +Ten days go by, empty days of which only Lucius Davoren keeps a record, +in a journal which may serve by and by for a history of the ill-fated +expedition; which may be found perchance by some luckier sportsmen in +years to come, when the ink upon the paper has gone gray and pale, +and when the date of each entry has an ancient look, and belongs to a +bygone century; nay, when the very fashion of the phrases is obsolete. + +Lucius takes note of everything, every cloud in the sky, every red +gleam of the aurora, with its ghostly rustling sound, as of phantom +trees shaken by the north wind. He finds matter for observation where +to the other two there seems only an endless blank, a universe that +is emptied of everything except the unvarying pine-trees rising dark +against a background of everlasting snow. + +Geoffrey Hossack practises hammer-throwing with an iron crowbar, +patches the worn-out sleighs, makes little expeditions on his own +account, and discovers nothing, except that he has a non-geographical +mind, and that, instead of the trapper’s unerring instinct, which +enables him to travel always in a straight line, he has an unpleasant +tendency to describe a circle; prowls about with his gun, and the +scanty supply of ammunition which Davoren allows him; makes traps for +silver foxes, and has the mortification of seeing his bait devoured by +a wolverine, who bears a life as charmed as that Macbeth was promised; +and sometimes, but alas too seldom, kills something—a moose, and once a +buffalo. O, then what a hunter’s feast they have in the thick northern +darkness! what a wild orgie seems that rare supper! Their souls expand +over the fresh meat; they feel mighty as northern gods, Odin and Thor. +Hope rekindles in every breast; the moody silence which has well-nigh +grown habitual to them in the gloom of these hungry hopeless days, +melts into wild torrents of talk. They are moved with a kind of rapture +engendered of this roast flesh, and recognise the truth of Barry +Cornwall’s dictum, that a poet should be a high feeder. + +The grip of the frost-fiend tightens upon them; the brief days flit by +ghostlike, only the long nights linger. They sit in their log-hut in a +dreary silence, each man seated on the ground, with his knees drawn up +to his chin, and his back against the wall. Were they already dead, and +this their sepulchre, they could wear no ghastlier aspect. + +They are silent from no sullen humour. Discord has never risen among +them. What have they to talk about? Swift impending death, the sharp +stings of hunger, the bitterness of an empty tobacco-barrel. Their +dumbness is the dumbness of stoics who can suffer and make no moan. + +They have not yet come to absolute starvation; there is a little +pemmican still, enough to sustain their attenuated thread of life for +a few more days. When that is gone, they can see before them nothing +but death. The remains of their buffalo has been eaten by the wolves, +carefully as they hid it under the snow. The region to which they have +pushed their way seems empty of human life—a hyperborean chaos ruled by +Death. What hardy wanderer, half-breed or Indian, would venture hither +at such a season? + +They are sitting thus, mute and statue-like, in the brief interval +which they call daylight, when something happens which sets every +heart beating with a sudden violence—something so unexpected, that +they wait breathless, transfixed by surprise. A voice, a human voice, +breaks the dead silence; a wild face, with bright fierce eyes peers in +at the entrance of the hut, from which a bony hand has dragged aside +the tarpaulin that serves for a screen against the keen northern winds, +which creep in round the angle of the rough wooden porch. + +The face belongs to neither Indian nor half-breed; it is as white as +their own. By the faint light that glimmers through the parchment +windows they see it scrutinising them interrogatively, with a piercing +scrutiny. + +‘Explorers?’ asks the stranger, ‘and Englishmen?’ + +Yes, they tell him, they are English explorers. Absalom Schanck of +course counts as an Englishman. + +‘Are you sent out by the English government?’ + +‘No, we came on our own hook,’ replies Geoffrey Hossack, who is the +first to recover from the surprise of the man’s appearance, and from +a certain half-supernatural awe engendered by his aspect, which has a +wild ghastliness, as of a wanderer from the under world. ‘But never +mind how we came here; what we want is to get away. Don’t stand there +jawing about our business, but come inside, and drop that tarpaulin +behind you. Where have you left your party?’ + +‘Nowhere,’ answers the stranger, stepping into the hut, and standing +in the midst of them, tall and gaunt, clad in garments that are half +Esquimaux, half Indian, and in the last stage of dilapidation, torn +mooseskin shoes upon his feet, the livid flesh showing between every +rent; ‘nowhere. I belong to no party—I’m alone.’ + +‘Alone!’ they all exclaim, with a bitter pang of disappointment. They +had been ready to welcome this wild creature as the forerunner of +succour. + +‘Yes, I was up some thousand miles northward of this, among icebergs +and polar bears and Dog-rib Indians and Esquimaux, with a party of +Yankees the summer before last; and served them well, too, for I know +some of the Indian lingo, and was able to act as their interpreter. But +the expedition was a failure. Unsuccessful men are hard to deal with. +In short, we quarrelled, and parted company; they went their way, I +went mine. There’s no occasion to enter into details. It was winter +when I left them—the stores were exhausted, with the exception of a +little ammunition. They had their guns, and may have found reindeer or +musk oxen, but I don’t fancy they can have come to much good. They +didn’t know the country as well as I do.’ + +‘You have been alone nearly a year?’ asks Lucius Davoren, interested in +this wild-looking stranger. ‘How have you lived during that time?’ + +‘Anyhow,’ answers the other with a careless shrug of his bony +shoulders. ‘Sometimes with the Indians, sometimes with the +Esquimaux—they’re civil enough to a solitary Englishman, though they +hate the Indians like poison—sometimes by myself. As long as I’ve a +charge for my gun I don’t much fear starvation, though I’ve found +myself face to face with it a good many times since I parted with my +Yankee friends.’ + +‘Do you know this part of the country?’ + +‘No; it’s beyond my chart. I shouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t lost my +way. But I suppose, now I am here, you’ll give me shelter.’ + +The three men looked at one another. Hospitality is a noble virtue, and +a virtue peculiarly appropriate to the dwellers in remote and savage +regions; but hospitality with these men meant a division of their few +remaining days of life. And the last of those days might hold the +chance of rescue. Who could tell? To share their shrunken stores with +this stranger would be a kind of suicide. Yet the dictates of humanity +prevailed. The stranger was not pleasant to look upon, nor especially +conciliating in manner; but he was a fellow sufferer, and he must he +sheltered. + +‘Yes,’ says Lucius Davoren, ‘you are welcome to share what we have. +It’s not much. A few days’ rations.’ + +The stranger takes a canvas bag from his neck, and flings it into a +corner of the hut. + +‘There’s more than a week’s food in that,’ he says; ‘dried reindeer, +rather mouldy, but I don’t suppose you’re very particular.’ + +‘Particular!’ cried Geoffrey Hossack, with a groan. ‘When I think of +the dinners I have turned up my nose at, the saddles of mutton I have +despised because life seemed always saddle of mutton, I blush for the +iniquity of civilised man. I remember a bottle of French plums and a +canister of Presburg biscuits that I left in a chiffonier at Balliol. +Of course my scout consumed them. O, would I had those toothsome cates +to-day!’ + +‘Balliol!’ says the stranger, looking at him curiously. ‘So you’re a +Balliol man, are you?’ + +There was something strange in the sound of this question from an +unkempt savage, with half-bare feet, in ragged mooseskin shoes. The +newcomer pushed aside the elf-locks that overhung his forehead, and +stared at Geoffrey Hossack as he waited for the answer to his inquiry. + +‘Yes,’ replied Geoffrey with his usual coolness, ‘I have had the honour +to be gated occasionally by the dons of that college. Are you an Oxford +man?’ + +‘Do I look like it?’ asks the other, with a harsh laugh. ‘I am nothing; +I come from nowhere: I have no history, no kith or kin. I fancy I +know this kind of life better than you do, and I know how to talk to +the natives, which I conclude you don’t. If we can hold on till this +infernal season is over, and the trappers come this way, I’ll be your +interpreter, your servant, anything you like.’ + +‘If!’ said Lucius gravely. ‘I don’t think we shall ever see the end of +this winter. But you can stay with us, if you please. At the worst, we +can die together.’ + +The stranger gives a shivering sigh, and drops into an angular heap in +a corner of the hut. + +‘It isn’t a lively prospect,’ he says. ‘Death is a gentleman I mean +to keep at arm’s length as long as I can. I’ve had to face him often +enough, but I’ve got the best of it so far. Have you used all your +tobacco?’ + +‘Every shred,’ says Geoffrey Hossack dolefully. ‘I smoked my last pipe +and bade farewell to the joys of existence three days ago.’ + +‘Smoke another, then,’ replies the stranger, taking a leather pouch +from his bosom, ‘and renew your acquaintance with pleasure.’ + +‘Bless you!’ exclaims Geoffrey, clutching the prize. ‘Welcome to our +tents! I would welcome Beelzebub if he brought me a pipe of tobacco. +But if one fills, all fill—that’s understood. We are brothers in +misfortune, and must share alike.’ + +‘Fill, and be quick about it,’ says the stranger. So the three fill +their pipes, light them, and their souls float into Elysium on the +wings of the seraph tobacco. + +The stranger also fills and lights and smokes silently, but not with a +paradisiac air, rather with the gloomy aspect of some fallen spirit, +to whose lost soul sensuous joys bring no contentment. His large dark +eyes—seeming unnaturally large in his haggard face—wander slowly round +the walls of the hut, mark the bunks filled with dried prairie grass, +and each provided with a buffalo robe. Indications of luxury these. +Actual starvation would have reduced the wanderers to boiling down +strips of their buffalo skins into an unsavoury soup. Slowly those +great wan eyes travel round the hut. Listlessly, yet marking every +detail—the hunting knives and fishing tackle hanging against the +wall, Geoffrey’s handsome collection of rifles, which have been the +admiration of every Indian who has ever beheld them. The stranger’s +gaze lingers upon these, and an envious look glimmers in his eyes. +Signs of wealth these. He glances at the three companions, and wonders +which is the man who finds the money for the expedition, and owns these +guns. There could hardly be three rich fools mad enough to waste life +and wealth on such wanderings. He concludes that one is the dupe, the +other two adventurers, trading, or hoping to trade, upon his folly. +His keen eye lights on Hossack, the man who talked about Balliol. Yes, +he has a prosperous stall-fed look. The other, Lucius, has too much +intelligence. The little German is too old to spend his substance upon +so wild a scheme. + +Those observant eyes of the stranger’s have nearly completed their +circuit, when they suddenly fix themselves, seem visibly to dilate, and +kindle with a fire that gives a new look to his face. He sees an object +hanging against the wall, to him as far above all the wonders of modern +gunnery as the diamonds of Golconda are above splinters of glass. + +He points to it with his bony finger, and utters a strange shrill +cry of rapture—the ejaculation of a creature who by long solitude, by +hardship and privation, and the wild life of forests and deserts, has +lapsed into an almost savage condition. + +‘A fiddle!’ he exclaims, after that shrill scream of delight has melted +into a low chuckling laugh. ‘It’s more than a year since I’ve seen a +fiddle, since I lost mine crossing the McKenzie river. Let me play upon +it.’ + +This in a softer, more human tone than any words he had previously +spoken, looking from one to the other of the three men with passionate +entreaty. + +‘What! you play the fiddle, do you?’ asked Lucius, emptying the ashes +from his pipe with a long sigh of regret. + +‘It is yours, then?’ + +‘Yes; you can play upon it, if you like. It’s a genuine Amati. I have +kept it like the apple of my eye.’ + +‘Yes, and it’s been uncommonly useful in frightening away the Indians +when they’ve come to torment us for fire-water,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We +tried watering the rum, but that didn’t answer. The beggars poured a +few drops on the fire, and finding it didn’t blaze up, came back and +blackguarded us. I only wish I’d brought a few barrels of turpentine +for their benefit. Petroleum would have been still better. _That_ +would meet their ideas of excellence in spirituous liquors. They +like something that scorches their internal economy. They led us a +nice life as long as we had any rum; but the violin was too much for +them. They’re uncommonly fond of their own music, and would sometimes +oblige us with a song which lasted all night, but they couldn’t stand +Davoren’s sonatas. Tune up, stranger. I’m rather tired of De Beriot +and Spohr and Haydn myself. Perhaps you could oblige us with a nigger +melody.’ + +The stranger waited for no farther invitation, but strode across the +narrow hut, and took the violin case from the shelf where it had been +carefully bestowed. He laid it on the rough pine-wood table, opened it, +and gazed fondly on the Amati reposing in its bed of pale-blue velvet; +the very case, or outer husk, a work of art. + +Lucius watched him as the young mother watches her first baby in the +ruthless hands of a stranger. Would he clutch the fiddle by its neck, +drag it roughly from its case, at the hazard of dislocation? The +surgeon was too much an Englishman to show his alarm, but sat stolid +and in agony. No; the unkempt stranger’s bony claws spread themselves +out gently, and embraced the polished table of the fiddle. He lifted it +as the young mother lifts her darling from his dainty cradle; he put it +to his shoulder and lowered his chin upon it, as if in a loving caress. +His long fingers stretched themselves about the neck; he drew the bow +slowly across the strings. O, what rapture even in those experimental +notes! + +Geoffrey flung a fresh pine-log upon the fire, as if in honour of the +coming performance. Absalom sat and dozed, dreaming he was in his cuddy +at Battersea, supping upon his beloved sausage. Lucius watched the +stranger, with a gaze full of curiosity. He was passionately fond of +music, and his violin had been his chief solace in hours of darkest +apprehension. Strange to find in this other wanderer mute evidence of +the same passion. The man’s hand as it hugged the fiddle, the man’s +face as it bent over the strings, were the index of a passion as deep +as, or deeper than, his own. He waited eagerly for the man to play. + +Presently there arose in that low hut a long-drawn wailing sound; a +minor chord, that seemed like a passionate sob of complaint wrung +from a heart newly broken; and with this for his sole prelude the +stranger began his theme. What he played, Lucius strove in vain to +discover. His memory could recall no such music: Wilder, stranger, +more passionate, more solemn, more awful than the strain which Orpheus +played in the under world, was that music: more demoniac than that +diabolical sonata which Tartini pretended to have composed in a dream. +It seemed extemporaneous, for it obeyed none of the laws of harmony, +yet even in its discords was scarcely inharmonious. There was melody, +too, through all—a plaintive under-current of melody, which never +utterly lost itself, even when the player allowed his fancy its wildest +flights. The passionate rapture of his haggard, weather-beaten face +was reflected in the passionate rapture of his music; but it was not +the rapture of joy; rather the sharp agony of those convulsions of +the soul which touch the border-line of madness; like the passion of +a worshipper at one of those Dionysian festivals in which religious +fervour might end in self-slaughter; or like the ‘possession’ of some +Indian devil-dancer, leaping and wounding himself under the influence +of his demon god. + +The three men sat and listened, curiously affected by that strange +sonata. Even Absalom Schanck, to whom music was about as familiar a +language as the Cuneiform character, felt that this was something out +of the common way; that it was grander, if not more beautiful, than +those graceful compositions of De Beriot or Rode wherewith Lucius +Davoren had been wont to amuse his friends in their desolate solitude. + +Upon Lucius the music had a curious effect. At first and for some time +he listened with no feeling but the connoisseur’s unmixed delight. +Of envy his mind was incapable, though music is perhaps the most +jealous of the arts, and though he felt this man was infinitely his +superior—could bring tones out of the heart of that Amati which no +power of his could draw from his beloved instrument. + +But as the man played on, new emotions showed themselves upon Lucius +Davoren’s countenance—wonder, perplexity; then a sudden lighting up of +passion. His brows contracted; he watched the stranger with gleaming +eyes, breathlessly, waiting for the end of the composition. With the +final chord he started up from his seat and confronted the man. + +‘Were you ever in Hampshire?’ he asked, sharply and shortly. + +The stranger started ever so slightly at this abrupt interrogatory, but +showed no farther sign of discomposure, and laid the fiddle in its case +as tenderly as he had taken it thence ten minutes before. + +‘Hampshire, Massachusetts?’ he inquired. ‘Yes, many a time.’ + +‘Hampshire in England. Were you in that county in the year ’59?’ asked +Lucius breathlessly, watching the stranger as he spoke. + +‘I was never in England in my life.’ + +‘Ah,’ said Lucius with a long-drawn sigh, which might indicate either +disappointment or relief, ‘then you’re not the man I was half inclined +to take you for. Yet that,’ dropping into soliloquy, ‘was a foolish +fancy. There may be more than one man in the world who plays like a +devil.’ + +‘You are not particularly complimentary,’ returned the stranger, +touching the violin strings lightly with the tips of his skeleton +fingers, repeating the dismal burden of his melody in those pizzacato +notes. + +‘You don’t consider it a compliment. Rely upon it, if Lucifer played +the fiddle at all, he’d play well. The spirit who said, “Evil, be thou +my good,” would hardly do anything by halves. Do you remember what +Corelli said to Strengk when he first heard him play? “I have been +called Arcangelo, but by heavens, sir, you must be Arcidiavolo.” I +would give a great deal to have your power over that instrument. Was +that your own composition you played just now?’ + +‘I believe so, or a reminiscence; but if the latter, I can’t tell you +its source. I left off playing by book a long time ago; but I have a +reserve fund of acquired music—chiefly German—and I have no doubt I +draw upon it occasionally.’ + +‘Yes,’ repeated Lucius thoughtfully, ‘I should like to play as you do, +only—’ + +‘Only what?’ asked the stranger. + +‘I should be inclined to fancy there was something +uncomfortable—uncanny, as the Scotch say—lurking in the deep waters of +my mind, if my fancies took the shape yours did just now.’ + +‘As for me,’ exclaimed Geoffrey, with agreeable candour, ‘without +wishing either to flatter or upbraid, I can only say that I feel as if +I had been listening to a distinguished member of the royal orchestra +in Pandemonium—the Paganini of Orcus.’ + +The stranger laughed—a somewhat harsh and grating cachinnation. + +‘You don’t like minors?’ he said. + +‘I was a minor myself for a long time, and I only object to the +species on the score of impecuniosity,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘O, I beg +your pardon; you mean the key. If that composition of yours was +minor, I certainly lean to the major. Could you not oblige us with a +Christy-minstrel melody to take the taste out of our mouths?’ + +The stranger deigned no answer to that request, but sat down on the +rough log which served Lucius for a seat, and made a kind of settle by +the ample fireplace. With lean arms folded and gaze bent upon the fire, +he lapsed into thoughtful silence. The blaze of the pine-logs, now +showing vivid tinges of green or blue as the resin bubbled from their +tough hide, lit up the faces, and gave something of grotesque to each. +Seen by this medium, the stranger’s face was hardly a pleasant object +for contemplation, and was yet singular enough to arrest the gaze of +him who looked upon it. + +Heaven knows if, with all the aids of civilisation, soap and water, +close-cut hair, and carefully-trimmed moustache, the man might not +have been ranked handsome. Seen in this dusky hovel, by the changeful +light of the pine-logs, that face was grotesque and grim as a study by +Gustave Doré; the lines as sharply accentuated, the lights and shadows +as vividly contrasted. + +The stranger’s eyes were of darkest hue; as nearly black as the human +eye, or any other eye, ever is: that intensest brown which, when in +shadow, looks black, and when the light shines upon it seems to emit +a tawny fire, like the ray which flashes from a fine cat’s-eye. His +forehead was curiously low, the hair growing in a peak between the +temples. His nose was long, and a pronounced aquiline. His cheek-bones +were rendered prominent by famine. The rest of his face was almost +hidden by the thick ragged beard of densest black, through which his +white teeth flashed with a hungry look when he talked or smiled. His +smile was not a pleasant one. + +‘If one could imagine his Satanic majesty taking another promenade, +like that walk made famous by Porson, and penetrating to these +hyperborean shores—and why not, when contrast is ever pleasing?—I +should expect to behold him precisely in yonder guise,’ mused Geoffrey, +as he contemplated their uninvited guest from the opposite side of the +hearth. ‘But the age has grown matter-of-fact; we no longer believe +in the pleasing illusions of our childhood—hobgoblins, Jack and the +Beanstalk, and old Nick. Gunpowder and the printing press, as somebody +observes, have driven away Robin Goodfellow and the fairies.’ + +Lucius sat meditative, staring into the fire. That wild minor theme +had moved him profoundly, yet it was not so much of the music that he +thought as of the man. Five years ago he had heard the description +of music—which seemed to him to correspond exactly with this—of an +amateur whose playing had the same unearthly, or even diabolical +excellence. Certainly that man had been a pianist. And then it was too +wild a fancy to conceive for a moment that he had encountered that man, +whom he had hunted for all over England, and even out of England, here +in this primeval forest. Destiny in her maddest sport could hardly have +devised such a hazard. No, the thought was absurd; no doubt an evidence +of a brain enfeebled by anxiety and famine. Yet the fancy disturbed him +not the less. + +‘Unless Geoff stalks another buffalo before long, I shall go off my +head,’ he said to himself. + +He brooded upon the stranger’s assertion that he was a Southern +American, and had never crossed the Atlantic; an assertion at variance +with the fact of his accent, which was purely English. Yet Lucius +had known American citizens whose English was as pure, and he could +scarcely condemn the man as a liar on such ground as this. + +‘The description of that man’s appearance might fit this man,’ he +thought; ‘due allowance being made for the circumstances under which +we see him. Tall and dark, with a thin lissom figure, a hooked nose, +a hawk’s eye; that was the description they gave me at Wykhamston; I +had it from three separate people. There is no palpable discrepancy, +and yet—bah, I am a fool to think of it! Haven’t I had trouble of mind +enough upon this score, and would it do any good to her—in her grave, +perhaps—if I had my wish: if God gave me the means of keeping the +promise I made five years ago, when I was little more than a boy?’ + +Lucius’s thoughts rambled on while the stranger sat beside him, with +brooding eyes fixed, like his, upon the flare of the pine-logs. + +‘By the way,’ said Lucius presently, rousing himself from that long +reverie, ‘when my friend yonder spoke of Balliol, you pricked up your +ears as if the name were familiar to you. That’s odd, since you have +never been in England.’ + +‘I suppose there is nothing especially odd in my having had an English +acquaintance in my prosperous days, when even Englishmen were not +ashamed to know me. One may be familiar with the name of a college +without having seen the college itself. I had a friend who was a +student at Balliol.’ + +‘I wonder whether he was the man who wrote “_Aratus sum!_” upon one of +the tables in the examiners’ room after they ploughed him,’ speculated +Geoffrey idly. + +‘I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Stranger,’ said Lucius presently, +struggling with the sense of irritation caused by that wild fancy which +the stranger’s playing had inspired, ‘it’s all very well for us to +give you a corner in our hut. As good or evil fortune brought you this +way, we could hardly be so unchristian as to refuse you our shelter; +God knows it’s poor enough, and death is near enough inside as well as +outside these wooden walls; but even Christianity doesn’t oblige us to +harbour a man without a name. That traveller who fell among thieves +told the Samaritan his name, rely upon it, as soon as he was able to +say anything. No honest man withholds his name from the men he breaks +bread with. Even the Indians tell us their names; so be good enough to +give us yours.’ + +‘I renounced my own name when I turned my back upon civilisation,’ +answered the stranger doggedly; ‘I brought no card-case to this side +of the Rocky Mountains. If you give me your hospitality,’ with a +monosyllabic laugh and a scornful glance round the hut, ‘solely on +condition that I acquaint you with my antecedents, I renounce your +hospitality. I can go back to the forest and liberty. As you say, death +could not be much farther off out yonder in the snow. If you only want +my name for the purposes of social intercourse, you can call me what +the Indians call me, a sobriquet of their own invention, “Matchi +Mohkamarn.”’ + +‘That means the Evil Knife, I believe,’ said Lucius; ‘hardly +the fittest name to inspire confidence in the minds of a man’s +acquaintance. But I suppose it must do, since you withhold your real +name.’ + +‘I am sure you are welcome to our pasteboards,’ said Geoffrey, +yawning; ‘I have a few yonder in my dressing-bag—rather a superfluous +encumbrance by the way, since here one neither dresses nor shaves. +But I have occasionally propitiated ravening Indians with the gift +of a silver-topped scent-bottle or pomatum-pot, so the bag _has_ +been useful. Dear, dear, how nice it would be to find oneself back +in a world in which there are dressing-bags and dressing-bells, and +dinner-bells afterwards! And yet one fancied it so slow, the world of +civilisation. Lucius, is it not time for our evening pemmican? Think +of the macaroons and rout-cakes we have trampled under our heels +in the bear-fights that used to wind up our wine-parties; to think +of the anchovy toasts and various devils we have eaten—half from +sheer gluttony, half because it was good form—when we were gorged +like Strasburg geese awaiting their euthanasia. Think how we have +rioted, and wasted and wallowed in what are called the pleasures of +the table; and behold us now, hungering for a lump of rancid fat or +a tallow-candle, to supply our exhausted systems with heat-giving +particles!’ + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +HOW THEY LOST THE TRAIL. + + +The slow days pass, but the guide does not return. Geoffrey’s sporting +explorations have resulted only in a rare bird, hardly a mouthful for +one of the four starving men, though they divide the appetising morsel +with rigid justice, Lucius dissecting it with his clasp-knife almost as +carefully as if it were a subject. + +‘To think that I should live to dine on a section of wood-partridge +without any bread-sauce!’ exclaimed Geoffrey dolefully. ‘Do you know, +when I put the small beast in my bag I was sorely tempted to eat him, +feathers and all! Indeed, I think we make a mistake in plucking our +game. The feathers would at least be filling. It is the sense of a +vacuum from which one suffers most severely; after all it can’t matter +much what a man puts inside him, so long as he fills the cavity. Do +you remember that experimental Frenchman who suggested that a hungry +peasantry should eat grass? The suggestion was hardly popular, and the +mob stuffed the poor wretch’s mouth with a handful of his favourite +pabulum, when they hung him to a convenient lamp-post in ’93. But I +really think the notion was sensible. If there were a rood of pasture +uncovered by the perpetual snow I should imitate Nebuchadnezzar, and go +to grass!’ + +Vain lamentations! Vainer still those long arguments by the pine-log +fire, in which, with map and compass, they travel over again the +journey which has been so disastrous—try back, and find where it was +they lost time—how they let slip a day here, half a week there, until +the expedition, which should have ended with last September, occupied +a period they had never dreamed of, and left them in the bleak bitter +winter: their trail lost, alone in a trackless forest, the snow rising +higher around them day by day, until even the steep bank upon which +they have built their log-hut stands but a few feet above the universal +level. + +From first to last the journey has been attended by misfortune as well +as mistake. They had set forth on this perilous enterprise fondly +hoping they could combine pleasure for themselves, with profit to their +fellow-creatures, and by this wild adventure open up a track for +future emigrants—a high road in the days to come from the shores of +the Atlantic to the Pacific—a path by which adventurers from the old +world should travel across the Rocky Mountains to the gold-fields of +the new world. They had started with high hopes—or Lucius had at least +cherished this dream above all thought of personal enjoyment—hopes +of being reckoned among the golden band of adventurers whose daring +has enlarged man’s dominion over that wide world God gave him for +his heritage—hopes of seeing their names recorded on that grand +muster-roll which begins with Hercules, and ends with Livingstone. +They had started from Fort Edmonton with three horses, two guides, and +a fair outfit; but they had left that point too late in the year, as +the guardians of the fort warned them. They were entreated to postpone +their attempt till the following summer, but they had already spent +one winter in camp between Carlton and Edmonton, and the two young men +were resolutely set against farther delay. Absalom Schanck, much more +phlegmatic, would have willingly wintered at the fort, where there was +good entertainment, and where he could have smoked his pipe and looked +out of window at the pine-tops and the snow from one week’s end to +another, resigned to circumstances, and patiently awaiting remittances +from England. But to Lucius Davoren and Geoffrey Hossack the idea of +such loss of time was unendurable. They had both seen as much as they +cared to see of the trapper’s life during the past winter. Both were +eager to push on to fresh woods and pastures new, Geoffrey moved by +the predatory instincts of the sportsman, Lucius fevered by the less +selfish and more ambitious desire to discover that grand highway which +he had dreamed of, between the two great oceans. The star which guided +his pilgrimage was the lodestar of the discoverer. No idle fancy, no +caprice of the moment, could have tempted him aside from the settled +purpose of his journey. But a mountain-sheep—the bighorn—or a wild +goat, seen high up on some crag against the clear cold sky, was magnet +enough to draw Geoffrey twenty miles out of his course. + +Of the two guides, one deserted before they had crossed the range, +making off quietly with one of their horses—the best, by the way—and +leaving them, after a long day and night of wonderment, to the +melancholy conviction that they had been cheated. They retraced their +way for one day’s journey, sent their other guide, an Indian, back some +distance in search of the deserter, but with no result. This cost them +between three and four days. The man had doubtless gone quietly back +to Edmonton. To follow him farther would be altogether to abandon their +expedition for this year. The days they had already lost were precious +as rubies. + +‘_En avant!_’ exclaimed Geoffrey. + +‘Excelsior!’ cried Lucius. + +The German was quiescent. ‘I zink you leat me to my deaths,’ he said; +‘but man must die one time. Gismet, as the Durks say. They are wise +beobles, ze Durks.’ + +The Indian promised to remain faithful, ay, even to death; of which +fatal issue these savages think somewhat lightly; life for them mostly +signifying hardship and privation, brightened only by rare libations +of rum. He was promoted from a secondary position to the front rank, +and was now their sole guide. With their cavalcade thus shrunken they +pushed bravely on, crossed the mountains by the Yellow Head Pass, +looked down from among snow-clad pinnacles upon the Athabasca river, +rushing madly between its steep banks, and reached Jasper House, a +station of the Hudson’s Bay Company, which they found void of all human +life, a mere shell or empty simulacrum; in the distance a cheering +object to look upon, promising welcome and shelter; and giving neither. + +For Hossack, that mighty mountain range, those snow-clad peaks, +towering skyward, had an irresistible attraction. He had done a good +deal of Alpine climbing in his long vacations, had scaled peaks which +few have ever succeeded in surmounting, and had made his name a +household word among the Swiss guides, but such a range as this was +new to him. Here there was a larger splendour, an infinite beauty. The +world which he had looked down upon from Mont Blanc—lakes, valleys, +and villages dwarfed by the distance—was a mere tea-board landscape, a +toy-shop panorama, compared with this. He drew in his breath and gazed +in a dumb rapture, + + ‘Or like stout Cortez, when, with eagle eyes, + He stared at the Pacific.’ + +Here, again, they lost considerable time; for even Davoren’s +stronger mind was beguiled by the glory of that splendid scene. He +consented to a week’s halt on the margin of the Athabasca, climbed +the mountain-steeps with his friend, chased the bighorn with footstep +light and daring as the chamois-hunter’s; and found himself sometimes, +after the keen pleasures of the hunt, with his moccasins in rags, and +his naked feet cut and bleeding, a fact of which he had been supremely +unconscious so long as the chase lasted. Sometimes, after descending +to the lower earth, laden with their quarry, the hunters looked upward +and saw the precipices they had trodden, the narrow cornice of rock +along which they had run in pursuit of their prey—saw, and shuddered. +Had they been really within a hair’s-breadth of death? + +These were the brightest days of their journey. Their stores were yet +ample, and seemed inexhaustible. They feasted on fresh meat nightly; +yet, with a laudable prudence, smoked and dried some portion of +their prey. In the indulgence of their sporting propensities they +squandered a good deal of ammunition. They smoked half-a-dozen pipes +of tobacco daily. In a word, they enjoyed the present, with a culpable +shortsightedness as to the future. + +This delay turned the balance against them. While they loitered, autumn +stole on with footstep almost impalpable, in that region of evergreen. + +The first sharp frost of early October awakened Lucius to a sense of +their folly. He gave the word for the march forward, refusing to listen +to Geoffrey’s entreaty for one day more—one more wild hunt among those +mighty crags between earth and sky. + +The sea-captain and Kekek-ooarsis, their Indian guide, had been +meritoriously employed during this delay in constructing a raft for the +passage of the Athabasca, at this point a wide lake whose peaceful +waters spread themselves amid an amphitheatre of mountains. + +While they were getting ready for the passage of the river they were +surprised by a party of half-breeds—friendly, but starving. Anxious +as they were to husband their resources, humanity compelled them +to furnish these hapless wanderers with a meal. In return for this +hospitality, the natives gave them some good advice, urging them on +no account to trust themselves to the current of the river—a mode of +transit which seemed easy and tempting—as it abounded in dangerous +rapids. They afforded farther information as to the trail on ahead, +and these sons of the old and new world parted, well pleased with one +another. + +Soon after this began their time of trial and hardship. They had +to cross the river many times in their journey—sometimes on rafts, +sometimes fording the stream—and often in imminent peril of an abrupt +ending of their troubles by drowning. They crossed pleasant oases of +green prairie, verdant valleys all abloom with wild flowers, gentian +and tiger lilies, cineraria, blue borage—the last-lingering traces of +summer’s footfall in the sheltered nooks. Sometimes they came upon +patches where the forest-trees were blackened by fire, or had fallen +among the ashes of the underwood. Sometimes they had to cut their way +through the wood, and made slow and painful progress. Sometimes they +lost the trail, and only regained it after a day’s wasted labour. One +of their horses died—the other was reduced to a mere skeleton—so rare +had now become the glimpses of pasture. They looked at this spectral +equine with sad prophetic eyes, not knowing how long it might be before +they would be reduced to the painful necessity of cooking and eating +him; and with a doleful foreboding that, when famine brought them to +that strait, the faithful steed would be found to consist solely of +bone and hide. + +So they tramped on laboriously and with a dogged patience till they +lost the trail once more; and this time even the Indian’s sagacity +proved utterly at fault, and all their efforts to regain it were +vain. They found themselves in a trackless ring of forest, to them +as darksome a circle as the lowest deep in Dante’s Inferno, and here +beheld the first snow-storm fall white upon the black pine-tops. Here, +in one of their vain wanderings in search of the lost track, they came +upon a dead Indian, seated stark and ghastly at the foot of a giant +pine, draped in his blanket, and bent as if still stooping over the +ashes of the fire wherewith he had tried to keep the ebbing life warm +in his wasted clay. This gruesome stranger was headless. Famine had +wasted him to the very bone; his skin was mere parchment, stretched +tightly over the gaunt skeleton; the whitening bones of his horse +bestrewed the ground by his side. How he came in that awful condition, +what had befallen the missing head, they knew not. Even conjecture +was here at fault. But the spectacle struck them with indescribable +horror. So too might they be found; the skeleton horse crouched dead at +their feet, beside the ashes of the last fire at which their dim eyes +had gazed in the final agonies of starvation. This incident made them +desperate. + +‘We are wasting our strength in a useless hunt for the lost track,’ +said Lucius decisively. ‘We have neither the instinct nor the +experience of the Indian. Let us make a log-hut here, and wait for the +worst quietly, while Kekek-ooarsis searches for the path, or tries to +work his way back to the fort to fetch help and food. He will make +his way three times as fast when he is unencumbered by us and our +incapacity. We may be able to ward off starvation meanwhile with the +aid of Geoff’s guns. At the worst, we only face death. And since a man +can but die once, it is after all only a question of whether we get +full or short measure of the wine of life. + + ‘And come he slow or come he fast, + It is but Death who comes at last.’ + +‘Brezisely,’ said the Hamburgher. ‘It is drue. A man can but die one +time—Gismet. Yet ze wine of life is petter zan ze vater of death, in +most beoble’s obinion.’ + +Kekek-ooarsis had been absent nearly five weeks at the time of the +stranger’s appearance, and the length of his absence had variously +affected the three men who waited with a gloomy resignation for his +return, or the coming of that other stranger, Death. At times, when +Geoffrey’s gun had not been useless, when they had eaten, and were +inclined to take a somewhat cheerful view of their situation, they +told each other that he had most likely recovered the lost track at a +considerable distance from their hut, and had pushed on to the fort, +to procure fresh horses and supplies. They calculated the time such a +journey to and fro must take him, allowed a wide margin for accidental +delays, and argued that it was not yet too late for the possibility of +his return. + +‘I hope he hasn’t cut and run like that other beggar,’ said Geoffrey. +‘It was rather a risky thing to trust him with our money to buy the +horses and provender. Yet it was our only resource.’ + +‘I believe in his honesty,’ replied Davoren. ‘If he deserts us, Death +will be the tempter who lures him away. These Indians have nobler +qualities than you are inclined to credit them with. Do you remember +that starving creature who came to our hut by the Saskatchewan one day +while we were out hunting, and sat by our hearth, famishing amidst +plenty, for twelve mortal hours, and did not touch a morsel till we +returned and offered him food? I’ll forfeit my reputation as a judge of +character, if Kekek-ooarsis tries to cheat us. That other fellow was a +half-breed.’ + +‘The Greeks weren’t half-breeds,’ said Geoffrey, whose reading had of +late years been chiefly confined to the Greek historians and the more +popular of the French novelists, ‘yet they were the most treacherous +ruffians going. I don’t pin my faith on your chivalrous Indian. +However, there’s no use in contemplating the gloomiest side of the +question. Let’s take a more lively view of it, and say that he’s frozen +to death in the pass, with our money intact in his bosom, exactly where +you sewed it into his shirt.’ + +Thus they speculated; the German venturing no opinion, but smoking the +only obtainable substitute for tobacco in stolid silence. Indeed, when +hard pressed by his companions, he admitted that he had never had any +opinion. ‘Vat is ze goot ov obinions?’ he demanded. ‘Man is no petter +vor zem, and it is zo much vasted lapour of prain. I do not know how +to tink. Zomedimes I have ask my froints vat it is like, tinking. Zey +gannot tell me. Zey tink zey tink, put zey to not tink.’ + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +‘ALL’S CHEERLESS, DARK, AND DEADLY.’ + + +The stranger, having had their exact circumstances laid before him, +took the gloomiest view of the position. The first deep fall of snow +had occurred a week after the guide’s departure. If he had not ere that +time regained a track, with landmarks familiar to his eye, all hope of +his having been able to reach the fort was as foolish as it was vain. + +‘For myself,’ said the stranger, ‘I give him up.’ + +This man, who was henceforth known among them as Matchi, a contraction +of the sobriquet bestowed on him by the Indians, fell into his place +in that small circle easily enough. They neither liked him nor +trusted him. But he had plenty to say for himself, and had a certain +originality of thought and language that went some little way towards +dispelling the deep gloom that surrounded them. In their wretched +position, any one who could bring an element of novelty into their life +was welcome. The desperation of his character suited their desperate +circumstances. In a civilised country they would have shut their doors +in his face. But here, with Death peering in at their threshold, this +wild spirit helped them to sustain the horrors of suspense, the dreary +foreboding of a fatal end. + +But there was one charm in his presence which all felt, even the +phlegmatic German. With Lucius Davoren’s violin in his hand, he could +beguile them into brief forgetfulness of that grisly spectre watching +at the door. That passionate music opened the gates of dreamland. +Matchi’s _répertoire_ seemed inexhaustible: but everything he played, +even melodies the world knows by heart, bore the stamp of his own +genius. Whatever subject of Corelli, or Viotti, or Mozart, or Haydn, +formed the groundwork of his theme, the improvisatore sported with +the air at pleasure, and interwove his own wild fancies with the +original fabric. Much that he played was obviously his own composition, +improvised as the bow moved over the strings; wild strains which +interpreted the gloom of their surroundings; dismal threnodies in which +one heard the soughing of the wind among the snow-laden pine-branches; +the howling of wolves at sunrise. + +He proved no drone in that little hive, but toiled at such labour as +there was to be done with a savage energy which seemed in accord with +his half-savage nature. He felled the pine-trunks with his axe, and +brought new stores of fuel to the hut. He fetched water from a distant +lake, where there was but one corner which the ice had not locked +against him. He slept little, and those haggard eyes of his had a +strange brightness and vivacity as he sat by the hearth and stared into +the fire which his toil had helped to furnish. + +Though he talked much at times, but always by fits and starts, it was +curious to note how rarely he spoke directly of himself or his past +life. Even when Lucius questioned him about his musical education, in +what school he had learned, who had been his master, he contrived to +evade the question. + +‘There are some men who have not the knack of learning from other +people, but who must be their own teachers,’ he said. ‘I am one of +those. Shut me up in a prison for ten years, with my fiddle for my only +companion, and when I come out I shall have discovered a new continent +in the world of music.’ + +‘You play other instruments,’ hazarded Lucius; ‘the cello?’ + +‘I play most stringed instruments,’ the other answered carelessly. + +‘The piano?’ + +‘Yes, I play the piano. A man has fingers; what is there strange in his +using them?’ + +‘Nothing; only one wonders that you should be content to hide so many +accomplishments in the backwoods.’ + +Matchi shrugged his lean shoulders. + +‘There are a thousand various reasons why a man should grow tired of +his own particular world,’ he said. + +‘To say nothing of the possibility that a man’s own particular world +may grow tired of him,’ returned Lucius. + +Instead of himself and his own affairs—that subject which exalts +the most ungifted speaker into eloquence—the stranger spoke of men +and manners, the things he had seen from the outside as a mere +spectator; the books he had read, and they were legion. Never was a +brain stocked with a more heterogeneous collection of ideas. Queer +books, out-of-the-way books, had evidently formed his favourite study. +Geoffrey heard, and was amused. Lucius heard, and wondered, and +rendered to this man that unwilling respect which we give to intellect +unallied with the virtues. + +Thus three days and nights went by, somewhat less slowly than the +days had gone of late. On the morning of the fourth the stranger grew +impatient—paced the narrow bounds of his hut like an imprisoned jaguar. + +‘Death lies yonder, I doubt not,’ he said, pointing to the forest, +‘while here there is the possibility—a mere possibility—that we may +outlive our troubles; that some luckier band of emigrants may come this +way to succour us before we expire. But I tell you frankly, my friends, +that I can’t stand this sort of life three days longer—to sit down and +wait for death, arms folded, without so much as a pipe of tobacco to +lull the fever in one’s brain. _That_ needs a Roman courage which I +possess not. I shall not trouble your hospitality much longer.’ + +‘What will you do?’ asked Geoffrey. + +‘Push ahead. I have my chart here,’ touching his forehead. ‘I shall +push on towards the Pacific with no better guide than the stars. I can +but perish; better to be frozen to death on the march—like a team of +sleigh-dogs I saw once by the Saskatchewan, standing stark and stiff in +the snow, as their drivers had left them—than to sit and doze by the +fire here till Death comes in his slowest and most hideous shape—death +by famine.’ + +‘You had better stay with us and share our chances,’ said Lucius; ‘our +guide may even yet return.’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Matchi, ‘at the general muster roll, with the rank and +file of the dead.’ + +His words were strangely belied ere that brief day darkened into +night. The four men were sitting huddled round the fire, smoking their +final pipe—for Matchi had now shared among them the last remnant of +his tobacco—when a curious hollow cry, like the plaintive note of a +distressed bird, was heard in the distance. + +Lucius was the first to divine its meaning. + +‘Kekek-ooarsis!’ he cried, starting to his feet. ‘He has come back at +last. Thank God! thank God!’ + +The call was repeated, this time distinctly human. + +‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, ‘that’s the identical flute.’ + +He ran to the door of the hut. Lucius snatched up one of the blazing +pine-branches from the hearth, and went out, waving this fiery brand +aloft, and shouting in answer to the Indian’s cry. In this moment of +glad surprise and hope the man’s return meant succour, comfort, plenty. +Too soon were they to be undeceived. He emerged from among the shadowy +branches, half limping, half crawling towards them across the snow, +which was solid enough to bear that light burden without the faintest +impression on its frozen surface. He came into the glare of the +pine-branch, a wasted ghastly figure, more spectral than their own—the +very image and type of famine. + +He came back to them empty-handed. No dogs or horses followed him. He +came, not to bring them the means of life, but to die with them. + +The faithful creature crawled about them like a dog, hugged their +knees, laid his wasted body at their feet, looked up at them with +supplicating eyes, too feeble for words. They carried him into the +hut, put him by the fire, and gave him food, which he devoured like a +famished wolf. + +Restored by that welcome heat and food, he told them his adventures; +how he had striven in vain to regain the track and make his way back +to the fort; how, after weary wanderings, he had found himself at +last among a little band of Indians, whose camp lay northward of +the Englishmen’s hut, and who were as near famine as they. Here he +had fallen ill with frostbite and rheumatism, but had been kindly +succoured by the Indians, not of his tribe. He had lain in one of their +shelters—not worthy to be dignified even by the name of hut—for a long +time, how long he knew not, having lost consciousness during the +period, and thus missed his reckoning. With recovery came the ardent +desire to return to them, to show them that he had not betrayed his +trust. The bank-notes sewn into his garments had escaped observation +and pillage, supposing the Indians inclined to plunder their guest. He +asked them to sell him provisions that he might take to his masters, +tried to tempt them with liberal offers of payment, but they had +unhappily nothing to sell. Buffalo had vanished from that district, +the lakes and rivers were frozen. The Indians themselves were living +from hand to mouth, and hardly living at all, so meagre was their fare. +Convinced at last that the case was hopeless, Kekek-ooarsis had left +them to return to the hut—a long and difficult journey, since in his +efforts to regain the road, to the fort he had made a wide circuit. +Only fidelity—the dog’s faithful allegiance to the master he loves—had +brought him back to that hunger-haunted dwelling. + +‘I cannot help you,’ he said piteously in his native language; ‘I have +come back to die with you.’ + +‘One more or less to die makes little difference,’ answered the +stranger, speaking the man’s exact dialect with perfect fluency. ‘Let +us see if we cannot contrive to live. You have failed once in your +endeavour to find your way back to the fort. That is no reason you +should fail a second time. Few great things have been done at the first +attempt. Get your strength back, my friend, and you and I will set out +together as soon as you are fit for the journey. I know something of +the country; and with your native eyes and ears to help me, we could +hardly fail.’ + +Kekek-ooarsis looked up at him wonderingly. He was not altogether +favourably impressed by the stranger’s appearance, if one might judge +by his own countenance, which expressed doubt and perplexity. + +‘I will do whatever my masters bid me,’ he said submissively. + +His masters let him rest, and eat, and bask in the warmth of the +pine-logs for two days; after which he declared himself ready to set +out upon any quest they might order. + +The stranger had talked them into a belief in his intelligence being +superior to that of the guide; and they consented to the two setting +out together to make a second attempt to find the way to the fort. In +a condition so hopeless it seemed to matter very little what they did. +Anything was better than sitting, arms folded, as the stranger had +said, face to face with death. + +But Lucius was now chained to the hut by a new tie. The day after the +Indian’s return, Geoffrey, the light-hearted, the fearless, had been +struck down with fever. Lucius had henceforward no care so absorbing as +that which bound him to the side of his friend. The German looked on, +phlegmatic but not unsympathising, and made no moan. + +‘I shall gatch ze fefer aftervarts, no tout,’ he said, ‘and you vill +have dwo do nurse. Hart ubon you.’ + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +‘O, THAT WAY MADNESS LIES.’ + + +The fever raged severely. Delirium held Geoffrey’s brain in its hideous +thraldom. Horrid sights and scenes pursued him. He looked at his +friend’s face with blank unseeing eyes, or looked and beheld something +that was not there—the countenance of an enemy. + +Lucius felt himself now between two fires—disease on one side, famine +on the other. Between these two devastators death seemed inevitable. +Absalom Schanck, sorely wasted from his native plumpness, sat by the +hearth and watched the struggle, resigned to the idea of his own +approaching end. + +Geoffrey’s illness reduced them to a far worse situation than they had +been in before, since he was their chief sportsman, and had done much +to ward off starvation. Lucius took his gun out for a couple of hours +every morning, leaving the invalid in Absalom’s charge, and prowled +the forest in search of game. But with the exception of one solitary +marten, whose tainted flesh had been revolting even to their hunger, +his wanderings had been barren of everything but disappointment. + +Matchi and the guide had been gone a week, when Lucius set out one +morning more desperate than usual, hunger gnawing his entrails, and +worse than hunger, a fear that weighed upon his heart like lead—the +fear that before many days were gone Geoffrey Hossack would have +set forth upon a longer and a darker journey than that they two had +started upon together, in the full flush of youth and hope, a year and +a half ago. He could not conceal from himself that his friend was in +imminent danger—that unless the fever, for which medicine could do so +little, abated speedily, all must soon be over. Nor could he conceal +from himself another fact—namely, that the stores he had doled out +with such a niggard hand would not yield even that scanty allowance +for twenty-four hours longer. A sorry frame of mind in which to stalk +buffalo or chase the moose! + +Again Fortune was unkind. He wandered farther than usual in his +determination not to go back empty-handed. He knew but too well that +in Geoffrey’s desperate state there was nothing his experience could +do that Absalom’s ignorance could not do as well. In fact there was +nothing to be done. The patient lay in a kind of stupor. Only the +gentle nursing-mother Nature could help him now. + +He came upon a circular patch of prairie in the heart of the forest, +and surprised a lean and lonely buffalo, the first he had seen for more +than a month. The last had been shot by Geoffrey some days before the +guide’s departure on his useless journey. The animal was scratching +in the snow, trying to get at the scanty herbage under that frozen +surface, when Lucius came upon it. His footsteps, noiseless in his +moccasins, did not startle the quarry. He stole within easy range, +and fired. The first shot hit the animal in the shoulder; then came a +desperate chase. The buffalo ran, but feebly. Lucius fired his second +barrel, this time at still closer quarters, and the brute, gaunt and +famished like himself, rolled head downwards on the snow. + +He took out his hunting-knife, cut out the tongue and choicer morsels, +as much as he could carry, and then with infinite labour buried his +prey in the snow, meaning to return next morning with Absalom to fetch +the remainder; provided always that the snow kept his secret, and +wolves or wolverines did not devour his prize in the interval. He was +able to carry away with him food that would serve for more than a +week. No matter how hard or skinny the flesh might be,—it was flesh. + +Darkness had closed round him when these labours were finished, +but stars shone faintly above the pine-tops: and he carried a +pocket-lantern which he could light on emergency. Where was he? That +was the first question to be settled. He found some difficulty in +recalling the track he had taken. Great Heaven! if he had strayed too +far afield, and should find return impossible! Geoffrey yonder dying, +without his brotherly arm to support the drooping head, his loving +hand to wipe the brow on which the death-damps gathered! The very +thought made him desperate. He looked up at the stars, his only guides, +shouldered his burden, and walked rapidly in that direction which he +supposed the right one. + +During their enforced idleness, Geoffrey and Lucius had made themselves +tolerably familiar with the aspect of the forest within a radius of +ten miles or so from their hut. They knew the course of the river, +and its tributary streams. They had even cut rude avenues through the +pine-wood, in their quest of fuel, cutting down trees in a straight +line at a dozen yards apart, leaving six feet or so of the trunk +standing, like a rude pillar; so that within half a mile of their +encampment there were on every side certain roughly-marked approaches. + +But to-night Lucius had lost ken of the river, and knew himself to be a +good ten miles from any tree that he or Geoffrey had ever hewn asunder. +He stopped after about half-an-hour’s tramp; felt himself at fault; +lighted his lantern, and looked about him. + +An impenetrable forest; a scene of darksome grandeur, gigantic +pine-trees towering skyward, laden with snow; but over all a dreadful +monotony, that made the picture gloomy as the shores of Acheron. Nor +could Lucius discover any landmark whereby he might steer his course. + +He stopped for some minutes, his heart beating heavily. It was not the +fear of peril to himself that tormented him. His mind—rarely a prey to +selfish fears—was full of his dying friend. + +‘To be away at such a time!’ he thought; ‘to have shared all the +brightest hours of my youth with him, and not to be near him at the +last!’ + +This was bitter. He pushed on desperately, muttering a brief prayer; +telling himself that Heaven could not be so cruel as to sever him from +the friend who was dear as a brother, who represented to him all he had +ever known of brotherly love. + +He paused suddenly, startled by a sight so unexpected that his +arm dropped nerveless, and his burden fell at his feet. A light +in the thick forest; the welcome glare of a traveller’s fire. Not +the far-spreading blaze of conflagration, the devouring flames +stretching from tree to tree—a spectacle he had seen in the course +of his wanderings—but the steady light of a mighty fire of heaped-up +pine-logs; a fire to keep wolves and grisly bears at bay, and to defy +the blighting presence of the frost-fiend himself. + +Lucius resumed his burden, and made straight for the fire. A wide and +deep circle, making a kind of basin, had been dug out of the snow. In +the centre burned a huge fire, and before it a man lay on his stomach, +his chin resting on his folded arms, lazily watching the blazing logs; +a man with wild hair and wilder eyes; a man whose haggard face even the +red glow of the fire could not brighten. + +‘What!’ cried Lucius, recognising him at the first glance; ‘have you +got no farther than this, Matchi? A sorry result of your boasted +cleverness! Where’s the Indian?’ + +‘I don’t know,’ the other answered shortly. ‘Dead, perhaps, before +this. We quarrelled and parted two days ago. The man’s a knave and a +ruffian.’ + +‘I don’t believe that,’ said Lucius. ‘He persevered, I suppose; pushed +on towards the fort, and you didn’t. That’s the meaning of your +quarrel.’ + +‘Have it so, if you like,’ returned the stranger with scornful +carelessness. Then seeing that Lucius still stood upon the edge of the +circle—a bank of snow—looking down at him, he lifted his dark eyes +slowly, and returned the gaze. + +‘Have things brightened with you since we parted company?’ he asked. + +‘How should they brighten, unless Providence sent some luckier +wanderers across our track?—not a likely event at this time of year. +No, the aspect of our affairs has darkened to the deepest gloom. +Geoffrey Hossack is dying of fever.’ + +‘Amidst universal cold—strange anomaly!’ said the other, in his hard +unpitying voice. ‘But since death seems inevitable for all of us, I’d +gladly change lots with your friend—burn with fever—and go out of this +world unconscious. It is looking death in the face that tortures me: to +lie here, looking into that fire, and calculate the slow but too swift +hours that stand between me and—annihilation. _That_ gnaws my vitals.’ + +Lucius looked down at the strongly-marked passionate face, half in +scorn, half in pity. + +‘You can see no horizon beyond your grave under these pine-trees,’ he +said. ‘You do not look upon this life as an education for the better +life that is to succeed it?’ + +‘No. I had done with that fable before I was twenty.’ + +A hard cruel face, with the red fire shining in it—the face of a +man who, knowing himself unfit for heaven, was naturally disposed +to unbelief in a future, which for this dark soul could only mean +expiation. + +‘Can you help me to find my way back to the hut?’ Lucius asked, after a +meditative pause. + +‘Not I. I thought I was a hundred miles from it. I have been wandering +in a circle, I suppose.’ + +‘Evidently. Where did you leave Kekek-ooarsis?’ + +The stranger looked at him doubtfully, as if hardly understanding the +drift of the question. Lucius repeated it. + +‘I don’t know. There is no “where” in this everlasting labyrinth. We +disagreed, and parted—somewhere!’ + +Lucius Davoren’s gaze, wandering idly about that sunken circle in +the snow, where every inch of ground was fitfully illuminated by the +ruddy glare of the pine-logs, was suddenly attracted by an object that +provoked his curiosity—a little heap of bones, half burnt, at the edge +of the fire. The flame licked them every now and then, as the wind blew +it towards them. + +‘You have had a prize, I see,’ he said, pointing to these bones. +‘Biggish game! How did you manage without a gun?’ + +‘A knife is sometimes as good as a gun!’ said the other, without +looking up. He stretched out his long lean arm as he spoke, and pushed +the remainder of his prey farther into the fire. + +In a moment—before the other was aware—Lucius had leaped down into the +circle, and was on his knees, dragging the bones back out of the fire +with his naked hands. + +‘Assassin! devil!’ he cried, turning to the stranger with a look of +profoundest loathing: ‘I thought as much. These are human bones. This +is the fore-arm of a man.’ + +‘That’s a lie,’ the other answered coolly. ‘I snared a wolf, and +stabbed him with my clasp-knife.’ + +‘I have not worked in the dissecting-room for nothing,’ said Lucius +quietly. ‘Those are human bones. You have staved off death by murder.’ + +‘If I had, it would be no worse than the experience of a hundred +shipwrecks,’ answered the other, glancing from Lucius to his gun, with +an air at once furtive and ferocious, like some savage beast at bay. + +‘I have half a mind to shoot you down like the wolf you are,’ said +Lucius, rising slowly from his knees, after throwing the bones back +into the blaze. + +‘Do it, and welcome,’ answered the stranger, casting off all reserve +with a contemptuous tone, that might be either the indifference of +desperation or mere bravado. ‘Famine knows no law. I have done only +what I daresay you would have done in my situation. We had starved, +literally starved—no half rations, but sheer famine—for five days, when +I killed him with a sudden stroke of my hatchet. I cut off one arm, and +buried the rest of him—yonder, under the snow. I daresay I was half-mad +when I did it. Yet it was a mercy to put him out of his misery. If he +had been a white skin, I should have tossed up with him which was to +go, but I didn’t stand on punctilio with a nigger. It may be my turn +next, perhaps. Shoot me, and welcome, if you’ve a mind to waste a +charge of powder on so miserable a wretch.’ + +‘No,’ said Lucius, ‘no one has made me your judge or your executioner. +I leave you to your conscience. But if ever you darken the threshold of +our hut again—be your errand what it may—by the God above us both, you +shall die like a dog!’ + +Matchi’s keen eyes followed the vanishing form of his accuser, and his +thin lips shaped themselves into a triumphant grin. + +‘You didn’t inquire about the money the Indian carried,’ he muttered. +‘_That_ was my real motive. Better to be thought a cannibal than a +thief. And with that money I can begin life again if ever I get clear +of this forest.’ + + * * * * * + +Lucius Davoren spent that night in the forest, by a fire of his own +kindling, after having put some distance between himself and that other +wanderer. He recruited exhausted nature with a buffalo steak, and then +sat out the night by his lonely fire; sometimes dozing, more often +watching, knowing not when murder might creep upon him with stealthy +footfall across the silent snow. Morning came, however, and the night +had brought no attack. By daylight he regained the lost trail, found +his way back to the hut, laden with his spoil, and to his unspeakable +joy found a change for the better in the sick man. + +‘I have gaven him his traft, bongdual,’ said Mr. Schanck, pointing to +the empty medicine bottle, ‘and he is gooller; he bersbires. Dat is +goot.’ + + ‘Von der Stirne heisse, + Rinnen muss der Schweiss.’ + +Yes, perspiration had arisen, nature’s healing dew; not the awful +damps of swift-coming death. Lucius knelt by the rough bed, and thanked +God for this happy change. How sweet was prayer at such a moment! He +thought of that murderous wretch in the forest, waiting for the death +he had sought to defer by famine’s last loathsome resource; that +revolting expedient which it was horror to think of—a lost wretch +without a hope beyond the grave, without belief in a God. + +On his knees, his breast swollen by the rapture of gratitude and glad +surprise, Lucius thought of that wretch almost with pity. + +He made a strong broth with some of the buffalo flesh, and fed his +patient by spoonfuls. To rally from such prostration must needs be a +slow process; but once hopeful of his friend’s recovery, Lucius was +content to wait for the issue in quiet confidence. + +He told Absalom his adventure in the forest, the hideous discovery of +the faithful Indian’s fate. + +‘Vat for a man! And vhen he has digesded the Indian, and feels again +vhat boor Geoffrey used to gall a vaguum, he vill gome and ead us,’ +said the German despondently. + +‘He will not cross this threshold. What! do you think I would let that +ravening beast approach _him_?’ pointing to the prostrate figure on the +bed. ‘I have told him what I should do if he came here. He knows the +penalty.’ + +‘You vould gill him?’ + +‘Without one scruple.’ + +‘I tink you are in your right,’ answered Absalom tranquilly. ‘It is an +onbleasant itea do be eaden.’ + +Two days passed slowly. Geoffrey rallied. Very slow was the progress +towards recovery—almost imperceptible to the non-professional eye, but +it was progress. Lucius perceived it, and was thankful. He had not +slept since that night in the forest, but watched all night beside the +patient’s bed—his gun within reach of his hand, loaded with ball. + +On the third night of his watch, when Geoffrey had been wandering a +little, and then had fallen into a placid slumber, there came a sound +at the door—a sound that was neither the waving of a pine-branch nor +the cry of bird or beast; a sound distinctly human. + +Lucius had barricaded his door with a couple of pine-trunks, placed +transversely, like a St. Andrew’s cross. The door itself was a +fragile contrivance (three or four roughly-hewn planks nailed loosely +together), but the St. Andrew’s cross made a formidable barrier. + +He heard the door tried with a rough impatient hand. The pine-trunks +groaned, but held firm. The door was shaken again; then, after a +moment’s pause, the same impatient hand shook the little parchment +window. This offered but a frail defence; it rattled, yielded, then, +after one vigorous thrust, burst inward, and a dark ragged head and +strong bony shoulders appeared in the opening. + +‘I am starving,’ cried a hoarse voice, faint, yet with a strange force +in its hollow tones. It was the voice of the man who called himself +Matchi. ‘Give me shelter—food—if you have any to give. It is my last +chance,’ he gasped breathlessly. + +He widened the space about him with those strong desperate arms, and +made as if he would have leapt into the hut. Lucius raised his gun, +cocked it, and took aim deliberately, without an instant’s hesitation. + +‘I told you what would happen if you came here,’ he said, and, with the +words, fired. + +The man fell backwards, dragging the thin parchment window and some +part of its fragile framework with him. His death-clutch had fastened +on the splintered wood. A wild gust of north-east wind rushed in +through the blank space in the log wall, but Lucius Davoren did not +feel it. + +‘Great God!’ he asked himself, a slow horror creeping through his +ice-cold veins, ‘was that a murder?’ + + +END OF THE PROLOGUE. + + + + +Book the First. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +LOOKING BACKWARDS. + + +Behold, O reader, the eastern end of the great city; a region strange +beyond all measure to the dwellers in the west; a low flat marshy +district, where the land and the river seem to have become entangled +with each other in inextricable confusion, by reason of manifold creeks +and creeklets, basins, and pools, which encroach upon the shore, and +where the tall spars of mighty merchantmen and giant emigrant-ships +rise cheek by jowl with factory chimneys; where the streets are dark +and narrow, and the sound of engines hoarsely labouring greets the ear +at every turn; where the staple commodity seems to be ship-biscuit; +where the shipchandler has his stronghold; where the provision-dealer +has his storehouse, in which vast hoards of dried meats and tinned +provisions, pickles, and groceries are piled from floor to ceiling +and from cellar to garret; a world in which the explorer stumbles +unawares upon ropewalks, or finds himself suddenly involved in a cloud +of bonnetless factory girls, thick as locusts in Arabia, who jibe and +flout at the stranger. Roads there are, broad and airy enough, which +lead away from the narrow streets and the stone basins, the quays, +the docks, the steam-cranes, and tall ships—not to the country, there +seems no such thing as country accessible from this peculiar world—but +to distant marshes and broader water; roads fringed with dingy houses, +and here and there a factory, and here and there a house of larger +size and greater pretension than its neighbours, shut in by high walls +perchance, and boasting an ancient garden; a garden where the tall elms +were saplings in the days when kings went hunting on the Essex coast +yonder; and when this east-end of London had its share of fashion and +splendour. + +Perhaps of all these broader thoroughfares, Shadrack-road was the +shabbiest. It had struggled into existence later than the rest, and +in all its dismal length could boast but one of those substantial old +red-brick mansions whose occasional appearance redeemed the commonness +of the other high roads. There was a sprinkling of humble shops, a +seamen’s lodging-house, a terrace or two of shabby-genteel houses, +three-storied, with little iron balconies that had never been painted +within the memory of man; poor sordid-looking little houses, which were +always putting bills in their smoke-darkened windows, beseeching people +to come and lodge in them. There were a few modern villas, of the +speculative-builders’ pattern, whose smart freshness put to shame their +surroundings; and one of these, a corner one, with about half a perch +of garden-ground, was distinguished by a red lamp and a brass-plate, on +which appeared the following inscription: + + MR. LUCIUS DAVOREN, + _Surgeon_. + +Here Lucius Davoren had begun the battle of life; actual life, in all +its cold reality; hard and common and monotonous, and on occasion +hopeless; a life strangely different from the explorer’s adventurous +days, from the trapper’s lonely commune with nature in the trackless +pine-woods; a life wherein the veriest dreamer could find scant margin +for poetry; a life whose dull realities weigh down the soul of man +as though an iron hand were laid upon his brain, grinding out every +aspiration for better things than the day’s food and the night’s +shelter. + +He stands alone in the world; there is comfort at least in that. Let +the struggle be sharp as it may, there is no cherished companion to +share the pain. Let poverty’s stern grip pinch him never so sharply, he +feels the pinch alone. Father, mother, the child sister, whom he loved +so dearly fifteen years ago, are all dead. Their graves lie far away in +a Hampshire churchyard, the burial-place of that rural village of which +his father was Rector for thirty years of his unambitious life. + +He has another sister, but she was counted lost some years ago, and to +think of her is worse than to think of the dead. In all those years, +from the time when he was a lad just emancipated from Winchester school +to this present hour, he has never been heard to speak her name; but he +keeps her in his memory nevertheless, and has the record of her hapless +fate hidden away in the secret-drawer of his desk, with a picture of +the face whose beauty was fatal. + +She was his favourite sister, his senior by two years, fond and +proud of him, his counsellor and ally in all things; like himself, +passionately fond of music; like himself a born musician. This charm, +in conjunction with her beauty, had made her the glory and delight +of a small provincial circle, which widened before her influence. +Wykhamston society was the narrowest and stiffest of systems; but the +fame of Janet Davoren’s beauty and Janet Davoren’s voice travelled +beyond the bounds of Wykhamston society. In a word, Miss Davoren was +taken notice of by the county. The meek old Rector, with his pleasant +face, and bald head scantily garnished with iron-gray hair, was made to +emerge from retirement, in order to gratify the county. He was bidden +to a ball at the Marquis of Guildford’s; to a private concert at Sir +Horatio and Lady Veering Baker’s; to dinners and evening parties twenty +miles away from the modest Rectory. Miss Davoren was even invited to +stay at Lady Baker’s; and, going ostensibly for a few days, remained +her ladyship’s guest for nearly a month. They were all so fond of the +dear girl, Lady Baker informed the Rector. + +‘_I_ am not good enough, I suppose,’ said Mrs. Davoren, when the +Marchioness and the Baronet’s wife, after calling upon her, and being +intensely civil for fifteen minutes, ignored her in their cards of +invitation. ‘Never mind, Stephen, if you and Janet enjoy yourselves, +I’m satisfied; and it’s lucky they haven’t invited me, for I’ve nothing +to wear but my old black satin and the Indian scarf, and _they’d_ +never do for the Castle or Lady Veering Baker’s. They’re well enough +in Wykhamston, where people are accustomed to them.’ + +So the Rector’s worthy wife, who had supreme control of the family +purse, arrayed her handsome daughter in the prettiest dresses the +Wykhamston milliner could achieve, and ornamented the girl’s dark hair +with camelias from the little greenhouse, and was content to sit at +home and wonder what the grand Castle folks thought of her Janet, and +whether her dear old man was having an agreeable rubber; content to sit +up late into the night, while the rectory handmaidens snored in their +attic chambers, till the creaky old covered wagonette brought home the +revellers, when she would sit up yet another hour to hear the tidings +of her darling’s triumphs; what songs she had sung, what dances she had +danced, and all the gracious things that had been said of her and to +her. + +About this time, the idea that Miss Davoren was destined to make a +splendid marriage became a fixed belief in the minds of the Rector’s +family, from the head thereof to the very cook who cooked the dinner, +always excepting the young lady herself, who seemed to take very little +thought of anything but music; the organ which she played in the old +church; the old-fashioned square piano in the rectory drawing-room. +It did not seem possible to the simple mind of Mrs. Davoren that all +this admiration could result in nothing; that her daughter could be +the cynosure of every eye at Guildford Castle, the acknowledged belle +at Lady Veering Baker’s musical evenings, and yet remain plain Janet +Davoren, or be reduced to the necessity of marrying a curate or a +struggling country surgeon. Something must come of all this patronage, +which had kindled the fire of jealousy in many a Wykhamston breast. But +when the fond mother ventured to suggest as much to the girl herself, +she was put off with affectionate reproof. + +‘Dearest mother, can you be so innocent as not to see that all this +notice means nothing more than the gratification of the moment? The +Marchioness and Lady Baker had happened to hear that I sing tolerably, +and as the common run of amateur music is not worth much, thought they +might as well have me. It only cost the trouble of calling upon you, +and pretending to be interested in your poultry and papa’s garden. If +this were London, and they could get professional singers, they would +not have taken even so much trouble as that about me.’ + +‘Never mind what the Marchioness and Lady Baker mean,’ said the mother; +‘I am not thinking of them, but of the people you meet there; the +young men who pay you such compliments, and crowd round you after your +songs.’ + +Janet laughed, almost bitterly, at this speech and at the mother’s +eager look, full of anticipated triumph. + +‘And who will go back to their own world and forget my existence, when +they leave Hampshire,’ she said. + +‘But there must be some whose attentions are more marked than others,’ +urged Mrs. Davoren; ‘county people, perhaps. There is that Mr. +Cumbermere, for instance, who has an immense estate on the borders of +Berkshire. I’ve heard your papa talk of him; quite a young man, and +unmarried. Come, Janet, be candid with your poor old mother. Isn’t +there one among them all who seems a little in earnest?’ + +‘Not one among them, mother,’ the girl answered, looking downward with +a faint, faint sigh, so faint as to escape even the mother’s ear; ‘not +one. They all say the same thing, or the same kind of thing, in just +the same way. They think me rather good-looking, I believe, and they +seem really to like my singing and playing. But they will go away and +forget both, and my good looks as well. There is not one of them ever +so little in love with me; and if I were in love with one of them I +might almost as well be in love with all, for they are all alike.’ + +This was discouraging, but the mother still cherished her dream; +cherished it until the bitter hour of awakening—that fatal hour in +which she learned from a letter in the girl’s own hand that Janet had +abandoned home, friends, reputation—the very hope of heaven, as it +seemed to the heartbroken father and mother—to follow the fortunes of +a villain, of whose identity they had not the faintest idea, whose +opportunities for the compassing of this deadly work would seem to have +been of the smallest. + +The girl’s letter—passionate, despairing, with a wild and deep despair +which told how desperate had been the conflict between love and +duty—gave no hint of her betrayer’s name or place in the world. + +The letter was somewhat vaguely worded. There are some things which +no woman could write. Janet Davoren did not tell them that she went +of her own free will to perdition. But so much despair could hardly +accompany an innocent passion; sorrow so deep and hopeless implied +guilt. To the Rector and his wife there seemed no room for doubt. They +read and re-read the long wild appeal for forgiveness or oblivion; that +their only daughter, the pride and idol of both, might be pardoned or +forgotten. They weighed every word, written with a swift impetuous +hand, blotted by remorseful tears, but no ray of hope shone between the +lines. They could arrive at but one miserable conclusion. The girl had +accepted dishonour as the cost of a love she was too weak to renounce. +The letter was long, wild, recklessly worded; but in all there was no +clue to the traitor. + +The Rector and his wife made no outcry. They were even heroic enough +to suppress all outward token of their grief, lest their little world +should discover the cruel truth. The father went about his daily +work pale and shaken, but calm of aspect. The only noticeable fact +in his life was that from this day forth he neglected his garden and +his poultry-yard. His innocent delight in Dorking fowls and standard +rose-trees perished for ever with his daughter’s disappearance. The +mother wept in secret, and suffered not so much as a single tear to be +seen by her household. + +The servants were told that Miss Davoren had gone upon a visit to some +friends in London. Janet had left the house in the early morning, +unseen by any one except the lad who attended to the garden, and him +she had employed to convey a small portmanteau to the railway station. +The manner of her departure therefore had been commonplace enough; +but the servants were accustomed to hear a good deal of preliminary +discussion before any movement of the family, and wondered not a little +that there should have been nothing said about Miss Davoren’s departure +beforehand, and that she should have gone away so early, before any +one was up, and without so much as a cup of tea, as the cook remarked +plaintively. + +The wretched father and mother read that farewell letter till every +word it contained seemed written on their hearts, but it helped them +in no manner towards the knowledge of their daughter’s fate. They went +over the names in their own little circle; the half-dozen or so of +young men—more or less unattractive—who were on visiting terms at the +Rectory; but there was no member of Wykhamston society they could for a +moment consider guilty: and indeed, the answer to every suspicion was +obvious in the fact that every member of that small community was in +his place: the curate going his quiet rounds on a hog-maned pony; the +unmarried doctor scouring the neighbourhood from breakfast to tea-time +in his travel-worn dog-cart; the lawyer’s son true to the articles that +bound him to his father’s service; the small landowners and gentlemanly +tenant-farmers of the immediate vicinity to be seen as of old at +church and market-place. No, there was no one the Rector could suspect +of act or part in his darling’s flight. + +A little later, and with extreme caution, he ventured to inquire +among certain of his parishioners if any stranger had been seen about +Wykhamston within the last month or so. He contrived to put this +question to a well-to-do corn-chandler, the chief gossip of the little +town, in a purely conversational manner. + +‘Yes,’ said Mr. Huskings the corn-chandler, assenting to a general +remark upon the dulness that had prevailed of late in Wykhamston, ‘the +place has been quiet enough. It ain’t much of a place for strangers at +the best of times, unless it’s one of them measuring chaps that come +spying about, with a yard measure, after a new railway, that’s to take +everybody away from the town and never bring nobody to it, and raise +the price of meat and vegibles. There was that horgan-playin’ chap at +the George the other day; what _he_ come for nobody could find out, +for he didn’t measure nothing; only poked about the old church on +workadays, and played the horgan. But of course you’d know all about +him from Miss Davoren, as must have seen him sometimes when she went to +practise with the coheer.’ + +The Rector’s sad face blanched a little. This was the man! + +‘No,’ he said, somewhat falteringly, ‘my daughter never spoke of him; +or if she did I didn’t take any notice. She’s away now for a little +time, staying with friends in London. She may have told us about him; I +don’t remember.’ + +‘Strange old gentleman, the Rector!’ Mr. Huskings remarked to his wife +afterwards; ‘such a nervous way with him lately; breaking fast, I’m +afeard.’ + +‘Miss Davoren could hardly have missed seein’ of him,’ he answered. ‘He +were always about the church, when he warn’t fishin’, but he were a +great hand at fishin’. Rather a well-looking chap, with dark eyes and +long dark hair; looked summat like a furriner, but spoke English plain +enough in spite of his furrin looks.’ + +‘Young?’ asked the Rector. + +‘Might be anything betwixt twenty-five and thirty-five.’ + +‘And a gentleman, I suppose?’ + +‘His clothes was fust-class, and he paid his way honourable. Had the +best rooms over yonder,’ with a jerk of his head in the direction +of the George, ‘and tipped everybody ’andsome. He warn’t here above +a month or six weeks; but he hired a pianner from Mr. Stammers, up +street, and there he’d sit by the hour together, Mrs. Capon told me, +strum, strum, strum. “Music that made you feel creepy-crawly like,” +says Mrs. Capon; “not a good hearty tune as you could understand, but +meandering and meandering like till you felt as if you’d gone to sleep +in a cathedral while the organ was playin’,” says Mrs. Capon.’ + +Music! Yes, that was the spell which had lured his child to her ruin. +Nothing less than that fatal magic, which had held her from her +babyhood, could have been strong enough to beguile that poor young soul. + +‘Did you hear the man’s name?’ asked the Rector. + +‘I heerd it, sure enough, sir; but I never were a good hand at +remembering names. Mrs. Capon ud tell you in a moment.’ + +‘No, no,’ exclaimed the Rector nervously; ‘I’ve no curiosity; it’s of +no importance. Good-afternoon, Huskings. You—you may send me a sack of +barley;’ this with a little pang, remembering what a joyless business +his poultry-yard had become of late. + +He went ‘up street’ to Mr. Stammers, who kept a little music-shop and +let out pianos. + +‘You’d better look in at the Rectory and tune the piano before my +daughter comes home, Stammers,’ said the Rector, with a bitter pain at +his heart, and then sat down in the chair by Mr. Stammers’ door—set +wide open on this warm afternoon—a little out of breath, though the +High-street from the corn-merchant’s door to the music-seller’s was a +dead level. + +‘Yes, sir. Miss Davoren away, sir? I thought I missed her at church +last Sunday. Mr. Filby’s playing don’t come anything nigh hers. What a +wonderful gift she has, sir! The Marchioness was up town yesterday—they +are at the Castle for a week, ong parsong—and drew up here to give an +order. I made bold to show her the little fantasia I took the liberty +to dedicate to Miss Davoren. She smiled so sweet when she saw the name. +“You’ve reason to be proud of your Rector’s daughter, Mr. Stammers,” +she said; “such a lovely young lady, and such a fine musician! I wish I +had time to call at the Rectory.” And then she arst after your ’elth, +sir, and your good lady’s, and Miss Davoren’s, quite affable, just +before she drove away. She was drivin’ her own ponies.’ + +‘She was very good,’ said Mr. Davoren absently. O, vain delight in +earthly pomp and pride! The notice of these magnates of the land had +not saved his child from destruction; nay, perhaps had been, in some +unknown manner, the primary cause of her fall. + +‘Yes, you had better tune the piano, Stammers,’ he went on, with a +feeble sigh. ‘She will like to find it in good tune when she comes +back. By the way, you let a piano to the gentleman at the George the +other day—Mr.—’ + +‘Mr. Vandeleur,’ said Stammers briskly. ‘Let him the best piano I +have—a brand-new Collard—at thirty shillings a month, bein’, as it +was, a short let. And wonderful it was to hear him play upon it, too! +I’ve stood on the staircase at the George half an hour at a stretch, +listenin’ to him.’ + +‘A fine musician?’ inquired the Rector, with another sigh. Fatal music, +deadly art! + +‘Fine isn’t the word, sir. There’s a many fine musicians, as far +as pianoforte playing goes,’ with a little conscious air of inward +swelling, as of a man who numbered himself among these gifted ones. ‘I +don’t think there’s anythink of Mozart’s, or ’Andels, or ’Aydn’s, or +Beethoven’s—that’s the king of ’em all, is Beethoven—you could put a +name to that I wouldn’t play at sight; but I don’t rank myself with Mr. +Vandeleur, the gentleman at the George, for all that.’ + +‘What is the difference?’ + +Mr. Stammers tapped his forehead. + +‘There, sir; there’s where the difference lies. I ’aven’t ’is ’ead. +Not but what I had a taste for music when I was that ’igh,’ indicating +the altitude of a foot and a half from the floor, ‘and was took notice +of by the gentry of these parts in consequence, my father bein’, as +you are aware, sir, a numble carpenter. But I ’aven’t the ’ead that +man ’as. To hear him ’andle Beethoven, sir, the Sonater Pathetick, or +the “Moonlight,” wonderful! And not that alone. There was sonaters and +fugues he played, sir—whether they was his own composition or wasn’t, +I can’t say; but they were fugues and sonaters I never heard before, +and I don’t believe mortal man ever wrote ’em. They outraged all the +laws of ’armony, sir. Why, there was consecutive fifths in ’em as thick +as gooseberries, and yet they was as fine as anythink in Mozart. Such +music! It turned one’s blood cold to hear him. If you could fancy the +old gentleman playing the piano—which, bein’ a clergyman, of course you +wouldn’t give your mind to—you could fancy him playing like that.’ + +‘An eccentric style?’ inquired the Rector. + +‘Eccentric! It was the topsy-turviest kind of thing I ever heard in my +life. Yet if that man was to play in public, he’d take the town by +storm; they’d run after him like mad.’ + +‘Do you think he is a professional performer?’ + +‘Hardly; he hadn’t the professional way with him. I’ve seen plenty of +the profession, havin’ managed for all the concerts that have been +given in Wykhamston for the last twenty years. No; and a professional +wouldn’t dawdle away close upon six weeks in a small country town such +as this. No; what I take him for is a wealthy amateur—a gentleman that +had been living a little too fast up in London, and come down here to +freshen himself up a bit with country air and quiet.’ + +‘How did he spend his time?’ + +‘In the church, a good bit of it, playing the organ. He used to get the +keys from old Bopolt, the clerk. I wonder you didn’t hear of it, sir.’ + +‘No,’ said the Rector, ‘they told me nothing.’ This with a sigh so +deep, so near akin to a groan, that it smote the heart of the lively +Stammers. + +‘I’m afraid you’re tired, sir, this ’ot day—tryin’ weather—so +changeable; the thermumitor has gone up to eighty-one, Farren’s heat. +Can I get you a glass of water, sir, with a dash of somethink, if I +might take the liberty?’ + +‘Thank you, Stammers; no, it’s nothing. I’ve been a little worried +lately. Bopolt had no business to admit any one into the church +habitually.’ + +‘I daresay Mr. Vandeleur made it worth his while, sir. He was quite a +gentleman, I assure you. And it wasn’t as if you was in the ’abit of +keepin’ the sacramential plate in the vestry.’ + +‘There are other things that a man can steal,’ said the Rector moodily; +‘more precious things than paten or chalice. But no matter. I don’t +suppose Bopolt meant any harm, only—only he might have told me. +Good-afternoon, Mr. Stammers.’ + +‘Do you feel yourself strong enough for the walk ’ome, sir? You look +rather pale—overcome by the ’eat.’ + +‘Yes, yes; quite strong. Good-afternoon;’ and Stephen Davoren plodded +his way down the shadeless High-street till he came to a little court +leading to the church; Wykhamston Church being, for some reason or +other, hidden away at the back of the High-street, as though it were an +unsightly thing, and only approachable by courts and alleys. + +Old John Bopolt, the parish clerk, quavering and decrepit after the +manner of rural clerks, had his habitation in the court which made the +isthmus of communication between the High-street and the churchyard. +He rose hastily from his tea-table at sight of his Rector, and made +a little old-world bow, while Mrs. Bopolt and Mrs. Bopolt’s married +daughter, and the married daughter’s Betsy Jane, an unkempt girl of +fourteen or so, huddled together with a respectful and awestricken air +before that dignitary. + +‘Bopolt,’ said the Rector, in a sterner tone than he was wont to use, +‘what right had you to allow the church to be made a lounging-place for +idle strangers?’ + +‘A lounging-place, sir! I never did any such-like thing. There was +no lounging went on, to my knowledge; but I’ve been in the habit +of showing the monniments occasionally, as you know, sir, to any +respectable stranger, and the rose winder over the south door.’ + +‘Showing the monuments; yes, that’s one thing. But to let a stranger +have the key habitually—’ + +‘Meanin’ the gentleman at the George, sir,’ faltered the clerk, with +an embarrassed air. ‘He was quite the gentleman; and Mr. Filby, the +organist, sir, knew as he was in the ’abit of playin’ the organ for +a ’our or so, and left the keys for him regular, did Mr. Filby, and +says to me, “John, whenever Mr. Vandeleur at the George likes to play +the organ, he’s free and welcome, and you can tell him so, with my +respects.”’ + +‘He bribed you, I suppose?’ said Mr. Davoren. + +‘He may have given me a trifle at odd times as some recompensation for +my trouble in opening the door for him, sir. I don’t wish to deceive +you; and if I’d thought for a moment there was any harm, I’d have cut +my fingers off sooner than open the churchdoor for him. But I made +certain as you knew, sir, more particularly as I’d seen Miss Davoren go +into the church more than once when Mr. Vandeleur was there.’ + +‘Of course,’ said the Rector, without flinching, ‘she had her choir +work to attend to. Well, John, there’s no use in being angry about a +mistake; only remember the church is not a place for the amusement of +amateur musicians. Good-afternoon.’ + +The family, who had looked on in unspeakable awe during this brief +dialogue, now began to breathe freely again, and a kettle, which +had been sputtering destruction over Mrs. Bopolt’s bright fender +unregarded, was now snatched off the top bar by that careful matron, +who had not dared to move hand or foot in the presence of an offended +Rector. + +Stephen Davoren walked slowly homeward, a little more sick at heart +than when he began his voyage of discovery. Other people had known the +seducer; other people had seen his daughter go into the church to meet +her tempter, polluting that sacred place by the conflict of an earthly +passion. Other people had guessed something of the dreadful truth, +perhaps. He only had been blind. + +The thought of this, that his little world might be in the secret of +his sad story, helped to break his heart. If it had not been broken by +the mere fact of his daughter’s ruin, it would have been crushed by the +weight of his own shame. He could not look the world in the face any +more. He tried to do his duty manfully, preached the old sound homely +sermons; but when he spoke of sin and sorrow, he seemed to speak of his +lost daughter. He went among his poor, but the thought of Janet set +his wits wandering in the midst of his simple talk, and he would make +little feeble speeches, and repeat himself helplessly, hardly knowing +what he said. + +His parishioners perceived the change, and told each other that the +Rector was breaking fast; it was a pity Miss Davoren was away: ‘She’d +have cheered him up a bit, poor old gentleman.’ + +Lucius came home from Winchester later in the year—his school course +ended, and the winner of a scholarship which would help him at the +university—came home to hear the story of his sister’s flight, his +Janet, the sister whose genius and beauty had been his highest pride. + +He took the news of this calamity more quietly than his father and +mother had dared to hope; insisted upon hearing every detail of the +event, but said little. + +‘You made inquiries about this man, this Mr. Vandeleur, of course, +father?’ he said. + +‘Yes,’ answered the Rector in his despondent way, ‘I wrote to +Harwood—you remember my old friend Harwood, the solicitor?—and set +him to work, not telling him the whole story, as you may suppose. But +it resulted in nothing. I put an advertisement into the _Times_, too, +imploring your sister—’ with a little husky noise before the word, as +if he would fain have uttered his missing girl’s name but could not, +‘imploring her to come back, offering forgiveness, affection, silence, +so worded that none but she could understand. I think she must have +left England, Lucius. I do not believe she would have left that appeal +unanswered.’ + +‘Vandeleur!’ said Lucius quietly; ‘an assumed name, no doubt. Some +scoundrel she met at the Castle, or at Lady Baker’s. Vandeleur, I pray +God I may come across him before I’m many years older.’ + +This was all he said, and from this time forth he never pronounced his +sister’s name. He saw how far this grief had gone towards shortening +his father’s life, how dark a cloud it had spread over his mother’s +declining years. A twelvemonth later, and both were gone; the father +dying suddenly one bright spring morning of heart-disease, organic +disorder of long standing, but who shall say how accelerated by that +bitter trouble? The faithful wife drooped from the day of her husband’s +death, and only four months afterwards sank quietly to her rest, +thankful that her journey was ended, placidly happy in the secure hope +of a swift and easy passage to the better land, where she would find +the partner of her life waiting for her, the little daughter who died +years ago greeting her with loving welcome. + +And thus Lucius Davoren had been left quite alone in the world in the +first year of his university life, two years before he came up to +London to walk the hospitals, and just five years before he started for +America with Geoffrey Hossack. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +HOMER SIVEWRIGHT. + + +There was not a plethora of patients in the Shadrack-road, nor were +the cases which presented themselves to Mr. Davoren for the most +part of a deeply-interesting character. He had a good supply of +casualties, from broken limbs, dislocated shoulders, collar bones, and +crushed ribs, down to black eyes; he had numerous cases of a purely +domestic nature—cases which called him out of his bed of nights; and +he had a good many small patients in the narrow streets and airless +alleys—little sufferers whose quiet endurance, whose meek acceptance +of pain as a necessity of their lives, moved him more than he would +have cared to confess. So profound a pity as he sometimes felt for +these little ones would have seemed hardly professional. His practice +among children was singularly fortunate. He did not drench them with +those nauseous compounds which previous practitioners had freely +administered in a rough-and-ready off-hand fashion; but he did, with a +very small amount of drugs, for the most part succeed in setting these +delicate machines in order, restoring health’s natural hue to pallid +cheeks, breathing life into feeble lungs. It was painful to him often +to find himself obliged to prescribe good broths and nourishing solids +where an empty larder and an unfurnished purse stared him, as it were, +palpably in the face; and there were many occasions when he eked out +his instructions with contributions in kind—a shilling’s worth of beef +or a couple of mutton-chops, from the butcher at the end of the street, +a gill of port from the nearest tavern. But him, too, Poverty held in +his iron grip, and it was not always that he could afford to part with +so much as a shilling. + +Such luxuries as fresh air and clean water—restoratives which might +be supposed easy of access even in the Shadrack-road district, though +there were dwellings around and about Shadrack-Basin where even these +were hardly obtainable—he urged upon his patients with all his might, +and in the households he attended there arose a startling innovation in +the way of open windows. From these very poor patients he, of course, +received no money; but he had other patrons, small tradesmen and their +families, who paid him, and paid him honourably, down on the nail for +the most part, and on a scale he felt he must blush to remember by +and by when he became a distinguished west-end physician. Small as +the payments were, however, they enabled him to live, so very small +were his own requirements. His Amati ate nothing. He had, himself, a +stoical indifference to good living, and could have sustained himself +contentedly upon pemmican, within reach of all the richest and rarest +viands earth could yield to a Lucullus. His establishment consisted +of an ancient serving-woman, who had withdrawn herself from a useful +career of charing for his exclusive service, a woman who returned +to the bosom of her family every night and came back to her post in +the early morning, and a boy of a low-spirited turn of mind and an +inconvenient tendency to bleeding at the nose. It irked him that he was +obliged to pay the rent of an entire house, however small, requiring +for his own uses at most three rooms. But people had told him that he +could not hope to do any good in the Shadrack-Basin district if he +began his professional career in lodgings; and he was fain to submit. +He concluded that there must be some lurking element of aristocracy in +the minds of the Shadrackites, not suggested by their outward habits, +which were of the whelk-and-periwinkle-eating order. + +His house was small, inconvenient, and shabbily furnished. He had taken +the furniture at a valuation from Mr. Plumsole, his predecessor—a +valuation which, if it had been based on justice, should have been +nothing; since a more rickety race of chairs and tables, a more +evil-looking family of bedsteads and dressing-tables, chiffoniers +and sofas, had never been called into being by the glue-pot. There +was not a perfect set of castors in the house, or a chair which had +not some radical defect in one of its legs, or a table that realised +one’s notion of a correct level. Lucius was obliged to buy a tool-box +and a glue-pot very soon after his investiture as proprietor of Mr. +Plumsole’s goods and chattels; and a good deal of his leisure was +consumed by small experiments in domestic surgery, as applied to +chairs and tables. He performed the most delicate operations; reduced +dislocations, and cured compound fractures in a wonderful way; with the +aid of a handful of tin tacks and a halfpennyworth of glue. But he felt +somehow that this was not the direct road to the mastery of a great +science, and would give a weary little sigh as he went back to his +medical books, after a sharp struggle with a refractory chair-leg, or +an obstinate declivity in the flap of a Pembroke table. + +He was very poor, very patient, very much in earnest; as earnest +now as he had been in those days of wild adventure in the Far West, +when amid all the excitement of the chase his thoughts had ever gone +beyond, searching for Nature’s secrets, longing to wrest from her +vast stores of hidden wealth some treasure which might be useful to +his fellow-creatures. Of all those vague unspoken hopes nothing had +come. He had left no footmark behind him in that distant world; he had +brought home no trophy. Nothing had resulted from all those days of +hardship and peril, except a secret which it was horror to remember. +He turned his face now resolutely to the real world—the cold, hard, +workaday world of an over-populated city—and set himself to do what +good there was for him to do in his narrow sphere. + +‘It may be some atonement for the blood I shed yonder,’ he said to +himself. + +In his small way he prospered—prospered in doing good. When he had +been at this drudgery a little more than a year, the parish surgeon +died—popular report said of a too genial temper and a leaning towards +good fellowship, not unassociated with Irish whisky—and Lucius was +elected in his stead. This gave him a pittance which helped him, paid +his rent and taxes and the charwoman, and gave him admittance to the +dwellings of the poor. Thus it was he came to have so many children in +his case-book, and to spend his scanty surplus in small charities among +his patients. + +He worked hard all day, and, after the manner of his kind, was often +called up in the night; but he had his evenings for the most part to +himself, to use as he listed. These precious intervals of leisure +he spent in reading—reading which was chiefly professional—solacing +himself sometimes with a dip into a favourite author. His library +consisted of a shelf-full of books on one of the decrepit chiffoniers, +and was at least select. The Greek playwrights, Shakespeare, Montaigne, +St. Thomas à Kempis, Molière, Sterne, De Musset, Shelley, Keats, +Byron made up his stock; and of these he never knew weariness. He +opened one of these volumes haphazard when the scientific reading +had been unusually tough, and he had closed his medical books with a +sigh of relief, opened one of his pet volumes anywhere, and read on +till he read himself into dreamland. Dreams will come, even in the +Shadrack-Basin district, to a man who has not yet crossed the boundary +line of his thirtieth birthday; but Lucius Davoren’s were only vague +dreams, inchoate visions of future success, of the days when he was +to be famous, and live among the lofty spirits of the age, and feel +that he had made his name a name to be remembered in centuries to come. +Perhaps every young man who has been successful at a public school and +at the university begins life with the same vision; but upon Lucius +the fancy had a stronger hold than on most men, and almost amounted +to a belief, the belief that it was his destiny to be of use to his +fellow-creatures. + +But he had another key to open the gates of dreamland, a key more +potent than Shakespeare. When things had gone well with him, when +in the day’s work there had been some little professional success, +some question that interested his keen fancy, and had been solved to +his satisfaction; above all, when he had done some good thing for +his fellow-creatures, he would take a shining mahogany-case from the +chiffonier beneath his book-shelf, lay it tenderly on the table, as if +it were a living thing, open it with a dainty little key which he wore +attached to his watch-chain, and draw forth his priceless treasure, +the Amati violin, for which he, to whom pounds were verily pounds, had +given in his early student days the sum of one hundred guineas. How +many deprivations, how many small sacrifices—gloves, opera-tickets, +ay, even dinners—that violin represented! He naturally loved it so much +the better for the pangs it had cost him. He had earned it, if not with +the sweat of his brow, at least by the exercise of supreme self-denial. + +Then, with careful hand, with delicate sympathetic touch, fingers light +as those with which a woman gathers her favourite flower, he would draw +forth his fiddle, and soon the little room would be filled with gentle +strains—plaintive, soothing, meditative, the music of dreams; full of +tender thoughts, of pensive memories; music which was like thinking +aloud. And after those fond memories of familiar melody, music which +was as easy a language as his mother tongue, he would open one of his +battered old volumes, and pore over the intricate pages of Viotti, or +Spohr, or De Beriot, or Lafont, until midnight, and even the quieter +hours that follow, had sounded from all the various steeple-clocks and +dockyard-clocks and factory-clocks of that watery district. + +He had been working upwards of a year as parish surgeon, and in all +that time, and the time that went before it, had not been favoured +with any more aristocratic patronage than that of the neighbouring +tradesmen, his wealthiest patient being a publican at the corner of +the great Essex-road, reported the richest man in the district; when +chance, or that combination of small causes which seems generally +to lead up to the greatest effects, brought him into friendly and +professional relations with a man of a different class; a man about +whom the Shadrack-road knew little, but thought much. + +Lucius was returning from his daily round one winter afternoon, towards +the end of November, when the skies that roof in the Shadrack-Basin +region begin to darken soon after three o’clock. It was nearer five +when the parish surgeon set his face homeward, and the Shadrack-road +was enfolded in its customary fog; the street-lamps—not too brilliant +in the clearest weather—and the lighted shop-windows showing dimly +athwart that sombre smoke-curtain. Suddenly, gleaming a little brighter +than the rest, he saw a moving lamp, the lamp of a fast hansom; then +heard an execration, in the usual cabman-voice; a crash, a grinding +noise as of wheels grating against wheels; a volley of execrations +rising in terrible crescendo; and then the loud commanding voice of the +passenger in the stranded vehicle, demanding to be let out. + +Lucius went to the assistance of the distressed passenger—if that could +be called distress which could command so lusty an utterance—and +extricated him from the hansom, which had run foul of a monster dray, +laden with beer barrels. + +The passenger availed himself of Mr. Davoren’s arm, and alighted, not +without some show of feebleness. It seemed as if his chief strength +were in his voice. Seen somewhat dimly beneath that fog curtain, +he appeared an old man, tall but bent, with a leonine head and a +penetrating eye—keen as the eye of hawk or eagle. + +He thanked the surgeon briefly, dismissed the cabman with a stern +reproof and without his fare. + +‘You know me,’ he said; ‘Homer Sivewright, Cedar House. You can take +out a summons if you fancy you’re badly treated. You’ve jerked a great +deal more than eighteenpence out of my constitution.’ + +The cabman vanished in the fog, grumbling but acquiescent. + +‘At seventy and upwards,’ said Mr. Sivewright to Lucius, ‘the human +economy will hardly bear shaking. I shall walk home.’ + +He seemed feeble, somewhat uncertain upon his legs; and Lucius’s +humanity came to the rescue. + +‘Take my arm as far as your house,’ he said; ‘my time is not especially +valuable.’ + +‘Isn’t it?’ demanded the old man, looking at him suspiciously; ‘a young +man about London whose time is of no use to him is in a bad road.’ + +‘I didn’t say my time was of no use to me. Perhaps there are not many +men in London who work harder than I. Only, as I take no pleasure, I +have sometimes a margin left after work. I can spare half-an-hour just +now, and if you like to lean on my arm it is at your service.’ + +‘I accept your friendly offer. You speak like a gentleman and an honest +man. My house is not half a mile from here; you must know it if you +know this neighbourhood—Cedar House.’ + +‘I think I do. A curious old house, belonging evidently to two +periods, half stone, half brick, standing back from the road behind a +heavily-buttressed wall. Is that it?’ + +‘Yes. It was once a palace or a royal hunting-lodge, or whatever you +like to call it. It was afterwards enlarged, in the reign of Anne, and +became a wealthy citizen’s country seat, before there were all these +abominations of factories and ropewalks and docks between the City and +the eastern suburbs. I got the place for an almost nominal rent, and +it suits me, as an empty hogshead would suit a mouse—plenty of room to +turn round in it.’ + +‘The house looks very large, but your family is large, no doubt.’ + +‘My family consists of myself and my granddaughter, with two old +servants,—trustworthy, of course. That is to say, they have learned by +experience exactly to what extent they may safely rob me.’ + +They were walking in an eastward direction as they talked; the old man +leaning somewhat heavily on the younger. + +Lucius laughed pleasantly at his companion’s cynicism. + +‘Then you don’t believe even in the honesty of faithful servants?’ + +‘I believe in nothing that is not demonstrable by the rule of three. +The fidelity of old servants is like the fidelity of your household +cat—they are faithful to their places; the beds they have slept upon +so many years; the fireside at which they have a snug corner where the +east wind cannot touch their rheumatism.’ + +‘Yet there are instances of something better than mere feline +constancy. Sir Walter Scott’s servants, for instance, who put their +shoulders to the wheel manfully when Fortune played their master +false—the old butler turning scrub and jack-of-all-trades, the old +coachman going to the plough-tail. There is something awful in the +descent of a butler, too, like the downfall of an archbishop.’ + +‘I don’t know anything about your Sir Walter Scott,’ growled Mr. +Sivewright; ‘I suppose it is natural to youth to look at all things +brightly, though I have known youth that didn’t. You talk gaily enough +for a young man who devotes no time to pleasure.’ + +‘Do you think pleasure—in the common acceptation of the word, meaning +late hours and mixed company—really conduces to good spirits?’ + +‘Only as opium engenders sleep—to leave a man three times as wakeful +afterwards,’ said Mr. Sivewright. ‘I have done without that kind of +pleasure myself throughout a long life, yet I hardly count myself +wise. Fairly to estimate the lightness of his own particular burden, +a man should try to carry a heavier one. There is no better tonic for +the hard-worker than a course of pleasure. You are in some trade or +profession, I presume,’ he added, turning his sharp glance upon his +companion; ‘a clerk, perhaps?’ + +‘No; but something that works harder than a clerk. A parish doctor.’ + +Mr. Sivewright recoiled palpably. + +‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Lucius; ‘it was not as a possible patient that +I pulled you out of the cab. My practice doesn’t lie among the upper +classes.’ + +‘Nor do I belong to the upper classes,’ answered the other quickly. ‘I +forgive you your profession, though I am among those prejudiced people +who have an innate aversion from doctors, lawyers, and parsons. But +the machinery of commerce won’t allow us to dispense with the lawyers; +and I suppose among the poor there still lingers a remnant of the old +belief that there’s some use in doctors. The parsons thrive upon the +foolishness of women. So there is a field still left for your three +learned professions.’ + +‘That way of talking is a fashion,’ said Lucius quietly; ‘but I +daresay if you were seriously ill to-morrow, your thoughts would turn +instinctively towards Savile-row. And perhaps if you were going to die, +you’d feel all the happier if the friendly voice of your parish priest +breathed familiar words of hope and comfort beside your pillow.’ + +‘I know nothing of my parish, except that its rates are +four-and-twopence in the pound,’ returned the other in his incisive +voice. + +A quarter of an hour’s walking, beguiled by such talk as this, brought +them to the house of which Lucius had spoken, a dwelling altogether +out of keeping with the present character of the Shadrack-road. +That heavily-buttressed wall, dark with the smoke and foul weather +of centuries; that rusty iron gate, with its florid scroll work, and +forgotten coat-of-arms (a triumph of the blacksmith’s art two hundred +years old); that dark-browed building within, formed of a red-brick +centre, square, many-windowed, and prosaic, with a tall narrow doorway, +overshadowed by a stone shell, sustained by cherubic heads of the +Anne period, flanked by an older wing of gray moss-discoloured stone, +with massive mullioned windows, had nothing in common with the shabby +rows and shops and skimpy terraces and bulkheads and low-roofed, +disreputable habitations of the neighbourhood. It stood alone, a +solitary relic of the past; splendid, gloomy, inscrutable. + +Nothing in the man Sivewright interested Lucius Davoren half so much +as the fact that he lived in this queer old house. After all a man’s +surroundings are often half the man, and our first impression of a new +acquaintance is generally taken from his chairs and tables. + +The grim old iron gate was not a portal to be opened with a latch-key. +It looked like one of the outworks of a fortification, to be taken by +assault. Mr. Sivewright pulled at an iron ring, suspended beyond the +reach of the gutter children of the district, and a remote bell rang +within the fastness, a hoarse old bell, rusty no doubt like the gate. +After a lengthy interval measured by the gauge of a visitor’s patience, +but which Mr. Sivewright accepted with resignation as a thing of +course, this summons produced an elderly female, with slippered feet, +a bonnet, and bare arms, who unlocked the gate, and admitted them to +an enclosure of fog, stagnant as compared with the fog in circulation +without, and which seemed to the doctor of a lower temperature, as if +in crossing that narrow boundary he had travelled a degree northward. + +‘Come in,’ said Mr. Sivewright, with the tone of a man who offers +reluctant hospitality, ‘and have a glass of wine. You’ve had a cold +walk on my account; you’d better take a little refreshment.’ + +‘No, thanks; but I should like to see your house.’ + +‘Should you? There’s not much to see; an old barrack, that’s all,’ said +the old man, stopping short, with a doubtful air, as if he would have +infinitely preferred leaving the surgeon outside. ‘Very few strangers +ever cross my threshold, except the taxgatherer. However,’ with an air +of resignation, ‘come in.’ + +The old woman had opened the tall narrow door meanwhile, revealing +an interior dimly lighted by a lamp which must have been feeble +always, but which was now the veriest glimmer. Lucius followed his +new acquaintance through this doorway into a large square hall, from +which a broad oaken staircase ascended to an open gallery. There +was just enough light for Lucius to see that this hall, instead of +being bare and meagrely furnished as he had expected to find it, was +crowded with a vast assemblage of heterogeneous objects. Pictures +piled against the gloomy panelled walls. Sculpture, porcelain, and +delf of every nation and every period, from monster vases of imperial +lacquer to fragile déjeuners of Dresden and Copenhagen; from inchoate +groups of vermin and shell-fish from the workshop of Pallissy, to the +exquisite modelling of teacups resplendent with gods and goddesses from +Capo-di-Monte; from gaudy dishes and bowls of old Rouen delf, to the +perfection of Louis-Seize Sèvres. Armour of every age, vases of jasper +and porphyry, carved-oak cabinets, the particoloured plumage of stuffed +birds, Gobelins tapestry, South-Sea shells, Venetian glass, Milan +ironwork, were curiously intermingled; as if some maniac artist in the +confusion of a once fine taste had heaped these things together. By +that dim light, Lucius saw only the fitful glimmer of steel casques and +breastplates, the half-defined shapes of marble statues, the outline +of jasper vases and huge Pallissy dishes. Later he came to know all +those treasures by heart. + +A Louis-Quatorze clock on a bracket began to strike six, and +immediately a chorus of clocks in adjacent rooms, in tones feeble or +strong, tenor or bass, took up the strain. + +‘I am like Charles the Fifth, particular about my clocks,’ said Mr. +Sivewright. ‘I keep them all going. This way, if you please, Mr.—’ + +‘Davoren.’ + +‘Davoren! That sounds a good name.’ + +‘My father cherished a tradition to that effect—a good middle-class +family. Our ancestor represented his native county in Queen Elizabeth’s +first Parliament. But I inherited nothing except the name.’ + +He was staring about him in that doubtful light, as he spoke, trying to +penetrate the gloom. + +‘You are surprised to see such a collection as that in the +Shadrack-road? Dismiss your wonder. I am not an antiquarian; but a +dealer. Those things represent the remnant of my stock-in-trade. I kept +a shop in Bond-street for five-and-thirty years.’ + +‘And when you retired from business you kept all those things?’ + +‘I kept them as some men keep their money, at compound interest. +Every year I live increases the value of those things. They belong to +manufactures that are extinct. With every year examples perish. Ten +years hence the value of my stock will have multiplied by the square of +my original capital.’ + +Mr. Sivewright opened a door on one side of the hall, and, motioning +to his guest to follow him, entered a room somewhat brighter of aspect +than the hall without. It was a large room, sparsely furnished as +to the luxurious appliances of modern homes, but boasting, here and +there, in rich relief against the panelled walls, one of those rare and +beautiful objects upon which the virtuoso is content to gaze throughout +the leisure moments of a lifetime. In the recess on one side of the +fireplace stood a noble old buffet, in cherry wood and ebony; in the +corresponding recess on the other side a cabinet in Florentine mosaic; +from one corner came the solemn tick of an eight-day clock, whose +carved and inlaid walnut-wood case was a miracle of art; and upon each +central panel of the walls hung a cabinet picture of the Dutch school. +So much for the pleasure of the eye. Mere sensual comfort had been less +regarded in the arrangement of Mr. Sivewright’s sitting-room. A small +square of threadbare Persian carpet covered the centre of the oaken +floor, serving more for ornament than for luxury. The rest was bare. +A mahogany Pembroke table, value about fifteen shillings, occupied the +middle of the room; one shabby-looking arm-chair, horsehair-cushioned, +high-backed, and by no means suggestive of repose; two other chairs, of +the same family, but without arms; and a business-like deal desk in one +of the windows, completed the catalogue of Mr. Sivewright’s goods and +chattels. + +Preparations for dinner, scanty like the furniture, occupied the table; +or rather preparations for that joint meal which, in some economic +households, combines the feminine refreshment of tea with the more +masculine and substantial repast. On one side of the table a small +white cloth neatly spread, with a single knife and fork, tumbler, and +Venetian flask half-full of claret, indicated that Mr. Sivewright was +going to dine: on the other side, a small oval mahogany tray, with a +black Wedgewood teapot, suggested that some one else was going to drink +tea. A handful of fire burned cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned +grate, contracted into the smallest possible compass by cheeks of +firebrick. Throughout the room, scrupulously neat in every detail, +Lucius recognised the guiding spirit of parsimony, tempered in all +things by some gentler household spirit which contrived to impart some +look of comfort even to those meagre surroundings. A pair of candles, +not lighted, stood on the table. Mr. Sivewright lighted one of these, +and for the first time Lucius was able to see what manner of man his +new acquaintance was. All he had been able to discover in the fog was +the leonine head and hawk’s eye. + +The light of the candle showed him a countenance once handsome, but now +deeply lined, the complexion dark and sallow, deepening to almost a +copper tint in the shadows. The nose aquiline and strongly marked; the +upper lip singularly long, the mouth about as indicative of softness +or flexibility as if it had been fashioned out of wrought iron; the +cheeks worn and hollow; the brow and temples almost hidden by the +long loose gray hair, which gave that lion-like aspect to the large +head—altogether a face and head to be remembered. The figure tall and +spare, but with breadth of shoulder; at times bent, but in some moments +of vivacity drawn suddenly erect, as if the man by mere force of will +could at pleasure recover the lost energy of his departed youth. + +‘A curious face,’ thought Lucius; ‘and there is something in +it—something that seems like a memory or an association—which strikes +me more forcibly than the face itself. Yet I know not what. I daresay I +have dreamed of such a face, or have shaped it in my own fancy to fit +some poetic creation—Ugolino, Lear, who knows?’ + +‘Sit down,’ said Mr. Sivewright, pointing to a chair opposite his own, +into which he had established himself with as comfortable an air as if +the chair itself had been the crowning triumph of luxurious upholstery. +‘You can drink claret, I suppose?’ taking a couple of glasses from the +Florentine cabinet, and filling them with the wine on the table. ‘I +drink no other wine myself. A sound light Medoc, which can hurt nobody.’ + +‘Nobody whose stomach is fortified with a double casing of iron,’ +thought Lucius, as he sipped the acrid beverage, which he accepted out +of courtesy. + +‘Ten minutes past six,’ said Mr. Sivewright, ringing a bell; ‘my dinner +ought to be on the table.’ + +An inner door behind Lucius opened as he spoke, and a girl came into +the room carrying a little tray, with two small covered dishes. Lucius +supposed the newcomer to be a servant, and did not trouble himself to +look up till she had placed her dishes on the table, and lingered to +give the finishing touches to the arrangement of the board. He did look +up then, and saw that this ministering spirit was no common hireling, +but one of the most interesting women he had ever seen. + +She was hardly to be called a woman; she was but in the opening blossom +of girlhood; a fragile-looking flower, pale as some waxen-petalled +exotic reared under glass, with the thermometer at seventy-six. She had +something foreign, or even tropical, in her appearance; eyes dark as +night, hair of the same sombre hue. Her figure was of middle height, +slim, but with no sharpness of outline; every curve perfection, every +line grace. Her features were delicately pencilled, but not strikingly +beautiful. Indeed, the chief and all-pervading charm of her appearance +was that exquisite delicacy, that flower-like fragility which moved one +to exclaim, ‘How lovely, but how short-lived!’ + +Yet it is not always these delicate blossoms which fade the first; the +tough-stemmed poppy will sometimes be mown down by Death’s inexorable +sickle, while the opal-hued petals of the dog-rose still breast the +storm. There was a strength of endurance beneath this fragile exterior +which Lucius would have been slow to believe in. + +The girl glanced at the stranger with much surprise, but without the +slightest embarrassment. Rarely did a stranger sit beside that hearth. +But there had been such intruders from time to time, traders or +clients of the old man’s. She had no curiosity upon the subject. + +‘Your dinner is quite ready, grandfather,’ she said; ‘you had better +eat it before it grows cold.’ + +She lifted the covers from the two dainty little dishes—a morsel of +steak cooked in some foreign fashion—a handful of sliced potato fried +in oil. + +Lucius rose to depart. + +‘I won’t intrude upon you any longer, Mr. Sivewright,’ he said; ‘but if +you will allow me to call upon you some day and look at your wonderful +collection, I shall be very glad.’ + +‘Stay where you are,’ answered the other in his authoritative way; +‘you’ve dined, I’ve no doubt.’ A convenient way of settling _that_ +question. ‘Lucille, my granddaughter, can give you a cup of tea.’ + +Lucille smiled, with a little gesture of assent strikingly foreign, +Lucius thought. An English girl would hardly have been so gracious to a +nameless stranger. + +‘I told you, when we first met in that abominable fog, that I liked +your voice,’ said Mr. Sivewright. ‘I’ll go farther now, and say I like +your face. I forgive you your profession, as I said before. Stay, and +see my collection to-night.’ + +‘That is as much as to say, “See all you want to see to-night, and +don’t plague me with any future visits,”’ thought Lucius, who found +that meagrely-furnished room, that scanty fire, more attractive since +the appearance of Lucille. + +He accepted the invitation, however; drew his chair to the tea-table, +and drank two cups of tea and ate two or three small slices of +bread-and-butter with a sublime disregard of the fact that he had not +broken his fast since eight o’clock in the morning. He had acquired a +passion for mild decoctions of congou in those days of privation far +away beyond the Saskatchewan; and this particular tea seemed to have +a subtle aroma which made it better than any he had ever brewed for +himself beside his solitary hearth. + +‘I became a tea-drinker four years ago, in the Far West,’ he said, as +an excuse for his second cup. + +‘Do you mean in America?’ the girl asked eagerly. + +‘Yes. Have you ever been over yonder?’ + +‘Never; only I am always interested in hearing of America.’ + +‘You had much better be interested in hearing of the moon,’ said Mr. +Sivewright, with an angry look; ‘you are just as likely to discover +anything there that concerns you.’ + +‘You have relations or friends in America, perhaps, Miss Sivewright?’ +inquired Lucius; but a little warning look and gesture from Lucille +prevented his repeating the question. + +He began to tell her some of his adventures beyond the Red River—not +his hours of dire strait and calamity, not the horror of his forest +experiences. Those were things he never spoke of, scenes he dared not +think of, days which it was misery to him to remember. + +‘You must have gone through great hardship,’ she said, after listening +to him with keen interest. ‘Were you never in actual peril?’ + +‘Once. We were lost in a forest westward of the Rocky Mountains. +But that is a period I do not care to speak of. My dearest friend +was ill—at the point of death. Happily for us a company of Canadian +emigrants, bound for the gold-fields, came across our track just in +time to save us. But for that providential circumstance I shouldn’t be +here to tell you the story. Wolves or wolverines would have picked my +bones.’ + +‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Lucille, with a shudder. + +‘Yes. Wolves are not agreeable society. But human nature is still more +horrible when it casts off the mask of civilisation.’ + +Mr. Sivewright had finished his dinner by this time, and had absorbed +two glasses of the sound Medoc without a single contortion of his +visage; a striking instance of the force of habit. + +‘Come,’ said he. ‘I’ll show you some of my collection. You’re no judge +of art, I suppose. I never knew a young man who was; though they’re +always ready enough with their opinions.’ + +He took up one of the candles, and led the way to the hall, thence +to a room on the other side of the house, larger than the family +sitting-room, and used as a storehouse for his treasures. Here Lucius +beheld the same confusion of bric-à-brac which had bewildered him +on his first entrance into that singular mansion, only on a larger +scale. Pictures again, statues again, cabinets, tables, fragmentary +pieces of mediæval oak carving, stray panels that had once lined old +Flemish churches, choir-stalls with sacred story carved upon their +arms and backs; armour again, grim and ghastly as the collection of +the Hôtel Cluny, demonstrating how man’s invention, before it entered +the vast field of gunnery, had lavished its wanton cruelty on forms +that hack and hew, and jag and tear and saw; spiky swords, pole-axes +with serrated edges, pikes from which dangled iron balls studded with +sharp points; and so on. Ceramic ware, again, of every age, from +a drinking-vessel dug from beneath one of the earth-mounds on the +shores of the Euphrates to the chocolatière out of which Marie Jeanne +Vaubernier, otherwise Du Barri, took her last breakfast. And, rising +grim above the frivolities of art, loomed the gaunt outline of a +Scottish Maiden, the rough germ of the Gallic guillotine. + +The old man looked round his storehouse with a smile of triumph, +holding aloft his single candle, every object showing strangely, and +casting uncanny shadows in that feeble light, he himself not the least +curious figure in the Rembrandtesque picture. He looked like some +enchanter, who, at a breath, had called these things into being. + +‘You astound me!’ exclaimed Lucius, looking about him with unaffected +wonder. ‘You spoke some time ago of having saved the remnant of your +stock; but you have here a collection larger than I should have +supposed any dealer in curiosities would care to amass, even in the +full swing of his business.’ + +‘Perhaps,’ answered Mr. Sivewright with a dreamy air. ‘For the mere +purposes of trade—for trade upon the nimble-ninepence system—there +is no doubt too much. But these things have accumulated since I left +off business. The passion for collecting them was not to be put away +as easily as I put up my shutters with the expiry of a long lease. +My harpy of a landlord asked a rent so exorbitant, that I preferred +cutting short a successful trade to pandering to his greed. True that +the situation had increased in value during the last twenty-one years +of my residence; but I declined to toil for another man’s profit. I +turned my hack upon Bond-street, determined to take life quietly in +future. I found this old house—to be let cheap, and roomy enough to +hold my treasures. Since that time I have amused myself by attending +all the great sales, and a good many of the little ones. I have been +to Paris, Brussels, Antwerp—and farther afield—on special occasions. +My collection has grown upon me—it represents all I possess in the +world, all that I can ever leave to my descendants. As I told you, I +anticipate that as the value of money decreases, and the age grows more +artistic, the value of these specimens, all relics of departed arts, +will be multiplied fourfold.’ + +‘A wise investment, in that case,’ replied Lucius; ‘but if the age +should have touched its highest point of luxurious living, if the +passion for splendid surroundings, once the attribute only of a +Buckingham or a Hertford, now the vice of the million, should work its +own cure, and give place to a Spartan simplicity, how then?’ + +‘My collection would most likely be purchased by the State,’ said the +old man coolly; ‘a destiny which I should infinitely prefer to its +disintegration, however profitable. _Then_, Mr. Davoren, the name of +Homer Sivewright would go down to posterity linked with one of the +noblest Museums ever created by a single individual.’ + +‘Pardon me,’ said Lucius; ‘but your name Homer—is that a family or +merely a Christian name?’ + +‘The name given me by my foolish old father—whose father was a +contemporary of Bentley—who gave his life to the study of Homer, and +tried to establish the thesis that early Greece had but one poet; +that the cyclic poets were the merest phantasma; and that Stasinus, +Arctinus, Lesches, and the rest, were but the mouthpieces of that one +mighty bard. Every man is said to be mad upon one point, or mad once in +twenty-four hours. My father was very mad about Greek. He gave me my +ridiculous name—which made me the laughing-stock of my schoolfellows—a +university education and his blessing. He had no more to give. My +college career cost him the only fortune he could have left me; and +I found myself, at one-and-twenty, fatherless, motherless, homeless, +and penniless, and—what to my poor father would have seemed worst of +all—plucked for my incapacity to appreciate the niceties of Homeric +Greek.’ + +‘How did you weather the storm?’ + +‘I might not have weathered it at all, but for a self-delusion which +sustained me in the very face of starvation. But for that I could +hardly have crossed Waterloo-bridge without being sorely tempted to +take the shortest cut out of my perplexities. I fancied myself a +painter. That dream kept me alive. I got bread somehow; sold my daubs +to a dealer; made some progress even in the art of daubing; and only +after five years of hard work and harder living awoke one day to the +bitter truth that I was no more a painter than I was a Grecian, no +nearer Reynolds than Porson.’ + +‘You bore your disappointment bravely, I imagine.’ + +‘Why imagine that?’ + +‘Because your physiognomy teaches me your ability to come safely +through such an ordeal—a will strong enough to stand against even a +worse shock.’ + +‘You are right. I parted with my delusion quietly enough, though it +had brightened my boyhood, and kept me alive during five weary years. +As I could not be a painter of pictures, I determined to be a dealer +in them, and began life once more in a little den of a shop, in a +court near Leicester-square—began with ten pounds for my capital; +bought a bit of old china for three-and-sixpence, and sold it for +ten shillings; had an occasional stroke of luck as time went by; once +picked up a smoke-darkened picture of a piggery, which turned out an +indisputable Morland; went everywhere and saw everything that was +to be seen in the shape of pictures and ceramic ware; lived in an +atmosphere of art, and brought to bear upon my petty trade a genuine +passion for art, which stood me in good stead against bigwigs whose +knowledge was only technical. In four years I had a stock worth three +thousand pounds, and was able to open a shop in Bond-street. A man +with a window in Bond-street must be an arrant ass if he can’t make +money. The dilettanti found me out, and discovered that I had received +the education of a gentleman. Young men about town made my shop a +lounge. I sold them the choicest brands of cigars, under the rose, +and occasionally lent them money; for which I charged them about half +the interest they would have paid a professed usurer. My profits were +reinvested in fresh stock as fast as they accumulated. I acquired a +reputation for judgment and taste; and, in a word, I succeeded; which I +should never have done had I insisted upon thinking myself a neglected +Raphael.’ + +‘I thank you for your history, more interesting to my mind than any +object in your collection. I do not wonder that you were loth to part +with the gems of art you had slowly gathered. But had none of your +children the inclination to continue so fascinating a trade?’ + +‘My children!’ repeated Homer Sivewright, with a gloomy look; ‘I have +no children. When you talk to a stranger, Mr. Davoren, beware of +commonplace questions. They sometimes gall a raw spot.’ + +‘Pardon me; only seeing that interesting young lady—your granddaughter—’ + +‘That granddaughter represents all my kindred upon earth. I _had_ a +son—that girl’s father. But there is not a figure carved on yonder +oaken choir-stalls of less account to me than that son is now.’ + +Lucius was silent. He had been unlucky enough to stumble upon the +threshold of a family mystery. Yes, he had fancied some touch of +sadness, some vague shadow of a quiet grief, in that sweet young face. +The child of a disgraced father; her gentle spirit even yet weighed +down by the memory of some ancient shame. He thought of the sorrow that +had darkened his own youth—the bitter memory which haunted him even +yet—the memory of his lost sister. + +He went through the collection, seeing things as well as he could by +the light of a solitary candle. Mr. Sivewright displayed his various +treasures with infinite enthusiasm; dilating upon the modelling here, +the colouring there; through all the technicalities of art. He kept his +guest absorbed in this investigation for nearly two hours, although +there were moments when the younger man’s thoughts wandered back to the +parlour where they had left Lucille. + +He was thinking of her even while he appeared to listen with intense +interest to Mr. Sivewright’s explanation of the difference between +_pâte tendre_ and _pâte dure_; wondering if she lived alone in that +huge rambling house with her grandfather, like little Nell in the +_Old Curiosity Shop_; only it was to be hoped with no such diabolical +familiar as Quilp privileged to intrude upon her solitude. So anxious +was he to be satisfied on this point, that he ventured to ask the +question, despite his previous ill-fortune. + +‘Yes,’ answered Mr. Sivewright coolly, ‘we live quite alone. Dull, +you’ll say, perhaps, for my granddaughter. If it is, she must resign +herself to circumstances. There are worse things to bear than want of +company. If she hadn’t this home, she’d have none. Well, I suppose +you’ve seen as many of these things as you care about. I can see your +mind’s wandering. So we may as well bid each other good-night. I’m +obliged to you for your civility this afternoon. This way.’ + +He opened the door into the hall. A somewhat abrupt dismissal, and one +Lucius had not expected. He had reckoned upon finishing his evening far +more pleasantly in the society of Lucille. + +‘I should like to bid Miss Sivewright good-evening,’ he said. + +‘There’s no occasion. I can do it for you. There’s your hat, on the +black-marble slab yonder,’ said the old man, seeing his visitor looking +round in search of that article, with a faint hope that he might have +left it in the parlour. + +‘Thanks. But I hope you don’t forbid my coming to see you again +sometimes?’ Lucius asked bluntly. + +‘Humph!’ muttered the old man, ‘it would sound ungracious to talk of +forbidding any future visit. But I have lived in this house five years, +and have not made an acquaintance. One of the chief attractions of this +place, to my mind, was the fact that it was cut off by a ten-foot wall +from the world outside. With every wish to be civil, I can’t see why I +should make an exception in your favour. Besides, you’ve seen all there +is worth seeing within these walls; you could have no possible pleasure +in coming to us. We are poor, and we live poorly.’ + +‘I am not a seeker of wealthy acquaintance. A quiet fireside—an +atmosphere of home—brightened by the refinements of art; that is what I +should value above all things in a house where I was free to visit; and +that your house could give me. But if you say No, I submit. I cannot +force myself upon you.’ + +‘I have a granddaughter who will be penniless if she offends me,’ said +the old man, with the same gloomy look which had darkened his face when +he spoke of his son. ‘I do not care for any strange influence to come +between us. As it is, we are happy—not loving each other in any silly +romantic fashion, but living together in mutual endurance. No; I should +be a fool to admit any disturbing element.’ + +‘Be it so,’ said Lucius. ‘I am a struggling man, and have hardly +trodden the first stage of an uphill journey. The friendship I offer is +not worth much.’ + +‘I should refuse it in exactly the same manner if you were a +millionnaire,’ answered the other, opening the heavy old door, and +admitting the fog. He led the way across the forecourt, unlocked the +tall iron gate, and his visitor passed out into the sordid realities of +the Shadrack-road. + +‘Once more, good-night,’ said Mr. Sivewright. + +‘Good-night,’ answered Lucius, as the gate closed upon him, with +a creak like the caw of an evil-minded raven. He turned his face +homeward, intensely mortified. He was a proud man, and had offered his +friendship to a retired bric-à-brac dealer, only to have it flatly +rejected. But it was not wounded pride which vexed him as he walked +home through the fog. + +‘There’s no such thing as love at first sight,’ he said to himself; +‘yet when a man has lived for half-a-dozen years without seeing a +pretty face in his own rank of life, his heart is apt to be rather +inflammable.’ + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +HARD HIT. + + +Lucius Davoren found himself curiously disturbed by the memory of +that pretty face in his own rank of life—that glimpse of a fireside +different from the common firesides of the Shadrack-Basin district—the +fat and prosperous hearths, where the atmosphere was odorous with tea, +shrimps, muffins, and gin-and-water; the barren hearth-stoves by which +destitution hugged itself in its rags. He went about his daily work +with his accustomed earnestness, was no whit the less tender to the +little children, watched with the same anxious care by pauper sick +beds, handled shattered limbs or loathsome sores with the same gentle +touch; in a word, did his duty thoroughly, in this dismal, initiative +stage of his career. + +But he never passed Cedar House without a regretful sigh and a +lingering gaze at its blank upper windows; which, showing no trace of +the life within, had a wall-eyed look that was worse than the utter +blindness of closed shutters. He sometimes went out of his way even, +for the sake of passing those inexorable walls. He wasted a few minutes +of his busy day loitering by the iron gate, hoping that by some kindly +caprice of Fortune the pale sweet face of Lucille Sivewright would +appear behind the rusty bars, the ponderous hinge would creak, and the +girl who haunted his thoughts would emerge from her gloomy prison. + +‘Does she never come out?’ he asked himself one fine winter day, when +there was sunshine even in the realms of Shadrack. It was a month +after his adventure with Homer Sivewright, and he had lingered by +the gate a good many times. ‘Does she never breathe the free air of +heaven, never see the faces of mankind? Is she a cloistered nun in all +but the robe, and without the companionship which may make a convent +tolerable?—without even the affection of that grim old grandfather? for +how coldly he spoke of her! What a life!’ + +Lucius was full of pity for this girl, whom he had only known one +brief hour. If any one had suggested that he was in love with her, he +would have scorned the notion. Yet there are passions which endure +for a lifetime; which defy death and blossom above a grave; though +their history may be reckoned by rare hours of brightness, too easily +reckoned in the dull sum of life. + +‘Love at sight is but the fancy of poets and fools,’ thought Lucius; +‘but it would be strange if I were not sorry for a fair young life thus +blighted.’ + +His violin had a new pathos for him now, in those occasional hours of +leisure when he laid aside his books and opened the case which held +that magician. His favourite sonatas breathed a languid melancholy, +which sounded to him like the complaint of an imprisoned soul—that +princess of fairy tale—the bric-à-brac dealer’s granddaughter. But to +think of her thus, as he played dreamily by his lonely fireside, was +only to feel a natural compassion for an oppressed fellow-creature. + +This tendency to dwell upon one subject, and that a foolish one, since +his pity could not be of the smallest service to its object, finally +worried him not a little. Thus it was that, finding himself his own +master an hour or so earlier than usual one January afternoon, he told +himself that the wisest thing he could do would be to get away from the +Shadrack-road atmosphere altogether. + +‘The life I lead is too narrow, too completely monotonous,’ he thought. +‘No wonder I have taken to exaggerate the importance of trifles. Yes, +I will refresh myself by a few hours’ liberty in a brighter world. I +will go and hunt up Geoffrey Hossack.’ + +They were firm friends still, though their lives lay as wide apart as +two rivers which have their source from the same watershed, and wander +off by opposite ways to the sea, never to touch again. They had lost +sight of each other for some time of late. Geoffrey, ever a peripatetic +spirit, had been doing Norway, with an excursus into Lapland during +the last two years; but a letter received just before Christmas had +announced his return, and his sojourn at a manor-house in Yorkshire. + +‘I shall begin the new year in the City of cities,’ he wrote; ‘and +one of my first occupations will be to beat up your quarters in that +queer world of yours beyond the Tower. But if you are kind enough to +forestall me, you will find me in my old rooms at Philpott’s.—Yours, as +per usual, G. H.’ + +The new year had begun, and had brought no sign from Geoffrey; so +Lucius took advantage of his leisure to go westward in quest of his +friend. He detested the slow tortures of an omnibus, and was too poor +to afford himself a hansom; so he gave himself the luxury of a walk. + +That journey took him almost from one end of London to the other. +The forest of spars, the ropewalk, the open gates of the docks, +the perpetual procession of hogsheads, cotton bales, iron bars, +packing-cases, and petroleum barrels, gave place to the crowded streets +of the City, where all the operations of commerce seemed to be carried +on quietly, by men who walked to and fro, carrying no merchandise, +but buying and selling as it were by sign and countersign. Then came +that borderland on the westward side of Temple Bar—that somewhat +shabby and doubtful region where loom the churches of St. Clement and +St. Mary, which seem to have been especially designed as perpetual +standing impediments to the march of architectural progress in this +quarter; then the brighter shop-windows and more holiday air of the +western Strand; and then Charing-cross; and a little way farther on, +hanging-on to the skirts of Pall Mall and the Clubs, behold Philpott’s +or the Cosmopolitan Hotel, an old-fashioned house with a narrow façade +in red-brick, pinched-in between its portlier neighbours—a house which +looked small, but boasted of making up forty beds, and retaining all +the year round a staff of thirty servants. + +Mr. Hossack was at home. The waiter of whom Lucius asked the question +brightened at the sound of his name, as if he had been a personal +friend, and took Lucius under his protection on the instant. + +‘This way, sir; the first-floor. Mr. Hossack has his own particular +rooms here. We once refused them to a Cabinet Minister, because Mr. +Hossack wanted them.’ + +‘A general favourite, I suppose.’ + +‘Lord bless you, sir, down to the vegetable maid, we worship him.’ + +The enthusiastic waiter opened a door, and ushered in the guest. +There had been no question as to card or name. Geoffrey Hossack was +accessible as the sunshine. + +He was half buried in a low capacious chair, his head flung back on the +cushions, a cigar between his lips, an open French novel flung face +downwards on the carpet beside him, amongst a litter of newspapers. The +winter dusk had almost deepened into night, and the room was unlighted +save by the fire. Yet even in that fitful light Lucius saw that his +friend’s countenance was moody; a fact so rare as to awaken curiosity, +or even concern. + +‘Geoff, old fellow!’ + +‘Why, Davoren!’ cried Geoffrey, starting up from his luxurious repose, +and flinging the unfinished cigar into the fire. ‘How good of you! And +I ought to have come to your place. I’ve been in London a fortnight.’ + +‘My dear old boy, one hardly expects Alcibiades beyond the Minories. I +have been living at that dingy end of town until to come westward is a +new sensation. When I saw Trafalgar-square and the lighted windows of +yonder Club to-night, I felt like Columbus when he sighted the coast of +San Salvador. I had a leisure afternoon, and thought I couldn’t spend +it better than in looking you up. And now, Geoff, for your Norwegian +and Laplandian experiences. You were looking uncommonly gloomy when I +came in; as if your memories of the north were not of the brightest.’ + +‘My northern memories are pleasant enough,’ said the other, putting +aside the question lightly, just in that old familiar way Lucius knew +so well. ‘Come, Lucius, plant yourself there,’ rolling over another +capacious chair, the last device of some satanic upholsterer for the +propagation of slothful habits; ‘take one of those Havanas, and light +up. I can never talk freely to a man till I can hardly see his face +across the clouds of his tobacco—a native modesty of disposition, I +suppose; or perhaps that disinclination to look my fellow-man straight +in the face which is accounted one of the marks of a villanous +character. Goodish weed, isn’t it? Do you remember British Columbia, +Davoren, and the long days and nights when there was no tobacco?’ + +‘Do I remember?’ echoed the surgeon, looking at the fire. ‘Am I ever +likely to forget?’ + +‘Of course not. The question was a mere _façon de parler_. There are +things that no man can forget. Can I forget, for instance, how you +saved my life? how through all those wearisome nights and days when I +was lying rolled up in my buffalo skins raving like a lunatic, fancying +myself in all sorts of places and among all sorts of people, you were +at once doctor and sick-nurse, guardian and provider?’ + +‘Please don’t talk of that time, Geoff. There are some things better +forgotten. I did no more for you than I’d have done for a stranger; +except that my heart went with my service, and would have almost broken +if you had died. Our sufferings and our peril at that time seem to me +too bitter even for remembrance. I can’t endure to look back at them.’ + +‘Strange!’ exclaimed Geoffrey lightly. ‘To me they afford an unfailing +source of satisfaction. I rarely order a dinner without thinking of +the days when my vital powers were sustained—“sustained” is hardly +the word, say rather “suspended”—by mouldy pemmican. I seldom open a +new box of cigars without remembering those doleful hours in which +I smoked dried grass, flavoured with the last scrapings of nicotine +from my meerschaum. It is the converse of what somebody says about a +sorrow’s crown of sorrow. The memory of past hardship sweetens the +comfort of the present. But I do shudder sometimes when I remember +awakening from _my_ delirium to find _you_ down with brain-fever, and +poor little Schanck sitting awestricken by your side, like a man who +had been holding converse with spirits. I don’t mean schnapps, but +something uncanny. Thank God, those Canadian emigrants found us out +soon afterwards, or He only knows how our story would have ended.’ + +‘Thank God!’ echoed Lucius solemnly. ‘I know nothing of my illness, +can remember nothing till I found myself strapped like a bundle upon a +horse’s back, riding through the snow.’ + +‘We moved you before you were quite right in your head,’ answered +Geoffrey apologetically. ‘The Canadians wouldn’t wait any longer. It +was our only chance of being put into the right track.’ + +‘You did a wise thing, Geoff. It was good for me to wake up far from +that wretched log-hut.’ + +‘Come now, after all, we had some very jolly times there,’ said +Geoffrey, with his habit of making the best of life; ‘sitting by the +blazing pine-logs jawing away like old boots. It was only when our +’baccy ran out that existence became a burden. I give you my honour +that sometimes when civilised life begins to hang heavy, I look back +to the days when we crossed the Rocky Mountains with a regretful sigh. +I almost envy that plucky little German sea-captain who left us at +Victoria, and went on to San Francisco to dig for gold.’ + +‘I verily believe, Geoff, you would have contrived to be cheerful +in the Black Hole at Calcutta, or on the middle passage. You have a +limitless reserve fund of animal spirits.’ + +‘There you’re wrong. I believed as much myself till the other day. But +I have lately discovered a latent faculty hitherto unsuspected even by +myself; the capacity for being miserable.’ + +‘You have sustained some family affliction,—or you have taken to +wearing tight boots?’ + +‘Neither. I wish you’d help yourself to some brandy-and-soda yonder,’ +interjected Mr. Hossack, pointing to a side-table on which those +refreshments were provided, and ringing the bell clamorously; ‘I’ll +order dinner before I unbosom myself. George,’ to the enthusiastic +waiter, who appeared in prompt answer to the noisy summons, ‘the best +you can do for this gentleman and me, at seven sharp; and don’t +come fidgeting in and out to lay the cloth until five minutes before +you bring the soup tureen. By the way, we’ll begin with oysters and +Montrachet, and you can give us a bottle of Yquem afterwards. No +sparkling wine. We’ll wind up with Chambertin, if you’ve a bottle in +good condition. But don’t bring it half-frozen out of the cellar, +or muddled by hasty thawing. Exercise judgment, George; you have +to deal with connoisseurs. Now,’ continued this epicurean youth, +flinging himself back into the depths of his chair, ‘before I begin my +egotistical prosing, let me hear what you’ve been doing all this time, +my Lucius.’ + +‘That may be told in two words. Hard work.’ + +‘Poor old Davoren!’ + +‘Don’t take that simple statement as a complaint. It is work I like. I +might have set up my Penates in what is called a genteel neighbourhood, +and earned my crust a good deal more easily than I can earn it yonder. +But I wanted wide experience—a complete initiation—and I went where +humanity is thickest. The result has more than satisfied me. If ever I +move westward it will be to Savile-row.’ + +The sybarite contemplated his friend admiringly, yet with a stifled +yawn, as if the very contemplation of so much vital force were +fatiguing. + +‘Upon my word, I don’t know that I wouldn’t exchange my three-per-cents +for your ambition, Lucius,’ he said. ‘To have something to achieve, +something to win—that is the keenest rapture of the human mind, that +makes the chief delight of the chase. Upon my honour, I envy you. I +seem to awake to the conviction that it is a misfortune to be born with +the proverbial silver spoon in one’s mouth.’ + +‘The man who begins life with a fortune starts ahead of the penniless +struggler in the race for fame,’ answered the surgeon. ‘There is plenty +of scope for your ambition, Geoff, in spite of the three-per-cents.’ + +‘What could I do?’ + +‘Try to make yourself famous.’ + +‘Not possible! Unless I took to a pea-green coat, like that rich +young West Indian swell in the last generation. Fame! bah! for Brown, +Jones, or Robinson to talk of making themselves famous is about as +preposterous as it would be for Hampstead-hill to try and develop a +volcano. Men born to fame have a special brand upon their foreheads, +like the stamp on Veuve Clicquot’s champagne corks. I think I see it in +the anxious lines that mark yours, Lucius.’ + +‘There is the senate,’ said Davoren; ‘the natural aim of an +Englishman’s ambition.’ + +‘What! truckle to rural shopkeepers for the privilege of wasting +the summer evenings and the spring tides in a stuffy manufactory of +twaddle. _Pas si bête!_’ + +‘After all,’ returned Lucius, with a faint sigh, ‘you have something +better than ambition, which is only life in the future—mere fetish +worship, perhaps—or the adoration of a shadow which may never become +a substance. You have youth, and the power to enjoy all youth’s +pleasures; that is to say, life in the present.’ + +‘So I thought till very lately,’ answered Geoffrey, with another sigh; +‘but there is a new flavour of bitterness in the wine of life. Lucius, +I’m going to ask you a serious question. Do you believe in love at +first sight?’ + +A startling question at any rate, for it brought the blood into the +surgeon’s toil-worn face. Happily they were still sitting in the +fire-light, which just now waxed dim. + +‘About as much as I believe in ghosts or spirit-rapping,’ he answered +coldly. + +‘Which means that you’ve never seen a ghost or had a message from +spirit-land,’ answered Geoffrey. ‘Six months ago I should have called +any one an ass who could love a woman of whom he knew no more than that +her face was lovely and her voice divine. But as somebody—a baker’s +daughter, wasn’t she?—observed, “We know what we are, but we know not +what we may be.”’ + +‘You have fallen in love, Geoff?’ + +‘Descended into abysmal depths of folly, a million fathoms below the +soundings of common sense. There’s nothing romantic in the business +either, which of course makes it worse. It’s only foolish. I didn’t +save the lady’s life; by stopping a pair of horses that were galloping +to perdition with her; or by swimming out a mile or so to snatch +her from the devouring jaws of an ebb tide. I have no excuse for my +madness. The lady is a concert-singer, and I first saw her while +dancing attendance upon some country cousins who were staying in town +the other day, and led me like a victim to musical mornings and evening +recitals, and so on. You know that I have not a passionate love of +music.’ + +‘I know that you had a very moderate appreciation of my violin.’ + +‘All the tunes sounded so much alike. Want of taste on my part, of +course. However, my cousins—Arabella and Jessie, nice girls, but +domineering—insisted that I should go to concerts, so I went. They +both sing and play, and wanted to improve their style, they said; +selfishly ignoring the fact that I had no style to improve; and +allowing me to pay for all the tickets. One morning—splendid weather +for snowballing; I wished myself young again and at Winchester, as +I looked at the streets—we went to a Recital, which took place in a +dreary-looking house near Manchester-square, by the kind permission +of the tenant. The concert people might as well have borrowed a +roomy family vault. It would have been quite as cheerful. Well, we +surrendered our tickets—parallelograms of sky-blue pasteboard, and +uncommonly dear at half a guinea—to a shabby footman, who ushered us +up-stairs over a threadbare stair carpet to a faded drawing-room, where +we found some elderly ladies of the dowdy order, and a miscellaneous +collection of antique gentlemen in well-worn coats of exploded cut. +These I took to represent the musical nobility. It was not a cheerful +concert. First came a quartette, in ever so many parts, like a dull +sermon; a quartette for a piano, violoncello, and two fiddles, with +firstly, and secondly, and thirdly. Every now and then, when the +violoncello gave forth rather deeper groans than usual, or one of +the fiddles prolonged a wire-drawn note, the musical nobility gave a +little gasp, and looked at one another, and one of the old gentlemen +tapped the lid of his snuffbox. After the quartette we had a pianoforte +solo, to my unenlightened mind an arid waste of tuneless chords, +and little meandering runs to nowhere in particular, a little less +interesting than a problem in Euclid. I prefer my cousin Arabella’s +hearty thumping, and frantic rushes up and down the keyboard, to this +milk-and-water style, which is, I understand, classical. Number three +was a vocal duet by Handel, which I won’t describe, as it lulled me +into a placid slumber. When I reopened my eyes there was a gentle +murmur of admiration floating in the atmosphere; and I beheld a lady +dressed in black, with a sheet of music in her hand, waiting for the +end of the symphony.’ + +‘_The_ lady, I suppose,’ said Lucius, duly interested. + +‘The lady. I won’t attempt to describe her; for after all what can one +say of the loveliest woman except that she has a straight nose, fine +eyes, a good complexion? And yet these constitute so small a part of +Beauty. One may see them in the street every day. This one stood there +like a statue in the cold wintry light, and seemed to me the most +perfect being I had ever beheld. She appeared divinely unconscious of +her beauty, as unconscious as Aphrodite must have been in that wild +free world of newborn Greece, though all creation worshipped her. She +didn’t look about her with a complacent smile, challenging admiration. +Her dark-fringed eyelids drooped over the violet-gray eyes, as she +looked downward at the music. Her dress was Quaker-like, a linen collar +round the full firm throat, the perfect arm defined by the plain black +sleeve. Art had done nothing to enhance or to detract from her beauty. +She sang “Auld Robin Gray” in a voice that went to my inmost heart. The +musical nobility sniffed and murmured rapturously. The old gentleman +rapped his snuffbox, and said Bwava! and the song was re-demanded. She +curtsied and began something about a blue bodice and Lubin, and in this +there were bird-like trills, and a prolonged shake, clear and strong +as the carol of a sky-lark. Lucius, I was such a demented ass at that +moment, that if the restraints of civilisation hadn’t been uncommonly +strong upon me, I should have wept like a schoolboy before a caning.’ + +‘Something in the _timbre_ of the voice,’ said Lucius, ‘simpatica.’ + +‘Sim-anybody you like; it knocked me over as if I’d been a skittle.’ + +‘Have you seen her since?’ + +‘Have I seen her! I have followed her from concert-room to +concert-room, until my _sensorium_—that’s the word, isn’t it?—aches +from the amount of classical music that has been inflicted upon it—the +x minors and z majors, and so forth. Sometimes I hunted her down in +some other aristocratic drawing-room, by the kind permission, &c.; +sometimes I found her at the Hanover-square Rooms. Mitchell has a +standing order to send me a ticket for every concert at which she +sings. It’s deuced hard work. I’m due this time to-morrow at St. +George’s Hall, Liverpool.’ + +‘But, my dear old Geoff, can anything be more foolish?’ expostulated +Lucius, forgetful of that rusty old gate in the Shadrack-road, to which +purest pity had so often led him. + +‘I daresay not. But I can’t help myself.’ + +‘Do you know anything about the lady?’ + +‘All that a diligent process of private inquiry could discover; and yet +very little. The lady is a widow—’ + +‘Disenchanting fact.’ + +‘Her name, Bertram.’ + +‘Assumed, no doubt.’ + +‘Very possibly. She has lodgings in Keppel-street, Russell-square, and +lives a life of extreme seclusion with one little girl. I saw the child +one morning, a seraph of seven or eight, with flowing flaxen hair, +blue frock, and scarlet legs, like a tropical bird, or a picture by +Millais.’ + +‘That sounds like respectability.’ + +‘Respectability!’ cried Geoffrey, flaming with indignation. ‘I would no +more doubt her honour than I would question that of my dead mother. If +you had heard her sing “Voi che sapéte,” the clear thrilling tones, now +swelling into a flood of melody, now sinking to the tenderest whisper! +Could such tones as those come from an impure heart? No, Lucius. I need +no certificate of character to tell me that Jane Bertram is true.’ + +Lucius smiled—the slow smile of worldly wisdom—and then breathed a +faint regretful sigh for his friend’s delusion. + +‘My dear Geoff,’ he said, ‘I daresay the conclusion you arrive at is +natural to the unsophisticated mind. A great orator addresses us like +a demigod; ergo, he must be by nature godlike. Yet his life may be no +better than Thurlow’s or Wilkes’s. A woman is divinely beautiful; and +we argue that her soul, too, must be divine. The history of the musical +stage tells us that in days gone by there were women who sang like +angels, yet were by no means perfect as women. For God’s sake, dear old +friend, beware of music. Of all man’s ensnarers the siren with lyre and +voice is the most dangerous. Of all woman’s tempters he who breathes +his earthly desires in heavenly-sounding melody is the most fatal. In +my own family there has been a wretched example of this nature. I speak +with all the bitterness that comes from bitter experience.’ + +‘That may be so,’ returned the other, unconvinced; ‘but there are +instincts which cannot lie. My belief in Jane Bertram is fixed as the +sun in heaven.’ + +‘Did you contrive to obtain an introduction?’ + +‘No. I found that impossible. She knows no one, goes nowhere, except +for her professional engagements. Even the people who engage her—music +publishers, and what not—know nothing about her; except that she +sings better than five out of six sopranos of established reputation, +and that she has struggled into her present modest position out of +obscurity and hard work. She was only a teacher of music until very +lately. She would do wonders if she went on the stage, my informant +told me; and such a course was suggested to her; but she peremptorily +declined to entertain the idea. She earns, in the season, about five +pounds a week. What a pittance for a goddess!’ + +‘And who was Mr. Bertram?’ + +‘I was not curious upon that subject; enough for me to know that he is +in his grave. But had I been ever so inquisitive my curiosity must +have gone unsatisfied. The people who know so little about her know +still less about her late husband. He has been dead some years. That is +all they could tell me.’ + +‘And you positively go down to Liverpool to hear her sing!’ + +‘As I would go back to the shores of the Red River for the same +purpose. Ay, live again on mouldy pemmican, and hear again the howling +of the wolves at sunset.’ + +‘And is this kind of thing to go on indefinitely?’ + +‘It will go on until circumstances favour my passion, until I can win +my way to her friendship, to her confidence; until I can say to her, +without fear of repulse or discouragement, “Jane, I love you.” I am +quite content to serve a longish apprenticeship, even to classical +music, for the sake of that reward.’ + +Lucius stretched out his hand, and the two men’s broad palms met in the +grasp of friendship. + +‘Upon my honour, Geoffrey, I admire you,’ said the surgeon. ‘I won’t +preach any more. Granted that your passion is foolish, at least it’s +thorough. I honour a man who can say to himself, “That woman I will +marry, and no other; that woman I will follow, through honour and +dishonour, evil report and good report—”’ + +‘Stop,’ cried Geoffrey; ‘let there be no mention of dishonour in the +same breath with her name. If I did not believe in her truth and +purity, I would pluck this passion out of my breast—as the Carthusian +prior in the mediæval legend plucked deadly sin out of the entrails of +St. Hugo of Lincoln—though I cut my heart open to do it. I love her, +and I believe in her.’ + +‘And if you ceased to believe in her, you would cease to love her?’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Geoffrey Hossack firmly. + +He had risen from his seat by the hearth, and was pacing the dusky +chamber, where the street lamps without and the red fire within made a +curious half-light. Truly had his friend called him thorough. Intense, +passionate, and impulsive was this generous nature—a nature which had +never been spoiled by that hard school in which all men must learn +whose first necessity is to get their living, that dreary breadwinner’s +academical career to which God condemned Adam as the direst punishment +of his disobedience and deceit. ‘No longer shalt thou wander careless +in these flowery vales and groves, where generous emotions and +affectionate impulses and noble thoughts might bud and blossom in the +happy idlesse. For thee, sinner, the daily round of toil, the constant +hurry, the ever-goading pressure of sordid necessities, which shall +make thee selfish and hard and remorseless, with no leisure in which +to be kind to thy brother strugglers, with hardly a pause in which to +remember thy God!’ + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +‘O WORLD, HOW APT THE POOR ARE TO BE PROUD!’ + + +Lucius thought much of his friend after that frank confession at the +Cosmopolitan. Geoffrey had dined none the less well because of his +passion. He had eaten oysters, and bisque soup, and stewed calves’ head +with truffles, and mutton, and wild duck, with the appetite that had +been educated in an American pine-forest; had drunk Château d’Yquem, +and Chambertin, and wound up with curaçoa, and had waxed merry to +riotousness as the evening grew late,—Lucius taking but a moderate +share in the revel, yet enjoying it. Was it not a glimpse of a new +life, after the Shadrack-road, where pleasure had a universal flavour +of gin-and-water? + +They parted after midnight with warm protestations of friendship. They +were to see each other again. Geoffrey was to look his friend up in the +Shadrack district as soon as his engagements permitted. But wherever +_she_ went, he would follow her, were it to that possible continent or +archipelago at the southern pole. + +So Lucius went back to the region of many spars and much rigging, and +solaced his lonely evenings with the pensive strains of his violin, +and pondered long and gravely upon that wondrous mystery of love which +could befool even so healthy a nature as that of honest, open-hearted, +plain-spoken Geoffrey Hossack. Love allied with music! ‘Yes,’ he +thought, as he sighed over the long-drawn chords of an adagio, ‘_that_ +is the fatal witchcraft.’ + +Anon came February, season of sleet and east winds, the month in which +winter—after seeming, towards the end of January, to have grown genial +and temperate, with even faint whispers of coming spring—generally +undergoes a serious relapse, and plunges anew into hyperborean +darkness, fog, tempest, snow. Lucius had passed the old house in the +Shadrack-road almost every day since November (even when it lay out of +his beat he contrived to walk that way), but had seen no more sign of +human life about that dismal mansion than if it had been in Chancery; +not even the old woman in a bonnet—not even a baker’s barrow delivering +the daily loaf—not so much as a postman. He might almost have beguiled +himself into the belief that the whole experience of that November +evening—the old man—the pale poetic-looking girl—the marvellous +collection of art treasures seen by the flickering light of a single +candle—were the mere phantasmagoria of an overworked brain, a waking +dream, the inchoate vision of a disordered fancy. + +He went twice every Sunday to a church that stood midway between his +own house and the once regal mansion; a new church of the Pugin-Gothic +order, with open seats, a painted window, other windows which awaited +the piety of the congregation to be also painted, and a very young +incumbent of the advanced type, deeply read in the lives of the saints, +and given to early services. This temple was so small that Lucius +fancied he could scarcely have failed to see Miss Sivewright were she +a worshipper there. Sunday after Sunday, during the hymns, ancient and +modern, he looked with anxious gaze round the fane, hoping to see that +one interesting face among the crowd of uninteresting faces. Four out +of five of the congregation were women, but Lucille Sivewright was not +one of them. He began to resign himself to the dreary truth that they +two were doomed never to meet again. + +Hope, in its last agony, was suddenly recalled to new life. He came +home from his daily drudgery one evening, thoroughly tired, even a +little disheartened; ‘discouraged,’ as the American lady described +herself, when she confessed to poisoning eight of her relations, simply +because she began to regard them as encumbrances, and feared that, if +permitted to live, they might reduce her to poverty. On this particular +evening the star of science—that grand and ever-sustaining idea that he +was to sow the seed of some new truth in the broad field of scientific +progress—waxed paler than usual, and Lucius also was discouraged. He +came home bodily and mentally tired. He had been tramping to and fro +all day under a drizzling rain, and in a leaden atmosphere laden with +London smoke. + +Even in that shabby ill-built domicile which he called home, sorry +comfort awaited him. His ancient serving-woman, Mrs. Babb, had let +the parlour fire go out. The kettle, which, singing on the hob above +a cheerful blaze, seemed almost a sentient thing, now leaned on one +side disconsolately against a craggy heap of black coal, like a vessel +aground upon a coral reef. The tray of tea-things—the neat white cloth +indicative of chop or steak—adorned not his small round table. Mrs. +Babb, absorbed in the feminine delights of a weekly cleaning, had +suffered herself to become unconscious of the lapse of time. + +He gave the loose, ill-hung bell-wire an angry jerk, flung himself +into his accustomed arm-chair, and stretched out his hand haphazard in +search of a book. Plato, Montaigne, Sterne, any philosopher who should +teach him how to hear the petty stings of the scorpion—daily life. + +But before his hand touched the volumes, its motion was arrested. He +beheld something more interesting than Plato, since in all probability +it concerned himself, namely, a letter, at a corner of the mantelpiece, +just on a level with his eye. Egotism triumphed over philosophy. The +letter, were it even a bill, was more vital to him for the moment than +all the wisdom of Socrates. + +He snatched the envelope, which was directed in a rugged uncompromising +caligraphy, unfamiliar to him. He tore it open eagerly, and looked at +the signature, ‘Homer Sivewright.’ + + ‘Dear Sir,—When you obliged me with your assistance the other day, I + believe I made some profane remark about your profession, which you + took in good part. One forgives such gibes from a testy old man. You + told me that when I found myself ill, my thoughts would naturally tend + towards Savile-row. There you were wrong. I do find something out of + gear in my constitution—possibly liver—or perhaps general break-up. + But instead of thinking of the high-flyers of the West-end, with their + big fees and pompous pretensions, I think of you. + + ‘I told you the other night that I liked your face. This is not all. + My housekeeper, who has kindred in this district, informs me that you + have worked some marvellous cure upon her husband’s brother’s second + cousin’s wife’s sister. The relationship is remote, but the rumour + of your skill has reached my servant. Will you come this way at your + convenience? Don’t come out of your way on purpose to see me. My + means, as I informed you, and as you might see for yourself in all my + surroundings, are scanty, and I can afford to pay very little more + than the poorest among your patients. I state the case thus plainly + that there may be no future disagreement.—Truly yours, + + ‘HOMER SIVEWRIGHT.’ + +‘Is the old man a miser; or an enthusiast, who has sacrificed himself +and his granddaughter to his love of art? Equally hard upon the +granddaughter in either case,’ reflected Lucius, trying to contemplate +the business in the chilly light of common sense, wondering at and +half-ashamed of the sudden delight which had moved him when he found +that Mr. Sivewright’s letter was nothing less than a passport to +Lucille Sivewright’s home. + +‘I’ll go the instant I’ve dined,’ he said to himself, giving another +tug at the loose bell-wire. ‘Yet who knows whether the old churl will +let me see his interesting granddaughter? Perhaps he’ll put me on a +strictly professional footing; have me shown up to his den by that old +woman, and shown down again without so much as a glimpse of Lucille’s +pensive face. Yet he can hardly pay me badly and treat me badly too. +I’ll ask permission to attend him as a friend; and then perhaps he’ll +melt a little, and admit me to his hearth. I like the look of that +old wainscoted room, with its bare floor and clean-swept hearth, and +handful of bright fire. It seemed to breathe the poetry of poverty.’ + +Mrs. Babb came clattering in with the tea-things and chop all together, +profuse in apologies for having forgotten to wind up the kitchen clock, +and thus become oblivious as to time. + +‘On a clear day I can see the clock at the public round the corner by +stretching my head out of the back-attic window,’ she said; ‘but being +thick to-day I couldn’t, and I must have been an hour behind ever since +dinner. And the fire gone out too!’ + +The fire was quickly lighted; the kettle carried off to boil +down-stairs; but Lucius didn’t wait for his tea. That gentle decoction, +which was, in a general way, the very support of his life, to-night +was almost indifferent to him. He ate his chop, ran up to his narrow +dressing-room, where the weekly cleansing process had left a healthy +odour of mottled soap and a refreshing dampness, washed away the smoke +and grime of the day with much cold water, changed all his garments, +lest he should carry the taint of fever-dens whither he was going, and +went forth as gaily as to a festival. + +‘Am I as great a fool as dear old Geoffrey?’ he asked himself during +that rapid walk. ‘No; at least I know something of my goddess. I could +read the story of her patient self-sacrificing life even in that one +hour. Besides, I am by no means in love with her. I am only interested.’ + +It was a new feeling for him to approach the gate with the certainty of +admission. He tugged resolutely at the iron ring, and heard the rusty +wires creak their objection to such disturbance. Then came a shuffling +slipshod step across the barren forecourt, which, with different +tenants, might have been a garden. This footstep announced the old +woman in the bonnet, who seemed to him the twin sister of his own +housekeeper, so closely do old women in that sphere of life resemble +each other—like babies. She mumbled something, and admitted him to the +sacred precincts. The same half-light glimmered in the hall as when +he had seen it first; the whole treasury of art wrapped in shadow. +The same brighter glow streamed from the panelled parlour as the old +woman opened the door and announced ‘Dr. Davory.’ Homer Sivewright +was sitting in his high-backed arm-chair by the hearth, getting all +the heat he could out of the contracted fire. His granddaughter sat +opposite him, knitting with four needles, which flashed like electric +wires under the guidance of the soft white hands. The tea-tray—with its +quaint old teapot in buff and black Wedgewood—adorned the table. + +‘I thought you’d come,’ said the old man, ‘though my letter was not +very inviting, if you cultivate wealthy patients.’ + +‘I do not,’ answered Lucius, taking the chair indicated to him, after +receiving a stately foreign curtsy from Miss Sivewright, an unfamiliar +recognition which seemed to place him at an ineffable distance. ‘I was +very glad to get your note, and to respond to it promptly. I shall be +still more glad if you will place my medical services upon a friendly +footing. At your age a man requires the constant attendance of a doctor +who knows his constitution. There may be very little treatment wanted, +only the supervision of an experienced eye. Let me be your friend as +well as your medical adviser, and drop in whenever I am wanted, without +question of payment.’ + +The old man shot a keen glance from his cold gray eyes; eyes which +looked as if they had been in the habit of prying into men’s thoughts. +‘Why should you be so generous?’ he asked; ‘I have no claim upon you, +not even that hollow pretence which the world calls friendship. You +have nothing to gain from me. My will, disposing of my collection—which +is all I have to bequeath—was made ten years ago; and nothing would +ever tempt me to alter it by so much as a ten-pound legacy. You see +there’s nothing to be gained by showing me kindness.’ + +‘Grandfather!’ remonstrated the girl, in her low serious voice. + +‘I am sorry you should impute to me any such sordid motive,’ said +Lucius quietly. ‘My reason for offering my services gratis is plain and +above board. There is no fireside at this end of the town at which I +care to sit, no society congenial to me. I spend all my evenings alone, +generally in hard study, sometimes with the books I love, or with my +violin for my companion. This kind of life suits me well enough on +the whole. Yet there are intervals of depression in which I feel its +exceeding loneliness. No man is all-sufficient to himself. Give me the +privilege of spending an evening here now and then—I will not wear out +my welcome—and let me watch your case as a labour of love. You say that +the recompense you can offer me will be small. Better for both your +dignity and mine that there should be none at all.’ + +‘You speak fair,’ answered Sivewright, ‘but that’s a common +qualification. I have a granddaughter there whom you may imagine to +be my heiress. If she is, she is heiress only to my collection; and +even my judgment may be mistaken as to the value of that. In any case, +consider her disposed of—put her put of the question.’ + +‘Grandfather!’ remonstrated the girl again, this time blushing +indignantly. + +‘Better to speak plainly, Lucille.’ + +‘Since you cannot see me in any character except that of a +fortune-hunter, sir,’ said Lucius, rising, ‘we had better put an end to +the discussion. There are plenty of medical men in this neighbourhood. +You can find an adviser among them. I wish you good-evening.’ + +‘Stop,’ exclaimed Sivewright, as the surgeon walked straight to the +door, wounded inexpressibly, ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. But you +offered me your friendship, and it was best you should know upon what +footing I could accept the offer. You now know that I have no money to +leave any one—don’t suppose me a miser because I live poorly; that’s a +common error—and that my granddaughter is disposed of. Knowing this, do +you still offer me your professional services for nothing? do you still +wish for a place beside my hearth?’ + +‘I do,’ said the young man eagerly, and with one swift involuntary +glance at Lucille, who sat motionless, except for the dexterous hands +that plied those shining wires. He thought of the humiliation of +Hercules, and how well it would have pleased him to sit at her feet and +hold the worsted that she wound. + +‘So be it then; you are henceforth free of this house. My door, which +so seldom opens to a stranger, shall offer no barrier to you. If you +discover circumstances in our lives that puzzle you, do not trouble +yourself to wonder about them. You will know all in good time. Be a +brother to Lucille.’ She held out her hand to the visitor frankly at +these words. He took it far more shyly than it was given. ‘And be a +son,’ with a long regretful sigh, ‘if you can, to me. I told you the +other day that I liked your voice, that I liked your face. I will go +farther to-night and say, I like you.’ + +‘Thank you,’ answered Lucius gravely, ‘that is just what I want. I +doubt if I have a near relation in the world, and I know but one man +whom I count my friend. Friendship with me, therefore, means something +very real. It is not a hackneyed sentiment, worn threadbare by long +usage. But now that we have arranged things pleasantly, let us have our +medical inspection.’ + +‘Not to-night,’ said Mr. Sivewright. ‘Come to me to-morrow, if you can +spare me the time. My symptoms are not of a pressing kind. I only feel +the wheels of life somewhat clogged; the mainspring weaker than it used +to be. Let us give to-night to friendship.’ + +‘Willingly,’ answered Lucius. ‘I will be with you at ten o’clock +to-morrow morning.’ + +He drew his chair nearer to the hearth, feeling that he was now really +admitted to the charmed circle. To most young men it would have been +far from an attractive house; for him it possessed an almost mysterious +fascination. Indeed, it was perhaps the element of mystery which made +Lucille Sivewright so interesting in his eyes. He had seen plenty of +women who were as pretty—some who were more beautiful—but not one who +had ever filled his thoughts as she did. + +‘Pour out the tea, child,’ said Mr. Sivewright, and that fragrant +beverage was dispensed by Lucille’s white hands. It was one of the few +details of housekeeping in which the old man permitted extravagance. +The tea was of the choicest, brewed without stint, and the small +antique silver jug, adorned with elaborate _repoussé_ work, contained +cream. Lucius thought he had never tasted anything so exquisite as that +cup of tea. They sat round the fire, and the old man talked well and +freely—talked of the struggles of his youth, his art-worship, those +wonderful strokes of fortune to which the dealer in bric-à-brac is +ever liable—talked of everything connected with his career, except his +domestic life. On that one subject he was dumb. + +Lucius thought of the castaway, the son who was of no more account to +his father than one of the wooden images in the crowded storehouse +across the hall. What had been his crime? Perhaps never to have +been loved at all. This old man’s nature seemed of a hard-grained +wood, which could scarcely put forth tender shoots and blossoms of +affection—a man who would consider his son his natural enemy. + +‘You spoke of your violin some time ago,’ Lucille said, by and +by, in a pause of the conversation. Mr. Sivewright, having talked +about himself to his heart’s content, leaned back in his chair and +contemplated the fire. ‘Do you really play? I am so fond of the violin.’ + +‘Are you, indeed?’ cried Lucius, enraptured. ‘I’ll bring it some night, +and—’ + +‘Don’t!’ ejaculated the old man decisively. ‘I am something of +Chesterfield’s opinion, that fiddling is beneath a gentleman. If I hear +you scraping catgut I shall lose all confidence in your medicines.’ + +‘Then you shall not hear me,’ said Lucius, with perfect good humour. He +was determined to make friends with this grim old bric-à-brac dealer +if he could, just as one resolves to overcome the prejudices of an +unfriendly dog, believing that beneath his superficial savagery there +must be a substratum of nobility. ‘I only thought a little quiet music +might amuse Miss Sivewright, since she says she is fond of the violin.’ + +‘She doesn’t know what she is fond of,’ replied Sivewright testily; +‘she is full of fancies and whims, and likes everything that I abhor. +There, no tears, child,’ as those dark gentle eyes filled; ‘you know I +hate those most of all.’ + +Lucius came to the rescue, and began to talk with renewed vivacity, +thus covering Lucille’s confusion. He spoke of himself, giving all +those details of his childhood and youth, the knowledge of which +between new acquaintances at once establishes the familiarity that is +half-way towards friendship. + +He left early, fearful of outstaying his welcome; left with a sense +of perfect content in this quiet domestic evening, although the old +man had certainly not gone out of his way to conciliate his visitor. +Lucille had talked very little, but even her silence had been +interesting to Lucius. It seemed to him the indication, not of dulness, +but of a gentle melancholy; a mind overshadowed by some olden sorrow, +and perhaps depressed by the solitude of that dreary mansion. He was +not satisfied with a continental curtsy at parting, but offered Lucille +his hand, which she took as frankly as if she had fully accepted him in +the character of an adopted brother. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +‘I HAD A SON, NOW OUTLAW’D FROM MY BLOOD.’ + + +Ten o’clock the next morning beheld Lucius again at the tall gate. He +was admitted without question, and the open door of the parlour showed +him Lucille—in a gray stuff gown, a large linen apron, and a white +muslin cap, like a French grisette’s—rubbing the oaken wainscot with a +beeswaxed cloth; while a small tub of water on the table and some china +cups and saucers set out to drain, showed that she had been washing the +breakfast things. This circumstance explained the spotless neatness of +all he had seen—the shining wainscot, the absence of a grain of dust +upon any object in the room. She came out to wish him good-morning, +nowise abashed. + +‘I daresay your English young ladies would think this very shocking,’ +she said. ‘I ought to be practising Czerny’s _Exercises de Facilité_, +ought I not, at this time in the morning?’ + +‘Our English girls are very stupid when they devote all their time +to Czerny,’ he answered, ‘to the utter disregard of their domestic +surroundings. I’m not going to talk that hackneyed trash which Cobbett +brought into fashion, about preferring the art of making puddings to +music and literature; but I think it simply natural to a woman of +refinement to superintend the arrangements of her home—yes, and to use +brooms and dusters, rather than allow resting-place for so much as a +drachm of flue or dust. But you talk of our English ladies as a race +apart. Are you not English, Miss Sivewright?’ + +‘Only on my father’s side, and his mother was a Spanish-American. My +mother’ (with a sigh) ‘was a Frenchwoman.’ + +‘Ah,’ thought Lucius, ‘it is in such mixed races one finds beauty and +genius.’ + +How pretty she looked in her little muslin cap, adorning but not +concealing the rich dark hair! How well the neutral-tinted gown, with +its antique simplicity, became her graceful form! + +‘Talking of music,’ he said, ‘have you no piano?’ + +‘No, I am sorry to say. My grandfather has a prejudice against music.’ + +‘Indeed! There are few who care to confess such a singular prejudice.’ + +‘Perhaps it is because’—falteringly and trifling nervously with the +linen band of her apron—’ because a person with whom he quarrelled +long ago was fond of music.’ + +‘A somewhat unreasonable reason. And you are thus deprived of even such +companionship as you might find in a piano! That seems hard.’ + +‘Pray do not blame my grandfather: he is very good to me. I have an old +guitar—my mother’s—with which I amuse myself sometimes in my own room, +where he can’t hear me. Shall I show you the way to my grandfather’s +bedroom? He seldom comes down-stairs till after twelve o’clock.’ + +Lucius followed her up the broad oak staircase, which at each spacious +landing was encumbered with specimens of those ponderous Flemish +cabinets and buffets, which would seem to have sprung into being +spontaneous as toadstools from the fertile soil of the Low Countries. +Then along a dusky corridor, where ancient tapestry and dingy pictures +covered the walls, to a door at the extreme end, which she opened. + +‘This is grandpapa’s room,’ she said, upon the threshold, and there +left him. + +He knocked at the half-open door, not caring to enter the lion’s den +unauthorised. A stern voice bade him ‘Come in.’ + +The room was large and lofty, but so crowded with the same species of +lumber as that which he had seen below that there was little more +than a passage, or strait, whereby he could approach his patient. +Here, too, were cabinets of ebony inlaid with _pietra dura_; in one +corner stood an Egyptian mummy—perchance a departed Pharaoh, whose +guilt-burdened soul had shivered at the bar of Osiris six thousand +years ago; while on the wall above him hung a grim picture—of the +early German school—representing the flaying of a saint and martyr, +hideously faithful to anatomy. The opposite wall was entirely covered +by moth-eaten tapestry, upon which the fair fingers of mediæval +chatelaines had depicted the Dance of Death. Gazing with wondering eyes +round the room, Lucius beheld elaborately-carved arm-chairs in Bombay +black wood, peacock mosquito-fans, sandal-wood caskets, poonah work, +and ivory chessmen; lamps that had lighted Roman catacombs or burned on +Pagan altars; Highland quaichs from which Charles Edward may have drunk +the native usquebaugh; a Greek shield, of the time of Alexander, shaped +like the back of a tortoise; a Chinese idol; a South Sea islander’s +canoe. A hundred memories of lands remote, of ages lost in the midst of +time, were suggested by this heterogeneous mass of property, which to +the inexperienced eye of Lucius seemed more interesting than valuable. + +The old man’s bed stood in a corner near the fireplace—a small +four-poster, with clumsily-carved columns, somewhat resembling that +bedstead which the student of history gazes upon with awe in Mary +Stuart’s bedchamber at Holyrood, thinking how often that fair head +must have laid itself down there, weary of cark and care, and crown +and royal robes, and false friends and falser lovers—a shabby antique +bedstead, with ragged hangings of faded red silk. + +There was a fire in the grate, pinched like the grate below; a +three-cornered chair of massive carved ebony, covered with stamped and +gilded leather, stood beside it. Here sat the master of these various +treasures, his long gray hair crowned with a black-velvet skullcap; +his gaunt figure wrapped in a ragged damask dressing-grown, edged with +well-worn fur; a garment which may have been coeval with the bedstead. + +‘Good-morning,’ said Mr. Sivewright, looking up from his newspaper. +‘You look surprised at the furniture of my bedroom; not room enough to +swing a cat, is there? But you see I don’t want to swing cats. When I +get a bargain I bring it in here, and have it about me till I get tired +of looking at it, and then Wincher and I carry it down-stairs to the +general collection.’ + +‘Wincher?’ + +‘Yes, Jacob Wincher, my old Jack-of-all-trades; you haven’t seen +him yet? He burrows somewhere in the back premises—sleeps in the +coal-cellar, I believe—and is about as fond of daylight and fresh +air as a mole. A faithful fellow enough. He was my clerk and general +assistant in Bond-street; here he amuses himself pottering about among +my purchases; catalogues them after his own fashion, and could give a +better statement of my affairs than any City accountant.’ + +‘A valuable servant,’ said Lucius. + +‘Do you think so? I haven’t paid him anything for the last seven years. +He stays with me, partly because he likes me in his slavish canine way, +partly because he has nowhere else to go. His wife keeps my house, and +takes care of Lucille. And now for our consultation; the pain in my +side has been a trifle worse this morning.’ + +Lucius began his interrogatory. Gently, and with that friendly +persuasiveness which had made him beloved by his parish patients, he +drew from the old man a full confession of his symptoms. The case was +grave. An existence joyless, hard, laborious, monotonous to weariness, +will sometimes exhaust the forces of the body, sap the vital power, as +perniciously as the wear and tear of riotous living. High pressure +has pretty much the same effect, let the motive power be love of gain +or love of pleasure. In a word, Homer Sivewright had worn himself +out. There was chronic disease of long standing; there was general +derangement which might end fatally sooner or later. He was over sixty +years of age. He might die within the year; he might live two, three, +four, five years longer. + +‘You have not spared yourself, I fear,’ said Lucius, as he put his +stethoscope into his pocket. + +‘No; I have always had one great object in life. A man who has that +rarely spares himself.’ + +‘Yet a man who wears himself out before his time by reckless labour is +hardly wiser than those foolish virgins who left their lamps without +oil.’ + +‘Perhaps. It is not always easy to be wise. A man whose domestic life +is a disappointment is apt to concentrate his labour and his thoughts +upon some object outside his home. My youth was a hard one from +necessity, my middle age was hard from habit. I had not acquired the +habit of luxury. My trade grew daily more interesting to me, ten times +more so than anything the world calls pleasure. I spent my days in +sale-rooms, or wandering in those strange nooks and corners to which +art treasures sometimes drift—the mere jetsam and flotsam of life’s +troubled sea, the unconsidered spoil of ruined homes. My nights were +devoted to the study of my ledger, or the text-books of my trade. I had +no desire for any other form of life. If I could have afforded all the +comforts and pleasures of modern civilisation—which of course I could +not—my choice would have kept me exactly where I was.’ + +‘In future,’ said Lucius in his cheery tone—he never discouraged a +patient—‘it will be well for you, to live more luxuriously. Stint +yourself in nothing, and let the money you have hitherto spent in +adding to your collection be henceforth devoted to good old port and a +liberal dietary.’ + +‘I have spent nothing lately,’ said Sivewright sharply; ‘I have had +nothing to spend.’ + +‘I don’t want to doubt your word,’ replied Lucius; ‘but I tell you +frankly you must live better than you have done, if you wish to live +much longer.’ + +‘I do,’ cried the old man with sudden energy; ‘I have prayed for long +life—I who pray so little. Yes, I have sent up that one supplication to +the blind blank sky. I want to live for long years to come. If I had +been born three hundred years ago, I should have sought for the sublime +secret—the elixir of life. But I live in an age when men believe in +nothing,’ with a profound sigh. + +‘Say rather in an age when men reserve their faith for the God who made +them, instead of exhausting their powers of belief upon crucibles and +alembics,’ answered Lucius in his most practical tone. + +Then followed his _régime_, simple and sagacious, but to be followed +strictly. + +‘I should like to say a few words to your granddaughter,’ he said; ‘so +much in these cases depends upon good nursing.’ + +‘Say what you please,’ replied Mr. Sivewright, ringing his bell, ‘but +let it be said in my hearing. I don’t relish the notion of being +treated like a child; of having powders given me unawares in jam, +or senna in my tea. If you have a sentence of death to pronounce, +pronounce it fearlessly. I am stoic enough to hear my death-warrant +unmoved.’ + +‘I shall make no such demand upon your stoicism. The duration of your +life will depend very much on your own prudence. Of course at sixty +the avenue at the end of which a man sees his grave is not an endless +perspective. But you have a comfortable time before you yet, Mr. +Sivewright, if you will live wisely and make the most of it.’ + +Lucille came in response to the bell, and to her Lucius repeated his +directions as to diet and general treatment. + +‘I am not going to dose your grandfather with drugs,’ he said; ‘a mild +tonic, to promote appetite, is all I shall give him. He complains of +sleeplessness, a natural effect of thinking much, and monotonously +brooding on some one theme, and that not a pleasant one.’ + +The old man looked at him sharply, angrily even. + +‘I don’t want any fortune-telling,’ he said; ‘stick to your text. You +profess to cure the body, and not the mind.’ + +‘Unless the mind will consent to assist the cure, my art is hopeless,’ +answered Lucius. + +He finished his advice, dwelling much on that essential point, a +generous diet. The girl looked at her grandfather doubtfully. He seemed +to answer the look. + +‘The money must be found, child,’ he said, in a fretful tone, ‘if I +part with the gems of my collection. After all, life is the great +necessity; all ends with that.’ + +‘You will find your spare cash better bestowed upon your own +requirements than on Egyptian mummies,’ said Lucius, with a disparaging +glance at the defunct Pharaoh. + +Mr. Sivewright promised to be guided by his counsel, and civilly +dismissed him. + +‘Come to me as often as you like,’ he said, ‘since you come as a +friend; and let it be in the evening if that is pleasantest to you. I +suppose there will be no necessity for any more serious examinations +like this morning’s,’ with a faint smile, and a disagreeable +recollection of the stethoscope, which instrument seemed to him as much +an emblem of death as the skull and crossbones on an old tombstone. + +Lucius and Lucille went down-stairs together, and he lingered a little +in the oak-panelled parlour, from which all tokens of her housewifery +cares had now vanished. A bunch of violets and snowdrops in a tall +Venetian beaker stood in the centre of the table; a few books, an open +workbasket, indicated the damsel’s morning occupation. She had taken +off her linen apron, but not the cap, which gave the faintest spice +of coquetry to her appearance, and which Lucius thought the prettiest +headgear he had ever seen. + +They talked a little of the old man up-stairs; but the surgeon was +careful not to alarm Mr. Sivewright’s granddaughter. Alas, poor child, +coldly and grudgingly as he acknowledged her claim upon him, he was her +only guardian, the sole barrier between her and the still colder world +outside her gloomy home. + +‘You do not think him _very_ ill?’ she asked anxiously. + +‘I do not think there is any reason for you to be anxious. Careful I am +sure you will be; and care may do much to prolong his life. He has used +himself hardly.’ + +‘Yes,’ she answered in a mournful tone. ‘He has had troubles, heavy +troubles, and he broods upon them.’ + +‘Change of air and scene might be advantageous. There is an oppressive +atmosphere in such a house as this, in such a quarter of the town.’ + +‘I have sometimes found it so.’ + +‘When the spring comes, say about the middle of April, I should +strongly recommend a change for you both. To Hastings, for instance.’ + +The girl shook her head despondently. + +‘He would never consent to spend so much money,’ she said. ‘We are very +poor.’ + +‘Yet Mr. Sivewright can find money for his purchases.’ + +‘They cost so little; a few shillings at a time. The things he buys are +bargains, which he discovers in strange out-of-the-way places.’ + +‘Is he often out of doors?’ + +‘Yes, and for long hours together. But lately he has been more fatigued +after those long rambles than he used to be.’ + +‘He must abandon them altogether. And you have spent some years alone +in this old house?’ + +‘Yes. I am accustomed to solitude. It is rather dull sometimes. But I +have my books, and the house to take care of, for old Mrs. Wincher does +only the rougher part of the work, and some pleasant memories of the +past to amuse me when I sit and think.’ + +‘Is your past a very bright one?’ + +‘Only the quiet life of a school in Yorkshire, where I was sent when I +was very young, and where I stayed till I was seventeen. But the life +seemed bright to me. I had governesses and schoolfellows whom I loved, +and green hills and woods that were only less dear than my living +friends.’ + +This paved the way for farther confidences. She spoke of her youth, he +of his; of his father and mother, of his sister, the little one buried +in the family grave, not that other whose fate he knew not; his college +days; things he had spoken of the night before. She stopped him in the +middle. + +‘Tell me about America,’ she said; ‘I want to know all about America. +Some one I loved very much went to America.’ + +‘I should have hardly thought your life had been eventful enough for +much love,’ said Lucius somewhat coldly. + +‘I have not seen the person I speak of since I was seven years old,’ +she answered, with a sigh. ‘I think I may trust you; we are friends, +are we not?’ + +‘Did not your grandfather authorise me to consider myself almost your +adopted brother?’ + +‘The person I spoke of just now is one whose very name is forbidden +here. But that cruelty cannot make me forget him. It only strengthens +my memory. He is my father.’ + +‘Your father? Yes, I understand; the son whom your grandfather cast +off. But not without cause, I suppose?’ + +‘Perhaps not,’ answered Lucille, the dark deep eyes filling with +tears that were quickly brushed away. ‘He may have been to blame. My +grandfather has never told me why they quarrelled. He has only told me +in hard cruel words that they learned to hate each other before they +learned to forget each other. I was not old enough to know anything +except that my father was always kind to me, and always dear to me. +I did not see him very much. He was out a great deal, out late at +night, and I was alone with an old servant in my grandfather’s house +in Bond-street, where we had lived ever since I could remember, though +I was not born there. We had a dark little parlour behind the shop, +which went back a long way, and was crowded like the room on the other +side of the hall. The days used to seem very long and dull, so little +sunshine, so little air. But everything grew bright when papa came in +for an hour, and took me on his knee, and told me long wild stories, +German stories, I believe, yet half his own invention; stories of +kelpies and lurleys and haunted castles, of a world that was peopled +with fairies, where every leaf and every flower had its sprite. But +I shall tire you with all this talk,’ she said, checking herself +suddenly; ‘and perhaps your patients are waiting for you.’ + +‘They must wait a few minutes longer. Tire me? no, I am deeply +interested in all you tell me. Pray go on. Those were your happy hours +which your father spent at home.’ + +‘Happy beyond all measure. Sometimes, of a winter’s evening—winter was +the pleasantest time in that dark little parlour—he would sit idly by +the fire in a great arm-chair; sometimes he would take his violin from +a shelf in the corner by the chimney-piece, and play to me. I used +to climb upon his knee, and sit half buried in the big chair while +he played; such sweet music, low and solemn, like the music of one’s +dreams. I have heard nothing like it since. Those were happy nights +when he stayed at home till I went to bed, happy hours beside the +fire. We used to have no light in the room but the fire-light, and I +fancied the shadowy corners were full of fairies.’ + +‘Did you hear nothing of the quarrel between your father and your +grandfather? Children, even at seven years old, are quick to observe.’ + +‘No. If they quarrelled it was not in my hearing. My grandfather lived +entirely in his business. He seldom came into the parlour except for +his meals, or until late at night, when I had gone to bed. I only know +that one morning he was very ill, and when he came down-stairs he had +an awful look in his face, like the face of a man risen from the grave, +and he beckoned me to him, and told me my father had gone away, for +ever. I cannot tell you my grief, it was almost desperate. I wanted to +run away, to follow my father. And one night, which I remember, O so +well, a wet winter night, I got up and put on my clothes somehow, after +Mrs. Wincher had put me to bed, and crept down the dark staircase, +and opened the door in the passage at the side of the shop, which was +rarely used, and went out into the wet streets. I can see the lamps +reflected on the shining pavement to this day, if I shut my eyes, and +feel the cold wet wind blowing upon my face.’ + +‘Poor child!’ + +‘Yes, I was a very miserable child that night. I wandered about for a +long time, looking for my father in the crowd; sometimes following a +figure that looked like his ever so far, only to find I had followed a +stranger. I remember the shop-windows being shut one by one, and the +streets growing dark and empty, and how at last I grew frightened, and +sat down on a doorstep and began to cry. A policeman came across the +street and looked at me, and shook me roughly by the arm, and then +began to question me. I was quite disheartened by this time, and had +given up all hope of finding my father: so I told him my name and where +I lived, and he took me home, through a great many narrow streets and +turnings and windings. I must have walked a long way, for I know I had +crossed one of the bridges over the river. Everybody had gone to bed +when the policeman knocked at the door in Bond-street. My flight had +not been found out. My grandfather came down to open the door in his +dressing-gown and slippers. He didn’t even scold me, he seemed too much +surprised for that, when he saw me wet and muddy and footsore. He gave +the man money, and carried me up to my little bedroom at the top of +the house, and lighted a fire with his own hands, and did all he could +to make me warm and comfortable. He asked me why I had gone out, and +I told him. Then for the first time that I can remember, he took me +in his arms and kissed me. “Poor Luce,” he said, “poor little orphan +girl!” He was very kind to me for the next three days, and then took me +down to Yorkshire to the school, where I stayed nearly ten years.’ + +‘A strange sad story,’ said Lucius, deeply interested. ‘And have you +never been told your father’s fate?’ + +‘Only that he went to America, and that my grandfather has never heard +of him from the hour in which they parted until now.’ + +‘May he not have had some tidings, and kept the truth from you?’ + +‘I don’t think he would tell me a direct falsehood; and he has most +positively declared that he has received no letter from my father, and +has heard nothing of him from any other source. He is dead, no doubt. I +cannot think that he would quite forget the little girl who used to sit +upon his knee.’ + +‘You believe him to have been a good father then, in spite of your +grandfather’s condemnation of him?’ + +‘I believed that he loved me.’ + +‘Have you no recollection of your mother?’ + +‘No. She must have died when I was very young. I have seen her +portrait. My grandfather keeps it hidden away in his desk, with old +letters, and other relics of the past. I begged him once to give it +to me, but he refused. “Better forget that you ever had a father or a +mother,” he said, in his bitterest tone. But I have not forgotten my +mother’s face, and its sweet thoughtful beauty.’ + +‘I am ready to believe that she was beautiful,’ said Lucius, with a +tender smile. Lucille’s story had brought them ever so much nearer +together. Now, indeed, he might allow himself to be interested in +her—might freely surrender himself captive to the charm of her gentle +beauty—the magic of her sympathetic voice. That little pathetic picture +of her sorrowful childhood—a tender heart overflowing with love that +none cared to garner—_that_ made him her slave for ever. Was this love +at first sight, that foolish unreasoning passion, which in Geoffrey +Hossack he deemed akin to lunacy? No, rather an intuitive recognition +of the one woman in all the world created to be the sharer of his +brightest hopes, the object of his sweetest solicitude, the recompense +and crown of his life. He had to tear himself away after only a few +friendly words, for Duty, speaking with the voice of his parish +patients, seemed to call him from this enchanted scene. + +‘I shall look in once or twice a week, in the evening,’ he said, ‘and +keep a watchful eye upon my patient. Good-bye.’ + +Towards the end of that week he spent another evening at Cedar House, +and in the following week two more evenings and so on, through windy +March, and in the lengthening days of April, until he looked back and +wondered how he had managed to live before his commonplace existence +had been brightened by these glimpses of a fairer world. The old man +grew still more familiar—friendly even—and allowed the two young people +to talk at their ease; nor did he seem to have any objection to their +growing intimacy. As the days grew longer, he suffered them to wander +about the old house in the spring twilight, and out into a desert in +the rear, which had once been a garden, where there still remained an +ancient cedar, with skeleton limbs that took grim shapes in the dusk. +Not a second Eden, by any means, for this blossomless garden ended in +a creek, where grimy barges, laden with rubble or sand, or rags, or +bones, or coal, or old iron, lay lopsided in the inky mud, against the +mouldering woodwork of a dilapidated wharf, waiting to be disburdened +of their freight. + +Yet to one at least these wanderings, these lingering _tête-à-têtes_ by +the creek, looking down dreamily at the Betsy Jane of Wapping, or the +Ann Smith of Bermondsey, were all-sufficient for happiness. + +Seeing the old man thus indulgent, Lucius assured himself that he could +have formed no other views about his granddaughter; since, as Lucius +himself thought, it would naturally occur to him that he, Lucius, +must needs fall madly in love with her. He felt all the more secure +upon this point since he had so long been a constant visitor at Cedar +House, and had met no one there who could pretend to Miss Sivewright’s +favour. A snuffy old dealer had been once or twice closeted with Mr. +Sivewright, but that was all. And however base a tyrant Lucille’s +grandfather might be, he could scarcely contemplate bestowing his +lovely grandchild upon an old man in a shabby coat, who presented +himself on the threshold of the parlour with an abject air, and brought +some object of art or virtu wrapped in a blue-cotton handkerchief for +the connoisseur’s inspection. + +So the year grew older, and Lucius Davoren looked out upon a new +existence, cheered by new hopes, and happy thoughts which went with him +through the long days of toil, and whispered to his soul in the pauses +of his studious nights. + +Even the hideous memory of what went before his illness in America—that +night in the pine-forest, that winter dusk when the wicked face looked +in at his window, when the wolfish eyes glared at him for the last +time, save in his dreams—even that dread picture faded somewhat, and he +could venture to meditate calmly upon the details of that tragedy, and +say to himself, ‘The blood I shed yonder was justly shed.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +‘BY HEAVEN, I LOVE THEE BETTER THAN MYSELF.’ + + +While Lucius dreamed his dream beside the wharf where the barges lay +moored under the smoky London sky, Geoffrey was following his siren +from one provincial town to another, not without some enjoyment in +the chase, which filled his empty life with some kind of object, no +matter though it were a foolish one. Given youth, health, activity, +and a handsome income, there yet remains something wanting to a man’s +existence, without which it is apt to become more or less a burden +to him. That something is a purpose. Geoffrey having failed—from +very easiness of temper, from being everybody’s favourite, first in +every pleasure-party, foremost in every sport that needed pluck and +endurance, rather than from lack of ability—to achieve distinction at +the University, had concluded that he was fit for nothing particular in +life; that he had no vocation, no capacity for distinguishing himself +from the ruck of his fellow men; and that the best thing he could do +was to live upon the ample fortune his merchant father had amassed for +him, and get as much pleasure as he could out of life. + +Almost his first experience of pleasure and independence had been those +two years’ travel in the Far West. Pleasure in that particular instance +had brought him face to face with death, but was counted pleasure +nevertheless. After doing America, he had done as much of the old +world as he happened to feel interested in doing, not scampering round +the globe in ninety days like Mr. Cook’s excursionists, but taking +an autumn in Norway, a winter in Rome, a spring in Greece, a summer +in Sweden, and so on, until he began to feel, in his own colloquial +phrase, that he had used up the map of Europe. + +Apart from his passion for the lovely concert-singer, Mrs. Bertram, +which was strong enough to have sustained his energies had the siren +sought to lure him to the summit of Mount Everest, he really enjoyed +this scamper from one provincial town to another, these idle days spent +in sleepy old cities, which were as new to him as any unexplored region +in central Europe. The great dusky cathedrals or abbey-churches into +which he strolled before breakfast, careless but not irreverent; and +where he sometimes found white-robed curates and choristers chanting +the matin service; the empty square, where the town-pump and a mediæval +cross had it all to themselves, except on market-days; the broad +turnpike-road beyond the High-street, where, perhaps, an avenue of elms +on the outskirt of the town testified to the beneficent care of some +bygone corporation not quite destitute of a regard for the picturesque; +these things, which repeated themselves, with but little variety, in +most of the towns he explored, were not without a certain mild interest +for Mr. Hossack. + +He would gaze in wondering contemplation upon those handsome red-brick +houses at the best end of the High-street, those respectable +middle-class houses which every one knows, and of which every English +town can boast, no matter how remote from the fever of that commerce +which makes the wealth of nations. Houses whose windows shine +resplendent, without stain or blemish of dust, smoke, or weather; +houses on whose spotless doorstep no foot seems to have trodden, whose +green balconies are filled with geraniums more scarlet than other +geraniums, and on whose stems no faded leaf appears; houses whose +sacred interior—archtemple of those homelier British virtues, ready +money and soapsuds—is shrouded from the vulgar eye by starched muslin +curtains pendant from brazen rods; houses at which the taxgatherer +never calls twice, doors whose shining knockers have never trembled in +the rude grasp of a dun. + +Sometimes, in the gloaming, Geoffrey beheld the bald head of an elderly +gentleman above the brass curtain-rod, and a pair of elderly eyes +gazing gravely across the empty street, not as if they expected to see +anything. The brass-plate on the door would inform him of the elderly +gentleman’s profession—whether he was family solicitor or family +surgeon, architect or banker; and then Mr. Hossack would lose himself +in a labyrinth of wonder, marvelling how this old man had borne the +burden of his days in that atmosphere of monotonous respectability, +always looking out of the same shining window, above the same brazen +bar. He would go back to his hotel, after this small study of human +life, a wiser and a happier man, thanking Providence for that agreeable +combination of youth, health, and independent fortune which gave him, +in a manner, the key of the universe. + +Stillmington, in Warwickshire, was a place considerably in advance of +the dull old market towns where one could hear the butcher’s morning +salutation to his neighbour from one end of the street to the other, +where, indeed, the buzzing of a lively bluebottle made an agreeable +interruption of the universal silence. Stillmington lay in the bosom of +a fine hunting country, and, as long as foxes were in season, was gay +with the cheery clatter of horses’ hoofs on its well-kept roads, the +musical clink of spurs on its spotless pavements. Stillmington boasted +an aristocratic hotel, none of your modern limited-liability palaces, +but a family hotel of the fine old English expensive and exclusive +school, where people ate and drank in the splendid solitude of their +private apartments, and stared at one another superciliously when they +met in the corridors or on the staircase, instead of herding together +at stated intervals to gorge themselves in the eye of their fellow man, +like the passengers on board a Cunard steamer. Stillmington possessed +also a wholesome spring, whose health-restoring waters were, however, +somewhat out of vogue, and a public garden, through whose leafy groves +meandered that silvern but weedy stream the river Still; a garden +whose beauties were somewhat neglected by the upper five hundred of +Stillmington, except on the occasion of an archery meeting or a croquet +tournament. + +In the bright April weather, all sunshine and blue skies, like a +foretaste of summer, Geoffrey found himself at Stillmington. His +enchantress had been delighting the ruder inhabitants of Burleysbury, +the great manufacturing town fifteen miles away, whose plethora of +wealth served to sustain the expensive elegance of her unproductive +neighbour, and was now at Stillmington. There were to be two concerts, +with an interval of a week between them, and Geoffrey, whose knowledge +of Mrs. Bertram’s movements was of the fullest, had ascertained that +she meant to spend that intervening week in Stillmington. He had +followed her from town to town, through all the deviations of a most +circuitous tour; now at Brighton, anon at Liverpool, now at Cheltenham, +anon at York. He had heard her sing the same songs again and again, +and had known no weariness. But in all his wanderings he had never +yet spoken to her. It was not that he lacked boldness. He had written +to her—letters enough to have made a bulky volume had he cared to +publish those sentimental compositions—but on her part there had been +only the sternest silence. No response whatever had been vouchsafed to +those fervid epistles, offering his hand and fortune, his heart’s best +blood even, if she should happen to desire such a sacrifice; letters +teeming with unconscious and somewhat garbled quotations from Byron, +made eloquent by plagiarism from Moore, with here and there a touch of +that energetic passion which glows in the love-songs of Robert Burns; +yet to the very core honest and manly and straightforward and true. +She must have been colder than ice surely to have been unmoved by such +letters. + +She had recognised the writer. That he knew. However crowded the hall +where she sang, Geoffrey knew that his presence was not unperceived +by her. He saw a swift sudden glance shot from those deep gray eyes +as she curtsied her acknowledgment of the applause that welcomed her +entrance; that keen glance which swept the crowd and rested for one +ecstatic moment upon him. The lovely face never stirred from its almost +statuesque repose—a pensive gravity, as of one who had done with the +joys and emotions of life—yet he had fancied more than once that +the eyes brightened as they recognised him; as if even to that calm +spirit there were some sense of triumph in the idea of so much dogged +devotion, such useless worship. + +‘I daresay she feels pretty much as Astarte, or Baal, or any of those +ancient parties would have felt, if they had been capable of feeling, +when they were propitiated with human sacrifices. She won’t answer my +letters, or afford me a ray of encouragement, but likes to know that +there is an honest fool breaking his heart for her. No matter. I would +rather break my heart for her than live happy ever afterwards, as the +story-books say, with any one else. So courage, Geoffrey; let us show +her how much ill-usage true lovers can bear, and still love on, and +hope on, till love and hope are extinguished together in one untimely +grave.’ + +And Geoffrey, whose philosophic mind was wont thus to relieve the +tedium of the toilet, would contemplate his visage in the glass as he +arranged his white tie, and wonder that ill-starred passion had not +made greater ravages in his countenance; that he had not grown pale and +wan, and seamed with premature wrinkles. + +‘I wonder I’m not as grim-looking as Count Ugolino, by this time,’ he +said to himself; and then went down to his private sitting-room at the +Royal George, to eat a dinner of five courses in solitary state, for +the benefit of that old-established family hotel. Love as yet had not +affected his appetite. He did excellent justice to the _cuisine_ of +the _chef_ at the George, an artist far above the common type of hotel +cooks. + +This young worldling was not without expedients. Inaccessible as +his bright particular star might be, he yet contrived to scrape +acquaintance with one of the lesser lights in that planetary system +of which she was a part. A little finesse and a good deal of +brandy-and-soda obtained for him the friendship of a youthful pianist, +whose duty it was to accompany the singers. From this youth, who wore +his hair long, affected the dreamily classical school, and believed +himself a mute inglorious Chopin, Geoffrey heard all that was to be +heard about Mrs. Bertram. But, alas, this all was little more than the +musicsellers had already told him. + +No one knew any more about her than the one fact of her supreme +isolation, and that reserve of manner which was, perhaps unjustly, +called pride. She lived alone; received no one, visited no one, kept +her fellow performers at the farthest possible distance. If she took a +lodging, it was always remote from the quarter affected by the rest of +the little company; if she stayed at an hotel, it was never the hotel +chosen by the others. + +So much as this Geoffrey contrived to hear—not once only, but many +times—without committing himself to the faintest expression of his +feelings. He would have perished sooner than degrade his passion by +making it the subject of vulgar gossip. + +‘If I cannot win her without a go-between,’ he said to himself, ‘I am +not worthy of her.’ + +Many times, stung to the quick by the freezing contempt with which +she treated his letters, he had watched and lain in wait for her, +determined to force an interview, should the opportunity arise. But +no such opportunity had yet arisen. He would do nothing to create a +scandal. + +Here at Stillmington he had new hopes. The little town was almost +empty, and offered a depressing prospect to the speculator who was to +give the two concerts. The hunting season was over; the water-drinking +and summer-holiday season had not yet begun. Stillmington had assumed +its most exclusive aspect. The residents—a class who held themselves +infinitely above those birds of passage who brought life and gaiety +and a brisk circulation of ready money to the place—had it all to +themselves. Respectable old Anglo-Indian colonels and majors paraded +the sunny High-street, slow and solemn and gouty, and passed the time +of day with their acquaintance on the opposite pavements in stentorian +voices, which all the town might hear, and with as much confidence +in the splendour of their social position as if they had been the +ground-landlords of the town. Indeed, the lords of the soil were for +the most part a very inferior race of men, who wore dusty coats, shabby +hats with red-cotton handkerchiefs stuffed into the crown, and had a +sprinkling of plaster of paris in their hair, and a three-foot rule +sticking out of their breast pockets—men who belong to the bricklaying +interest, and had come into Stillmington thirty years ago, footsore and +penniless, in search of labour. These in their secret souls made light +of the loud-voiced majors. + +The town was very quiet; the glades and groves in the subscription +garden—where the young lilacs put forth their tender leaves in the +spring sunshine, and the first of the nightingales began her plaintive +jug-jug at eventide—were lonely as those pathless regions of brushwood +at the mouth of the Mississippi where the alligator riots at large +among his scaly tribe. To this garden came Geoffrey, on the second day +of his residence at Stillmington. Mr. Shinn, the pianist, had dropped a +few words that morning, which were all-sufficient to make this one spot +the most attractive in the world for Geoffrey Hossack. Mrs. Bertram and +her little girl had walked here yesterday afternoon. Mr. Shinn had seen +them go in at the gate while he was enjoying a meditative cigar, and +thinking out a reverie in C minor during his after-dinner stroll. + +Geoffrey was prompt to act upon this information. “What more likely +than that his divinity would walk in the same place this afternoon? +There was a blue sky, and the west wind was balmy as midsummer +zephyrs. All nature invited her to those verdant groves.” + +Mr. Hossack paid his money at the little gate, where a +comfortable-looking gatekeeper was dozing over a local newspaper, and +went in. Nature had liberally assisted the landscape gardener who laid +out the Stillmington Eden. Geoffrey followed a path which wound gently +through a shady grove, athwart whose undergrowth of rhododendron and +laurel flashed the bright winding river. Here and there a break in +the timber revealed a patch of green lawn sloping to the bank, where +willows dipped their tremulous leafage into the rippling water. Ferns, +and such pale flowers as will flourish in the shade—primrose, wild +hyacinth, and periwinkle—grew luxuriantly upon the broken ground beside +the path, where art had concealed itself beneath an appearance of +wildness. To the right of this grove there was a wide stretch of lawn, +where the toxophilites held their festivals—where the croquet balls +went perpetually on certain days of the week, from the first of May +to the last of September. But happily the croquet season had not yet +begun, and the birds had grove and lawn to themselves. + +Geoffrey went to the end of the grove, meeting no one. He strolled +down to the bank and looked at the river, contemplated the weeds with +the eye of boatman and of angler. + +‘It ought to be a good place for jack,’ he muttered, yawned, and went +back to the grove. + +It was lonely as before. Thrushes, linnets, blackbirds, burst forth +with their little gushes of melody, now alone, now together, then +lapsed into silence. He could hear the fish leap in the river; he could +hear the faint splash of the willow branches shaken by the soft west +wind. He yawned again, walked back to within a few yards of the gate, +came back again, stretched himself, looked at his watch, and sank +exhausted on a rustic seat under the leafy arm of a chestnut. + +‘I wonder if she will come to-day,’ he thought, wishing he had been +at liberty to solace himself with a cigar. ‘It would be just like my +luck if she didn’t. If I had only seen her yesterday instead of that +ass Shinn, with his confounded reverie in C minor. But there was I +loafing at the other end of the town, expecting to find her looking at +the shop-windows, or getting a novel at the circulating library, when +I ought to have been down here. And if I ever do contrive to speak +to her, I wonder what she’ll say. Treat me with contumely, no doubt; +blight me with her scorn, as she has blighted my epistolary efforts. +And yet, sometimes, I have seen a look in those gray eyes that seemed +to say, “What, are you so true? Would to God I could reward your +truth!” A delusion, of course—mad as my love for her.’ + +The mildness of the atmosphere, those little gushes of song from the +birds, the booming buzz of an industrious bee, the faint ripple of the +river, made a combination of sound that by and by beguiled him into +forgetfulness, or not quite forgetfulness, rather a pleasant blending +of waking thought and dreaming fancy. How long this respite from the +cares of actual life lasted he knew not; but after a while the sweet +voice of his enchantress, which had mingled itself with all his dreams, +seemed to grow more distinct, ceased to be a vague murmur responsive +to the voice of his heart, and sounded clear and ringing in the still +afternoon atmosphere. He woke with a start, and saw a tall slim figure +coming slowly along the path, half in sunshine, half in shadow—a lady +with a face perfect as a Greek sculptor’s Helen, dark chestnut hair, +eyes of that deep gray which often seems black—a woman about whose +beauty there could hardly be two opinions. She was dressed in black +and gray—a black-silk dress of the simplest fashion, a loose mantle of +some soft gray stuff, which draped her like a statue, a bonnet made of +black lace and violets. + +She was talking to a little girl with a small round face, which might +or might not by and by develop into some likeness of the mother’s +beauty. The child carried a basket, and knelt down every now and then +to gather primroses and violets on the uneven ground beside the path. + +‘Sweet child,’ said Geoffrey within himself, apostrophising the infant, +‘if you would only run ever so far away, and leave me quite free to +talk to your mamma!’ + +He rose and went to meet her, taking off his hat as she approached. + +‘I would not lose such an opportunity for worlds,’ he thought, ‘even at +the risk of being considered a despicable cad. I’ll speak to her.’ + +She tried to pass him, those glorious eyes overlooking him with a +superb indifference, not a sign of discomposure in her countenance. But +he was resolute. + +‘Mrs. Bertram,’ he began, ‘pray pardon me for my audacity: desperation +is apt to be rash. I have tried every means of obtaining an +introduction to you, and am driven to this from very despair.’ + +She gave him a look which made him feel infinitely small in his own +estimation. + +‘You have chosen a manner of introducing yourself which is hardly +a recommendation,’ she said, ‘even were I in the habit of making +acquaintances, which I am not. Pray allow me to continue my walk. Come, +Flossie, pick up your basket, and come with mamma.’ + +‘How can you be so cruel?’ he asked, almost piteously. ‘Why are you so +determined to avoid me? I am not a scoundrel or a snob. If my mode of +approaching you to-day seems ungentlemanlike—’ + +‘Seems!’ she repeated, with languid scorn. + +‘If it _is_ ungentlemanlike, you must consider that there is no other +means open to me. Have I not earned some kind of right to address you +by the constancy of my worship, by the unalterable devotion which has +made me follow you from town to town, patiently waiting for some happy +hour like this, in which I should find myself face to face with you?’ + +‘I do not know whether I ought to feel grateful for what you call your +devotion,’ she said coldly; ‘but I can only say that I consider it very +disagreeable to be followed from town to town in the manner you speak +of, and that I shall be extremely obliged if you will discontinue your +most useless pursuit.’ + +‘Must it be always useless? Is there no hope for me? My letters have +told you who and what I am, and what I have dared to hope.’ + +‘Your letters?’ + +‘Yes; you have received them, have you not?’ + +‘I have received some very foolish letters. Are you the writer?’ + +‘Yes; I am Geoffrey Hossack.’ + +‘And you go about the world, Mr. Hossack, asking ladies of whom you +know nothing whatever to marry you,’ she replied, looking him full in +the face, with a penetrating look in the full clear gray eyes—eyes +which reminded him curiously of other eyes, yet he knew not whose. + +‘Upon my honour, madam,’ he answered gravely, and with an earnest +warmth that attested his sincerity, ‘you are the first and the only +woman I ever asked to be my wife.’ + +That truthful tone, those candid eyes boldly meeting her gaze, may +have touched her. A faint crimson flushed her cheek, and her eyelids +drooped. It was the first sign of emotion he had seen in her face. + +‘If that be true, I can only acknowledge the honour of your preference, +and regret that you have wasted so much devotion upon one who can never +be anything more than a stranger to you.’ + +Geoffrey shot a swift glance after the child before opening the +floodgates of his passion. Blessed innocent, she had strayed off to +a distant patch of sunlit verdure carpeted with wild hyacinths—‘the +heavens upbreaking through the earth.’ + +‘Never?’ he echoed; ‘never more than a stranger? Is it wise to make +so light of an honest passion—a love that is strong to suffer or to +dare? Put me to the test, Mrs. Bertram. I don’t ask you to trust me +or believe in me all at once. God knows I will be patient. Only look +me in the face and say, “Geoffrey Hossack, you may hope,” and I will +abide your will for all the rest. I will follow you with a spaniel’s +fidelity, worship you with the blind idolatry of an Indian fakir; will +do for you what I should never dream of doing for myself—strive to win +reputation and position. Fortune has been won for me.’ + +‘Were you the Lord Chancellor,’ she said, with a slow sad smile, ‘it +would make no difference. You and I can never be more than strangers, +Mr. Hossack. I am sorry for your foolish infatuation, just as I should +pity a spoiled child who cried for the moon. But that young moon +sailing cold and dim in the sky yonder is as near to you as I can ever +be.’ + +‘I won’t believe it!’ he exclaimed passionately, feeling very much like +that spoiled child who will not forego his desire for the moon. ‘Give +me only a chance. Do not be so cruel as to refuse me your friendship: +let me see you sometimes, as you might if we had met in society. +Forgive me for my audacity in approaching you as I have done to-day. +Remember it was only by such a step I could cross the barrier that +divides us. I have waited so long for this opportunity: for pity’s sake +do not tell me that I have waited in vain.’ + +He stood bareheaded in the fading sunlight—young, handsome—his candid +face glowing with fervour and truth; a piteous appealing expression in +those eyes that had been wont to look out upon life with so gay and +hopeful a glance,—not a man to be lightly scorned, it would seem; not a +wooer whose loyal passion a wise woman would have spurned. + +‘I can only repeat what I have already told you,’ Mrs. Bertram said +quietly, as unmoved by his appeal as if beneath her statuesque beauty +there had been nothing but marble; no pitiful impulsive woman’s heart +to be melted by his warmth, or touched by his self-abasement. ‘Nothing +could be more foolish or more useless than this fancy—’ + +‘Fancy!’ he repeated bitterly. ‘It is the one heartfelt passion of a +lifetime, and you call it fancy!’ + +‘Nothing could be more foolish,’ she went on, regardless of his +interruption. ‘I cannot accept your friendship in the present; I +cannot contemplate the possibility of returning your affection in the +future. My path in life lies clear and straight before me—very narrow, +very barren, perhaps—and it must be trodden in solitude, except for +that dear child. Forget your mistaken admiration for one who has done +nothing to invite it. Go back to the beaten way of life. What is that +Byron says, Byron who had drained the cup of all passions? Love makes +so little in a man’s existence. You are young, rich, unfettered, with +all the world before you, Mr. Hossack. Thank God for so many blessings, +and’—with a little laugh that had some touch of bitterness—‘do not cry +for the moon.’ + +She left him, with a grave inclination of the proud head, and went away +to look for her child—left him planted there, ashamed of himself and +his failure; loving her desperately, yet desperately angry with her; +ready, had there only been a loaded pistol within reach, to blow his +brains out on the spot. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +‘SORROW HAS NEED OF FRIENDS.’ + + +Geoffrey went to the concert at the Stillmington Assembly Rooms that +evening, his disappointment notwithstanding. Granted that he had +comported himself in a mean and cad-like fashion; granted that this +woman he loved was colder than granite, unapproachable as the rocky +spurs of Australian mountains, whose sheer height the foot of man +has never scaled; granted that his passion was of all follies the +maddest,—he loved her still. That one truth remained, unshaken and +abiding, fixed as the centre of this revolving globe. He loved her. + +The audience at the Assembly Rooms that evening was not large; +indeed, Stillmington spent so much money upon gentility as to have +little left for pleasure. The Stillmingtonites visited one another in +closed flies, which were solemnly announced towards the end of each +entertainment as Colonel or Mr. So-and-so’s carriage. The distance that +divided their several abodes was of the smallest, yet he was a daring +innovator who ventured to take his wife on foot to a Stillmington +dinner-party, rather than immure her during the brief journey in one +of Spark’s flies. Concerts, however, the Stillmingtonites approved as +a fashionable and aristocratic form of entertainment—not boisterously +amusing, and appealing to the higher orders, for the most part +through the genteel medium of foreign languages. There was generally, +therefore, a fair sprinkling of the _élite_ of Stillmington in the +Assembly Room on such occasions, and there was a fair sprinkling +to-night—a faint flutter of fans, an assortment of patrician shoulders +draped with opera cloaks of white or crimson; an imposing display of +elderly gentlemen with shining bald heads and fierce gray whiskers; +and, on the narrower benches devoted to the vulgar herd, a sparse +assemblage of tradesmen’s wives and daughters in their best bonnets. + +Geoffrey Hossack sat amongst the _élite_, sick at heart, yet full of +eager longing, of feverish expectancy, knowing that his only hope now +was to see her thus, that the fond vain dream of being something nearer +to her was ended. Nothing was left him but the privilege of dogging her +footsteps, of gazing at her from among the crowd, of hearing the sweet +voice whose Circean strains had wrought this madness in his mind, of +following her to the end of life with his obnoxious love. + +‘I shall become a modern Wandering Jew,’ he thought, ‘and she will hate +me. I shall provoke her with my odious presence till she passes from +indifference to aversion. I can’t help it. My destiny is to love her, +and a man can but fulfil his destiny.’ + +She sang the old Italian song he loved so well—that melody whose +pathetic tones have breathed their sad sweetness into so many +ears—recalling fond memories and vain regrets, thoughts of a love that +has been and is no more, of lives only beyond the grave. + +To Geoffrey those pensive strains spoke of love in the present—love +dominant, triumphant in its springtide of force and passion. + +‘Voi che sapéte che cosa è amor,’ he repeated to himself bitterly; ‘I +should rather think I did. It’s the only thing I do know in the present +obfuscation of my faculties.’ + +Their eyes met once in the look she cast round the room. Great Heaven, +what regretful tenderness in hers! Such a look as that maddened him. +Had she but looked at him thus to-day in the garden, he would surely +have done something desperate—clasped her in his arms, and sworn to +carry her to the uttermost ends of the earth, if thereby he might be +sure of his prize. Could she look at him thus, she who had been colder +than the icy breath of the polar seas, when he had pleaded with all the +force of his passion two short hours ago? + +His eyes never left her face while she sang. When she vanished, the +platform was a blank. Other performers came and went; there was other +music, vocal and instrumental—to him it seemed no more than the +vague murmur of a far-off waterfall in the ears of slumber. She came +back again, after an interval that seemed intolerably long, and sang +something of Balfe’s—a poem by Longfellow, called ‘Daybreak’—mournful, +like most of her songs, but full of music. + +During the interval between the two concerts Geoffrey paced +Stillmington and its environs with an indefatigable industry that might +have shamed the local postman, for _he_ at least was weary, while +Geoffrey knew not weariness. Vainly did he haunt that aristocratic +High-street, vainly linger by the door of the circulating library, the +fancy repository, the music-shop where somebody was perpetually trying +pianos with woolly basses and tinkling trebles; vainly did he stroll in +and out of the garden where he had dared to molest Mrs. Bertram with +his unwelcome adoration,—she was nowhere to be met with. + +One comfort only remained to him, a foolish one, like all those +fancies whence love derives consolation. He knew where his enchantress +lived, and in the quiet dusk, when the gentle hush of evening enfolded +Stillmington like a mantle, he would venture to pace the lonely street +beneath her windows; would watch her taper gleaming faintly in that +gray nightfall which was not yet darkness, would, as it were, project +his spirit into her presence, and keep her company in spite of herself. + +The street where she lodged was on the outskirts of the town, newly +built—a street of commonplace dwellings of the speculative builder’s +pattern; a row of square boxes, with not a variation of an inch from +number one to number thirty; sordid, unpicturesque: habitations which +even love could not beautify. Mrs. Bertram occupied the upper floor +above a small haberdasher’s shop, such a shop as one felt could be +kept only by a widow—a scanty display of poor feminine trifles in the +window, children’s pinafores, cheap gloves, cheap artificial flowers, +cheap finery of divers kinds, whose unsubstantial fabric a spring +shower would reduce to mere pulp or rag useless even for the paper-mill. + +Here, between seven and eight o’clock, Mr. Hossack used to smoke his +after-dinner cigar, despairing yet deriving a dismal pleasure from the +sense of his vicinity to the beloved, like those who, in the gloaming, +pace a churchyard within whose pale their treasure lies. The twinkling +light shining palely athwart the white blind cheered him a little. +Her hand had perhaps kindled it. She was there alone—for Geoffrey, in +whom the parental instinct was unawakened, did not count a child as +company—amidst those humble surroundings, she whose loveliness would +enhance the splendour of a palace. Thus, with all love’s exaggeration, +he thought of her. + +One evening he was bold enough to penetrate the little shop. ‘Had +they any gloves that would fit him?—eights or nines he believed he +required.’ As he had supposed, the shopkeeper was a widow. She emerged +from the little parlour at the back, dressed in rusty weeds, to assist +a young woman with a small pinched visage and corkscrew ringlets, who +was feebly groping among the shelves and little paper packets with +hieroglyphical labels. + +‘Lor, Matilda Jane, you never know where to find anything! There’s a +parcel of drab men’s on that top shelf. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, +sir. We have a large selection of cloth and lisle-thread gloves. You’d +like lisle-thread, perhaps, as the weather’s setting in so warm?’ + +‘Yes, lisle-thread will do,’ answered Geoffrey, who had never worn +anything but Jouvin’s best, at five shillings a pair. + +He seated himself, and looked round the stuffy little shop. Above this +gloomy den Mrs. Bertram lived. He listened for her light step while the +drab men’s were being hunted for. + +‘I think you have one of the ladies who sang at the concert lodging +with you?’ said this hypocrite, while he made believe to try on the +thread gloves. + +‘Yes, sir; Mrs. Bertram: a very sweet young person; so mild and +affable.’ + +‘But not chatty, mother,’ interjected the damsel in ringlets. ‘It’s as +much as one can do to get half-a-dozen words out of her; and it’s my +belief she’s as proud as she can be, in spite of her soft voice.’ + +‘Hold your tongue, Matilda Jane; you’re always running people down,’ +remonstrated the matron. ‘I think that pair will fit you nicely, sir,’ +as Geoffrey thrust his strong fingers into the limp thread. ‘Poor dear +lady, there wasn’t much pride left in her this morning, when she spoke +to me about her little girl.’ + +‘Her little girl! There is nothing the matter, I hope?’ + +‘Yes, sir, there is. The poor little dear has took the scarlatina. +Where she could have took it, I can’t imagine; for it’s not in this +street: indeed, we’re very free from everything except measles in +this part of the town; and they’re everywhere, as you may say, where +there’s children. But the little girl has took the scarlatina somehow, +and Mrs. Bertram’s dreadful down-hearted about it. The poor child’s +got it rather bad, I grant you; but then, as I tell her mar, it’s only +scarlatina: those things ending with a “tina” are never dangerous—it +isn’t as if it was scarlet-fever.’ + +‘You are sure the child is in no danger?’ cried Geoffrey anxiously; not +that he cared for children in the abstract; but _her_ child—a priceless +treasure, doubtless—_that_ must not be imperilled. + +‘No, sir; indeed I don’t think as there’s any danger. I’ll allow the +fever’s been very high, and the child has been brought down by it; +but the doctor hasn’t hinted at danger. He is to look in again this +evening.’ + +‘He comes twice a day, does he? That looks as if the case were serious.’ + +‘It was Mrs. Bertram’s wish, sir. Feeling anxious like, she asked him.’ + +Geoffrey was silent for a few minutes, meditating. If he could +establish some kind of _rapport_ between himself and these people, it +would be something gained: he would feel himself nearer to his beloved +in her affliction. Alas, that she should be sorrowful, and he powerless +to comfort her; so much a stranger to her, that any expression of +sympathy would seem an impertinence! + +‘I have heard Mrs. Bertram sing a great many times,’ he said, ‘and +have been charmed with her singing. I am deeply interested in her (as +a musical amateur), and in anything that concerns her welfare. I shall +venture to call again to-morrow evening, to inquire how the little girl +is going on. But pray do not mention me to Mrs. Bertram; I am quite +unknown to her, and the idea that a stranger had expressed an interest +in her might be displeasing. I’ll take half-a-dozen pairs of gloves.’ + +He threw down a sovereign—a delightful coin, which not often rang upon +that humble counter. The widow emptied her till in order to find change +for this lavish customer. + +‘Half-a-dozen gloves, at fifteenpence, seven-and-sixpence. Thank you, +sir. Is there anything in socks or pocket-handkerchiefs I can show you?’ + +‘Not to-night, thanks. I’ll look at some handkerchiefs to-morrow,’ +said Geoffrey; and departed, rejoiced to find that by the expenditure +of a few shillings he could keep himself informed of Mrs. Bertram’s +movements. + +He went straight to the best fruiterer in the town, whose shop was on +the point of closing. Here he bought some hot-house grapes, at fourteen +shillings a pound, which he dispatched at once to Mrs. Bertram’s +lodging. He had sent her his tribute of choice flowers continually, in +the course of his long pursuit, but she had never deigned to wear a +blossom of his sending. + +She was to sing on the following evening. ‘If her child is worse, she +will not appear,’ he thought. But when he called at the little shop +that afternoon, he heard the child was somewhat better, and that she +meant to sing. + +‘There was some grapes came last night, sir, soon after you left,’ said +the widow. ‘Was it you that sent them? Mrs. Bertram seemed so pleased. +The poor little thing was parched with fever, and the grapes was such a +comfort.’ + +‘You didn’t say anything about me?’ said Geoffrey. + +‘Not a syllable, sir.’ + +‘That’s right. I’ll send more grapes. If there is anything else I can +do, pray let me know. I’m such a stupid fellow. You may send me a dozen +of those handkerchiefs,’—without looking at the fabric, which was +about good enough for his groom. ‘I shall be so grateful to you if you +can suggest anything that I could do for the little girl.’ + +‘I don’t think there’s anything, sir. Her mar lets her want for +nothing. But the grapes was a surprise. “I didn’t think there were +any to be had,” Mrs. Bertram said. But perhaps she’d hardly go to the +price, sir; for she doesn’t seem to be very well off.’ + +Pinched by poverty! What a pang the thought gave him! And he squandered +his useless means without being able to purchase contentment. He had +been happy enough, certainly, in his commonplace way, before he had +seen her; but now that he had tasted the misery of loving her, he could +not go back to that empty happiness—the joy of vulgar minds, which need +only vulgar pleasures. + +He was in his seat in the front row when the concert began. Whatever +musical faculty might be latent in his composition stood a fair chance +of development nowadays, so patiently did he sit out pianoforte solos, +concertante duets, trios for piano, violin, and ’cello; warblings, +soprano and contralto, classical or modern; hearing all alike with the +same callous ear till she appeared—a tall slim figure simply robed; a +sad sweet face, full of a quiet pride that seemed to hold him aloof, +yet with that fleeting look of love and pity in those tender eyes which +seemed to draw him near. + +To-night that serious countenance was in his eyes supremely pathetic; +for he knew her secret sorrow, knew that her heart was with her sick +child. + +She sang one of the old familiar songs—nothing classical, only an +old-fashioned English ballad, ‘She wore a wreath of roses,’ a simple +sentimental story of love and sorrow. The plaintive notes moved many to +tears, even the Stillmingtonites, who were not easily melted, being too +eminently genteel for emotion. + +‘Good heavens, what a fool she makes of me!’ thought Geoffrey; ‘I who +never cared a straw for music.’ + +He waited near a little door at the back of the Assembly Rooms, by +which he knew the concert people went in and out—waited until Mrs. +Bertram emerged, one of the earliest. She was not alone. Her landlady’s +daughter, the young woman in corkscrew ringlets, accompanied her. He +followed them at a respectful distance, observed by neither. + +Pity and impetuous love made him bold. No sooner were they in a quiet +unfrequented street than he quickened his pace, came up with them, and +dared once more to address the woman who had scorned him. + +‘Forgive me, Mrs. Bertram,’ he said. ‘I have heard of your little +girl’s illness, and I am so anxious to know if I can be of any use to +you. Is there anything I can do?’ + +‘Nothing,’ she answered sadly, not slackening her pace for a moment. +‘It is kind of you to wish to help me, but unless you could give my +darling health and strength—she was so well and strong only a few days +ago—you can do nothing. She is in God’s hands; I must be patient. +I daresay it is only a childish illness, which need not make me +miserable. But—but she is all the world to me.’ + +‘Are you satisfied with your doctor, or shall I get you other medical +advice? I will telegraph to London for any one you would like to have.’ + +‘You are very kind,’ she answered gently, her manner strangely +different from what it had been in the garden. ‘No; I have no reason to +be dissatisfied with the doctor who is attending my pet. He is kind, +and seems clever. I thank you for your wish to help me in my trouble. +Good-night.’ + +They were in the street where she lived by this time. She made him +a little curtsy, and passed on very quickly to the shop door, and +vanished from his eager eyes. He paced the street for an hour, +watching the light in the two little windows above the shop, before he +went back to his hotel, and for him the night was sleepless. How could +he rest while she was unhappy? + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +GEOFFREY INCLINES TO SUSPICION. + + +Towards morning self-indulgent habits triumphed over anxious love. +After tossing all night in feverish unrest, Mr. Hossack slept soundly +till noon; but not a commonplace slumber, for the visions of his head +upon his bed were made beautiful to him by the image of his beloved. +She was with him in that dream-world where all is smooth and fair as +the wide bosom of Danube when no storm-wind ruffles his waters; a +world where there were neither sick children nor concerts—nothing but +happiness and love. + +He awakened himself reluctantly from so sweet a delusion, dressed and +breakfasted hurriedly, and went straight to the little draper’s shop +at the fag end of Stillmington. After Mrs. Bertram’s gentler manner +last night, he felt as if he might venture to approach her. Sorrow had +brought them nearer to each other; she who had so sternly repulsed his +love had not rejected his sympathy. She had thanked him, even, for his +proffered aid, in that thrilling voice which in speech as in song went +straight to his heart. + +The young woman was behind the counter when he went in, reading a +number of the _London Journal_ in pensive solitude. + +‘How is the little girl this morning?’ he asked eagerly. + +‘O, sir, I’m sorry to say she’s not so well. She was light-headed last +night, and her poor mar sat up, and looks as pale as a ghost to-day, +and the doctor seemed more serious like. But as mother tells Mrs. +Bertram, it’s only scarlatina; it isn’t as if it was scarlet fever, you +know.’ + +The little door of communication between the shop and the staircase +opened at this moment, and Jane Bertram’s pale face appeared—how pale +and wan! He could not have thought one night’s suffering would have +worked such a change. + +‘She is worse,’ she said, looking at the girl with haggard eyes that +hardly seemed to have sight in them. ‘For God’s sake run for the +doctor.’ + +‘She can’t be so bad as all that. Come, bear up, Mrs. Bertram, that’s +a dear,’ answered the girl kindly. ‘You’re so nervous, and you’re not +used to illness. I’ll run and fetch Mr. Vincent if you like, but I +daresay there’s no need.’ + +She shuffled on her bonnet as she spoke. + +‘I don’t know,’ Mrs. Bertram said helplessly; ‘I don’t know what I +ought to do; she was never so ill before.’ + +She went up-stairs, Geoffrey following, emboldened by pity. He stood +by the open door of the little bedroom—commonly furnished, but neat +and spotless in its pure drapery of white dimity, its well-scrubbed +floor, and freshly-papered wall. The sick child lay with her golden +hair spread loosely on the pillow, her blue eyes bright with fever. The +landlady sat by the bed, sharing the mother’s watch. + +Mrs. Bertram bent over the child, kissed her with fond passionate +kisses, and murmured broken words of love, then turned towards the +door, surprised to see the intruder. + +‘You here!’ she exclaimed, seeing Geoffrey, but with no anger in the +sorrowful face. + +‘Yes, I want so much to be of use to you. Will you spare me two +minutes, in here?’ he asked, pointing to the sitting-room, the door of +which stood open. ‘The little girl is safe with our good friend.’ + +‘Yes,’ the mother answered piteously. ‘I can do nothing for her. Only +God can help us—only He who pitied the sinful woman in her agony.’ + +The words struck strangely on his ear, but he let them pass unnoticed +as the wild cry of an almost despairing soul. What should she have +to do with sin? she in whose countenance reigned purity and a proud +innocence none could dare impeach. + +‘I spoke to you last night about getting farther advice,’ he said. +‘Mind, I don’t suppose it’s in the least degree necessary; your child’s +recovery is no doubt merely a question of time. These childish fevers +must run their course. But I can see that you are unduly anxious. It +might be a comfort to you to see another doctor, a man especially +experienced in the treatment of children. I knew just such a man—one +who has been particularly successful with children; not an eminent man +by any means, but one who has worked among the poor, whose heart is in +his profession, whose work is really a labour of love. I can speak of +him with perfect confidence, for he is my friend, and I know all this +to be true. Let me telegraph for him; I am sure that he will come as +quickly as an express train can bring him.’ + +Her eyes brightened a little, and she gave him a look full of gratitude. + +‘How good of you to think of this!’ she said. ‘O yes, pray, pray send +for him. Such a man as that might save my darling, even if she were in +danger, and the doctor here says there is no danger. Pray send for +this good man. I am not very rich, but I will gladly pay any fee within +my means, and be his debtor for farther payment in the future.’ + +‘He will not want payment,’ answered Geoffrey, with a smile. ‘He is my +friend, and would make a longer journey than from London here to serve +me. Rely upon it, he will be with you before this evening. Good-bye, +Mrs. Bertram, and try to be hopeful. If I thought there were a better +man in all London than the man I am going to summon, rely upon it I +would have that better man.’ + +He gave her his hand, which she did not refuse; at least, she let +her feverish little hand rest in his for one brief delicious moment, +perhaps unconsciously. But he felt that he had gained ground since that +day in the garden. He had won the right to approach her. + +He jumped into the first fly he met, told the man to drive his hardest +to the railway station—it was before the days of postal telegraph +offices—and dispatched his message, paying for both telegram and reply. + +The message ran thus: + + ‘_From Geoffrey Hossack, Stillmington, Warwickshire, to Lucius + Davoren, 103 Shadrack-road, London._ + + ‘Come here at once to see a sick child. No time to be lost. Your + coming quickly will be the greatest favour you can do me. The + patient’s address is 15 Marlow-street, New-town, Stillmington. Answer + paid for.’ + +The telegram handed over to the clerk, he began to speculate upon the +probabilities of delay. After all, this telegraphic system, which would +have seemed so miraculous to our ancestors, is not rapid enough for the +impatience of Young England’s impetuous spirit. + +It seems a slow business at the best. Science has made the matter +swift as light, but clerkly sluggishness and slow-footed messengers +clog electricity’s wings, and a message which takes a hundred seconds +for its actual transmission from the operator to the dial may not be +delivered for a couple of hours. + +Geoffrey went back to Marlow-street to hear the last tidings of the +little patient. She was sleeping peacefully, and her mother seemed +more hopeful. This lightened his heart a good deal, and he went back +to his hotel, smoked a cigar, played a game at pyramids with some +officers from the Stillmington Barracks, and thus beguiled the time +until a waiter brought him the answer to his telegram. It was brief and +decisive: + +‘I shall come to Stillmington by the last train. Must see patients +before leaving.’ + +The last train! That meant considerable delay. It was now four o’clock, +and the last train came into Stillmington at eleven. How coolly these +doctors take things! Geoffrey felt as if his friend ought to have +abandoned all his other patients to their fates for the sake of this +sick child. The last train! Was this the measure of friendship? + +Happily the latest report of the little girl was cheering. Doubtless +all would be well. On the strength of this hope Geoffrey dined; and +dined tolerably well, having asked the officers to share his meal. This +hospitality prolonged the business of dining till after nine o’clock, +when Geoffrey pleaded an engagement as an excuse for getting rid of his +guests, and went for the third time that day to Marlow-street. He had +drunk little or nothing at the social board, and had felt the exercise +of hospitality somewhat irksome; but he was the kind of young man to +whom dinner-giving is an absolute necessity. + +The draper’s shop in Marlow-street had closed its shutters, but the +door stood open, and the damsel in ringlets was airing herself on the +threshold after the labours of a day which had brought her about half a +dozen customers. + +To Geoffrey’s question, which had become almost a formula, she answered +hopefully. The child was better. She had sat up for a minute and had +drunk a cup of milk, and had taken sundry spoonfuls of beef-tea, and +had eaten three grapes, and had spoken ‘quite lively and sensible-like. +Children are so soon down, and so soon up again,’ said the damsel. +‘It’s no good taking on about them, as I told Mrs. Bertram this +morning.’ + +‘She is happier now, I suppose,’ said Geoffrey. + +‘O dear, yes, quite herself again.’ + +‘Will you ask her if I may see her for a minute or two? I want to tell +her about the doctor I have sent for.’ + +The girl went up-stairs and returned speedily. + +‘Mrs. Bertram will be happy to see you,’ she said, ‘if you’ll please to +walk up.’ + +If he would please to walk up! Would he please to enter paradise, did +its gates stand open for him? To see her even in her grief was sweet as +a foretaste of heaven. She received him this evening with a smile. + +‘God has heard my prayer,’ she said; ‘my little darling is better. I +really don’t think I need have troubled your kind friend to come down. +I begin to feel more confidence in Mr. Vincent, now that my treasure is +better.’ + +‘I am rejoiced to hear it. But my friend will be here to-night. He is +one of the best of men. He saved my life once under circumstances of +much hardship and danger. We have faced death together. I should not be +here to tell you this but for Lucius Davoren.’ + +‘Lucius Davoren!’ She repeated the name with a wondering look, +horror-stricken, her hand clutching the back of the chair from which +she had risen. ‘Is your friend’s name Lucius Davoren?’ + +‘Yes. Can it be possible that you know him? That would be very strange.’ + +‘No,’ she said slowly; ‘I do not know this friend of yours. But his +name is associated with a somewhat painful memory.’ + +‘Very painful, I fear, or you would hardly have grown so pale at the +mention of his name,’ said Geoffrey, with a jealous horror of anything +like a secret in his divinity’s past life. + +‘I was foolish to be agitated by such a trifle. After all it’s only a +coincidence. I daresay there are a good many Davorens in the world,’ +she answered carelessly. + +‘I doubt it. Davoren is not a common name.’ + +‘Has your friend, this Mr. Lucius Davoren, been successful in life?’ + +‘I can hardly say that. As I told you when I first spoke of him, he +is by no means distinguished. He is indeed almost at the beginning of +his professional career. Yet were I racked with the most obscure of +diseases, I should laugh all your specialists to scorn and cry, “Send +for Lucius Davoren.”’ + +‘He is poor, I suppose?’ she asked curiously. + +‘Very likely; in the sense of having no money for luxury, splendour, +or pleasure—things which he holds in sovereign contempt. He can afford +to give the best years of his youth to patient labour among the poor. +That is the education he has chosen for himself, rather than a West-end +practice and a single brougham; and I believe he will find it the +shortest road to everlasting fame.’ + +‘I am glad you believe in him,’ she said warmly, ‘since he is such a +great man.’ + +‘But you have not yet recovered from the shock his name caused you just +now.’ + +‘Not quite. My darling’s illness has made me nervous. If you think +your friend will not be offended, I would rather avoid seeing him,’ +she added, in a pleading tone. ‘I really don’t feel well enough to see +a stranger. I have passed through such alternations of hope and fear +during the last few days. Will your friend forgive me if I leave Mrs. +Grabbit to receive his instructions? She is a good soul, and will +forget nothing he tells her.’ + +‘Do just as you like,’ replied Geoffrey, mystified, and somewhat +disturbed in mind by this proposition; ‘of course you needn’t see him +unless you please. But he’s a very good fellow, and my truest friend. +I should like you to have made his acquaintance. You’ll think me a +selfish beg—fellow for saying so; but I really believe you’d have +a better opinion of me if you knew Lucius Davoren. His friendship +is a kind of certificate. But of course, if you’d rather not see +him, there’s an end of it. I’ll tell him that you have unpleasant +associations with his name, and that the very mention of it agitated +you.’ + +‘No!’ she cried, with a vehemence that startled him. ‘For God’s sake +say nothing, tell him nothing, except that I am too ill to see any one. +I detest anything like fuss. And why make a mountain out of the veriest +molehill? His name reminded me of past sorrow, that is all.’ + +‘Capricious,’ thought Geoffrey; ‘with a temper by no means as regular +as the classic beauty of her face, I daresay. But were she as violent +as Shakespeare’s shrew before Petruchio tamed her, I should not the +less adore her. Past sorrow! Some doctor called Davoren may have +attended her husband on his death-bed. She is just the kind of woman +to lock her heart up in a tomb, and then go about the world luring +mankind to their destruction by her calm passionless beauty, and +answering all with the same dismal sentence, “My heart is with the +dead.”’ + +He submitted to Mrs. Bertram’s decision. He promised to meet his +friend at the station, bring him straight to the sick-room, and with +his own hand carry Mr. Davoren’s prescription to the chief chemist of +Stillmington. + +And thus he left her; perplexed, but not all unhappy. Blessings on that +sweet child for her timeous indisposition! It had opened the way to his +acquaintance with the mother; an acquaintance which, beginning with +service and sympathy, promised to ripen quickly into friendship. + +The last train brought Lucius. The friends met with a strong +hand-grasp, a few hearty words of greeting, and then walked swiftly +from the station, which, after the manner of provincial stations, had +been placed a good half mile from the town, for the advantage of local +fly-drivers, no doubt, and the livery-stable interest. + +‘And pray who is this small patient in whose welfare you are so +concerned, Geoff?’ asked Lucius. ‘Has some piteous case of local +distress awakened your dormant philanthropy? I know you’re a good +fellow, but I didn’t know you went in for district-visiting.’ + +‘There’s no philanthropy in the question, Lucius. Only selfish, +pig-headed love. I say pig-headed, because the lady doesn’t value +my affection; scorns it, in fact. But I hold on with a bulldog +pertinacity. After all, you see, an Englishman’s highest quality is his +bulldoggedness.’ + +‘But what has your bulldog affection to do with a sick child?’ + +‘Heaven bless the little innocent! One would suppose she had fallen ill +on purpose to bring about my acquaintance with her most unapproachable +mother. Don’t you remember my telling you that Mrs. Bertram has a +little girl—a red-legged angel, after Millais?’ + +‘O, yes, by the way, there was a child,’ said Lucius indifferently. +Then warming as he contemplated the case in its professional aspect, +‘She is not very ill, I hope?’ + +‘Scarlatina,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘But she seems to be mending to-night.’ + +‘Scarlatina!’ exclaimed Lucius; ‘and you brought me down to +Stillmington to see a case of scarlatina, which any local apothecary +would understand just as well as I!’ + +‘You dear old fellow! don’t be angry. It wasn’t so much the scarlatina. +I wanted you to see Mrs. Bertram. I wanted you to see with your own +eyes that the woman I love is worthy of any man’s affection.’ + +‘And, you think I should be in a position to decide that question after +half-an-hour’s acquaintance? A question which has taken some men a +lifetime to solve, and which some have left unanswered at their death. +No, Geoff, I don’t pretend to be wiser than other men where a woman’s +character is in question. And if my instinct warned me against your +enchantress, and if I should advise you speedily to forget her, how +much do you think my counsel would influence you?’ + +‘Not much, I’m afraid, Lucius. It wouldn’t be very easy for me to cast +off her thrall. I am her willing bondslave. Nothing less than the +knowledge that she is unworthy of my love—that her past life holds some +dishonourable secret—would change my purpose. She has left my letters +unanswered, she has rejected my offered devotion, and with something +like scorn; yet there has been a look in her face, more transient than +an April sunbeam, that has given me hope. I mean to hold on—I mean to +win her love—in spite of herself, if need be.’ + +He gave a brief sketch of that little scene in the garden, his +audacity, her almost contemptuous indifference; and then explained how +Fortune, or, as he put it, the scarlatina, had smiled upon him. + +‘And you think, notwithstanding her affected indifference, that she +loves you?’ + +‘Loves is too strong a word. What have I done to merit her love, except +follow her as a collie follows a flock of sheep? What is there in me +to deserve or attract her love? I am not ravishingly beautiful. I do +not sing with a heart-penetrating voice. It is only natural I should +worship her. It is the old story of the moon and the water brooks.’ + +‘But you talked about a look which gave you hope.’ + +‘A look! Yes, Davoren. Such a look—sorrow and tenderness, regret, +despair, all blended in one swift glance from those divine eyes—a look +that might madden a man. Such a look as Paris may have seen in Helen’s +eyes before he planned the treason that ended in flaming Troy. But +after all it may have meant nothing; it may have existed only in my +wild imagining. When a man is as deep in love as I am, Heaven only +knows to what hallucinations he may be subject.’ + +‘Well,’ said Lucius cheerily, with that practical spirit which men +bring to bear upon other men’s passions, ‘I shall see the lady, and be +able at least to form some opinion as to whether she loves you or not. +Whether she be worthy of your love is a question I would not attempt +to solve, but the other is easier. I think I shall discover if she +loves you. What a pleasant smell of the country—newly-turned earth and +budding hedgerows—there is about here! It refreshes my senses after the +odours of the Shadrack-road, where we have a wonderful combination of +bone-burning, tan-yard, and soap-caldron.’ + +‘I am glad you enjoy the country air,’ said Geoffrey, in a somewhat +sheepish tone, ‘and I do hope you’ll be able to spare to-morrow for a +dog-cart exploration of the neighbourhood, as that may atone for my +having brought you here somewhat on a fool’s errand. The fact is, Mrs. +Bertram would rather not see you.’ + +‘Rather not see the doctor who has come from London to attend her sick +child! An odd kind of mother.’ + +‘You’re wrong, Lucius; she’s a most devoted mother. I never saw any one +so broken down as she was this morning, before the little thing took a +turn for the better. Don’t run away with any false notion of that kind; +she idolises that child. Only she has knocked herself up with nursing; +and she has been alarmed, and agitated, and, in short, isn’t in a fit +state to see any one.’ + +‘Except you,’ said Lucius. + +‘My dear fellow, in her distress about the child she has thought no +more of me than if I were—a—a gingham umbrella,’ said Geoffrey, after +casting about wildly for a comparison. ‘She thinks of nothing but that +red-legged angel. And you can imagine that at such a moment she would +shrink from seeing a stranger.’ + +‘Even the doctor who comes to see her child. She is the first mother I +ever knew to act in such a manner. Don’t be angry with me, Geoff, if I +say that this looks to me very much as if your divinity feared to trust +herself to eyes less blind than yours—as if she knew there is that +in herself, or in her life, which would not impress a dispassionate +observer favourably. Your blind worship has made her a goddess. She +doesn’t want to come down from her pedestal in the shadowy temple of +your imagination into the broad glare of every-day life.’ + +Of course Geoffrey was angry. Was he a fool, or a schoolboy, to be +caught by meretricious charms—to take tinsel for gold? + +‘I have seen women enough in my time to know a good one when I meet +one; and that this woman is good and true I will stake my life, my hope +of winning her even, which is dearer to me than life.’ + +‘And if you found her less than you believe her, you would do what you +said three months ago—pluck her out of your heart?’ + +‘Yes, though her jesses were my heartstrings.’ + +‘Good; that’s all I want to know. I tell you frankly, Geoff, I don’t +like this wandering apprenticeship to your new divinity. I don’t like +the idea of a life-passion picked up by the roadside—of all your hopes +of future happiness being grounded upon a woman of whom you know +absolutely nothing.’ + +‘Only that she is the noblest woman I ever met,’ said Geoffrey doggedly. + +‘Which means that she has a handsome face,’ said the other. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +SOMETHING TOO MUCH FOR GRATITUDE. + + +By this time Mr. Hossack and his friend had come from the pleasant +country road into the shabbiest outskirt of Stillmington, that outskirt +which contained Marlow-street. Strange that even in so select a town as +Stillmington, Poverty will set up its tents. + +The shop had been shut some time, but the door stood ajar, and a light +burnt dimly within. Geoffrey and his companion were expected. Miss +Grabbit was yawning over a tattered novel in her accustomed place +behind the counter. + +‘O, is it the doctor, sir?’ she exclaimed, brightening. ‘Will you +walk up-stairs, please? Mother’s with the little girl, and she’s been +sleeping beautiful. I feel sure she’s took a turn.’ + +‘Is Mrs. Bertram up-stairs?’ asked Geoffrey. + +‘No, she’s lying down a bit on our sofa in there,’ pointing to the +closed door of communication between the shop and parlour. ‘She was +right down worn out, and mother persuaded her to try and get a little +rest. Mother will take all your directions, sir,’ she added to Lucius. + +That gentleman bowed, but said nothing. A curious mother this! The +mothers he knew were wont to hang upon his words as on the sacred +sentences of an oracle. He followed Geoffrey up the narrow stairs to +the little bedroom where the child lay asleep. The pure spotless look +of the small chamber struck him, and the beauty of the child’s face +was no common beauty. There was something in it which impressed him +curiously—something that seemed familiar—familiar as a half-remembered +dream. Good Heaven, was it not his dead sister’s face that this one +recalled to him—the face of the little sister who died years ago? + +The fancy moved him deeply; and his hand trembled a little as he +lightly raised the bedclothes from the child’s throat and chest, with +that gentle touch of the doctor’s skilful hand, and bent down to listen +to the breathing. All was satisfactory. He went through his examination +calmly enough, that transient emotion once conquered; felt the slender +wrist, performed that unpleasant operation with a silver spoon to which +we have all submitted our unwilling throats at divers periods, and +then pronounced that all was going on well. + +He had gone round the bed to the side facing the door, in order to get +nearer to his patient, who lay nearer this side than the other. He sat +by the pillow, and gave his directions to Mrs. Grabbit without looking +up from the little girl, whose hot hand lay gently held in his, while +his grave eyes were bent upon the small fever-flushed face. Geoffrey +had entered softly during the last few moments, and stood at the foot +of the bed. + +When Lucius had finished his instructions as to treatment, he looked up. + +The door opposite the bed was open, and a woman stood upon the +threshold—a tall slim figure dressed in black, a pale anxious face, +beautiful even in its sadness. + +At sight of that silent figure, the surgeon started from his seat with +a smothered cry of surprise. The sad eyes met his steadily with an +imploring look, a look that for him spoke plainly enough. + +Geoffrey looked at him wonderingly, perplexed by that startled movement. + +‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. + +‘Nothing. But I saw a lady looking in at that door. The mother +perhaps.’ + +Geoffrey darted into the sitting-room. Yes she was there, standing by +the window in the wan light of a week-old moon, with tears streaming +down her face. + +‘My dear Mrs. Bertram, pray, pray do not distress yourself!’ cried +Geoffrey, to whom the office of consoler was new and strange. ‘All is +going on well; nothing could be more satisfactory—Lucius says so. She +will be herself again in a few days.’ + +‘Thank God, and thank your friend for me,’ she said, in a voice choked +with sobs. ‘I could not rest down-stairs; I wanted to hear what he +said. Tell him I thank him with all my heart.’ + +‘Thank him with your own lips,’ pleaded Geoffrey; ‘he will value your +words far above mine. And you don’t know what a good fellow he is.’ + +‘Let Mrs. Bertram feel assured that I am only too happy to have been of +use,’ said the voice of Lucius from the threshold. + +Mrs. Bertram hurried to the door, where the surgeon’s figure stood, +tall and dark, on the unlighted landing. + +‘O, let me speak to him, let me take his hand!’ she cried, with +uncontrollable agitation; and the next moment stood face to face with +Lucius Davoren, with her hand clasped in his. + +They could hardly see each other’s faces, but that was a lingering +handclasp. Geoffrey stood a little way apart, watching them with some +slight wonder, and thinking that quite so much gratitude could hardly +be necessary even for a doctor who had travelled over a hundred miles +to write a prescription for an idolised child. + +‘It’s a pity I’m not in the medical line myself,’ he thought, somewhat +bitterly; and yet he had been anxious that Mrs. Bertram should +acknowledge his friend’s services. + +He reflected that a doating mother was doubtless a foolish creature. He +must not be angry with his divinity if she seemed hysterical, or even +in a state bordering on distraction. + +‘Come, Lucius,’ he said; ‘Mrs. Bertram has gone through no end of +agitation to-day, or rather yesterday, for it’s past midnight. We had +better leave her to rest.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Lucius, in a slow thoughtful tone, ‘good-night. I will +come to see the little girl again early to-morrow morning—say at eight +o’clock—as I must leave Stillmington soon after nine.’ + +‘O, come,’ remonstrated Geoffrey, ‘you must give yourself a holiday +to-morrow.’ + +‘Impossible. Pain and disease will not give my patients a holiday.’ + +‘But surely their complaints can stand over for a day or so,’ said +Geoffrey. ‘Parish patients can’t have such complicated diseases. I +thought all the worst evils flesh is heir to came from high living.’ + +‘There are numerous diseases that come from low feeding, or almost no +feeding at all. No; I must go back by an early train to-morrow. But I +should like to see you at eight o’clock, if that will not be too soon, +Mrs. Bertram.’ + +‘Not at all too soon,’ she answered; and they departed, Geoffrey with +an uncomfortable foreboding that, so soon as the little girl recovered, +his occupation would be gone. What other excuse could he find for +intruding himself upon Mrs. Bertram’s solitude? + +‘Well, Lucius,’ he began, as soon as they were clear of the house, +‘what do you think of her?’ + +‘I think she is very handsome,’ answered Lucius, with a thoughtful +slowness which was peculiarly irritating to his friend. ‘What more +can I think of her after so brief an interview? She seems,’ with an +almost painful effort, ‘very fond of her child. I am very sorry for her +unprotected and solitary position; but—’ + +‘But what?’ cried Geoffrey impatiently. ‘How you torment the soul of a +fellow with your measured syllables!’ + +‘I think the very wisest—nay, the only rational—thing you can do is to +forget her.’ + +‘Never! And why should I wish to forget her?’ + +‘Because all surrounding circumstances point to the conclusion that she +is no fitting wife for you. A woman so lovely, so accomplished, would +hardly lead so lonely a life—I don’t speak of her professional career, +since that is a natural use for a woman to make of a fine voice if she +wants to get her own living—if there were not some strong reason for +her seclusion—some painful secret in the past, some fatal tie in the +present. She knows you to be young, generous, wealthy, and her devoted +slave; yet she rejects your devotion. She would scarcely repulse such +a lover were she free to marry. Believe me, there is something in the +background, some obstacle which you will never overcome. Be warned in +time, my dear true-hearted Geoffrey; don’t waste the best years of your +life in the pursuit of a woman who can never reward your affection, who +was not born to make you happy. There are plenty of women in the world +quite as lovely, and—I won’t say better worthy of you,’ with ever so +faint a quiver of his voice, ‘but better able to bless your love.’ + +‘When I meet such a woman I will forget her,’ answered the other. ‘I +thought you were a better judge of human nature, Lucius; I thought you +would be able to recognise a good and pure woman when you saw one. True +that you had seen very little of this one; yet you saw her with her +fond mother’s heart bared before you; you saw her warm and grateful +nature. You had sneered at her as a heartless mother: see how facts +belied your unkind suspicion. You saw her moved to passionate tears by +the mere thought of your kindness to her child.’ + +‘For God’s sake, say no more about her!’ cried Lucius, with sudden +passion. ‘The subject will breed a quarrel between us. You wanted my +advice, and I have given it you—dispassionately. Reason, not feeling, +has influenced my words. Pure, good, true: yes, I would willingly +believe her all that, did I not—did not circumstances point to the +other conclusion. It is hard to look in her face and say, This is not a +woman to be loved and trusted. But are you the man to endure a shameful +secret in your wife’s past history? Could you face the hazard of some +cruel discovery after marriage—a discovery which should show you the +woman you love as a victim, perhaps, but not without guilt?’ + +‘I will never believe her less than she seems to me at this moment!’ +cried Geoffrey. ‘What makes you speculate on her past life? why +suppose that there must be some ignominious secret? Only because she +gets her own living, I suppose; because she is obliged to travel about +the world without her own maid, and has no footman, or carriage, or +circle of polite acquaintances, and possibly has never been presented +at court. I wonder at you, Davoren; I could not have believed you were +so narrow-minded.’ + +‘Think me narrow-minded, if you like, but be warned by me. My voice +to-night is the voice of the majority, which always takes the narrowest +view of every question. You have asked for my advice, and you shall +have it, however distasteful. Don’t marry a woman of whom you know so +little as you know about Mrs. Bertram.’ + +‘Thanks for your advice. Of course I know you mean well, old fellow; +but if Mrs. Bertram would take me for her husband to-morrow, I should +be the proudest man in Stillmington, or in Christendom.’ + +‘I think I know enough of her to feel very sure she will never consent +to marry you,’ said Lucius. + +‘You are quick in forming conclusions,’ exclaimed Geoffrey, with a +somewhat distrustful glance at his friend, ‘considering that you saw +Mrs. Bertram for something less than five minutes.’ + +They arrived at the hotel, where Geoffrey, although displeased with +his friend, was not forgetful of hospitality’s sacred rites. He +ordered a spatchcock and a bottle of Roederer, and over this repast +the two young men sat till late, talking of that subject which filled +Geoffrey’s heart and mind. Like a child, he was one moment angry with +his friend, and in the next eager to hear all that Lucius could say +about his passion and its object—eager for advice which he had no idea +of following; bent upon proving, by love’s eloquent oratory, that +his divinity was all that is perfect among women. And so the night +waned; and Geoffrey and his guest were the last among the inmates of +that respectable family hotel to retire to their chambers in the long +corridor, where the old-fashioned eight-day clock ticked solemnly in +the deep of night. + + * * * * * + +Geoffrey would fain have presented himself in Marlow-street next +morning with his friend, but having no reasonable excuse for visiting +Mrs. Bertram at such an early hour, he contented himself with +accompanying Lucius to the end of the street and then walking on to the +station, there to await his coming. + +He had to wait a good deal longer than he had expected, and as +the slow minute hand crept round the dial of the station clock his +impatience increased to fever point. He had a good mind to go back to +Marlow-street. What in heaven’s name could Lucius have to say about +that simple case of scarlatina which could not be said in a quarter of +an hour? Ten minutes had been enough last night; to-day he had been +more than an hour. Nine had struck on that slow-going station clock. +The next up-train went at 9.15. Did Lucius mean to miss it, after all +his talk about his London patients? As it was, he could not be in +London till the afternoon. It seemed to Geoffrey as if this morning +visit to the sick child was somewhat supererogatory, since Lucius had +declared the case to be one of the simplest. + +Fretting himself thus he left the station, and on the windy high road +between trim hedges, in which the hawthorn was sprouting greenly, and +the little white flower-buds already began to show themselves, saw +Lucius hurrying towards him at a sharp pace. + +‘I thought you meant to lose the next train,’ said Geoffrey somewhat +sharply. ‘Well, what’s your news?’ + +‘The little girl has passed a very quiet night and is going on +capitally, and you need have no farther alarm.’ + +‘I didn’t ask you about the little girl. You would hardly spend an +hour talking about the scarlatina—Keep her cool, and give her the +mixture regularly; and as soon as she is able to eat it let her have +the wing of a chicken—as if one didn’t know all that bosh. Why, you +doctors rattle it off just as we used to say our Latin verbs at +Winchester—_amo_, _amas_, _amat_, and so on. Of course, you have been +talking about other things—drawing Mrs. Bertram out, I suppose? Come, +Lucius, we’ve only five minutes. What did you think of her to-day?’ + +‘The same as I thought last night. That she is a beautiful and noble +woman, but that her past life has been overshadowed by some sad secret +which we are never likely to know.’ + +‘And you still warn me against her?’ + +‘Still, with all my strength. Admire her, and respect her for all that +is admirable in her nature, pity her for her misfortunes, but keep +aloof.’ + +‘Thanks for your remarkably disinterested advice,’ said Geoffrey, with +a bitter laugh. ‘After devoting an hour of your precious time to this +lady’s society, you arrive at the conclusion that she is the last woman +in the world for me. Yet you pay that child an unnecessary visit this +morning in order to see the mother once more, and you come to me with +a face as pale as—as the countenance of treachery itself.’ + +‘Geoffrey!’ + +‘However, as I don’t mean to take your advice it makes very little +difference. By the bye, here’s your fee, Lucius; I promised Mrs. +Bertram to see to that.’ And he tried to thrust a folded cheque into +the surgeon’s hand. + +This Lucius rejected with infinite scorn. + +‘What! you first ask my opinion, then call me a traitor because it +happens not to jump with your own fancy, and then offer me money for +a service for which you must know I could never dream of accepting +payment. How utterly this foolish infatuation has changed you! But I +have no time for discussion. Good-bye. There goes the bell, and I have +to get my ticket.’ + +They ran into the station. Geoffrey, penitent already, stuck close to +his friend until Lucius was seated in the second-class carriage which +was to take him back to London and hard labour. Then he stretched out +his hand. + +‘Shake hands, old fellow,’ he said, with a remorseful look; ‘of course +I didn’t mean anything; or only in a Pickwickian sense. Good-bye.’ + +The train bore off its burden and left Geoffrey stranded on the +platform, perplexed, unhappy. + +‘I daresay he is right,’ he said to himself, ‘and I _know_ that he is a +good fellow. Yet why did he stay so long with her, and why did he look +so pale and thoughtful when I met him?’ + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +A DAUGHTER’S LOVE, AND A LOVER’S HOPE. + + +Lucius Davoren’s life had taken a new colour since that letter which +opened the doors of the dismal old house in the Shadrack-road. His +existence had now an object nearer to his human heart than even +professional success. Dearly as he loved his profession, it is just +possible that he loved himself a little better, and this new object, +this new hope, concerned himself alone. Yet it did not in any manner +distract him from his patient labours, from his indefatigable studies, +but rather gave him a new incentive to industry. How better could he +serve the interests of her whom he loved than by toiling steadily on +upon the road which he believed must ultimately lead him to success, +and even to fame—that far brighter reward than mere material prosperity? + +Mr. Sivewright’s condition had in no wise improved. That gradual decay +had gone on a long time before the sturdy old man had cared to make his +pains and languors known to any human being, much less to a member +of that fraternity he affected to despise—the medical profession. All +Lucius Davoren’s care failed to bring back the vigour that had been +wasted. He kept the feeble lamp of life burning, somewhat faintly, and +that was all he could do yet awhile. + +For some little time after the surgeon’s admission to the house, +Mr. Sivewright spent his evenings by the fireside in the parlour +down-stairs. At Lucius’s earnest request he had consented to the +purchase of a more luxurious chair than the straight-backed instrument +of torture in which he had been accustomed to sit. Here by the hearth, +where a better fire burned than of old—for Lucius insisted that +mistaken economy meant death—the bric-à-brac dealer sat and talked; +talked of his youth, his bargains, his petty triumph over rival +traders, but of that lost wanderer, his son, never. + +‘There must be something hard in a man’s nature when even the approach +of death does not soften his heart towards his own flesh and blood,’ +thought Lucius. + +There came a time when the old man felt himself altogether too weak to +leave his room. The broad shallow steps of the solid old staircase—so +easy to the tread of youth and strength—became for him too painful a +journey. He only left his bed to sit by the little bit of fire in his +own room, or on warmer days by the open window. + +This was some time after Lucius Davoren’s visit to Stillmington, +when spring had been succeeded by summer, which in the Shadrack-road +district was distinguishable from the other seasons chiefly by an +Egyptian plague of flies and an all-pervading atmosphere of dust; +also by the shrill cries of costermongers vending cheap lots of +gooseberries or periwinkles, and by an adoption of somewhat oriental or +_al-fresco_ habits among the population, who lounged at their doors, +and stood about the streets a good deal in the long warm evenings, +while respectable matrons did their domestic needlework seated on their +doorsteps, whence they might watch their young barbarians at play in +the adjacent gutter. + +From this somewhat shabby and ragged out-of-door life on the king’s +highway, it was a relief for Lucius to enter the calm seclusion of the +shadowy old house, where the June sunshine was tempered at midday by +half-closed oaken shutters, and where it seemed to the surgeon there +was ever a peculiar coolness and freshness, and faint perfume of some +simple garden flower unknown elsewhere. In this sultry weather, when +the outer world was as one vast oven, that sparsely-furnished parlour +with its dark wainscot walls was a place to dream in; the dim old hall +with its chaotic treasures saved from the wreck of time, a delicious +retreat from the clamour and toil of life. Here Lucius loved to come, +and here he was sure of a sweet welcome from her whom he had loved at +first sight, and whom familiarity had made daily dearer to him. + +Yes, he confessed now that the interest he had felt in Lucille +Sivewright from the very first had its root in a deeper feeling than +compassion. He was no longer ashamed to own that it was love, and love +only, that had made yonder rusty iron gate, by which he had so often +lingered, sad and longing, seem to him as the door of paradise. + +One evening, after the old man had taken to his room up-stairs, and +Lucille had been sorrowful and anxious, and had seemed in peculiar need +of consolation, the old, old story was told once more under the pale +stars of evening, as these two wandered about that patch of dusty sward +above which the old cedar stretched his shrunken branches, and cast +grim shadows on the shadowy grass. The creek with its black barges lay +before them; beyond, a forest of roofs, and attic windows, and tall +factory chimneys, and distant spars of mighty merchantmen faintly +visible against the pale-gray sky. Not a romantic spot, or a scene +calculated to inspire the souls of lovers, by any means. Yet Lucius was +every whit as eloquent as he would have been had they wandered on the +shores of Leman, or watched the sun go down from the orange groves of +Cintra. + +The girl heard him in profound silence. They had come to a pause +in their desultory wanderings by the decaying ruin of an ancient +summer-house, at an angle of the wall close to the creek—a spot which +to the simpler tastes of untravelled citizens in the last century may +have seemed eminently picturesque. Lucille sat on the broken bench +in a somewhat dejected attitude, her arms resting on a battered old +table, her face turned away from Lucius towards the dingy hulls that +lay moored upon those muddy waters, unbeautiful as that dark ferry-boat +which Dante saw advancing shadowy athwart the ‘woeful tide of Acheron.’ + +He had spoken earnestly, and had pleaded well, but had been unable +to read any answer in those truthful eyes, whose every expression he +fancied he knew. Those had been persistently averted from him. + +‘Lucille, why do you turn from me? My dearest, why this discouraging +silence? Do my words pain you? I had dared to hope they would not be +unwelcome, that you must have expected to hear them. You must have +known that I loved you, ever so long ago, for I have loved you from the +very first.’ + +‘You have been very good to me,’ she said, in a low broken voice. + +‘Good to you!’ + +‘So good that I have sometimes thought you—liked me a little.’ (A +woman’s periphrasis; feminine lips hardly dare utter that mighty word +‘love.’) ‘But if it is really so—which seems almost too much for me to +believe’ (if he could but have seen the proud happy look in her eyes +as she said that!) ‘I can only beg you never to say any more about +it—until—’ + +‘Until what, Lucille?’ exclaimed Lucius impatiently. He had not +expected to find hindrance or stumbling-block in the way of his +happiness here. From Homer Sivewright there would no doubt be +opposition, but surely not here. Had he so grossly deceived himself +when he believed his love returned? + +‘Until my life is changed from what it is now, such a broken life, the +merest fragment of a life,’ answered Lucille quietly. ‘How can I think +of returning the affection you speak of—you so worthy to be loved—while +I am in this miserable state of uncertainty about my father—not +knowing if he is living or dead, fortunate or unhappy? I can never +give my heart to any one, however noble’—with a lingering tenderness +which might have told him that he was beloved—‘until all doubts are +cleared upon that one subject. Until then, I belong to my father. At +any moment he might appear to claim me; and I am his’—with a passionate +emphasis—‘his, by the memory of that childhood, when I loved him so +dearly. Let him order me to follow him to the other end of the world, +and I should go—without one fear, without one regret.’ + +Lucius was silent for some moments, stung to the quick. Was a mere +memory, the very shadow of her childhood’s affection, so much nearer +to her than his deep unselfish love—his love, which might brighten +her dull life in the present, and open a fair vista of future +happiness—that hopeful active love, which was to make a home for her, +and win fame for him in the days to come, always for her sake? + +‘What, Lucille,’ he said reproachfully, ‘you hold my love so lightly +that it can count for nothing when weighed against the memory of a +father who deserted you—who has let all the years of your girlhood go +by without making the faintest attempt to claim you, or even to see +you?’ + +‘How do I know what may have prevented him?’ she asked—‘what barrier +may have stood between him and me? Death perhaps. He did not desert me.’ + +‘Was not his sudden departure from your grandfather’s house desertion +of you?’ + +‘No. He was driven away. I am very sure of that. My grandfather was +hard and cruel to him.’ + +‘Perhaps. But whatever quarrel may have parted those two, your claim on +your father remained. You had not been hard or cruel; yet he abandoned +you—tacitly renounced all claim upon you when he left his father’s +house. I don’t want to blame him, Lucille; I don’t want to spoil that +idealised image which you carry in your heart; but surely it is not +for you to sacrifice a very real affection in the present for a vague +memory of the past.’ + +‘It is not vague. My memory of those days is as vivid as my memory of +yesterday—more vivid even. I have but to close my eyes—now, at this +very moment while you are talking to me—and I can see my father’s face; +it is not your voice I hear, but his.’ + +‘Infatuation, Lucille,’ exclaimed the surgeon sadly. ‘Had you known +your father a few years longer, you might have discovered that he was +utterly unworthy of your love—that fond confiding love of a child’s +guileless heart, prone to make for itself an idol.’ + +‘If I had found him unworthy, I do not believe my love would have +altered; I should only have been so much the more sorry for him. +Remember, I am used to hear him badly spoken of. My grandfather’s +bitterest words have never lessened my love for him.’ + +‘Granted that your love for him is indestructible, why should it stand +between you and me—if I am not quite indifferent to you? Answer me that +question first, Lucille; I am too much in earnest to be satisfied with +half knowledge. Do you care for me, ever so little?’ + +She looked round at him for the first time, smiling, yet with tearful +eyes—an expression that was half mournful, half arch. + +‘Ever so little,’ she repeated. ‘I might own to that. It does not +commit me to much.’ + +‘More than a little, then? O, be frank, Lucille! I have shown you all +the weakness—or the strength—of _my_ heart.’ + +‘I love you very dearly,’ she said shyly. + +She was clasped to his breast before the words were half spoken, the +kiss of betrothal pressed upon her trembling lips. She withdrew +herself hastily from that first fond embrace. + +‘You have not heard half that I have to say, Mr. Davoren.’ + +‘I will never consent to be Mr. Davoren again.’ + +‘I will call you Lucius, then; only you must hear what I have to say. +I do love you, very truly,’ with a warning gesture that stopped any +farther demonstration on his part; ‘I do think you good and brave and +noble. I am very proud to know that you care for me. But I can bind +myself by no new tie until the mystery of my father’s fate has been +solved, until I am very sure that he will never claim my love and my +obedience.’ + +‘If I were to solve that mystery, Lucille—or at least attempt to solve +it,’ said Lucius thoughtfully. + +‘Ah, if! But you would never think of that! You could not spare time +and thought for that; you have your profession.’ + +‘Yes, and all my hopes of winning a position which might make you +proud of being my wife by and by. It would be a hard thing to forego +all those, Lucille—to devote my mind and my life to a perhaps hopeless +endeavour. Fondly as I love you, I am not chivalrous enough to say +I will shut up my surgery to-morrow and start on the first stage to +the Antipodes, or the Japan Islands, or Heaven knows where, in quest +of your father. Yet I might do something. If I had but the slightest +foundation to work upon I should hardly be afraid of success. I would +willingly do anything, anything less than the entire sacrifice of my +prospects—which must be your prospects too, Lucille—to prove how dear +you are to me.’ + +‘You really would? Ah! if you could find him—if you could reunite +us, I should love you so dearly—at least, no,’ with a little gush of +tenderness, ‘I could not love you better than I do now. But you would +make me so happy.’ + +‘Then I will try, dearest, try honestly. But if I fail—after earnest +endeavour, and at the end of a reasonable period—if I fail in bringing +your father to you living, or discovering when and how he died, you +will not punish me for my failure. You will be my wife two or three +years hence, come what may, Lucille. Give me that hope, sweet one. It +will make me strong enough to face all difficulties.’ + +‘I love you,’ she said in her low serious voice, putting her little +hand into his; and that simple admission he accepted as a promise. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +THE BIOGRAPHY OF A SCOUNDREL. + + +The weakness and the languor that kept Homer Sivewright a prisoner in +his bedroom were not the tokens of mortal illness. Death kept as yet at +a respectful distance. The patient’s life might be prolonged even to +man’s appointed measure of three score and ten, with care and skilful +treatment. There was organic disease, but of a mild type. Lucius was +not without hopes of a rally—that a period of perfect repose and quiet +might, in some measure, restore the enfeebled frame—which, gaunt and +wasted by sickness, was yet so mighty a skeleton. The man was tough; a +creature of strong fibres, and muscles that had once been like iron. +Above all, his life had been strictly temperate. Lucius augured well +from these facts. The disease would remain always, more or less subject +to treatment, but there might be a partial recovery. + +‘You need not be anxious,’ he said, when Lucille questioned him +earnestly about her grandfather. ‘Mr. Sivewright will be a long time +dying. Or, in other words, he will fight hard with Death. We may keep +him alive for some years longer, Lucille, if we take trouble.’ + +‘I shall not think anything a trouble. I do not forget how good he +has been to me, in his own cold way. But he has seemed so much weaker +lately.’ + +‘Only because he has at last consented to succumb to Nature. He would +not before admit, even to himself, that he is an old man. Nature +counselled him to rest, but it pleased him better to go on labouring, +and, as it were, pretending to be still young. He has given in at last; +and Nature, the great restorer, may do much for him, always assisted +by careful nursing—and I think you are the best nurse I ever met with, +Lucille.’ + +‘I have not much experience, but I do my best.’ + +‘And your best is better than other people’s. You have the soft low +voice, the gentle footstep, which make a woman’s help precious in a +sick-room. Don’t be anxious about your grandfather, dearest. We shall +pull him through, rely upon it.’ + +There was that in his protecting tone, the fond look in the grave eyes, +which told how secure the lover felt, despite that hard condition +wherewith Lucille had hampered the promise of her love. Thus time went +on in the dull old house, which to these two was not all gloomy—which +to one at least was full of hope and pleasant thoughts, and bright +dreams of a fair life to come. + +Propriety, as known in what is called society, had no bondage for +these lovers. In their lives there was actually no Mrs. Grundy; not +even a next-door neighbour of the maiden-lady persuasion to keep +count of Mr. Davoren’s visits, and to wonder what old Mr. Sivewright +meant by allowing such an outrage of the proprieties under his very +nose. Lucius came and went as he pleased, stayed as long as he liked, +within reasonable limits. He read Shakespeare to Lucille in the summer +gloaming; he poured out all the wealth of his mind to her in long +conversations that were almost monologues, the girl eager to learn, he +eager to teach; or rather to make the woman he loved a sharer in all +his thoughts, fancies, creeds, and dreams—verily the better and purer +half of himself. At other times they wandered about the bare old garden +together, or sat in the ruined summer-house; and happy in that complete +and perfect universe which they possessed in each other, forgot that +the mud-bespattered wharf was not the Rialto, the slimy water that +stagnated beneath the barges something less lovely than the Adriatic’s +sunlit blue. + +They talk much of the future, after the manner of lovers. Although they +were so completely happy in each other’s company, and in that calm +security which blesses innocent reciprocal love, this little spot of +time, the present, counted for nothing in their scheme of life. It may +be said that they were happy without being aware of their happiness. +And this is true of many lives. The one happy hour in the long dull +life slips by unnoted, like water-drops running between one’s fingers. +And then years after—when, remembering that brief glimpse of paradise, +we look back and would fain return to that green spot beside life’s +long dusty beaten turnpike-road—the grass is withered, or the Commons +Enclosure Act has swallowed up our pleasant resting-place: or where +Poetry’s fairy palace shone radiant in youth’s morning sunlight, there +is now only the cold marble of a Tomb. + +Lucius and Lucille talked of their future—the fame that he was to win, +the good that he was to do; noble schemes for the welfare of others, +to be realised when fame and wealth were gained; cottage hospitals in +pleasant suburban spots, near enough at hand for the sick or worn-out +Londoner, and yet with green fields and old trees and song birds +about them; chosen retreats where the country yet lingered; little +bits of rustic landscape over which the enterprising builder had not +yet spread his lime-whitened paw; meadows whose hawthorn hedges were +undefiled by smoke, across whose buttercups and crimson sorrel-flowers +no speculative eye had yet ranged with a view to ground rents. + +The young surgeon had various schemes for the improvement of his +fellow-creatures’ condition—some wholly philanthropic, others +scientific. To all Lucille listened with the same eager interest, +worshipping him in her loving womanly way, as if he had been as wise +as Socrates. After that first confession of her love, wrung from +unwilling lips, there had been no more reserve. She made no mystery of +her affection, which was childlike in its simple reverence for those +lofty qualities that women are apt to perceive in the object of their +regard some time before the rest of the world has awakened to a sense +thereof. But she held firmly by the condition which she had imposed on +her lover. She would never be his wife, she would begin no new stage of +existence, until the mystery of her father’s fate had been solved. + +The time had now come when Lucius deemed it a point of honour to inform +Mr. Sivewright of this engagement, but not of the condition attaching +thereto. He had not forgotten what the old man had said in the first +instance, ‘My granddaughter is disposed of;’ but this he imagined was +only an idle threat. Day by day he found himself more necessary to the +invalid. Mr. Sivewright looked anxiously for his visits, detained him +as long as it was possible for him to stay, would have him come back +in the evening to sit for an hour or so in the sick-room, talking, +or reading the day’s news to him; proved himself, in fact, the most +exacting of patients. But in all their intercourse he had expressed +no dislike to that intimacy between Lucius and Lucille which he must +needs have been aware of; since he saw them together daily, and must +have been blind if he failed to see that they were something nearer and +dearer to each other than common friends. + +‘He cannot be very much surprised when he hears the truth,’ thought +Lucius, and only deferred his confession until he perceived a marked +improvement in his patient. + +This arose a little later in the summer, when the old man was able to +come down-stairs again, now and then, and even creep about the dreary +waste he called his garden. + +One evening, in the very spot where he had first told his love to +Lucille, Lucius mustered courage and took Mr. Sivewright into his +confidence, only reserving that hard condition which Lucille had +attached to her promise. + +The old man received this communication with a cynical grin. + +‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I have seen it all along. As if one ever could +trust a young man and a young woman to play at being brother and sister +without their exchanging that sentimental make-believe for the reality +of love-making! Well, I am not angry. I told you my granddaughter was +disposed of. That was true so far as it went. I had views for her; but +they were vague, and hinged upon my own health and vigour. I thought I +had a stronger part to play in life’s drama. Well,’ with a faint sigh, +‘I can afford to resign those old hopes. You may marry Lucille whenever +you can afford to keep her in comfort and respectability. Now, my dear +Mr. Davoren,’ turning to the surgeon with a look of infinite cunning in +his keen eyes, ‘I daresay you think you have made a lucky hit—that, in +spite of all I have told you, this show of poverty is only a miser’s +pretence: that I have railway shares and consols and debentures and +Heaven knows what in my shabby old desk, and that I shall die worth +half-a-million. Dismiss that delusion from your mind at once and for +ever. If you take Lucille Sivewright for your wife you take a pauper. +My collection is all I possess: and I shall leave that most likely to a +museum.’ + +Thus ungraciously did Mr. Sivewright receive Lucius into the bosom of +his family. Yet, in his own eccentric fashion, he seemed attached to +the young man; courted his society, and had evidently an exalted belief +in his honour. + +Nothing had Lucius yet done towards even the beginning of that +endeavour to which he had pledged himself; but he had thought deeply +and constantly of the task that had been imposed upon him, and had +tried to see his way to its accomplishment. + +Given a man who had been missing twelve years, who in person, +profession, and surroundings was utterly unknown to him, and who had +cut every tie that bound him to kindred or home; who might be in any +quarter of the globe, or in his grave—and how to set about the work of +finding him? That was the problem which Lucille had proposed to him as +calmly as if it were the simplest thing in the world. + +A very little consideration showed him that his only hope lay in +beginning his investigation close at home. Unless he could obtain +certain details from the old man—unless he could overcome Homer +Sivewright’s objection to the subject, and induce him to talk freely +about his missing son—the case seemed beyond all measure hopeless. And +even if the father could be made to speak, even if Lucius could learn +all that was to be told of Ferdinand Sivewright’s history at the time +he left his home in Bond-street, there would be still a dreary gulf of +twelve years to be bridged over. + +To question the old man was, however, the easiest and most obvious +course. He might or might not remain obstinately dumb. + +One morning, when the patient’s case seemed more than usually +promising—pain banished, and something of his old strength +regained—Lucius made his first approach to this difficult subject. + +Their conversation, which was apt to wander widely, from the sordid +business of life to the loftiest regions of metaphysical speculation, +had on this occasion drifted into a discussion of the Christian faith. + +Mr. Sivewright contemplated that mighty theme from a purely critical +standpoint; talked of the Gospel as he talked of the _Iliad_; admitted +this and denied that; brought the hard dry logic of an unpoetical mind, +the narrow scepticism of a suspicious nature, to bear upon divine +truths. Lucius spoke with the quiet conviction of a man who believed +and was not ashamed to stand to his colours. From a theological +argument he led the old man to the question of Christian charity, as +distinguished from mere Pagan humanitarianism; and here he found his +opportunity. + +‘I have often wondered,’ he said, ‘that you—who seem in most things a +man of a calm temperament, even if somewhat stern—should yet cherish +a lifelong anger against an only son. Forgive me for touching upon a +subject which I know is painful to you—’ + +‘It is not painful,’ answered Sivewright sharply; ‘no more painful than +if you spoke to me of any scoundrel in the next street whose face I +had never seen. Do you think that hearts are everlasting wear? There +was a time when to think of my false, ungrateful guilty son was like +the smart of a gun-shot wound. But that was years ago. All the tissues +of my body have been changed since he deserted me. Do you suppose that +regret and affection and shame, and the sense of kinship, do not wear +out as well as flesh and blood? Twelve years ago Homer Sivewright +lamented the only son who had disgraced him. I, the man who speaks to +you to-day,’ touching his breast with his lean hand, ‘have no son.’ + +‘A hard saying,’ replied Lucius compassionately, for there was more +real feeling in this man’s assumed coldness than in many a loud-spoken +and demonstrative grief; ‘yet I can but believe—unworthy as he may have +seemed to you—he still holds a corner in your heart.’ + +A cloud came over the keen eyes, the gray head drooped, but Homer +Sivewright made no admission of weakness. + +‘Seemed unworthy,’ he repeated; ‘he _was_ unworthy.’ + +‘You have never told me his crime.’ + +The old man lifted his head, and looked at the speaker with those +penetrating eyes of his, for an instant resentfully, then with the +cynicism which was his second nature. + +‘What, are you curious?’ he said. ‘Well, I suppose you have a right to +know something of the family you propose to honour with your alliance. +Know, then, that the father of your intended wife was a liar and a +thief.’ + +Lucius recoiled as if some outrageous insult had been offered to +himself. + +‘I cannot believe—’ he began. + +‘Wait till you have heard the story before you attempt to dispute the +facts. You know what my youth was—laborious, self-denying. I married +early, but my marriage was a disappointment. I made the somewhat +common error of taking a handsome face as a certificate of womanly +excellence. My wife was a Spanish American, with a face like an old +Italian picture. Unhappily, she had a temper which made her own life +a burden, and produced a corresponding effect upon the lives of other +people. She had an infinite capacity for discontent. She could he +spasmodically gay under the influence of what is called pleasure, but +happy never. Had I been monarch of the world, I doubt if I could have +ever gratified half her wishes, or charmed the sullen demon in her +breast. She rarely desired anything that was not unattainable. Judge, +then, how she endured the only kind of existence I could offer her. + +‘I did all in my power to make her life pleasant, or at least +tolerable. As my means improved I gave her the command of money; +bought birds and flowers for her sitting-room, and furnished it with +my choicest Buhl cabinets, my prettiest Louis-Seize sofa, the spoil +of French palaces; but she laughed to scorn my attempts to beautify +a home above a shop. Her father—a planter, and when I married her a +bankrupt—had once been rich. The days of his prosperity had scarcely +outlasted her childhood, but they had lasted long enough to accustom +her to habits of recklessness and extravagance which no after +experience could eradicate. I soon found that to give her freedom in +money matters would be to accomplish my own ruin. From an indulgent +husband I became what she called a miserly tyrant. Passive discontent +now changed to active aversion; and she began a series of quarrels +which, on more than one occasion, ended in her running away from home, +and taking refuge with a distant relation of her mother’s—a frivolous +extravagant widow whom I detested. I followed and brought her back from +these flights; but she returned unwillingly, and each occasion widened +the breach. + +‘Our child made no link between us. When the boy grew old enough to +take any part in our quarrels, he invariably sided with his mother. +Naturally enough, since he was always with her, heard her complaints of +my ill-usage, was indulged by her with wanton folly, and gratified with +pleasures that were paid for with money stolen from me. Yes, that was +the beginning of his unprincipled career. The mother taught her son to +plunder my cash-box or my till.’ + +‘Very horrible!’ said Lucius. + +‘Even to him, however,’ continued Mr. Sivewright, who, having once +drifted into the story of his domestic wrongs, waxed garrulous, ‘even +to him she was violent; and I discovered ere long that there was often +ill-blood between them. Taunts, innuendoes, sneers, diversified the +sullen calm of our wretched hearth; and one day the boy, Ferdinand, +came to me and entreated me to send him to school; he could not endure +life with his mother any longer. “Why, I thought you doated on her,” +said I. “I am fond enough of _her_,” he answered, “but I can’t stand +her temper. You’d better send me to school, father, or something +unpleasant may happen. I threw a knife at her after dinner yesterday. +You remember what you told me about that Roman fellow whose head you +showed me on a coin the other day—the man who murdered his mother. I’m +not likely to go in for the business in his cold-blooded way; but if +she goes on provoking me as she does sometimes, I may be goaded into +stabbing her.” + +‘He wound up this cool avowal by informing me that he would like to +complete his education in Germany. He was at this time about twelve.’ + +‘You complied, I suppose?’ suggested Lucius. + +‘Not entirely. I wished my son to be an English gentleman. I wanted, +if possible, to eradicate the South American element, which had +already exhibited itself in violent passions and an inordinate love +of pleasure. One talent, and one only, he had displayed to any great +extent; and that was a talent, or, as his mother and her few friends +declared, a genius for music. From five years old his chief delight was +scraping a fiddle or strumming on his mother’s piano. Now, for my own +part,’ added Mr. Sivewright candidly, ‘I hate music.’ + +‘And I have loved it,’ said Lucius thoughtfully. ‘Yet it is strange +that the darkest memories of my life are associated with music.’ + +‘I didn’t want the son for whom I had toiled, and was willing to go on +toiling for the rest of my days, to become a fiddler. I told him as +much in the plainest words, and sent him to a private tutor; in that +manner beginning an education which was to cost me as much as if I had +been a man of wealth and position. I hoped that education might cure +the vices of his childhood, and make him a good man. From the tutor he +went to Harrow, from Harrow to Oxford, your own college, Balliol. But +before this period of his life his mother ran away from me for the last +time. I declined to go through the usual business of bringing her home +again, but gave her a small allowance and requested her to remain away. +She stayed with the South American widow in Thistle-grove; spent her +allowance, I fear, chiefly upon brandy, and died in less than a year +after she left me. My son went to see her when she was dying; heard +her last counsel, which doubtless advised him to hate me; and went back +to Harrow, a boy, with the passions of a man.’ + +There was a pause, and once more the old man’s chin sunk upon his +breast, the cold gray eyes fixed themselves with that far-off gaze +which sees the things that are no more. Then rousing himself with an +impatient sigh he went on. + +‘I needn’t trouble you with the details of his University life. Enough +that he contrived to make it an epitome of the vices. He assented +sullenly to adopt a profession—the law; skulked; spent his days and +nights in dissipation; wasted my money; and compelled me at last to +say, “Shut up your books, if you have ever opened them. Nature never +meant you for a lawyer. But you have all the sharpness of your mother’s +wily race. Come home, and in my petty business learn the science of +commerce. You may be a great merchant by and by.”’ + +‘You must have loved him in those days, or you would hardly have been +so lenient,’ said Lucius. + +‘Loved him, yes,’ answered the other, with a long regretful sigh. ‘I +loved him and was proud of him; proud in spite of his vices; proud +of his good looks, his cleverness, his plausible tongue—the tongue +that lied to me and swindled me. God help me, he was the only thing +I had to love! He came home, pretended to take to the business. Never +was a man better qualified to prosper in such a trade. He had a keen +appreciation of art; was quick at learning the jargon which deludes +amateur buyers; and in the business of bargain-driving would have +Jewed the veriest Jew alive. But his habits were against anything like +sustained industry. It was not till after he had won my confidence, and +wheedled me into giving him a partnership, that I discovered how little +he had changed his old ways. As he had robbed me before he was twelve +years old, so he robbed me now; only as his necessities were larger, I +felt his dishonesty more. I saw my stock shrinking, my books doctored. +Vainly I tried to battle with an intellect that was stronger than my +own. Long after I knew him to be a rogue, he was able to demonstrate to +me, by what seemed the soundest logic, that I was mistaken. One day, +when he had been living with me something more than a year, he informed +me, in his easy-going way, that he had married some years before, lost +his wife soon after, and that I was a grandfather. “You’re fond of +children,” he said. “I’ve seen you notice those little curly-headed +beggars next door. You’d better let me send for Lucille.”’ + +‘You consented?’ + +‘Of course. Lucille came the same night. A pale melancholy child, in +whose small face I saw no likeness to any of my race. Of her mother +I could ascertain very little. My son was reticent. His wife was of +decent birth, he said, and had possessed a little money, which he had +spent, and that was all he ever told me. Of how or where she died, he +said nothing. Lucille talked of green fields and flowers and the sea; +but knew no more of the whereabouts of her previous home than if she +had come straight from Paradise.’ + +‘Then you do not even know her mother’s maiden-name?’ + +‘No. That’s hard upon you, isn’t it? There’ll be a blank in your +children’s pedigree.’ + +‘I will submit to the blank; only it seems rather hard upon Lucille +that she should never have known her mother’s relatives, that she +should have been cheated of any affection they might have given her.’ + +‘Affection! the affection of aunts and uncles and cousins! +Milk-and-water!’ + +‘Well, sir, you and your son contrived to live together for some years.’ + +‘Yes, it lasted a long time—I knowing I was cheated, yet unable to +prove it; he spending his days in sloth, his nights in dissipation, +yet every now and then, by some brilliant stroke of business, +compelling me to admire him. My customers liked him, the young men +especially; for he had all those modern ideas which were as strange +to me as a Cuneiform inscription. Somehow he brought grist to the +mill. His University friends found him out, made my shop a lounge, +borrowed my money, and paid me a protective rate of interest. We had +our quarrels—not violent and noisy, like the quarrels in which women +are concerned, but perhaps all the more lasting in their effect. Where +he went at night I knew not, until going into his room very early one +morning to wake him—there was to be a great picture-sale twenty miles +from London that day, and I wanted him to attend it—I saw some gold +and notes scattered on the table by his bedside. From that moment I +knew the worst of his vices. He was a gambler. Where he played or with +whom I never knew. I never played the spy upon him, or attempted to +get at his secrets in any underhand manner. One day I taxed him with +this vice. He shrugged his shoulders, and affected supreme candour. “I +play a little sometimes,” he said—“games of skill, not chance. It is +impossible to keep such company as I keep and not take an occasional +hand at whist or écarté. And you ought not to forget that my friends +have been profitable to you.” A year after this I had occasion to sell +a portion of my stock at Christie’s, in order to obtain ready money to +purchase the lease of premises adjoining my own—premises which would +enable me to enlarge my art gallery. The things were sold, and, a few +days afterwards, settled for. I brought home the money—between five and +six hundred pounds—locked it in my safe, impregnable even to my junior +partner, and sat down to dinner with the key in my pocket, and, as I +believed, my money secure.’ + +Again there was a pause, painful recollections contracting the +deeply-lined brow, gloomy thoughts clouding the eyes. + +‘Well, I had come home late; the child was in bed, and my son and I +dined together by the fire in the little parlour behind the shop—my +wife’s fine drawing-room had been absorbed long ago into the art +gallery. Never had Ferdinand been so genial or so gay. He was full +of talk about the extension of our premises; discussed our chances +of success like a thorough man of business. We had a bottle of good +old burgundy in honour of our brilliant prospects. I did not drink +more than usual; yet half an hour after dinner I was in the deepest +sleep that ever stole my senses, and reduced me to the condition of a +lifeless log. In a word, the wine had been drugged, and by the hand of +my son. When I awoke it was long after midnight, the hearth was black +and cold, the candles had burned down to the sockets. I woke with a +violent headache, and that nausea which is the after-taste of opium or +morphine. I sat for some minutes shivering, and wondering what was the +matter with me. Almost mechanically I felt in my pocket for the key +of the safe. Yes, there it lay, snug enough. I staggered up to bed, +surprised at the unusual effect of a couple of glasses of burgundy, and +was so ill next morning that my old housekeeper sent for the nearest +apothecary. He felt my pulse, looked at my eyes, and asked if I had +taken an opiate. Then it flashed upon me in a moment that I had been +drugged. The instant the apothecary left me I got out of bed, dragged +on my clothes, and went down to examine my safe. The money was gone. +Ferdinand knew when I was to receive the cash, and knew my habits well +enough to know where I should put it, careful as I had been not to let +him see me dispose of it. I had been robbed—dexterously—by my own son.’ + +‘Scoundrel!’ muttered Lucius. + +‘Yes. I might have stomached the theft; I couldn’t forgive the opiate. +That stung me to the quick. A man who would do that would poison me, +I thought; and I plucked my only son out of my heart, as you drag up a +foul weed whose roots have gone deep and have a tough hold in a clay +soil. It was a wrench, and left a feeling of soreness for after years; +but I think my love for him died in that hour. Could one love so paltry +a villain? I made no attempt to pursue him, nor to regain my money. One +can hardly deliver one’s own flesh and blood to the tender mercies of +the criminal code.’ + +‘You never told his daughter?’ + +‘No; I was not cruel enough for that. I did my best to impress upon her +mind that he was unworthy of affection or regret, without stating the +nature of his offence. Unhappily, with her romantic temperament, to be +unfortunate is to be worthy of compassion. I know that she has wept for +him and regretted him, and even set up his image in her heart, in spite +of me.’ + +‘How much do you know of your son’s fate?’ + +‘Almost nothing. By mere accident I heard that he went to America +within a month of the day on which he robbed me. More than that I never +heard.’ + +‘Do you remember the name of the ship—or steamer—in which he went?’ + +‘That’s a curious question; however, I don’t mind answering it. He +went in a Spanish sailing-ship, El Dorado, bound for Rio.’ + +This was all—a poor clue wherewith to discover the whereabouts of a man +who had been missing twelve years. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +LUCIUS HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH A FAMOUS PERSONAGE. + + +It is one thing for a man to make a rash promise, but another thing for +him to keep it. A man in love will pledge himself to any enterprise—to +any adventure—even to the discovery of a new planet or a new continent, +should his mistress demand as much. After contemplating the question +from every possible point of view, Lucius Davoren was disposed to think +that he had pledged himself to the performance of something that was +more impossible than astronomical or geographical discovery, when he +promised to find Lucille Sivewright’s father, or, failing that, obtain +for her at least the story of his fate. + +It had seemed a great point to get the old man to speak freely of his +lost son; but even with this new light thrown upon the business, an +Egyptian darkness still surrounded the figure of the missing man. He +had sailed for a certain port. He might be still a denizen of that +Southern city. Yet what less likely in such a man’s career than +continued residence anywhere? The criminal is naturally a wanderer. +He has no fixed abiding-place. Fresh woods and pastures new are the +necessity of his contraband existence. Like a smuggled keg of cognac, +he passes from place to place under a cloud of mystery. None see him +arrive or depart. Like the chameleon, he changes colour—now wearing +dyed whiskers and a wig, now returning to the hues of nature. He has as +many names as the Roman Jupiter. + +Had Lucius been a free man, he might have gone straight to Rio, and +hunted up the traces of the missing man, unaided and alone. He might +have discovered some clue even after the lapse of years since the +sailing of the Spanish merchantman El Dorado. It was just within the +limits of possibility that he might have found the man himself. + +But to do this would have involved the abandonment of much that was +of vital moment to himself—would have indeed thrown the whole scheme +of his existence out of gear. In the first place he was poor, and his +pitiful salary as parish doctor was of inestimable value to him. Now, a +parish doctor has no more liberty to rove than the parish turncock, and +vast would be the wonder of the vestry—or the overseers—if informed +that the parish surgeon had gone for a fortnight’s grouse shooting on +the Sutherland hills, or set sail for the Mediterranean in a friend’s +yacht, or joined one of the great Cook’s caravans bound for Egypt or +Peru. + +Again, Lucius had now the nucleus of a very fair private practice. +His patients, for the most part small tradesmen, paid punctually, and +there were among them some wealthy traders whose custom was worth +having. He saw the beginning, very small it is true, but the beginning +of fortune. That dream of Savile-row was to be realised out of such +small beginnings. His patients believed in him, and talked of him; and +so far as reputation can be made in such a place as the Shadrack-Basin +district, his reputation was fast being made. To turn his back upon all +this would be to sacrifice, or at any rate to postpone indefinitely, +his hope of winning a home for the woman he loved. + +Beyond this there remained a third reason why he should refrain from +setting forth upon that wild-goose chase which, however barren as +to result, would at least serve to prove him the most devoted and +chivalrous of lovers. To go to Rio was to leave Lucille, and for an +indefinite period; since the business upon which he would go was +essentially a business requiring deliberation, ample leisure, time for +inquiry, for travelling to and fro, time enough to waste in following +up trails which, though promising much, might prove false,—time and +indomitable patience. How could he afford time and patience with his +heart racked by fears for the safety of Lucille? What might not happen +during his absence? The old man was in so precarious a condition +that his illness might at any moment take a fatal turn—in a state so +critical that to deliver him over to a strange doctor, and perhaps a +careless one, would be a kind of assassination. + +Thus, after profound thought, Lucius determined that even love should +not impel him to so rash a course as a voyage to Rio in quest of +Ferdinand Sivewright. + +‘After all,’ he said to himself, ‘there is no wiser saying than that +of Apelles to the cobbler, “Let every man stick to his own trade.” I +may be a clever surgeon, but a very poor detective-officer; and it will +be safer to spend the little money I can spare in employing a retired +policeman than in trying my ’prentice hand in the art of detection. We +bluster a good deal in the newspapers about the incompetence of the +police, when they fail to hunt up a criminal who has plunged into the +great sea of humanity, leaving not a bubble to mark the place where +he went down; yet I doubt if any of those brilliant journalists who +furnish indignant editorials on the police question would do much +better in the detective line than the officials whose failures they +ridicule. Yes, I will submit the case to Mr. Otranto, the private +detective.’ + +Once resolved, Lucius lost no more time; but called at Mr. Otranto’s +office in the city, and was fortunate enough to find that gentleman at +home—a plain-mannered little man, with a black frock-coat buttoned up +to the chin, and the half-military stamp of the ex-policeman strong +upon him. He was a brisk little man, too, disinclined to waste time +upon unnecessary detail. + +To him Lucius freely confided all he knew about Ferdinand +Sivewright—his character, antecedents, the ship in which he sailed, the +port from which he went, the approximate date of his departure. + +Mr. Otranto shrugged his shoulders. He had whistled a little impromptu +accompaniment to Mr. Davoren’s statement under his breath; a kind of +internal whistling, indicative of deepest thought. + +‘I’m afraid it’s not the most hopeful case,’ he said; ‘twelve years +is a long time. See what a number of earthquakes and shipwrecks and +revolutions and what you may call general blow-ups you get in a dozen +years; and then consider the case of one individual man who may drop +through at any moment, who, being by nature a bad lot, will change +his name any number of times. However, I can put the business into the +hands of a party out yonder who will do all that can be done on the +spot.’ + +‘Yonder, meaning Rio?’ inquired Lucius. ‘Have you correspondents so far +afield?’ + +‘Sir,’ said Mr. Otranto, with a complacent glance at the map of the +world which hung against the wall opposite him, ‘there are very few +corners of this habitable earth where I have _not_ a correspondent.’ + +The business was settled without farther discussion. Lucius gave Mr. +Otranto a substantial deposit, to prove that his inquiry was not +prompted by frivolity, and to insure that gentleman’s zeal; private +inquiry being, as Mr. Otranto indirectly informed his client, a +somewhat expensive luxury. + +This done, Lucius felt that he had not been false to his pledge. +He told Lucille nothing, however, except that he meant to keep his +promise, so far as it was possible and reasonable for him to keep it. + +‘If I tell you that I think you foolish for cherishing a wild hope, +dearest, you will tell me that I am unkind,’ he said, as they paced +their favourite walk in the barren old garden at sunset that evening. + +‘Lucius,’ asked Lucille, not long after this, ‘I am going to ask you a +favour.’ + +‘My dearest, what do I live for except to please you?’ + +‘O, Lucius, a great many things; for your patients, for science, for +the hope of being a famous doctor by and by.’ + +‘Only secondary objects in my life now, Lucille. They once made the sum +of life, I grant; they are henceforth no more than means to an end—and +that end is the creation of a home for you.’ + +‘How good of you to say that! I am hardly worthy of such love, when my +heart dwells so much upon the past. Yet, Lucius, if you could only know +how I cling to the memory of that dim strange time, which seems almost +as far away as a dream, you would forgive me even for putting that +memory above my affection for you.’ + +‘I forgive you freely, darling, for a sentiment which does but prove +the tenderness and constancy of your nature. I am content even to hold +the second place. But what is the favour you have to ask, Lucille?’ + +‘Let me hear you play. Poor grandpapa is seldom down-stairs of an +evening now. There could be no harm in your bringing your violin, and +playing a little now and then when he has gone back to his room. His +room is so far from the parlour that he would never hear you; and, +after all, playing the violin is not a crime. Do let me hear you, +Lucius! The old sweet sad music will remind me of my father. And I know +you play divinely,’ she added, looking up at him with innocent admiring +eyes. + +What could he do? He was mortal, loved music to distraction, and had +some belief in his own playing. + +‘So be it, my sweetest. I’ll bring the Amati; but you must stow him +away in some dusky corner between whiles, where your grandfather +cannot possibly discover him, or he might wreak his vengeance upon my +treasure. After all, as you say, there can be no harm in a violin, and +it will be hardly a breach of honour for me to play you a sonata now +and then, after my patient has gone to bed. Your father must have been +a fine player, or his playing would have hardly made such an impression +upon you as a child of seven.’ + +‘Yes,’ she answered dreamily, ‘I suppose it was what you call fine +playing. I know that it was sometimes mournful as the cry of a broken +heart, sometimes wild and strange—so strange that it has made me cling +closer to his knees, as I sat at his feet in the dusky room, afraid to +look round lest I should see some unearthly form conjured out of the +shadows by that awful music. You know how children look behind them +with scared faces as they cower round the Christmas fire, listening to +a ghost story. I have felt like that when I listened to my father’s +playing.’ + +‘I will bring you pleasanter music, Lucille, and conjure no ghosts out +of the evening shadows—only happy thoughts of our future.’ + +This was the prelude to many peaceful evenings, full of a placid +happiness which knew not satiety. Lucius brought his Amati, feeling +very much like a conspirator when he conveyed the instrument into Mr. +Sivewright’s house by stealth, as it were, and gave it into Lucille’s +keeping, to be hidden by day, and only to be brought forth at night, +when her grandfather had retired to his remote bedchamber, beyond ken +of those sweet sounds. + +The old woman in the bonnet—who was at once housekeeper, cook, +laundress, and parlour-maid in this curious establishment—was of course +in the secret. But Lucius had found this ancient female improve upon +acquaintance, and he was now upon intimate and friendly terms with her. +She had lived for an indefinite length of years in Mr. Sivewright’s +service—remembered Lucille’s childhood in the dark old back rooms in +Bond-street—but no power of persuasion could extract any information +from her. Upon entering Mr. Sivewright’s household in the remote past +she had promised to hold her tongue; and she was religiously silent +to this hour. Of the old man she could never be induced to say more +than that he was a ‘carrack-ter;’ a remark which, accompanied as it +always was with a solemn shake of her head, might be complimentary or +otherwise. + +Lucille she praised with fondest enthusiasm, but of Lucille’s father +she said not a word. On the various occasions when Lucius had ventured +to press his questions on this subject, she had acted always in the +same manner. Her countenance assumed a dark and forbidding aspect; she +abruptly set down the dish, or tray, or teapot, or whatever object she +might happen to be carrying, and as abruptly vanished from the room. +Persistence here availed nothing. + +‘Mr. Sivewright bound me over not to talk about his business when he +first engaged me,’ she said once, when hard pressed by Lucius, who had +hoped through her to obtain some better clue to the fate of Ferdinand +Sivewright. ‘I’ve held my tongue for uppards o’ five-and-twenty years. +It ain’t likely I should begin to blab now.’ + +Although uncommunicative, this faithful domestic was not unfriendly. +She treated Lucille with an affectionate familiarity, and in a manner +took the lovers under her wing. + +‘I was sure and certain, the first time I laid eyes on him, that you +and Dr. Davory would keep company,’ she said to Lucille; and her +protecting influence overshadowed the lovers at all times, like the +wings of a guardian angel. She evidently regarded herself in the light +of Miss Sivewright’s duenna; and would come away from some mysterious +operations in the labyrinthine offices and outhouses of the ancient +mansion, where she had a piece of lumber which she spoke of casually +as her good gentleman, in order to hover about Lucille and Lucius in +their walks, or to listen, awestricken and open-mouthed, to the strains +of the violin. Discovering ere long that this rough unpolished jewel +was not wanting in some of the finer qualities of the diamond, Lucius +admitted Mrs. Wincher, in some measure, to his confidence—discussed his +future freely in her presence, imparted his hopes and fears, and felt +that perhaps within this unbeauteous husk dwelt the soul of a friend; +and assuredly neither he nor Lucille could afford to sacrifice a friend +on account of external shortcomings. So Mrs. Wincher was accepted by +him, bonnet and all, and her hoverings about the pathway of innocent +love went unreproved. + +‘I am so glad you are not angry with Wincher for being a little too +familiar,’ said Lucille. ‘She cannot forget that she took care of me +when I was a poor solitary child in those back rooms in Bond-street; +and I know she is faithful and good.’ + +Jacob Wincher, or Mrs. Wincher’s good gentleman, was a feeble prowling +old man, who took charge of the collection, and pottered about +from morn till dewy eve—which, by the way, never was dewy in the +Shadrack district—dusting, polishing, arranging, and rearranging Mr. +Sivewright’s treasures—a very feeble old man, but learned in all the +mysteries of bric-à-brac, and enthusiastic withal; a man whose skilful +hands wandered about among egg-shell china, light as the wings of a +butterfly. He had been Mr. Sivewright’s factotum in Bond-street, but +was no more inclined to be communicative than Mrs. Wincher, whom he +spoke of, with reciprocal respect, as his good lady. + +Happy summer evenings, when, in the deepening dusk, Lucius awoke the +sweet sad strains of his violin, while Lucille sat knitting by the +window, and Mrs. Wincher, in the inevitable bonnet, occupied the +extreme edge of a chair by the door, listening with folded arms and the +serious attention of a musical critic. + +‘I can’t say but what I’ve a preference for livelier toons,’ she would +remark, after patiently awaiting the end of a dirge by Spohr, ‘but +the fingering is beautiful. I like to watch the fingering. My good +gentleman used to play the fiddle very sweet afore we was married—“John +Anderson my Jones,” and the “Bird Waltz,” and “British Grenayders,” and +such-like—but he give it up afterwards. There was no time to waste upon +music in Bond-street. Up early and abed late, and very often travel a +hundred miles backards and forrards between morning and night to attend +a sale in the country—that was Mr. Sivewright’s motter.’ + +These musical entertainments were naturally of rare occurrence. Mr. +Sivewright had been for some time gradually improving, and was more +inclined for society as his strength returned, but was, on the other +hand, disinclined to come down-stairs; so Lucius and Lucille had +to spend the greater part of their time in his room, where Lucius +entertained his patient with tidings of the outer world, while Lucille +made tea at a little table in the narrow space which the collector +had left clear in the midst of his crowded chamber. There were a few +flowers now in the one unobstructed window, and Lucille had done all +she could, with her small means, to make the room pretty and homelike. + +Mr. Sivewright listened while the lovers discussed their future, but +with no indulgent ear. + +‘Love and poverty!’ he said, with his harsh laugh; ‘a nice +stock-in-trade upon which to set up in the business of life! However, +I suppose you are no more foolish than all the fools who have +travelled the same beaten road before your time: and the same old +question remains to be solved by you, just as it has been solved by +others—whether the love will outwear the poverty, or the poverty wear +out the love.’ + +‘We are not afraid to stand the test,’ said Lucius. + +‘We are not afraid,’ echoed Lucille. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +HE FEARS HIS FATE TOO MUCH. + + +The quiet course of Lucius Davoren’s life, so full of hard work and +high hopes and simple unalloyed happiness, was by and by interrupted +by a summons from Geoffrey, that spoiled child of fortune, who, in his +hour of perplexity, turned again to that staunch friend whose counsel +he had set at naught. + +This was Geoffrey Hossack’s letter: + + ‘Stillmington, August 13th. + + ‘Dear Lucius,—I daresay you’ll be surprised to see me still abiding + in this sleepy old place, when yesterday’s gray dawn saw the first + shot fired on many a moor from York to Inverness. However, here I + am, and in sore distress of mind, no nearer a hopeful issue out of + my perplexities than I was when you ran down here nearly four months + ago to see that dear child. Will you come down again, like a good old + fellow, forget how rude and ungracious I was the last time I saw you, + and hear my difficulties, and help me if you can? + + ‘After all, you are the only man whose good sense and honour I would + trust in such a crisis of my life—the only friend before whom I would + bare the secrets of my heart. Do come, and promptly. + + ‘Yours, as ever, G. H.’ + +Of course Lucius complied. He left London early in the afternoon, and +arrived at Stillmington towards evening. He found Geoffrey waiting +on the platform, with much of the old brightness and youthfulness of +aspect, but with a more thoughtful expression than of old in the candid +face, a graver look about the firm well-cut mouth. They greeted each +other in the usual off-hand manner. + +‘Uncommonly sweet of you to come, old fellow,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I ought +to have run up to you, of course, only—only I’ve taken root here, you +see. I know every post in the streets, every tree in the everlasting +avenues that make the glory of this slow old town. But still I remain. +You’re looking fagged, Lucius, but bright as of old.’ + +‘I have been working a little harder than usual, that is all,’ replied +Lucius, who was disinclined to speak of his new happiness yet awhile. +It would be time enough to tell Geoffrey when the future lay clearer +before him; and as he had somewhat ridiculed his friend’s passion, he +did not care to own himself a slave. + +‘Now, Geoffrey, what is the matter?’ he asked presently, as they +strolled slowly along one of those verdant avenues of lime and chestnut +which surrounded the little gem-like town of Stillmington with a +network of greenery. ‘Still the old story, I suppose.’ + +‘Yes, Lucius, the old story, with very little variation. She is here, +and I can’t tear myself away, but go dawdling on from day to day and +hour to hour. Half-a-dozen times I have packed my portmanteaus and +ordered the fly to take me to the station, and then at the last moment +I have said to myself, “Why should I go away? I am a free man, and an +idle one, and may just as well live here as anywhere else.”’ + +‘Ah, Geoff, that comes of your being without a profession.’ + +‘It would be just the same if I were half-way towards the Woolsack—ay, +if I were Lord Chancellor—I should only be torn in twain between my +profession and my hopeless foolish love.’ + +‘But how does it happen that she—Mrs. Bertram—is still here? Are there +perpetual concerts in Stillmington?’ + +‘No; but after the little girl’s illness, perhaps in consequence of +that, she took a disgust for concert singing. She fancied the hurrying +from place to place—the excitement caused by frequent change of +scene—bad for her darling’s health. Nor was this her only reason; she +has often told me her own dislike of public life. So when the little +girl recovered, Mrs. Bertram advertised for pupils in the local papers. +The doctor, who had taken a great fancy to her, recommended her to all +his patients, and in less than a month she had secured half-a-dozen +pupils, and had taken nicer rooms than those in which you saw her. +She has now a singing class three times a week. I hear them sol-faing +when I pass the windows during my morning walk. There is even a little +brass-plate on the door: “Mrs. Bertram, teacher of music.” Imagine, +Lucius, the woman I love to the verge of idolatry is obliged to put +a brass-plate on her door and teach squalling misses, while I am +wallowing in wealth.’ + +‘A much better life for any woman than that of a public singer,’ said +Lucius; ‘above all for—’ + +‘Such a lovely woman as Jane Bertram. Yes, I agree with you. Who could +see her and not adore her? But think, Lucius, how superior this woman +must be to all the things which most women love, when she can willingly +surrender professional success, the admiration of the public, even the +triumph of her art, for the love of her child: and shut herself in from +the world, and resign herself to lead a life as lonely and joyless as +the life of a convent.’ + +‘It proves, as you say, that the lady possesses a superior mind; for +which I should have given her credit even without such evidence. But it +appears that in her seclusion she has not closed her door against you; +since you are so familiar with her opinions and her mode of life.’ + +‘There you are wrong. I have never crossed the threshold of her present +abode. On the very day you left Stillmington she told me in the +plainest words, but with a gentleness that made even unkind words seem +sweet, that she could receive no farther visits from me. “You have been +very good,” she said, “and in the hour of trouble such friendship as +you have shown to me is very precious. But now the danger is past I can +only return to my old position. It is my destiny to live quite alone; +pray do not try to come between me and Fate.”’ + +‘You pleaded against this decision, I suppose?’ + +‘With all the force of the truest passion that man ever felt. I think +I was almost eloquent, Lucius, for at the last she burst into tears; +she entreated me to desist, told me that I was too hard upon her, that +I tempted her too cruelly. How could I tempt her if she did not care +a straw for me? These ambiguous phrases fanned the flame of hope. I +left her at her command, which I dared not disobey; but I stayed in +Stillmington.’ + +‘You have stayed on all this time and seen no more of her?’ + +‘_Pas si bête._ No, I have seen her and talked to her now and then. She +is obliged to give her child an airing every fine afternoon. She has +no maid here, and the mother and child walk out together. Sometimes, +but not too often, for that would seem like persecution, I contrive to +meet them, and join them in their ramble in one of the long avenues +or across a breezy common; and then, Lucius, for a little while I +am in Paradise. We talk of all manner of things; of life and its +many problems, of literature, art, nature, religion, and its deepest +mysteries; but of her past life she never speaks, nor of her dead +husband. I have studiously refrained from any word that might seem to +pry into her secrets, and every hour I have spent with her has served +but to increase my love and honour for her.’ + +‘You have again asked her to be your wife?’ + +‘Over and over again, and she has refused with the same steadfast +persistence, with a constancy of purpose that knows no change. And yet, +Lucius, I believe she loves me. I am neither such a blockhead nor such +a scoundrel as to pursue any woman to whom I was an object of dislike, +or even of indifference. But I see her face light up when we meet; I +hear the sweet tremulous tones of her voice when she speaks of the love +she refuses to grant me. No, Lucius, there is no indifference, there is +no obstinate coldness there. God only knows the reason which keeps us +asunder, but to me it is an inexorable mystery.’ + +‘And you have sent for me only to tell me this. In your letter you +spoke of my helping you. How can any help of mine aid you here?’ + +‘In the first place, because you are a much cleverer fellow than I +am, a better judge of human nature, able to read aright much that is +a mystery to me. In the second place, you, who are not blinded by +passion, ought speedily to discover whether I am only fooling myself +with the fancy that my love is returned. You know I was just a little +inclined to be jealous of you the last time you were here, old fellow.’ + +‘You had not the faintest reason.’ + +‘I know. Of course not. But I was fool enough to grudge you even her +gratitude. I don’t mean to repeat that idiotcy. You are the only friend +whose opinions I really respect. The common run of one’s acquaintance +I look upon as egotistical monomaniacs; that is to say, they have all +gone mad upon the subject of self, and are incompetent to reason upon +anything that has not self for its centre. But you, Lucius, have a +wider mind; and I believe, your judgment being untroubled by passion, +you will be able to read this mystery aright, to fathom the secret my +darkened eyes have vainly striven to pierce.’ + +‘I believe that I can, Geoffrey,’ said Lucius gravely. ‘But tell me +first, do you really wish this mystery solved, for good or for evil, at +the risk even of disenchantment?’ + +‘At any hazard; the present uncertainty is unbearable. I am tortured +by the belief that she loves me, and yet withholds her love. That if +inclination were her only guide, she would be my wife. And yet she +toils on, and lives on, lonely, joyless, with nothing but her child’s +love to brighten her dreary days.’ + +‘There are many women who find that enough for happiness. But, no +doubt, as your wife her existence might be gayer, her position more +secure.’ + +‘Of course. Think of her, Lucius, that loveliest and most refined among +women, slaving for a pittance.’ + +‘I do think of her, I sympathise with her, I admire and honour her,’ +answered the other, with unwonted earnestness. + +‘And yet you advise me against marrying her. That seems hardly +consistent.’ + +‘I have advised you not to marry her in ignorance of her past life. If +she will tell you the secret of that past—without reserve—and you find +nothing in the story to diminish your love, I will no longer say do not +marry her. But there must be nothing kept back—nothing hidden. She must +tell you all; even if her heart almost breaks in the telling. And it +will then be for you to renounce her and your love; or to take her to +your heart of hearts to reign there for ever.’ + +‘I do not fear the test,’ cried Geoffrey eagerly. ‘She can have nothing +to tell me that she should blush to speak or I to hear. She is all +goodness and truth.’ + +‘Have you ever asked for her confidence?’ + +‘Never. Remember, Lucius, I possess her friendship only on sufferance. +In a moment she may give me my irrevocable dismissal, forbid me ever to +speak to her any more, as she has forbidden me to visit her. I could +not afford to surrender even those occasional hours we spend together.’ + +‘In that case why send for me? I thought you wanted to bring matters to +a crisis.’ + +‘Why, so I do. Yet at the thought of her anger I grow the veriest +coward. Banishment from her means such unutterable misery, and to +offend her is to provoke the sentence of banishment.’ + +‘If she is as good and true as you believe, and as I too believe her to +be, she will not be offended by your candour. She may have a confession +to make to you which she could hardly make unasked; but which, once +being made, might clear away all doubt, remove every impediment to your +happiness.’ + +‘You are right. Yes, I will hazard all. What is that old verse? + + “He either fears his fate too much, + Or his desert is small, + Who dares not put it to the touch, + To gain or lose it all.” + +Just imagine my feelings on the twelfth, Lucius, when I thought of my +collection of guns going to rust, and those Norwegian hills that I had +made up my mind to shoot over this very August.’ + +‘Bravely said, Geoff. And now I will do my uttermost to aid you. I +think that I may have some small influence with Mrs. Bertram. Her +gratitude exaggerated the trifling service I did her sick child. I will +write her a letter; as your friend I can say much more than you could +say for yourself. You shall deliver it into her hands, and then ask +her, in the simplest, plainest words, to tell you whether she loves or +does not love you; and, if she owns to caring for you a little, why it +is she rejects your love. I think you will come at the truth then.’ + +‘You will write to her!’ cried Geoffrey aghast. ‘You, almost a +stranger!’ + +‘How can I be a stranger when she thinks I saved her child’s life? +Come, Geoffrey, if I am to help you I must go to work in my own way. +Give Mrs. Bertram my letter, and I’ll answer for it, she will give you +her confidence.’ + +Geoffrey looked at his friend with the gaze of suspicion. Yet, after +entreating his aid, he could hardly reject it, even if the manner of it +seemed clumsy and undiplomatic. + +‘Very well, I’ll do it. Only, I must say, it strikes me as a hazardous +business. Write your letter; but for heaven’s sake remember she is a +woman of a most sensitive nature, a most delicate mind! I implore you +not to offend her.’ + +‘I know more of her mind than you do,—by the light of psychology.’ + +‘Very likely,’ replied Geoffrey rather gloomily. ‘But you haven’t hung +upon her words or studied her looks day after day as I have done. +Psychology is an uncommonly easy way of getting at a woman’s mind if +you know much of her after a single interview. However, write your +letter, and I’ll deliver it. I can cut my throat if it makes her angry.’ + +‘One does not cut one’s throat at seven-and-twenty,’ said Lucius +coolly. ‘And now, Geoff, if you have no objection, I should not be +sorry to bend my steps towards your hotel with a view to refreshment. +We seem to have wandered rather far afield.’ + +Geoffrey, in his desire for unrestrained converse with his friend, had +led him away from the town, by a winding road that ascended a gentle +hill; a wooded hill covered with richest green sward, whence they +looked downward on the gentlemanlike town of Stillmington, with its +white villas and spotless streets and close-cut lawns and weedless +flower-beds, over which the sister spirits of order and prosperity +spread their protecting wings. The respectable family hotel proudly +dominated the smaller tenements of the High-street, its well-kept +garden gaudy with geraniums, its fountain spirting mildly in the +sunset. + +‘Come along, old fellow,’ said Geoffrey; ‘it was rather too bad of me +to forget how far you’d travelled. I’ve ordered dinner for eight sharp; +and hark, the clock of Stillmington parish church proclaims half-past +seven, just time enough to get rid of the dust of the journey before we +sit down. And after—’ + +‘After dinner,’ said Lucius, ‘I’ll write to Mrs. Bertram.’ + +‘Then by Apollo, as old Lear says, I’ll deliver the letter to-night. I +couldn’t afford to sleep upon it. My courage would evaporate, like Bob +Acres’s, before morning.’ + +Thus, with simulated lightness, spoke the lover, while strange doubts +and gnawing fears consumed his heart. + + +END OF VOL. I. + + LONDON: + ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + pg 2 Changed: It is December, the bleakest, deariest month + to: It is December, the bleakest, dreariest month + + pg 14 Changed: torn moosekin shoes upon his feet + to: torn mooseskin shoes upon his feet + + pg 113 Changed: a cabinet in Forentine mosaic + to: a cabinet in Florentine mosaic + + pg 236 Changed: hope and fear during the ast few days + to: hope and fear during the last few days + + pg 294 Changed: Like the chamelion, he changes colour + to: Like the chameleon, he changes colour + + pg 300 Changed: So be it, my weestest. + to: So be it, my sweetest. + + pg 302 Changed: she praised with fondest enthusiam + to: she praised with fondest enthusiasm + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75875 *** diff --git a/75875-h/75875-h.htm b/75875-h/75875-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..817cc75 --- /dev/null +++ b/75875-h/75875-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9761 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Lucius Davoren Volume 1 | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} + +hr.r5 {width: 5%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 47.5%; margin-right: 47.5%;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} +.tdc {text-align: center;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; + color: #A9A9A9; +} /* page numbers */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} +img.w100 {width: 100%;} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center; font-size: 85%} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +.fs70 {font-size: 70%} +.fs80 {font-size: 80%} +.fs90 {font-size: 90%} +.fs120 {font-size: 120%} +.fs150 {font-size: 150%} +.fs200 {font-size: 200%} + +.no-indent {text-indent: 0em;} +.bold {font-weight: bold;} +.wsp {word-spacing: 0.3em;} +.lh {line-height: 1.5em;} + +h2 {font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.6em; word-spacing: .3em;} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} +.poetry .indent1 {text-indent: -2.5em;} +.poetry .indent3 {text-indent: -1.5em;} + +/* Illustration classes */ +.illowp20 {width: 20%;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75875 ***</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 85%"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1>LUCIUS DAVOREN</h1> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center no-indent fs80"> +LONDON:<br> +ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.<br> +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center no-indent wsp"> +<span class="fs200">LUCIUS DAVOREN</span><br> +<br> +<span class="fs80">OR</span><br> +<br> +<span class="fs120">PUBLICANS AND SINNERS</span><br> +<br> +<span class="bold">A Novel</span><br> +<br> +<span class="fs90">BY THE AUTHOR OF</span><br> +‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET’<br> +<span class="fs70">ETC. ETC. ETC.</span><br> +<br> +<span class="fs90">IN THREE VOLUMES</span><br> +<br> +VOL. I.</p> +<br> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp20" id="titlr" style="max-width: 9.375em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/titlr.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</figure> + +<p class="center no-indent wsp"><br> +<br> +LONDON<br> +<span class="fs120">JOHN MAXWELL AND CO.</span><br> +<span class="fs80">4 SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET<br> +1873<br> +[<em>All rights reserved</em>]</span><br> +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center no-indent wsp lh"> +<span class="bold">This Book is Inscribed</span><br> +<br> +TO<br> +<br> +<span class="fs120">VISCOUNT MILTON, M.P. F.R.G.S.</span><br> +ETC.<br> +<br> +IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE AID DERIVED FROM HIS<br> +ADMIRABLE BOOK OF TRAVELS,<br> +‘THE NORTH-WEST PASSAGE OVERLAND,’<br> +TO WHICH THE AUTHOR IS INDEBTED FOR THE<br> +SCENERY IN THE PROLOGUE.<br> +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS_OF_VOL_I">CONTENTS OF VOL. I.</h2> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 15%"> +<img src="images/a007_deco.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</div> +<br> + +<table class="autotable lh"> +<tr> +<td class="tdc bold" colspan="3">Prologue:—In the Far West.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr fs70">CHAP.</td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdr fs70">PAGE</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">I.</span></td> +<td class="tdl">‘<span class="smcap">Where the Sun is silent</span>’</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">II.</span></td> +<td class="tdl">‘<span class="smcap">Music hath Charms</span>’</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_10">10</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">III.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">How they lost the Trail</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">IV.</span></td> +<td class="tdl">‘<span class="smcap">All’s cheerless, dark, and deadly</span>’</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">V.</span></td> +<td class="tdl">‘<span class="smcap">O, that Way Madness lies</span>’</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdc bold" colspan="3">Book the First.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">I.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Looking Backwards</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">II.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Homer Sivewright</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">III.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Hard Hit</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">IV.</span></td> +<td class="tdl">‘<span class="smcap">O World, how apt the Poor are to be proud!</span>’</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">V.</span></td> +<td class="tdl">‘<span class="smcap">I had a Son, now outlaw’d from my Blood</span>’</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">VI.</span></td> +<td class="tdl">‘<span class="smcap">By Heaven, I love thee better than myself</span>’</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">VII.</span></td> +<td class="tdl">‘<span class="smcap">Sorrow has need of Friends</span>’</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_213">213</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">VIII.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Geoffrey inclines to Suspicion</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">IX.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Something too much for Gratitude</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_245">245</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">X.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Daughter’s Love, and a Lover’s Hope</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_259">259</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">XI.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Biography of a Scoundrel</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_270">270</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">XII.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lucius has an Interview with a famous Personage</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_293">293</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">XIII.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">He fears his Fate too much</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_307">307</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> + +<p class="center no-indent fs200 wsp">LUCIUS DAVOREN</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 15%"> +<img src="images/p001_deco.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</div> + +<p class="center no-indent bold wsp">Prologue:—In the Far West.</p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.<br> +<span class="fs70">‘WHERE THE SUN IS SILENT.’</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Winter</span> round them: not a winter in city streets, +lamplit and glowing, or on a fair English countryside, +dotted with cottage-roofs, humble village homes, +sending up their incense of blue-gray smoke to the +hearth goddess; not the winter of civilisation, with +all means and appliances at hand to loosen the grip +of the frost-fiend: but winter in its bleakest aspect, +amid trackless forests, where the trapper walks alone; +winter in a solitude so drear that the sound of a +human voice seems more strange and awful than the +prevailing silence; winter in a pine-forest in British +North America, westward of the Rocky Mountains.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span> +It is December, the bleakest, dreariest month in the +long winter; for spring is still far off.</p> + +<p>Three men sit crouching over the wood-fire in a +roughly-built log-hut in the middle of a forest, which +seems to stretch away indefinitely into infinite space. +The men have trodden that silent region for many a +day, and have found no outlet on either side, only +here and there a frozen lake, to whose margin, ere +the waters were changed to ice, the forest denizens +came down to gorge themselves with the small fish +that abound there. They are travellers who have +penetrated this dismal region for pleasure; yet each +moved by a different desire. The first, Lucius +Davoren, surgeon, has been impelled by that deep-rooted +thirst of knowledge which in some minds is a +passion. He wants to know what this strange wild +territory is like—this unfamiliar land between Fort +Garry and Victoria, across the Rocky Mountains—and +if there lies not here a fair road for the English +emigrant. He has even cherished the hope of +some day pushing his way to the northward, up to +the ice-bound shores of the polar sea. He looks +upon this trapper-expedition as a mere experimental +business, an education for grander things, the explorer’s +preparatory school.</p> + +<p>So much for Lucius Davoren, surgeon without a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> +practice. Mark him as he sits in his dusky corner +by the fire. The hut boasts a couple of windows, but +they are only of elk-skin, through which the winter +light steals dimly. Mark the strongly-defined profile, +the broad forehead, the clear gray eyes. The well-cut +mouth and resolute chin are hidden by that +bushy untrimmed beard, which stiffens with his +frozen breath when he ventures outside the hut; but +the broad square forehead, the Saxon type of brow, +and clear penetrating eyes, are in themselves all-sufficient +indications of the man’s character. Here +are firmness and patience, or, in one word, the noblest +attribute of the human mind—constancy.</p> + +<p>On the opposite side of that rude hearth sits +Geoffrey Hossack, three years ago an undergraduate +at Balliol, great at hammer-throwing and the long +jump, doubtful as to divinity exam., and with vague +ideas trending towards travel and adventure in the +Far West as the easiest solution of <em>that</em> difficulty. +Young, handsome, ardent, fickle, strong as a lion, +gentle as a sucking dove, Geoffrey has been the delight +and glory of the band in its sunnier days; he +is the one spot of sunlight in the picture now, when +the horizon has darkened to so deep a gloom.</p> + +<p>The last of the trio is Absalom Schanck, a native +of Hamburg, small and plump, with a perennial<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> +plumpness which has not suffered even from a diet of +mouldy pemmican, and rare meals of buffalo or moose +flesh, which has survived intervals of semi-starvation, +blank dismal days when there was absolutely nothing +for these explorers to eat.</p> + +<p>At such trying periods Absalom is wont to wax +plaintive, but it is not of turtle or venison he dreams; +no vision of callipash or callipee, no mocking simulacrum +of a lordly Aberdeen salmon or an aldermanic +turbot, no mirage picture of sirloin or Christmas +turkey, torments his soul; but his feverish mouth +waters for the putrid cabbage and rancid pork of his +fatherland; and the sharpest torture which fancy can +create for him is the tempting suggestion of a certain +boiled sausage which his soul loveth.</p> + +<p>He has joined the expedition with half-defined +ideas upon the subject of a new company of dealers +in skins, to be established beyond the precincts of +Hudson’s Bay; and not a little influenced by a +genuine love of exploration, and a lurking notion +that he has in him the stuff that makes a Van +Diemen.</p> + +<p>From first to last it is, and has been, essentially +an amateur expedition. No contribution from the +government of any nation has aided these wanderers. +They have come, as Geoffrey Hossack forcibly expresses<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> +the fact, ‘on their own hook.’ Geoffrey +suggests that they should found a city, by and by, +after the manner of classical adventurers: whence +should arise in remote future ages some new Empire +of the West.</p> + +<p>‘Hossack’s Gate would be rather a good name for +it,’ he says, between two puffs of his meerschaum; +‘and our descendants would doubtless be known as +the Hossackides, and the Davorenides, and do their +very best to annihilate one another, you know, +Lucius.’</p> + +<p>‘We Chermans have giv more names to blaizes +than you Englishers,’ chimes in Mr. Schanck with +dignity. ‘It is our dalend to disgover.’</p> + +<p>‘I wish you’d disgover something to eat, then, +my friend Absalom,’ replies the Oxonian irreverently; +‘that mouthful of pemmican Lucius doled out to us +just now has only served as a whet for my appetite. +Like the half-dozen Ostend oysters they give one as +the overture to a French dinner.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah, they are goot the oysders of Osdend,’ says +Mr. Schanck with a sigh, ‘and zo are ze muzzles of +Blankenberk. I dreamt ze ozer night I vas in heafen +eading muzzles sdewed in <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">vin de madère</i>.’</p> + +<p>‘Don’t,’ cries Geoffrey emphatically; ‘if we begin +to talk about eating, we shall go mad, or eat each<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> +other. How nice you would be, Schanck, stuffed +with chestnuts, and roasted, like a Norfolk turkey +dressed French fashion! It’s rather a pity that one’s +friends are reported to be indigestible; but I believe +that’s merely a fable, designed as a deterring influence. +The Maories cannibalised from the beginning +of time; fed in and in, as well as bred in and +in. One nice old man, a chieftain of Rakiraki, kept +a register of his own consumption of prisoners, by +means of a row of stones, which, when reckoned up +after the old gentleman’s demise, amounted to eight +hundred and seventy-two: and yet these Maories +were a healthy race enough when civilisation looked +them up.’</p> + +<p>Lucius Davoren takes no heed of this frivolous +talk. He is lying on the floor of the log-hut, with a +large chart spread under him, studying it intensely, +and sticking pins here and there as he pores over it. +He has ideas of his own, fixed and definite, which +neither of his companions shares in the smallest degree. +Hossack has come to these wild regions with +an Englishman’s unalloyed love of adventure, as well +as for a quiet escape from the trusting relatives who +would have urged him to go up for Divinity. Schanck +has been beguiled hither by the fond expectation of +finding himself in a paradise of tame polar bears and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> +silver foxes, who would lie down at his feet, and +mutely beseech him to convert them into carriage-rugs. +They are waiting for the return of their guide, +an Indian, who has gone to hunt for the lost trail, +and to make his way back to a far distant fort in +quest of provisions. If he should find the journey +impossible, or fall dead upon the way, their last hope +must perish with the failure of his mission, their +one only chance of succour must die with his +death.</p> + +<p>Very shrunken are the stores which Lucius Davoren +guards with jealous care. He doles out each +man’s meagre portion day by day with a Spartan +severity, and a measurement so just that even hunger +cannot dispute his administration; the tobacco, that +sweet solacer of weary hours, begins to shrink in the +barrel, and Geoffrey Hossack’s lips linger lovingly +over the final puffs of his short black-muzzled meerschaum, +with a doleful looking forward to the broad +abyss of empty hours which must be bridged over +before he refills the bowl. Unless the guide returns +with supplies there is hardly any hope that these +reckless adventurers will ever reach the broad blue +waters of the Pacific, and accomplish the end of that +adventurous scheme which brought them to these +barren regions. Unless help comes to them in this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span> +way, or in some fortuitous fashion, they are doomed +to perish. They have considered this fact among +themselves many times, sitting huddled together +under the low roof of their log-hut, by the feeble +glimmer of their lantern.</p> + +<p>Of the three wanderers Absalom Schanck is the +only experienced traveller. He is a naturalised +Englishman, and a captain in the merchant navy; +having traded prosperously for some years as the +owner of a ship—a sea-carrier in a small way—he +had sold his vessel, and built himself a water-side +villa at Battersea, half Hamburgian, half nautical +in design; a cross between a house in Hamburg and +half-a-dozen ships’ cabins packed neatly together; +everything planned with as strict an economy of +space as if the dainty little habitation were destined +to put to sea as soon as she was finished. As many +shelves and drawers and hatches in the kitchen as in +a steward’s cabin; stairs winding up the heart of the +house, like a companion-ladder; a flat roof, from +which Mr. Schanck can see the sunset beyond the +westward-lying swamps of Fulham, and which he +fondly calls the admiral’s poop.</p> + +<p>But even this comfortable habitation has palled +upon the mind of the professional rover. Dull are +those suburban flats to the eye that for twenty years<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> +has ranged over the vast and various ocean. Absalom +has found the consolation of pipe and case-bottle +inadequate; and with speculative ideas of the vaguest +nature, has joined Geoffrey Hossack’s expedition to +the Far West.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.<br> +<span class="fs70">‘MUSIC HATH CHARMS.’</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Ten</span> days go by, empty days of which only Lucius +Davoren keeps a record, in a journal which may +serve by and by for a history of the ill-fated expedition; +which may be found perchance by some +luckier sportsmen in years to come, when the ink +upon the paper has gone gray and pale, and when +the date of each entry has an ancient look, and belongs +to a bygone century; nay, when the very +fashion of the phrases is obsolete.</p> + +<p>Lucius takes note of everything, every cloud in +the sky, every red gleam of the aurora, with its +ghostly rustling sound, as of phantom trees shaken +by the north wind. He finds matter for observation +where to the other two there seems only an endless +blank, a universe that is emptied of everything except +the unvarying pine-trees rising dark against a +background of everlasting snow.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span></p> + +<p>Geoffrey Hossack practises hammer-throwing +with an iron crowbar, patches the worn-out sleighs, +makes little expeditions on his own account, and discovers +nothing, except that he has a non-geographical +mind, and that, instead of the trapper’s unerring instinct, +which enables him to travel always in a straight +line, he has an unpleasant tendency to describe a circle; +prowls about with his gun, and the scanty supply +of ammunition which Davoren allows him; makes +traps for silver foxes, and has the mortification of +seeing his bait devoured by a wolverine, who bears a +life as charmed as that Macbeth was promised; and +sometimes, but alas too seldom, kills something—a +moose, and once a buffalo. O, then what a hunter’s +feast they have in the thick northern darkness! +what a wild orgie seems that rare supper! Their +souls expand over the fresh meat; they feel mighty +as northern gods, Odin and Thor. Hope rekindles +in every breast; the moody silence which has well-nigh +grown habitual to them in the gloom of these +hungry hopeless days, melts into wild torrents of +talk. They are moved with a kind of rapture engendered +of this roast flesh, and recognise the truth of +Barry Cornwall’s dictum, that a poet should be a +high feeder.</p> + +<p>The grip of the frost-fiend tightens upon them;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> +the brief days flit by ghostlike, only the long nights +linger. They sit in their log-hut in a dreary silence, +each man seated on the ground, with his knees drawn +up to his chin, and his back against the wall. Were +they already dead, and this their sepulchre, they +could wear no ghastlier aspect.</p> + +<p>They are silent from no sullen humour. Discord +has never risen among them. What have they to +talk about? Swift impending death, the sharp stings +of hunger, the bitterness of an empty tobacco-barrel. +Their dumbness is the dumbness of stoics who can +suffer and make no moan.</p> + +<p>They have not yet come to absolute starvation; +there is a little pemmican still, enough to sustain +their attenuated thread of life for a few more days. +When that is gone, they can see before them nothing +but death. The remains of their buffalo has +been eaten by the wolves, carefully as they hid it +under the snow. The region to which they have +pushed their way seems empty of human life—a +hyperborean chaos ruled by Death. What hardy +wanderer, half-breed or Indian, would venture hither +at such a season?</p> + +<p>They are sitting thus, mute and statue-like, in +the brief interval which they call daylight, when +something happens which sets every heart beating<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> +with a sudden violence—something so unexpected, +that they wait breathless, transfixed by surprise. A +voice, a human voice, breaks the dead silence; a wild +face, with bright fierce eyes peers in at the entrance +of the hut, from which a bony hand has dragged +aside the tarpaulin that serves for a screen against +the keen northern winds, which creep in round the +angle of the rough wooden porch.</p> + +<p>The face belongs to neither Indian nor half-breed; +it is as white as their own. By the faint +light that glimmers through the parchment windows +they see it scrutinising them interrogatively, with a +piercing scrutiny.</p> + +<p>‘Explorers?’ asks the stranger, ‘and Englishmen?’</p> + +<p>Yes, they tell him, they are English explorers. +Absalom Schanck of course counts as an Englishman.</p> + +<p>‘Are you sent out by the English government?’</p> + +<p>‘No, we came on our own hook,’ replies Geoffrey +Hossack, who is the first to recover from the surprise +of the man’s appearance, and from a certain +half-supernatural awe engendered by his aspect, +which has a wild ghastliness, as of a wanderer +from the under world. ‘But never mind how we +came here; what we want is to get away. Don’t +stand there jawing about our business, but come<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> +inside, and drop that tarpaulin behind you. Where +have you left your party?’</p> + +<p>‘Nowhere,’ answers the stranger, stepping into +the hut, and standing in the midst of them, tall +and gaunt, clad in garments that are half Esquimaux, +half Indian, and in the last stage of dilapidation, +torn mooseskin shoes upon his feet, the livid +flesh showing between every rent; ‘nowhere. I belong +to no party—I’m alone.’</p> + +<p>‘Alone!’ they all exclaim, with a bitter pang +of disappointment. They had been ready to welcome +this wild creature as the forerunner of succour.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I was up some thousand miles northward +of this, among icebergs and polar bears and +Dog-rib Indians and Esquimaux, with a party of +Yankees the summer before last; and served them +well, too, for I know some of the Indian lingo, and +was able to act as their interpreter. But the expedition +was a failure. Unsuccessful men are hard +to deal with. In short, we quarrelled, and parted +company; they went their way, I went mine. There’s +no occasion to enter into details. It was winter when +I left them—the stores were exhausted, with the exception +of a little ammunition. They had their guns, +and may have found reindeer or musk oxen, but I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> +don’t fancy they can have come to much good. They +didn’t know the country as well as I do.’</p> + +<p>‘You have been alone nearly a year?’ asks Lucius +Davoren, interested in this wild-looking stranger. +‘How have you lived during that time?’</p> + +<p>‘Anyhow,’ answers the other with a careless +shrug of his bony shoulders. ‘Sometimes with the +Indians, sometimes with the Esquimaux—they’re +civil enough to a solitary Englishman, though they +hate the Indians like poison—sometimes by myself. +As long as I’ve a charge for my gun I don’t much +fear starvation, though I’ve found myself face to face +with it a good many times since I parted with my +Yankee friends.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you know this part of the country?’</p> + +<p>‘No; it’s beyond my chart. I shouldn’t be here +now if I hadn’t lost my way. But I suppose, now I +am here, you’ll give me shelter.’</p> + +<p>The three men looked at one another. Hospitality +is a noble virtue, and a virtue peculiarly appropriate +to the dwellers in remote and savage +regions; but hospitality with these men meant a +division of their few remaining days of life. And +the last of those days might hold the chance of +rescue. Who could tell? To share their shrunken +stores with this stranger would be a kind of suicide.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> +Yet the dictates of humanity prevailed. The stranger +was not pleasant to look upon, nor especially conciliating +in manner; but he was a fellow sufferer, +and he must he sheltered.</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ says Lucius Davoren, ‘you are welcome +to share what we have. It’s not much. A few +days’ rations.’</p> + +<p>The stranger takes a canvas bag from his neck, +and flings it into a corner of the hut.</p> + +<p>‘There’s more than a week’s food in that,’ he +says; ‘dried reindeer, rather mouldy, but I don’t +suppose you’re very particular.’</p> + +<p>‘Particular!’ cried Geoffrey Hossack, with a +groan. ‘When I think of the dinners I have +turned up my nose at, the saddles of mutton I +have despised because life seemed always saddle of +mutton, I blush for the iniquity of civilised man. +I remember a bottle of French plums and a canister +of Presburg biscuits that I left in a chiffonier at +Balliol. Of course my scout consumed them. O, +would I had those toothsome cates to-day!’</p> + +<p>‘Balliol!’ says the stranger, looking at him curiously. +‘So you’re a Balliol man, are you?’</p> + +<p>There was something strange in the sound of +this question from an unkempt savage, with half-bare +feet, in ragged mooseskin shoes. The newcomer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> +pushed aside the elf-locks that overhung his +forehead, and stared at Geoffrey Hossack as he waited +for the answer to his inquiry.</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ replied Geoffrey with his usual coolness, +‘I have had the honour to be gated occasionally by +the dons of that college. Are you an Oxford man?’</p> + +<p>‘Do I look like it?’ asks the other, with a harsh +laugh. ‘I am nothing; I come from nowhere: I +have no history, no kith or kin. I fancy I know +this kind of life better than you do, and I know +how to talk to the natives, which I conclude you +don’t. If we can hold on till this infernal season +is over, and the trappers come this way, I’ll be your +interpreter, your servant, anything you like.’</p> + +<p>‘If!’ said Lucius gravely. ‘I don’t think we +shall ever see the end of this winter. But you can +stay with us, if you please. At the worst, we can +die together.’</p> + +<p>The stranger gives a shivering sigh, and drops +into an angular heap in a corner of the hut.</p> + +<p>‘It isn’t a lively prospect,’ he says. ‘Death is +a gentleman I mean to keep at arm’s length as long +as I can. I’ve had to face him often enough, but +I’ve got the best of it so far. Have you used all +your tobacco?’</p> + +<p>‘Every shred,’ says Geoffrey Hossack dolefully.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> +‘I smoked my last pipe and bade farewell to the +joys of existence three days ago.’</p> + +<p>‘Smoke another, then,’ replies the stranger, +taking a leather pouch from his bosom, ‘and renew +your acquaintance with pleasure.’</p> + +<p>‘Bless you!’ exclaims Geoffrey, clutching the +prize. ‘Welcome to our tents! I would welcome +Beelzebub if he brought me a pipe of tobacco. But +if one fills, all fill—that’s understood. We are brothers +in misfortune, and must share alike.’</p> + +<p>‘Fill, and be quick about it,’ says the stranger. +So the three fill their pipes, light them, and their +souls float into Elysium on the wings of the seraph +tobacco.</p> + +<p>The stranger also fills and lights and smokes +silently, but not with a paradisiac air, rather with +the gloomy aspect of some fallen spirit, to whose +lost soul sensuous joys bring no contentment. His +large dark eyes—seeming unnaturally large in his +haggard face—wander slowly round the walls of the +hut, mark the bunks filled with dried prairie grass, +and each provided with a buffalo robe. Indications +of luxury these. Actual starvation would have reduced +the wanderers to boiling down strips of their +buffalo skins into an unsavoury soup. Slowly those +great wan eyes travel round the hut. Listlessly, yet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> +marking every detail—the hunting knives and fishing +tackle hanging against the wall, Geoffrey’s handsome +collection of rifles, which have been the admiration +of every Indian who has ever beheld +them. The stranger’s gaze lingers upon these, and +an envious look glimmers in his eyes. Signs of +wealth these. He glances at the three companions, +and wonders which is the man who finds the money +for the expedition, and owns these guns. There +could hardly be three rich fools mad enough to +waste life and wealth on such wanderings. He concludes +that one is the dupe, the other two adventurers, +trading, or hoping to trade, upon his folly. +His keen eye lights on Hossack, the man who talked +about Balliol. Yes, he has a prosperous stall-fed +look. The other, Lucius, has too much intelligence. +The little German is too old to spend his substance +upon so wild a scheme.</p> + +<p>Those observant eyes of the stranger’s have +nearly completed their circuit, when they suddenly +fix themselves, seem visibly to dilate, and kindle +with a fire that gives a new look to his face. He +sees an object hanging against the wall, to him as +far above all the wonders of modern gunnery as the +diamonds of Golconda are above splinters of glass.</p> + +<p>He points to it with his bony finger, and utters<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> +a strange shrill cry of rapture—the ejaculation of a +creature who by long solitude, by hardship and privation, +and the wild life of forests and deserts, has +lapsed into an almost savage condition.</p> + +<p>‘A fiddle!’ he exclaims, after that shrill scream +of delight has melted into a low chuckling laugh. +‘It’s more than a year since I’ve seen a fiddle, since +I lost mine crossing the McKenzie river. Let me +play upon it.’</p> + +<p>This in a softer, more human tone than any +words he had previously spoken, looking from one +to the other of the three men with passionate entreaty.</p> + +<p>‘What! you play the fiddle, do you?’ asked Lucius, +emptying the ashes from his pipe with a long +sigh of regret.</p> + +<p>‘It is yours, then?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes; you can play upon it, if you like. It’s a +genuine Amati. I have kept it like the apple of my +eye.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, and it’s been uncommonly useful in frightening +away the Indians when they’ve come to torment +us for fire-water,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We tried +watering the rum, but that didn’t answer. The +beggars poured a few drops on the fire, and finding +it didn’t blaze up, came back and blackguarded us.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> +I only wish I’d brought a few barrels of turpentine +for their benefit. Petroleum would have been still +better. <em>That</em> would meet their ideas of excellence +in spirituous liquors. They like something that +scorches their internal economy. They led us a +nice life as long as we had any rum; but the violin +was too much for them. They’re uncommonly fond +of their own music, and would sometimes oblige us +with a song which lasted all night, but they couldn’t +stand Davoren’s sonatas. Tune up, stranger. I’m +rather tired of De Beriot and Spohr and Haydn myself. +Perhaps you could oblige us with a nigger +melody.’</p> + +<p>The stranger waited for no farther invitation, but +strode across the narrow hut, and took the violin +case from the shelf where it had been carefully bestowed. +He laid it on the rough pine-wood table, +opened it, and gazed fondly on the Amati reposing +in its bed of pale-blue velvet; the very case, or outer +husk, a work of art.</p> + +<p>Lucius watched him as the young mother watches +her first baby in the ruthless hands of a stranger. +Would he clutch the fiddle by its neck, drag it +roughly from its case, at the hazard of dislocation? +The surgeon was too much an Englishman to show +his alarm, but sat stolid and in agony. No; the unkempt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> +stranger’s bony claws spread themselves out +gently, and embraced the polished table of the fiddle. +He lifted it as the young mother lifts her darling +from his dainty cradle; he put it to his shoulder and +lowered his chin upon it, as if in a loving caress. +His long fingers stretched themselves about the neck; +he drew the bow slowly across the strings. O, what +rapture even in those experimental notes!</p> + +<p>Geoffrey flung a fresh pine-log upon the fire, as if +in honour of the coming performance. Absalom sat +and dozed, dreaming he was in his cuddy at Battersea, +supping upon his beloved sausage. Lucius +watched the stranger, with a gaze full of curiosity. +He was passionately fond of music, and his violin +had been his chief solace in hours of darkest apprehension. +Strange to find in this other wanderer +mute evidence of the same passion. The man’s +hand as it hugged the fiddle, the man’s face as it +bent over the strings, were the index of a passion as +deep as, or deeper than, his own. He waited eagerly +for the man to play.</p> + +<p>Presently there arose in that low hut a long-drawn +wailing sound; a minor chord, that seemed like a +passionate sob of complaint wrung from a heart newly +broken; and with this for his sole prelude the stranger +began his theme. What he played, Lucius strove in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> +vain to discover. His memory could recall no such +music: Wilder, stranger, more passionate, more +solemn, more awful than the strain which Orpheus +played in the under world, was that music: more +demoniac than that diabolical sonata which Tartini +pretended to have composed in a dream. It seemed +extemporaneous, for it obeyed none of the laws of +harmony, yet even in its discords was scarcely inharmonious. +There was melody, too, through all—a +plaintive under-current of melody, which never +utterly lost itself, even when the player allowed his +fancy its wildest flights. The passionate rapture of +his haggard, weather-beaten face was reflected in the +passionate rapture of his music; but it was not the +rapture of joy; rather the sharp agony of those convulsions +of the soul which touch the border-line of +madness; like the passion of a worshipper at one of +those Dionysian festivals in which religious fervour +might end in self-slaughter; or like the ‘possession’ +of some Indian devil-dancer, leaping and wounding +himself under the influence of his demon god.</p> + +<p>The three men sat and listened, curiously affected +by that strange sonata. Even Absalom Schanck, to +whom music was about as familiar a language as the +Cuneiform character, felt that this was something +out of the common way; that it was grander, if not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> +more beautiful, than those graceful compositions of +De Beriot or Rode wherewith Lucius Davoren had +been wont to amuse his friends in their desolate +solitude.</p> + +<p>Upon Lucius the music had a curious effect. At +first and for some time he listened with no feeling +but the connoisseur’s unmixed delight. Of envy his +mind was incapable, though music is perhaps the +most jealous of the arts, and though he felt this man +was infinitely his superior—could bring tones out of +the heart of that Amati which no power of his could +draw from his beloved instrument.</p> + +<p>But as the man played on, new emotions showed +themselves upon Lucius Davoren’s countenance—wonder, +perplexity; then a sudden lighting up of +passion. His brows contracted; he watched the +stranger with gleaming eyes, breathlessly, waiting +for the end of the composition. With the final chord +he started up from his seat and confronted the +man.</p> + +<p>‘Were you ever in Hampshire?’ he asked, sharply +and shortly.</p> + +<p>The stranger started ever so slightly at this abrupt +interrogatory, but showed no farther sign of discomposure, +and laid the fiddle in its case as tenderly as +he had taken it thence ten minutes before.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span></p> + +<p>‘Hampshire, Massachusetts?’ he inquired. ‘Yes, +many a time.’</p> + +<p>‘Hampshire in England. Were you in that county +in the year ’59?’ asked Lucius breathlessly, watching +the stranger as he spoke.</p> + +<p>‘I was never in England in my life.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah,’ said Lucius with a long-drawn sigh, which +might indicate either disappointment or relief, ‘then +you’re not the man I was half inclined to take you +for. Yet that,’ dropping into soliloquy, ‘was a +foolish fancy. There may be more than one man in +the world who plays like a devil.’</p> + +<p>‘You are not particularly complimentary,’ returned +the stranger, touching the violin strings lightly with +the tips of his skeleton fingers, repeating the dismal +burden of his melody in those pizzacato notes.</p> + +<p>‘You don’t consider it a compliment. Rely upon +it, if Lucifer played the fiddle at all, he’d play well. +The spirit who said, “Evil, be thou my good,” would +hardly do anything by halves. Do you remember +what Corelli said to Strengk when he first heard him +play? “I have been called Arcangelo, but by heavens, +sir, you must be Arcidiavolo.” I would give a +great deal to have your power over that instrument. +Was that your own composition you played just now?’</p> + +<p>‘I believe so, or a reminiscence; but if the latter,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> +I can’t tell you its source. I left off playing by book +a long time ago; but I have a reserve fund of acquired +music—chiefly German—and I have no doubt I draw +upon it occasionally.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ repeated Lucius thoughtfully, ‘I should +like to play as you do, only—’</p> + +<p>‘Only what?’ asked the stranger.</p> + +<p>‘I should be inclined to fancy there was something +uncomfortable—uncanny, as the Scotch say—lurking +in the deep waters of my mind, if my fancies took +the shape yours did just now.’</p> + +<p>‘As for me,’ exclaimed Geoffrey, with agreeable +candour, ‘without wishing either to flatter or upbraid, +I can only say that I feel as if I had been listening +to a distinguished member of the royal orchestra in +Pandemonium—the Paganini of Orcus.’</p> + +<p>The stranger laughed—a somewhat harsh and +grating cachinnation.</p> + +<p>‘You don’t like minors?’ he said.</p> + +<p>‘I was a minor myself for a long time, and I only +object to the species on the score of impecuniosity,’ +replied Geoffrey. ‘O, I beg your pardon; you mean +the key. If that composition of yours was minor, I +certainly lean to the major. Could you not oblige us +with a Christy-minstrel melody to take the taste out +of our mouths?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span></p> + +<p>The stranger deigned no answer to that request, +but sat down on the rough log which served Lucius +for a seat, and made a kind of settle by the ample +fireplace. With lean arms folded and gaze bent upon +the fire, he lapsed into thoughtful silence. The blaze +of the pine-logs, now showing vivid tinges of green +or blue as the resin bubbled from their tough hide, +lit up the faces, and gave something of grotesque to +each. Seen by this medium, the stranger’s face was +hardly a pleasant object for contemplation, and was +yet singular enough to arrest the gaze of him who +looked upon it.</p> + +<p>Heaven knows if, with all the aids of civilisation, +soap and water, close-cut hair, and carefully-trimmed +moustache, the man might not have been ranked +handsome. Seen in this dusky hovel, by the changeful +light of the pine-logs, that face was grotesque and +grim as a study by Gustave Doré; the lines as sharply +accentuated, the lights and shadows as vividly contrasted.</p> + +<p>The stranger’s eyes were of darkest hue; as nearly +black as the human eye, or any other eye, ever is: +that intensest brown which, when in shadow, looks +black, and when the light shines upon it seems to +emit a tawny fire, like the ray which flashes from a +fine cat’s-eye. His forehead was curiously low, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> +hair growing in a peak between the temples. His +nose was long, and a pronounced aquiline. His +cheek-bones were rendered prominent by famine. +The rest of his face was almost hidden by the thick +ragged beard of densest black, through which his +white teeth flashed with a hungry look when he +talked or smiled. His smile was not a pleasant +one.</p> + +<p>‘If one could imagine his Satanic majesty taking +another promenade, like that walk made famous +by Porson, and penetrating to these hyperborean +shores—and why not, when contrast is ever pleasing?—I +should expect to behold him precisely in +yonder guise,’ mused Geoffrey, as he contemplated +their uninvited guest from the opposite side of the +hearth. ‘But the age has grown matter-of-fact; we +no longer believe in the pleasing illusions of our +childhood—hobgoblins, Jack and the Beanstalk, and +old Nick. Gunpowder and the printing press, as +somebody observes, have driven away Robin Goodfellow +and the fairies.’</p> + +<p>Lucius sat meditative, staring into the fire. That +wild minor theme had moved him profoundly, yet it +was not so much of the music that he thought as of +the man. Five years ago he had heard the description +of music—which seemed to him to correspond<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> +exactly with this—of an amateur whose playing had +the same unearthly, or even diabolical excellence. +Certainly that man had been a pianist. And then it +was too wild a fancy to conceive for a moment that +he had encountered that man, whom he had hunted +for all over England, and even out of England, here +in this primeval forest. Destiny in her maddest +sport could hardly have devised such a hazard. No, +the thought was absurd; no doubt an evidence of a +brain enfeebled by anxiety and famine. Yet the fancy +disturbed him not the less.</p> + +<p>‘Unless Geoff stalks another buffalo before long, +I shall go off my head,’ he said to himself.</p> + +<p>He brooded upon the stranger’s assertion that he +was a Southern American, and had never crossed the +Atlantic; an assertion at variance with the fact of his +accent, which was purely English. Yet Lucius had +known American citizens whose English was as pure, +and he could scarcely condemn the man as a liar on +such ground as this.</p> + +<p>‘The description of that man’s appearance might +fit this man,’ he thought; ‘due allowance being +made for the circumstances under which we see him. +Tall and dark, with a thin lissom figure, a hooked +nose, a hawk’s eye; that was the description they +gave me at Wykhamston; I had it from three<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> +separate people. There is no palpable discrepancy, +and yet—bah, I am a fool to think of it! Haven’t I +had trouble of mind enough upon this score, and +would it do any good to her—in her grave, perhaps—if +I had my wish: if God gave me the means of keeping +the promise I made five years ago, when I was +little more than a boy?’</p> + +<p>Lucius’s thoughts rambled on while the stranger +sat beside him, with brooding eyes fixed, like his, +upon the flare of the pine-logs.</p> + +<p>‘By the way,’ said Lucius presently, rousing +himself from that long reverie, ‘when my friend +yonder spoke of Balliol, you pricked up your ears as +if the name were familiar to you. That’s odd, since +you have never been in England.’</p> + +<p>‘I suppose there is nothing especially odd in my +having had an English acquaintance in my prosperous +days, when even Englishmen were not ashamed to +know me. One may be familiar with the name of a +college without having seen the college itself. I had +a friend who was a student at Balliol.’</p> + +<p>‘I wonder whether he was the man who wrote +“<em>Aratus sum!</em>” upon one of the tables in the examiners’ +room after they ploughed him,’ speculated +Geoffrey idly.</p> + +<p>‘I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Stranger,’ said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> +Lucius presently, struggling with the sense of irritation +caused by that wild fancy which the stranger’s +playing had inspired, ‘it’s all very well for us to +give you a corner in our hut. As good or evil fortune +brought you this way, we could hardly be so +unchristian as to refuse you our shelter; God knows +it’s poor enough, and death is near enough inside as +well as outside these wooden walls; but even Christianity +doesn’t oblige us to harbour a man without a +name. That traveller who fell among thieves told +the Samaritan his name, rely upon it, as soon as he +was able to say anything. No honest man withholds +his name from the men he breaks bread with. Even +the Indians tell us their names; so be good enough +to give us yours.’</p> + +<p>‘I renounced my own name when I turned my +back upon civilisation,’ answered the stranger doggedly; +‘I brought no card-case to this side of the +Rocky Mountains. If you give me your hospitality,’ +with a monosyllabic laugh and a scornful glance +round the hut, ‘solely on condition that I acquaint +you with my antecedents, I renounce your hospitality. +I can go back to the forest and liberty. As you say, +death could not be much farther off out yonder in +the snow. If you only want my name for the purposes +of social intercourse, you can call me what the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> +Indians call me, a sobriquet of their own invention, +“Matchi Mohkamarn.”’</p> + +<p>‘That means the Evil Knife, I believe,’ said +Lucius; ‘hardly the fittest name to inspire confidence +in the minds of a man’s acquaintance. But +I suppose it must do, since you withhold your real +name.’</p> + +<p>‘I am sure you are welcome to our pasteboards,’ +said Geoffrey, yawning; ‘I have a few yonder in my +dressing-bag—rather a superfluous encumbrance by +the way, since here one neither dresses nor shaves. +But I have occasionally propitiated ravening Indians +with the gift of a silver-topped scent-bottle or pomatum-pot, +so the bag <em>has</em> been useful. Dear, dear, +how nice it would be to find oneself back in a world +in which there are dressing-bags and dressing-bells, +and dinner-bells afterwards! And yet one fancied it +so slow, the world of civilisation. Lucius, is it not +time for our evening pemmican? Think of the macaroons +and rout-cakes we have trampled under our +heels in the bear-fights that used to wind up our +wine-parties; to think of the anchovy toasts and +various devils we have eaten—half from sheer gluttony, +half because it was good form—when we were +gorged like Strasburg geese awaiting their euthanasia. +Think how we have rioted, and wasted and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> +wallowed in what are called the pleasures of the +table; and behold us now, hungering for a lump of +rancid fat or a tallow-candle, to supply our exhausted +systems with heat-giving particles!’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.<br> +<span class="fs70">HOW THEY LOST THE TRAIL.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">The</span> slow days pass, but the guide does not return. +Geoffrey’s sporting explorations have resulted +only in a rare bird, hardly a mouthful for one of the +four starving men, though they divide the appetising +morsel with rigid justice, Lucius dissecting it with +his clasp-knife almost as carefully as if it were a +subject.</p> + +<p>‘To think that I should live to dine on a section +of wood-partridge without any bread-sauce!’ exclaimed +Geoffrey dolefully. ‘Do you know, when I put the +small beast in my bag I was sorely tempted to eat +him, feathers and all! Indeed, I think we make a +mistake in plucking our game. The feathers would +at least be filling. It is the sense of a vacuum from +which one suffers most severely; after all it can’t +matter much what a man puts inside him, so long as +he fills the cavity. Do you remember that experimental +Frenchman who suggested that a hungry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> +peasantry should eat grass? The suggestion was +hardly popular, and the mob stuffed the poor wretch’s +mouth with a handful of his favourite pabulum, when +they hung him to a convenient lamp-post in ’93. +But I really think the notion was sensible. If there +were a rood of pasture uncovered by the perpetual +snow I should imitate Nebuchadnezzar, and go to +grass!’</p> + +<p>Vain lamentations! Vainer still those long arguments +by the pine-log fire, in which, with map and +compass, they travel over again the journey which +has been so disastrous—try back, and find where it +was they lost time—how they let slip a day here, +half a week there, until the expedition, which should +have ended with last September, occupied a period +they had never dreamed of, and left them in the +bleak bitter winter: their trail lost, alone in a trackless +forest, the snow rising higher around them day +by day, until even the steep bank upon which they +have built their log-hut stands but a few feet above +the universal level.</p> + +<p>From first to last the journey has been attended +by misfortune as well as mistake. They had set +forth on this perilous enterprise fondly hoping they +could combine pleasure for themselves, with profit +to their fellow-creatures, and by this wild adventure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> +open up a track for future emigrants—a high road in +the days to come from the shores of the Atlantic to +the Pacific—a path by which adventurers from the +old world should travel across the Rocky Mountains +to the gold-fields of the new world. They had started +with high hopes—or Lucius had at least cherished +this dream above all thought of personal enjoyment—hopes +of being reckoned among the golden band of +adventurers whose daring has enlarged man’s dominion +over that wide world God gave him for his +heritage—hopes of seeing their names recorded on +that grand muster-roll which begins with Hercules, +and ends with Livingstone. They had started from +Fort Edmonton with three horses, two guides, and a +fair outfit; but they had left that point too late in +the year, as the guardians of the fort warned them. +They were entreated to postpone their attempt till +the following summer, but they had already spent +one winter in camp between Carlton and Edmonton, +and the two young men were resolutely set against +farther delay. Absalom Schanck, much more phlegmatic, +would have willingly wintered at the fort, +where there was good entertainment, and where he +could have smoked his pipe and looked out of window +at the pine-tops and the snow from one week’s end +to another, resigned to circumstances, and patiently<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> +awaiting remittances from England. But to Lucius +Davoren and Geoffrey Hossack the idea of such loss +of time was unendurable. They had both seen as +much as they cared to see of the trapper’s life during +the past winter. Both were eager to push on to +fresh woods and pastures new, Geoffrey moved by +the predatory instincts of the sportsman, Lucius +fevered by the less selfish and more ambitious desire +to discover that grand highway which he had dreamed +of, between the two great oceans. The star which +guided his pilgrimage was the lodestar of the discoverer. +No idle fancy, no caprice of the moment, +could have tempted him aside from the settled purpose +of his journey. But a mountain-sheep—the +bighorn—or a wild goat, seen high up on some crag +against the clear cold sky, was magnet enough to +draw Geoffrey twenty miles out of his course.</p> + +<p>Of the two guides, one deserted before they had +crossed the range, making off quietly with one of +their horses—the best, by the way—and leaving +them, after a long day and night of wonderment, to +the melancholy conviction that they had been cheated. +They retraced their way for one day’s journey, sent +their other guide, an Indian, back some distance in +search of the deserter, but with no result. This cost +them between three and four days. The man had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> +doubtless gone quietly back to Edmonton. To follow +him farther would be altogether to abandon their +expedition for this year. The days they had already +lost were precious as rubies.</p> + +<p>‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">En avant!</i>’ exclaimed Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘Excelsior!’ cried Lucius.</p> + +<p>The German was quiescent. ‘I zink you leat +me to my deaths,’ he said; ‘but man must die one +time. Gismet, as the Durks say. They are wise +beobles, ze Durks.’</p> + +<p>The Indian promised to remain faithful, ay, even +to death; of which fatal issue these savages think +somewhat lightly; life for them mostly signifying +hardship and privation, brightened only by rare libations +of rum. He was promoted from a secondary +position to the front rank, and was now their sole +guide. With their cavalcade thus shrunken they +pushed bravely on, crossed the mountains by the +Yellow Head Pass, looked down from among snow-clad +pinnacles upon the Athabasca river, rushing +madly between its steep banks, and reached Jasper +House, a station of the Hudson’s Bay Company, +which they found void of all human life, a mere shell +or empty simulacrum; in the distance a cheering +object to look upon, promising welcome and shelter; +and giving neither.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span></p> + +<p>For Hossack, that mighty mountain range, those +snow-clad peaks, towering skyward, had an irresistible +attraction. He had done a good deal of Alpine +climbing in his long vacations, had scaled peaks +which few have ever succeeded in surmounting, and +had made his name a household word among the +Swiss guides, but such a range as this was new to +him. Here there was a larger splendour, an infinite +beauty. The world which he had looked down upon +from Mont Blanc—lakes, valleys, and villages +dwarfed by the distance—was a mere tea-board landscape, +a toy-shop panorama, compared with this. +He drew in his breath and gazed in a dumb rapture,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Or like stout Cortez, when, with eagle eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">He stared at the Pacific.’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Here, again, they lost considerable time; for +even Davoren’s stronger mind was beguiled by the +glory of that splendid scene. He consented to a +week’s halt on the margin of the Athabasca, climbed +the mountain-steeps with his friend, chased the bighorn +with footstep light and daring as the chamois-hunter’s; +and found himself sometimes, after the +keen pleasures of the hunt, with his moccasins in +rags, and his naked feet cut and bleeding, a fact of +which he had been supremely unconscious so long as +the chase lasted. Sometimes, after descending to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> +the lower earth, laden with their quarry, the hunters +looked upward and saw the precipices they had trodden, +the narrow cornice of rock along which they +had run in pursuit of their prey—saw, and shuddered. +Had they been really within a hair’s-breadth +of death?</p> + +<p>These were the brightest days of their journey. +Their stores were yet ample, and seemed inexhaustible. +They feasted on fresh meat nightly; yet, with +a laudable prudence, smoked and dried some portion +of their prey. In the indulgence of their sporting +propensities they squandered a good deal of ammunition. +They smoked half-a-dozen pipes of tobacco +daily. In a word, they enjoyed the present, with a +culpable shortsightedness as to the future.</p> + +<p>This delay turned the balance against them. +While they loitered, autumn stole on with footstep +almost impalpable, in that region of evergreen.</p> + +<p>The first sharp frost of early October awakened +Lucius to a sense of their folly. He gave the word +for the march forward, refusing to listen to Geoffrey’s +entreaty for one day more—one more wild hunt +among those mighty crags between earth and sky.</p> + +<p>The sea-captain and Kekek-ooarsis, their Indian +guide, had been meritoriously employed during this +delay in constructing a raft for the passage of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> +Athabasca, at this point a wide lake whose peaceful +waters spread themselves amid an amphitheatre of +mountains.</p> + +<p>While they were getting ready for the passage of +the river they were surprised by a party of half-breeds—friendly, +but starving. Anxious as they +were to husband their resources, humanity compelled +them to furnish these hapless wanderers with +a meal. In return for this hospitality, the natives +gave them some good advice, urging them on no +account to trust themselves to the current of the +river—a mode of transit which seemed easy and +tempting—as it abounded in dangerous rapids. They +afforded farther information as to the trail on ahead, +and these sons of the old and new world parted, well +pleased with one another.</p> + +<p>Soon after this began their time of trial and hardship. +They had to cross the river many times in +their journey—sometimes on rafts, sometimes fording +the stream—and often in imminent peril of an +abrupt ending of their troubles by drowning. They +crossed pleasant oases of green prairie, verdant valleys +all abloom with wild flowers, gentian and tiger lilies, +cineraria, blue borage—the last-lingering traces of +summer’s footfall in the sheltered nooks. Sometimes +they came upon patches where the forest-trees<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> +were blackened by fire, or had fallen among the ashes +of the underwood. Sometimes they had to cut their +way through the wood, and made slow and painful +progress. Sometimes they lost the trail, and only +regained it after a day’s wasted labour. One of their +horses died—the other was reduced to a mere skeleton—so +rare had now become the glimpses of pasture. +They looked at this spectral equine with sad prophetic +eyes, not knowing how long it might be before +they would be reduced to the painful necessity +of cooking and eating him; and with a doleful foreboding +that, when famine brought them to that strait, +the faithful steed would be found to consist solely of +bone and hide.</p> + +<p>So they tramped on laboriously and with a +dogged patience till they lost the trail once more; +and this time even the Indian’s sagacity proved utterly +at fault, and all their efforts to regain it were +vain. They found themselves in a trackless ring of +forest, to them as darksome a circle as the lowest +deep in Dante’s Inferno, and here beheld the first +snow-storm fall white upon the black pine-tops. +Here, in one of their vain wanderings in search of +the lost track, they came upon a dead Indian, seated +stark and ghastly at the foot of a giant pine, draped +in his blanket, and bent as if still stooping over the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> +ashes of the fire wherewith he had tried to keep the +ebbing life warm in his wasted clay. This gruesome +stranger was headless. Famine had wasted him to +the very bone; his skin was mere parchment, stretched +tightly over the gaunt skeleton; the whitening bones +of his horse bestrewed the ground by his side. How +he came in that awful condition, what had befallen +the missing head, they knew not. Even conjecture +was here at fault. But the spectacle struck them +with indescribable horror. So too might they be +found; the skeleton horse crouched dead at their +feet, beside the ashes of the last fire at which their +dim eyes had gazed in the final agonies of starvation. +This incident made them desperate.</p> + +<p>‘We are wasting our strength in a useless hunt +for the lost track,’ said Lucius decisively. ‘We have +neither the instinct nor the experience of the Indian. +Let us make a log-hut here, and wait for the +worst quietly, while Kekek-ooarsis searches for the +path, or tries to work his way back to the fort to +fetch help and food. He will make his way three +times as fast when he is unencumbered by us and +our incapacity. We may be able to ward off starvation +meanwhile with the aid of Geoff’s guns. At +the worst, we only face death. And since a man +can but die once, it is after all only a question of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> +whether we get full or short measure of the wine of +life.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘And come he slow or come he fast,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">It is but Death who comes at last.’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>‘Brezisely,’ said the Hamburgher. ‘It is drue. +A man can but die one time—Gismet. Yet ze wine +of life is petter zan ze vater of death, in most beoble’s +obinion.’</p> + +<p>Kekek-ooarsis had been absent nearly five weeks +at the time of the stranger’s appearance, and the +length of his absence had variously affected the three +men who waited with a gloomy resignation for his +return, or the coming of that other stranger, Death. +At times, when Geoffrey’s gun had not been useless, +when they had eaten, and were inclined to take a +somewhat cheerful view of their situation, they told +each other that he had most likely recovered the lost +track at a considerable distance from their hut, and +had pushed on to the fort, to procure fresh horses +and supplies. They calculated the time such a +journey to and fro must take him, allowed a +wide margin for accidental delays, and argued that +it was not yet too late for the possibility of his +return.</p> + +<p>‘I hope he hasn’t cut and run like that other +beggar,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It was rather a risky thing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> +to trust him with our money to buy the horses and +provender. Yet it was our only resource.’</p> + +<p>‘I believe in his honesty,’ replied Davoren. ‘If +he deserts us, Death will be the tempter who lures +him away. These Indians have nobler qualities than +you are inclined to credit them with. Do you remember +that starving creature who came to our hut +by the Saskatchewan one day while we were out +hunting, and sat by our hearth, famishing amidst +plenty, for twelve mortal hours, and did not touch +a morsel till we returned and offered him food? I’ll +forfeit my reputation as a judge of character, if +Kekek-ooarsis tries to cheat us. That other fellow +was a half-breed.’</p> + +<p>‘The Greeks weren’t half-breeds,’ said Geoffrey, +whose reading had of late years been chiefly confined +to the Greek historians and the more popular of the +French novelists, ‘yet they were the most treacherous +ruffians going. I don’t pin my faith on your +chivalrous Indian. However, there’s no use in contemplating +the gloomiest side of the question. Let’s +take a more lively view of it, and say that he’s frozen +to death in the pass, with our money intact in his +bosom, exactly where you sewed it into his shirt.’</p> + +<p>Thus they speculated; the German venturing +no opinion, but smoking the only obtainable substitute<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> +for tobacco in stolid silence. Indeed, when +hard pressed by his companions, he admitted that +he had never had any opinion. ‘Vat is ze goot ov +obinions?’ he demanded. ‘Man is no petter vor +zem, and it is zo much vasted lapour of prain. I +do not know how to tink. Zomedimes I have ask +my froints vat it is like, tinking. Zey gannot tell +me. Zey tink zey tink, put zey to not tink.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.<br> +<span class="fs70">‘ALL’S CHEERLESS, DARK, AND DEADLY.’</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">The</span> stranger, having had their exact circumstances +laid before him, took the gloomiest view of the position. +The first deep fall of snow had occurred a +week after the guide’s departure. If he had not +ere that time regained a track, with landmarks familiar +to his eye, all hope of his having been able +to reach the fort was as foolish as it was vain.</p> + +<p>‘For myself,’ said the stranger, ‘I give him up.’</p> + +<p>This man, who was henceforth known among +them as Matchi, a contraction of the sobriquet bestowed +on him by the Indians, fell into his place in +that small circle easily enough. They neither liked +him nor trusted him. But he had plenty to say for +himself, and had a certain originality of thought and +language that went some little way towards dispelling +the deep gloom that surrounded them. In their +wretched position, any one who could bring an element +of novelty into their life was welcome. The +desperation of his character suited their desperate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> +circumstances. In a civilised country they would +have shut their doors in his face. But here, with +Death peering in at their threshold, this wild spirit +helped them to sustain the horrors of suspense, the +dreary foreboding of a fatal end.</p> + +<p>But there was one charm in his presence which +all felt, even the phlegmatic German. With Lucius +Davoren’s violin in his hand, he could beguile them +into brief forgetfulness of that grisly spectre watching +at the door. That passionate music opened the +gates of dreamland. Matchi’s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">répertoire</i> seemed inexhaustible: +but everything he played, even melodies +the world knows by heart, bore the stamp of his own +genius. Whatever subject of Corelli, or Viotti, or +Mozart, or Haydn, formed the groundwork of his +theme, the improvisatore sported with the air at +pleasure, and interwove his own wild fancies with +the original fabric. Much that he played was obviously +his own composition, improvised as the bow +moved over the strings; wild strains which interpreted +the gloom of their surroundings; dismal +threnodies in which one heard the soughing of the +wind among the snow-laden pine-branches; the howling +of wolves at sunrise.</p> + +<p>He proved no drone in that little hive, but toiled +at such labour as there was to be done with a savage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> +energy which seemed in accord with his half-savage +nature. He felled the pine-trunks with his axe, and +brought new stores of fuel to the hut. He fetched +water from a distant lake, where there was but one +corner which the ice had not locked against him. +He slept little, and those haggard eyes of his had +a strange brightness and vivacity as he sat by the +hearth and stared into the fire which his toil had +helped to furnish.</p> + +<p>Though he talked much at times, but always by +fits and starts, it was curious to note how rarely he +spoke directly of himself or his past life. Even when +Lucius questioned him about his musical education, +in what school he had learned, who had been his +master, he contrived to evade the question.</p> + +<p>‘There are some men who have not the knack +of learning from other people, but who must be their +own teachers,’ he said. ‘I am one of those. Shut +me up in a prison for ten years, with my fiddle for +my only companion, and when I come out I shall +have discovered a new continent in the world of +music.’</p> + +<p>‘You play other instruments,’ hazarded Lucius; +‘the cello?’</p> + +<p>‘I play most stringed instruments,’ the other +answered carelessly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span></p> + +<p>‘The piano?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I play the piano. A man has fingers; +what is there strange in his using them?’</p> + +<p>‘Nothing; only one wonders that you should be +content to hide so many accomplishments in the +backwoods.’</p> + +<p>Matchi shrugged his lean shoulders.</p> + +<p>‘There are a thousand various reasons why a +man should grow tired of his own particular world,’ +he said.</p> + +<p>‘To say nothing of the possibility that a man’s +own particular world may grow tired of him,’ returned +Lucius.</p> + +<p>Instead of himself and his own affairs—that +subject which exalts the most ungifted speaker into +eloquence—the stranger spoke of men and manners, +the things he had seen from the outside as a mere +spectator; the books he had read, and they were +legion. Never was a brain stocked with a more +heterogeneous collection of ideas. Queer books, out-of-the-way +books, had evidently formed his favourite +study. Geoffrey heard, and was amused. Lucius +heard, and wondered, and rendered to this man that +unwilling respect which we give to intellect unallied +with the virtues.</p> + +<p>Thus three days and nights went by, somewhat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> +less slowly than the days had gone of late. On the +morning of the fourth the stranger grew impatient—paced +the narrow bounds of his hut like an imprisoned +jaguar.</p> + +<p>‘Death lies yonder, I doubt not,’ he said, pointing +to the forest, ‘while here there is the possibility—a +mere possibility—that we may outlive our +troubles; that some luckier band of emigrants may +come this way to succour us before we expire. But +I tell you frankly, my friends, that I can’t stand this +sort of life three days longer—to sit down and wait +for death, arms folded, without so much as a pipe of +tobacco to lull the fever in one’s brain. <em>That</em> needs +a Roman courage which I possess not. I shall not +trouble your hospitality much longer.’</p> + +<p>‘What will you do?’ asked Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘Push ahead. I have my chart here,’ touching +his forehead. ‘I shall push on towards the Pacific +with no better guide than the stars. I can but +perish; better to be frozen to death on the march—like +a team of sleigh-dogs I saw once by the Saskatchewan, +standing stark and stiff in the snow, as +their drivers had left them—than to sit and doze by +the fire here till Death comes in his slowest and most +hideous shape—death by famine.’</p> + +<p>‘You had better stay with us and share our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> +chances,’ said Lucius; ‘our guide may even yet +return.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ answered Matchi, ‘at the general muster +roll, with the rank and file of the dead.’</p> + +<p>His words were strangely belied ere that brief +day darkened into night. The four men were sitting +huddled round the fire, smoking their final pipe—for +Matchi had now shared among them the last +remnant of his tobacco—when a curious hollow cry, +like the plaintive note of a distressed bird, was heard +in the distance.</p> + +<p>Lucius was the first to divine its meaning.</p> + +<p>‘Kekek-ooarsis!’ he cried, starting to his feet. +‘He has come back at last. Thank God! thank +God!’</p> + +<p>The call was repeated, this time distinctly human.</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, ‘that’s the identical flute.’</p> + +<p>He ran to the door of the hut. Lucius snatched +up one of the blazing pine-branches from the hearth, +and went out, waving this fiery brand aloft, and +shouting in answer to the Indian’s cry. In this moment +of glad surprise and hope the man’s return +meant succour, comfort, plenty. Too soon were they +to be undeceived. He emerged from among the shadowy +branches, half limping, half crawling towards<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> +them across the snow, which was solid enough to bear +that light burden without the faintest impression on +its frozen surface. He came into the glare of the +pine-branch, a wasted ghastly figure, more spectral +than their own—the very image and type of famine.</p> + +<p>He came back to them empty-handed. No dogs +or horses followed him. He came, not to bring them +the means of life, but to die with them.</p> + +<p>The faithful creature crawled about them like a +dog, hugged their knees, laid his wasted body at +their feet, looked up at them with supplicating eyes, +too feeble for words. They carried him into the hut, +put him by the fire, and gave him food, which he +devoured like a famished wolf.</p> + +<p>Restored by that welcome heat and food, he told +them his adventures; how he had striven in vain to +regain the track and make his way back to the fort; +how, after weary wanderings, he had found himself +at last among a little band of Indians, whose camp +lay northward of the Englishmen’s hut, and who +were as near famine as they. Here he had fallen ill +with frostbite and rheumatism, but had been kindly +succoured by the Indians, not of his tribe. He had +lain in one of their shelters—not worthy to be dignified +even by the name of hut—for a long time, how +long he knew not, having lost consciousness during<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> +the period, and thus missed his reckoning. With +recovery came the ardent desire to return to them, +to show them that he had not betrayed his trust. +The bank-notes sewn into his garments had escaped +observation and pillage, supposing the Indians inclined +to plunder their guest. He asked them to sell +him provisions that he might take to his masters, +tried to tempt them with liberal offers of payment, +but they had unhappily nothing to sell. Buffalo had +vanished from that district, the lakes and rivers were +frozen. The Indians themselves were living from +hand to mouth, and hardly living at all, so meagre +was their fare. Convinced at last that the case was +hopeless, Kekek-ooarsis had left them to return to +the hut—a long and difficult journey, since in his +efforts to regain the road, to the fort he had made a +wide circuit. Only fidelity—the dog’s faithful allegiance +to the master he loves—had brought him +back to that hunger-haunted dwelling.</p> + +<p>‘I cannot help you,’ he said piteously in his +native language; ‘I have come back to die with +you.’</p> + +<p>‘One more or less to die makes little difference,’ +answered the stranger, speaking the man’s exact dialect +with perfect fluency. ‘Let us see if we cannot +contrive to live. You have failed once in your endeavour<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span> +to find your way back to the fort. That is +no reason you should fail a second time. Few great +things have been done at the first attempt. Get your +strength back, my friend, and you and I will set out +together as soon as you are fit for the journey. I +know something of the country; and with your native +eyes and ears to help me, we could hardly fail.’</p> + +<p>Kekek-ooarsis looked up at him wonderingly. +He was not altogether favourably impressed by the +stranger’s appearance, if one might judge by his +own countenance, which expressed doubt and perplexity.</p> + +<p>‘I will do whatever my masters bid me,’ he said +submissively.</p> + +<p>His masters let him rest, and eat, and bask in +the warmth of the pine-logs for two days; after +which he declared himself ready to set out upon any +quest they might order.</p> + +<p>The stranger had talked them into a belief in his +intelligence being superior to that of the guide; and +they consented to the two setting out together to +make a second attempt to find the way to the fort. +In a condition so hopeless it seemed to matter very +little what they did. Anything was better than sitting, +arms folded, as the stranger had said, face to +face with death.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p> + +<p>But Lucius was now chained to the hut by a new +tie. The day after the Indian’s return, Geoffrey, the +light-hearted, the fearless, had been struck down with +fever. Lucius had henceforward no care so absorbing +as that which bound him to the side of his friend. +The German looked on, phlegmatic but not unsympathising, +and made no moan.</p> + +<p>‘I shall gatch ze fefer aftervarts, no tout,’ he +said, ‘and you vill have dwo do nurse. Hart ubon +you.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.<br> +<span class="fs70">‘O, THAT WAY MADNESS LIES.’</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">The</span> fever raged severely. Delirium held Geoffrey’s +brain in its hideous thraldom. Horrid sights and +scenes pursued him. He looked at his friend’s face +with blank unseeing eyes, or looked and beheld something +that was not there—the countenance of an +enemy.</p> + +<p>Lucius felt himself now between two fires—disease +on one side, famine on the other. Between +these two devastators death seemed inevitable. Absalom +Schanck, sorely wasted from his native plumpness, +sat by the hearth and watched the struggle, +resigned to the idea of his own approaching end.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey’s illness reduced them to a far worse +situation than they had been in before, since he was +their chief sportsman, and had done much to ward +off starvation. Lucius took his gun out for a couple +of hours every morning, leaving the invalid in Absalom’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> +charge, and prowled the forest in search of +game. But with the exception of one solitary marten, +whose tainted flesh had been revolting even to their +hunger, his wanderings had been barren of everything +but disappointment.</p> + +<p>Matchi and the guide had been gone a week, +when Lucius set out one morning more desperate +than usual, hunger gnawing his entrails, and worse +than hunger, a fear that weighed upon his heart like +lead—the fear that before many days were gone +Geoffrey Hossack would have set forth upon a longer +and a darker journey than that they two had started +upon together, in the full flush of youth and hope, a +year and a half ago. He could not conceal from +himself that his friend was in imminent danger—that +unless the fever, for which medicine could do so +little, abated speedily, all must soon be over. Nor +could he conceal from himself another fact—namely, +that the stores he had doled out with such a niggard +hand would not yield even that scanty allowance for +twenty-four hours longer. A sorry frame of mind in +which to stalk buffalo or chase the moose!</p> + +<p>Again Fortune was unkind. He wandered farther +than usual in his determination not to go back +empty-handed. He knew but too well that in Geoffrey’s +desperate state there was nothing his experience<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> +could do that Absalom’s ignorance could not do +as well. In fact there was nothing to be done. The +patient lay in a kind of stupor. Only the gentle +nursing-mother Nature could help him now.</p> + +<p>He came upon a circular patch of prairie in the +heart of the forest, and surprised a lean and lonely +buffalo, the first he had seen for more than a month. +The last had been shot by Geoffrey some days before +the guide’s departure on his useless journey. The +animal was scratching in the snow, trying to get at +the scanty herbage under that frozen surface, when +Lucius came upon it. His footsteps, noiseless in +his moccasins, did not startle the quarry. He stole +within easy range, and fired. The first shot hit the +animal in the shoulder; then came a desperate +chase. The buffalo ran, but feebly. Lucius fired +his second barrel, this time at still closer quarters, +and the brute, gaunt and famished like himself, +rolled head downwards on the snow.</p> + +<p>He took out his hunting-knife, cut out the tongue +and choicer morsels, as much as he could carry, and +then with infinite labour buried his prey in the snow, +meaning to return next morning with Absalom to +fetch the remainder; provided always that the snow +kept his secret, and wolves or wolverines did not devour +his prize in the interval. He was able to carry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> +away with him food that would serve for more than +a week. No matter how hard or skinny the flesh +might be,—it was flesh.</p> + +<p>Darkness had closed round him when these labours +were finished, but stars shone faintly above +the pine-tops: and he carried a pocket-lantern which +he could light on emergency. Where was he? That +was the first question to be settled. He found some +difficulty in recalling the track he had taken. Great +Heaven! if he had strayed too far afield, and should +find return impossible! Geoffrey yonder dying, without +his brotherly arm to support the drooping head, +his loving hand to wipe the brow on which the death-damps +gathered! The very thought made him desperate. +He looked up at the stars, his only guides, +shouldered his burden, and walked rapidly in that +direction which he supposed the right one.</p> + +<p>During their enforced idleness, Geoffrey and +Lucius had made themselves tolerably familiar with +the aspect of the forest within a radius of ten miles +or so from their hut. They knew the course of the +river, and its tributary streams. They had even cut +rude avenues through the pine-wood, in their quest +of fuel, cutting down trees in a straight line at a +dozen yards apart, leaving six feet or so of the trunk +standing, like a rude pillar; so that within half a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> +mile of their encampment there were on every side +certain roughly-marked approaches.</p> + +<p>But to-night Lucius had lost ken of the river, +and knew himself to be a good ten miles from any +tree that he or Geoffrey had ever hewn asunder. He +stopped after about half-an-hour’s tramp; felt himself +at fault; lighted his lantern, and looked about +him.</p> + +<p>An impenetrable forest; a scene of darksome +grandeur, gigantic pine-trees towering skyward, laden +with snow; but over all a dreadful monotony, that +made the picture gloomy as the shores of Acheron. +Nor could Lucius discover any landmark whereby he +might steer his course.</p> + +<p>He stopped for some minutes, his heart beating +heavily. It was not the fear of peril to himself that +tormented him. His mind—rarely a prey to selfish +fears—was full of his dying friend.</p> + +<p>‘To be away at such a time!’ he thought; ‘to +have shared all the brightest hours of my youth with +him, and not to be near him at the last!’</p> + +<p>This was bitter. He pushed on desperately, +muttering a brief prayer; telling himself that Heaven +could not be so cruel as to sever him from the +friend who was dear as a brother, who represented to +him all he had ever known of brotherly love.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> + +<p>He paused suddenly, startled by a sight so unexpected +that his arm dropped nerveless, and his +burden fell at his feet. A light in the thick forest; +the welcome glare of a traveller’s fire. Not the far-spreading +blaze of conflagration, the devouring flames +stretching from tree to tree—a spectacle he had seen +in the course of his wanderings—but the steady +light of a mighty fire of heaped-up pine-logs; a fire +to keep wolves and grisly bears at bay, and to defy +the blighting presence of the frost-fiend himself.</p> + +<p>Lucius resumed his burden, and made straight +for the fire. A wide and deep circle, making a kind +of basin, had been dug out of the snow. In the +centre burned a huge fire, and before it a man lay on +his stomach, his chin resting on his folded arms, +lazily watching the blazing logs; a man with wild +hair and wilder eyes; a man whose haggard face +even the red glow of the fire could not brighten.</p> + +<p>‘What!’ cried Lucius, recognising him at the +first glance; ‘have you got no farther than this, +Matchi? A sorry result of your boasted cleverness! +Where’s the Indian?’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know,’ the other answered shortly. +‘Dead, perhaps, before this. We quarrelled and +parted two days ago. The man’s a knave and a +ruffian.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span></p> + +<p>‘I don’t believe that,’ said Lucius. ‘He persevered, +I suppose; pushed on towards the fort, and +you didn’t. That’s the meaning of your quarrel.’</p> + +<p>‘Have it so, if you like,’ returned the stranger +with scornful carelessness. Then seeing that Lucius +still stood upon the edge of the circle—a bank of +snow—looking down at him, he lifted his dark eyes +slowly, and returned the gaze.</p> + +<p>‘Have things brightened with you since we parted +company?’ he asked.</p> + +<p>‘How should they brighten, unless Providence +sent some luckier wanderers across our track?—not a +likely event at this time of year. No, the aspect +of our affairs has darkened to the deepest gloom. +Geoffrey Hossack is dying of fever.’</p> + +<p>‘Amidst universal cold—strange anomaly!’ said +the other, in his hard unpitying voice. ‘But since +death seems inevitable for all of us, I’d gladly change +lots with your friend—burn with fever—and go out +of this world unconscious. It is looking death in the +face that tortures me: to lie here, looking into that +fire, and calculate the slow but too swift hours that +stand between me and—annihilation. <em>That</em> gnaws +my vitals.’</p> + +<p>Lucius looked down at the strongly-marked passionate +face, half in scorn, half in pity.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> + +<p>‘You can see no horizon beyond your grave under +these pine-trees,’ he said. ‘You do not look upon +this life as an education for the better life that is to +succeed it?’</p> + +<p>‘No. I had done with that fable before I was +twenty.’</p> + +<p>A hard cruel face, with the red fire shining in it—the +face of a man who, knowing himself unfit for +heaven, was naturally disposed to unbelief in a future, +which for this dark soul could only mean expiation.</p> + +<p>‘Can you help me to find my way back to the +hut?’ Lucius asked, after a meditative pause.</p> + +<p>‘Not I. I thought I was a hundred miles from +it. I have been wandering in a circle, I suppose.’</p> + +<p>‘Evidently. Where did you leave Kekek-ooarsis?’</p> + +<p>The stranger looked at him doubtfully, as if +hardly understanding the drift of the question. +Lucius repeated it.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know. There is no “where” in this +everlasting labyrinth. We disagreed, and parted—somewhere!’</p> + +<p>Lucius Davoren’s gaze, wandering idly about that +sunken circle in the snow, where every inch of ground +was fitfully illuminated by the ruddy glare of the +pine-logs, was suddenly attracted by an object that +provoked his curiosity—a little heap of bones, half<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> +burnt, at the edge of the fire. The flame licked them +every now and then, as the wind blew it towards them.</p> + +<p>‘You have had a prize, I see,’ he said, pointing +to these bones. ‘Biggish game! How did you +manage without a gun?’</p> + +<p>‘A knife is sometimes as good as a gun!’ said +the other, without looking up. He stretched out his +long lean arm as he spoke, and pushed the remainder +of his prey farther into the fire.</p> + +<p>In a moment—before the other was aware—Lucius +had leaped down into the circle, and was on +his knees, dragging the bones back out of the fire +with his naked hands.</p> + +<p>‘Assassin! devil!’ he cried, turning to the +stranger with a look of profoundest loathing: ‘I +thought as much. These are human bones. This +is the fore-arm of a man.’</p> + +<p>‘That’s a lie,’ the other answered coolly. ‘I +snared a wolf, and stabbed him with my clasp-knife.’</p> + +<p>‘I have not worked in the dissecting-room for +nothing,’ said Lucius quietly. ‘Those are human +bones. You have staved off death by murder.’</p> + +<p>‘If I had, it would be no worse than the experience +of a hundred shipwrecks,’ answered the other, +glancing from Lucius to his gun, with an air at once +furtive and ferocious, like some savage beast at bay.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span></p> + +<p>‘I have half a mind to shoot you down like the +wolf you are,’ said Lucius, rising slowly from his +knees, after throwing the bones back into the blaze.</p> + +<p>‘Do it, and welcome,’ answered the stranger, +casting off all reserve with a contemptuous tone, that +might be either the indifference of desperation or +mere bravado. ‘Famine knows no law. I have done +only what I daresay you would have done in my situation. +We had starved, literally starved—no half +rations, but sheer famine—for five days, when I +killed him with a sudden stroke of my hatchet. I +cut off one arm, and buried the rest of him—yonder, +under the snow. I daresay I was half-mad when I +did it. Yet it was a mercy to put him out of his +misery. If he had been a white skin, I should have +tossed up with him which was to go, but I didn’t +stand on punctilio with a nigger. It may be my +turn next, perhaps. Shoot me, and welcome, if you’ve +a mind to waste a charge of powder on so miserable +a wretch.’</p> + +<p>‘No,’ said Lucius, ‘no one has made me your +judge or your executioner. I leave you to your conscience. +But if ever you darken the threshold of our +hut again—be your errand what it may—by the God +above us both, you shall die like a dog!’</p> + +<p>Matchi’s keen eyes followed the vanishing form<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> +of his accuser, and his thin lips shaped themselves +into a triumphant grin.</p> + +<p>‘You didn’t inquire about the money the Indian +carried,’ he muttered. ‘<em>That</em> was my real motive. +Better to be thought a cannibal than a thief. And +with that money I can begin life again if ever I get +clear of this forest.’</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Lucius Davoren spent that night in the forest, by +a fire of his own kindling, after having put some +distance between himself and that other wanderer. +He recruited exhausted nature with a buffalo steak, +and then sat out the night by his lonely fire; sometimes +dozing, more often watching, knowing not when +murder might creep upon him with stealthy footfall +across the silent snow. Morning came, however, and +the night had brought no attack. By daylight he +regained the lost trail, found his way back to the +hut, laden with his spoil, and to his unspeakable joy +found a change for the better in the sick man.</p> + +<p>‘I have gaven him his traft, bongdual,’ said Mr. +Schanck, pointing to the empty medicine bottle, ‘and +he is gooller; he bersbires. Dat is goot.’</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Von der Stirne heisse,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Rinnen muss der Schweiss.’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Yes, perspiration had arisen, nature’s healing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> +dew; not the awful damps of swift-coming death. +Lucius knelt by the rough bed, and thanked God for +this happy change. How sweet was prayer at such +a moment! He thought of that murderous wretch +in the forest, waiting for the death he had sought to +defer by famine’s last loathsome resource; that revolting +expedient which it was horror to think of—a +lost wretch without a hope beyond the grave, without +belief in a God.</p> + +<p>On his knees, his breast swollen by the rapture +of gratitude and glad surprise, Lucius thought of +that wretch almost with pity.</p> + +<p>He made a strong broth with some of the buffalo +flesh, and fed his patient by spoonfuls. To rally +from such prostration must needs be a slow process; +but once hopeful of his friend’s recovery, Lucius was +content to wait for the issue in quiet confidence.</p> + +<p>He told Absalom his adventure in the forest, the +hideous discovery of the faithful Indian’s fate.</p> + +<p>‘Vat for a man! And vhen he has digesded the +Indian, and feels again vhat boor Geoffrey used to +gall a vaguum, he vill gome and ead us,’ said the +German despondently.</p> + +<p>‘He will not cross this threshold. What! do +you think I would let that ravening beast approach +<em>him</em>?’ pointing to the prostrate figure on the bed.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> +‘I have told him what I should do if he came here. +He knows the penalty.’</p> + +<p>‘You vould gill him?’</p> + +<p>‘Without one scruple.’</p> + +<p>‘I tink you are in your right,’ answered Absalom +tranquilly. ‘It is an onbleasant itea do be eaden.’</p> + +<p>Two days passed slowly. Geoffrey rallied. Very +slow was the progress towards recovery—almost imperceptible +to the non-professional eye, but it was +progress. Lucius perceived it, and was thankful. +He had not slept since that night in the forest, but +watched all night beside the patient’s bed—his gun +within reach of his hand, loaded with ball.</p> + +<p>On the third night of his watch, when Geoffrey +had been wandering a little, and then had fallen into +a placid slumber, there came a sound at the door—a +sound that was neither the waving of a pine-branch nor +the cry of bird or beast; a sound distinctly human.</p> + +<p>Lucius had barricaded his door with a couple of +pine-trunks, placed transversely, like a St. Andrew’s +cross. The door itself was a fragile contrivance (three +or four roughly-hewn planks nailed loosely together), +but the St. Andrew’s cross made a formidable barrier.</p> + +<p>He heard the door tried with a rough impatient +hand. The pine-trunks groaned, but held firm. The +door was shaken again; then, after a moment’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> +pause, the same impatient hand shook the little +parchment window. This offered but a frail defence; +it rattled, yielded, then, after one vigorous thrust, +burst inward, and a dark ragged head and strong +bony shoulders appeared in the opening.</p> + +<p>‘I am starving,’ cried a hoarse voice, faint, yet +with a strange force in its hollow tones. It was the +voice of the man who called himself Matchi. ‘Give +me shelter—food—if you have any to give. It is +my last chance,’ he gasped breathlessly.</p> + +<p>He widened the space about him with those strong +desperate arms, and made as if he would have leapt +into the hut. Lucius raised his gun, cocked it, and +took aim deliberately, without an instant’s hesitation.</p> + +<p>‘I told you what would happen if you came here,’ +he said, and, with the words, fired.</p> + +<p>The man fell backwards, dragging the thin parchment +window and some part of its fragile framework +with him. His death-clutch had fastened on the +splintered wood. A wild gust of north-east wind +rushed in through the blank space in the log wall, +but Lucius Davoren did not feel it.</p> + +<p>‘Great God!’ he asked himself, a slow horror +creeping through his ice-cold veins, ‘was that a +murder?’</p> +<br> + +<p class="center no-indent fs90 wsp">END OF THE PROLOGUE.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span></p> + +<p class="center no-indent bold fs120 wsp">Book the First.</p> + +<hr class="r5"> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_Ia">CHAPTER I.<br> +<span class="fs70">LOOKING BACKWARDS.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Behold</span>, O reader, the eastern end of the great city; +a region strange beyond all measure to the dwellers +in the west; a low flat marshy district, where the +land and the river seem to have become entangled +with each other in inextricable confusion, by reason +of manifold creeks and creeklets, basins, and pools, +which encroach upon the shore, and where the tall +spars of mighty merchantmen and giant emigrant-ships +rise cheek by jowl with factory chimneys; where +the streets are dark and narrow, and the sound of +engines hoarsely labouring greets the ear at every +turn; where the staple commodity seems to be ship-biscuit; +where the shipchandler has his stronghold; +where the provision-dealer has his storehouse, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> +which vast hoards of dried meats and tinned provisions, +pickles, and groceries are piled from floor to +ceiling and from cellar to garret; a world in which +the explorer stumbles unawares upon ropewalks, or +finds himself suddenly involved in a cloud of bonnetless +factory girls, thick as locusts in Arabia, who +jibe and flout at the stranger. Roads there are, +broad and airy enough, which lead away from the +narrow streets and the stone basins, the quays, the +docks, the steam-cranes, and tall ships—not to the +country, there seems no such thing as country accessible +from this peculiar world—but to distant marshes +and broader water; roads fringed with dingy houses, +and here and there a factory, and here and there a +house of larger size and greater pretension than its +neighbours, shut in by high walls perchance, and +boasting an ancient garden; a garden where the tall +elms were saplings in the days when kings went +hunting on the Essex coast yonder; and when this +east-end of London had its share of fashion and +splendour.</p> + +<p>Perhaps of all these broader thoroughfares, Shadrack-road +was the shabbiest. It had struggled into +existence later than the rest, and in all its dismal +length could boast but one of those substantial old +red-brick mansions whose occasional appearance redeemed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> +the commonness of the other high roads. +There was a sprinkling of humble shops, a seamen’s +lodging-house, a terrace or two of shabby-genteel +houses, three-storied, with little iron balconies that +had never been painted within the memory of man; +poor sordid-looking little houses, which were always +putting bills in their smoke-darkened windows, beseeching +people to come and lodge in them. There +were a few modern villas, of the speculative-builders’ +pattern, whose smart freshness put to shame their +surroundings; and one of these, a corner one, with +about half a perch of garden-ground, was distinguished +by a red lamp and a brass-plate, on which +appeared the following inscription:</p> +<br> +<p class="center no-indent lh"> +<span class="smcap">Mr. Lucius Davoren</span>,<br> +<em>Surgeon</em>.<br> +</p> +<br> +<p>Here Lucius Davoren had begun the battle of life; +actual life, in all its cold reality; hard and common +and monotonous, and on occasion hopeless; a life +strangely different from the explorer’s adventurous +days, from the trapper’s lonely commune with nature +in the trackless pine-woods; a life wherein the veriest +dreamer could find scant margin for poetry; a life +whose dull realities weigh down the soul of man as +though an iron hand were laid upon his brain, grinding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> +out every aspiration for better things than the +day’s food and the night’s shelter.</p> + +<p>He stands alone in the world; there is comfort +at least in that. Let the struggle be sharp as it may, +there is no cherished companion to share the pain. +Let poverty’s stern grip pinch him never so sharply, +he feels the pinch alone. Father, mother, the child +sister, whom he loved so dearly fifteen years ago, +are all dead. Their graves lie far away in a Hampshire +churchyard, the burial-place of that rural village +of which his father was Rector for thirty years of +his unambitious life.</p> + +<p>He has another sister, but she was counted lost +some years ago, and to think of her is worse than to +think of the dead. In all those years, from the time +when he was a lad just emancipated from Winchester +school to this present hour, he has never been heard +to speak her name; but he keeps her in his memory +nevertheless, and has the record of her hapless fate +hidden away in the secret-drawer of his desk, with a +picture of the face whose beauty was fatal.</p> + +<p>She was his favourite sister, his senior by two +years, fond and proud of him, his counsellor and ally +in all things; like himself, passionately fond of +music; like himself a born musician. This charm, +in conjunction with her beauty, had made her the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> +glory and delight of a small provincial circle, which +widened before her influence. Wykhamston society +was the narrowest and stiffest of systems; but the +fame of Janet Davoren’s beauty and Janet Davoren’s +voice travelled beyond the bounds of Wykhamston +society. In a word, Miss Davoren was taken notice +of by the county. The meek old Rector, with his +pleasant face, and bald head scantily garnished with +iron-gray hair, was made to emerge from retirement, +in order to gratify the county. He was bidden to a +ball at the Marquis of Guildford’s; to a private concert +at Sir Horatio and Lady Veering Baker’s; to +dinners and evening parties twenty miles away from +the modest Rectory. Miss Davoren was even invited +to stay at Lady Baker’s; and, going ostensibly for a +few days, remained her ladyship’s guest for nearly a +month. They were all so fond of the dear girl, Lady +Baker informed the Rector.</p> + +<p>‘<em>I</em> am not good enough, I suppose,’ said Mrs. +Davoren, when the Marchioness and the Baronet’s +wife, after calling upon her, and being intensely civil +for fifteen minutes, ignored her in their cards of invitation. +‘Never mind, Stephen, if you and Janet +enjoy yourselves, I’m satisfied; and it’s lucky they +haven’t invited me, for I’ve nothing to wear but my +old black satin and the Indian scarf, and <em>they’d</em> never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> +do for the Castle or Lady Veering Baker’s. They’re +well enough in Wykhamston, where people are accustomed +to them.’</p> + +<p>So the Rector’s worthy wife, who had supreme +control of the family purse, arrayed her handsome +daughter in the prettiest dresses the Wykhamston +milliner could achieve, and ornamented the girl’s +dark hair with camelias from the little greenhouse, +and was content to sit at home and wonder what the +grand Castle folks thought of her Janet, and whether +her dear old man was having an agreeable rubber; +content to sit up late into the night, while the rectory +handmaidens snored in their attic chambers, till +the creaky old covered wagonette brought home the +revellers, when she would sit up yet another hour to +hear the tidings of her darling’s triumphs; what +songs she had sung, what dances she had danced, +and all the gracious things that had been said of her +and to her.</p> + +<p>About this time, the idea that Miss Davoren was +destined to make a splendid marriage became a fixed +belief in the minds of the Rector’s family, from the +head thereof to the very cook who cooked the dinner, +always excepting the young lady herself, who seemed +to take very little thought of anything but music; +the organ which she played in the old church; the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> +old-fashioned square piano in the rectory drawing-room. +It did not seem possible to the simple mind +of Mrs. Davoren that all this admiration could result +in nothing; that her daughter could be the cynosure +of every eye at Guildford Castle, the acknowledged +belle at Lady Veering Baker’s musical evenings, and +yet remain plain Janet Davoren, or be reduced to the +necessity of marrying a curate or a struggling country +surgeon. Something must come of all this patronage, +which had kindled the fire of jealousy in many +a Wykhamston breast. But when the fond mother +ventured to suggest as much to the girl herself, she +was put off with affectionate reproof.</p> + +<p>‘Dearest mother, can you be so innocent as not +to see that all this notice means nothing more than +the gratification of the moment? The Marchioness +and Lady Baker had happened to hear that I sing +tolerably, and as the common run of amateur music +is not worth much, thought they might as well have +me. It only cost the trouble of calling upon you, +and pretending to be interested in your poultry and +papa’s garden. If this were London, and they could +get professional singers, they would not have taken +even so much trouble as that about me.’</p> + +<p>‘Never mind what the Marchioness and Lady +Baker mean,’ said the mother; ‘I am not thinking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> +of them, but of the people you meet there; the +young men who pay you such compliments, and +crowd round you after your songs.’</p> + +<p>Janet laughed, almost bitterly, at this speech and +at the mother’s eager look, full of anticipated triumph.</p> + +<p>‘And who will go back to their own world and +forget my existence, when they leave Hampshire,’ she +said.</p> + +<p>‘But there must be some whose attentions are +more marked than others,’ urged Mrs. Davoren; +‘county people, perhaps. There is that Mr. Cumbermere, +for instance, who has an immense estate on +the borders of Berkshire. I’ve heard your papa talk +of him; quite a young man, and unmarried. Come, +Janet, be candid with your poor old mother. Isn’t +there one among them all who seems a little in +earnest?’</p> + +<p>‘Not one among them, mother,’ the girl answered, +looking downward with a faint, faint sigh, so +faint as to escape even the mother’s ear; ‘not one. +They all say the same thing, or the same kind of +thing, in just the same way. They think me rather +good-looking, I believe, and they seem really to like +my singing and playing. But they will go away and +forget both, and my good looks as well. There is not +one of them ever so little in love with me; and if I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> +were in love with one of them I might almost as +well be in love with all, for they are all alike.’</p> + +<p>This was discouraging, but the mother still +cherished her dream; cherished it until the bitter +hour of awakening—that fatal hour in which she +learned from a letter in the girl’s own hand that +Janet had abandoned home, friends, reputation—the +very hope of heaven, as it seemed to the heartbroken +father and mother—to follow the fortunes of a villain, +of whose identity they had not the faintest idea, whose +opportunities for the compassing of this deadly work +would seem to have been of the smallest.</p> + +<p>The girl’s letter—passionate, despairing, with a +wild and deep despair which told how desperate had +been the conflict between love and duty—gave no hint +of her betrayer’s name or place in the world.</p> + +<p>The letter was somewhat vaguely worded. There +are some things which no woman could write. Janet +Davoren did not tell them that she went of her own +free will to perdition. But so much despair could +hardly accompany an innocent passion; sorrow so +deep and hopeless implied guilt. To the Rector and +his wife there seemed no room for doubt. They read +and re-read the long wild appeal for forgiveness or +oblivion; that their only daughter, the pride and +idol of both, might be pardoned or forgotten. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> +weighed every word, written with a swift impetuous +hand, blotted by remorseful tears, but no ray of hope +shone between the lines. They could arrive at but +one miserable conclusion. The girl had accepted +dishonour as the cost of a love she was too weak to +renounce. The letter was long, wild, recklessly +worded; but in all there was no clue to the traitor.</p> + +<p>The Rector and his wife made no outcry. They +were even heroic enough to suppress all outward +token of their grief, lest their little world should +discover the cruel truth. The father went about his +daily work pale and shaken, but calm of aspect. The +only noticeable fact in his life was that from this day +forth he neglected his garden and his poultry-yard. +His innocent delight in Dorking fowls and standard +rose-trees perished for ever with his daughter’s disappearance. +The mother wept in secret, and suffered not +so much as a single tear to be seen by her household.</p> + +<p>The servants were told that Miss Davoren had +gone upon a visit to some friends in London. Janet +had left the house in the early morning, unseen by +any one except the lad who attended to the garden, +and him she had employed to convey a small portmanteau +to the railway station. The manner of her +departure therefore had been commonplace enough; +but the servants were accustomed to hear a good deal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> +of preliminary discussion before any movement of +the family, and wondered not a little that there +should have been nothing said about Miss Davoren’s +departure beforehand, and that she should have gone +away so early, before any one was up, and without +so much as a cup of tea, as the cook remarked +plaintively.</p> + +<p>The wretched father and mother read that farewell +letter till every word it contained seemed written on +their hearts, but it helped them in no manner towards +the knowledge of their daughter’s fate. They went +over the names in their own little circle; the half-dozen +or so of young men—more or less unattractive—who +were on visiting terms at the Rectory; but +there was no member of Wykhamston society they +could for a moment consider guilty: and indeed, the +answer to every suspicion was obvious in the fact that +every member of that small community was in his +place: the curate going his quiet rounds on a hog-maned +pony; the unmarried doctor scouring the +neighbourhood from breakfast to tea-time in his +travel-worn dog-cart; the lawyer’s son true to the +articles that bound him to his father’s service; the +small landowners and gentlemanly tenant-farmers +of the immediate vicinity to be seen as of old at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> +church and market-place. No, there was no one the +Rector could suspect of act or part in his darling’s +flight.</p> + +<p>A little later, and with extreme caution, he ventured +to inquire among certain of his parishioners +if any stranger had been seen about Wykhamston +within the last month or so. He contrived to put +this question to a well-to-do corn-chandler, the chief +gossip of the little town, in a purely conversational +manner.</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ said Mr. Huskings the corn-chandler, assenting +to a general remark upon the dulness that +had prevailed of late in Wykhamston, ‘the place has +been quiet enough. It ain’t much of a place for +strangers at the best of times, unless it’s one of them +measuring chaps that come spying about, with a +yard measure, after a new railway, that’s to take +everybody away from the town and never bring nobody +to it, and raise the price of meat and vegibles. +There was that horgan-playin’ chap at the George +the other day; what <em>he</em> come for nobody could find +out, for he didn’t measure nothing; only poked about +the old church on workadays, and played the horgan. +But of course you’d know all about him from Miss +Davoren, as must have seen him sometimes when +she went to practise with the coheer.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span></p> + +<p>The Rector’s sad face blanched a little. This was +the man!</p> + +<p>‘No,’ he said, somewhat falteringly, ‘my daughter +never spoke of him; or if she did I didn’t take +any notice. She’s away now for a little time, staying +with friends in London. She may have told us about +him; I don’t remember.’</p> + +<p>‘Strange old gentleman, the Rector!’ Mr. Huskings +remarked to his wife afterwards; ‘such a nervous +way with him lately; breaking fast, I’m afeard.’</p> + +<p>‘Miss Davoren could hardly have missed seein’ +of him,’ he answered. ‘He were always about the +church, when he warn’t fishin’, but he were a great +hand at fishin’. Rather a well-looking chap, with +dark eyes and long dark hair; looked summat like a +furriner, but spoke English plain enough in spite of +his furrin looks.’</p> + +<p>‘Young?’ asked the Rector.</p> + +<p>‘Might be anything betwixt twenty-five and +thirty-five.’</p> + +<p>‘And a gentleman, I suppose?’</p> + +<p>‘His clothes was fust-class, and he paid his way +honourable. Had the best rooms over yonder,’ with +a jerk of his head in the direction of the George, +‘and tipped everybody ’andsome. He warn’t here +above a month or six weeks; but he hired a pianner<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> +from Mr. Stammers, up street, and there he’d sit by +the hour together, Mrs. Capon told me, strum, strum, +strum. “Music that made you feel creepy-crawly +like,” says Mrs. Capon; “not a good hearty tune as +you could understand, but meandering and meandering +like till you felt as if you’d gone to sleep in a +cathedral while the organ was playin’,” says Mrs. +Capon.’</p> + +<p>Music! Yes, that was the spell which had lured +his child to her ruin. Nothing less than that fatal +magic, which had held her from her babyhood, could +have been strong enough to beguile that poor young +soul.</p> + +<p>‘Did you hear the man’s name?’ asked the +Rector.</p> + +<p>‘I heerd it, sure enough, sir; but I never were +a good hand at remembering names. Mrs. Capon +ud tell you in a moment.’</p> + +<p>‘No, no,’ exclaimed the Rector nervously; ‘I’ve +no curiosity; it’s of no importance. Good-afternoon, +Huskings. You—you may send me a sack of barley;’ +this with a little pang, remembering what a joyless +business his poultry-yard had become of late.</p> + +<p>He went ‘up street’ to Mr. Stammers, who kept +a little music-shop and let out pianos.</p> + +<p>‘You’d better look in at the Rectory and tune the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> +piano before my daughter comes home, Stammers,’ +said the Rector, with a bitter pain at his heart, and +then sat down in the chair by Mr. Stammers’ door—set +wide open on this warm afternoon—a little out +of breath, though the High-street from the corn-merchant’s +door to the music-seller’s was a dead +level.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir. Miss Davoren away, sir? I thought +I missed her at church last Sunday. Mr. Filby’s +playing don’t come anything nigh hers. What a +wonderful gift she has, sir! The Marchioness was +up town yesterday—they are at the Castle for a +week, ong parsong—and drew up here to give an +order. I made bold to show her the little fantasia +I took the liberty to dedicate to Miss Davoren. She +smiled so sweet when she saw the name. “You’ve +reason to be proud of your Rector’s daughter, Mr. +Stammers,” she said; “such a lovely young lady, +and such a fine musician! I wish I had time to call +at the Rectory.” And then she arst after your ’elth, +sir, and your good lady’s, and Miss Davoren’s, quite +affable, just before she drove away. She was drivin’ +her own ponies.’</p> + +<p>‘She was very good,’ said Mr. Davoren absently. +O, vain delight in earthly pomp and pride! The +notice of these magnates of the land had not saved<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> +his child from destruction; nay, perhaps had been, +in some unknown manner, the primary cause of her +fall.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, you had better tune the piano, Stammers,’ +he went on, with a feeble sigh. ‘She will like to +find it in good tune when she comes back. By the +way, you let a piano to the gentleman at the George +the other day—Mr.—’</p> + +<p>‘Mr. Vandeleur,’ said Stammers briskly. ‘Let +him the best piano I have—a brand-new Collard—at +thirty shillings a month, bein’, as it was, a short +let. And wonderful it was to hear him play upon it, +too! I’ve stood on the staircase at the George half +an hour at a stretch, listenin’ to him.’</p> + +<p>‘A fine musician?’ inquired the Rector, with +another sigh. Fatal music, deadly art!</p> + +<p>‘Fine isn’t the word, sir. There’s a many fine +musicians, as far as pianoforte playing goes,’ with a +little conscious air of inward swelling, as of a man +who numbered himself among these gifted ones. ‘I +don’t think there’s anythink of Mozart’s, or ’Andels, +or ’Aydn’s, or Beethoven’s—that’s the king of ’em +all, is Beethoven—you could put a name to that I +wouldn’t play at sight; but I don’t rank myself with +Mr. Vandeleur, the gentleman at the George, for all +that.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span></p> + +<p>‘What is the difference?’</p> + +<p>Mr. Stammers tapped his forehead.</p> + +<p>‘There, sir; there’s where the difference lies. +I ’aven’t ’is ’ead. Not but what I had a taste for +music when I was that ’igh,’ indicating the altitude +of a foot and a half from the floor, ‘and was took +notice of by the gentry of these parts in consequence, +my father bein’, as you are aware, sir, a numble carpenter. +But I ’aven’t the ’ead that man ’as. To +hear him ’andle Beethoven, sir, the Sonater Pathetick, +or the “Moonlight,” wonderful! And not that alone. +There was sonaters and fugues he played, sir—whether +they was his own composition or wasn’t, I can’t +say; but they were fugues and sonaters I never heard +before, and I don’t believe mortal man ever wrote +’em. They outraged all the laws of ’armony, sir. +Why, there was consecutive fifths in ’em as thick as +gooseberries, and yet they was as fine as anythink +in Mozart. Such music! It turned one’s blood cold +to hear him. If you could fancy the old gentleman +playing the piano—which, bein’ a clergyman, of +course you wouldn’t give your mind to—you could +fancy him playing like that.’</p> + +<p>‘An eccentric style?’ inquired the Rector.</p> + +<p>‘Eccentric! It was the topsy-turviest kind of +thing I ever heard in my life. Yet if that man was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> +to play in public, he’d take the town by storm; they’d +run after him like mad.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you think he is a professional performer?’</p> + +<p>‘Hardly; he hadn’t the professional way with +him. I’ve seen plenty of the profession, havin’ +managed for all the concerts that have been given +in Wykhamston for the last twenty years. No; and +a professional wouldn’t dawdle away close upon six +weeks in a small country town such as this. No; +what I take him for is a wealthy amateur—a gentleman +that had been living a little too fast up in +London, and come down here to freshen himself up +a bit with country air and quiet.’</p> + +<p>‘How did he spend his time?’</p> + +<p>‘In the church, a good bit of it, playing the +organ. He used to get the keys from old Bopolt, +the clerk. I wonder you didn’t hear of it, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘No,’ said the Rector, ‘they told me nothing.’ +This with a sigh so deep, so near akin to a groan, +that it smote the heart of the lively Stammers.</p> + +<p>‘I’m afraid you’re tired, sir, this ’ot day—tryin’ +weather—so changeable; the thermumitor has gone +up to eighty-one, Farren’s heat. Can I get you a +glass of water, sir, with a dash of somethink, if I +might take the liberty?’</p> + +<p>‘Thank you, Stammers; no, it’s nothing. I’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> +been a little worried lately. Bopolt had no business +to admit any one into the church habitually.’</p> + +<p>‘I daresay Mr. Vandeleur made it worth his while, +sir. He was quite a gentleman, I assure you. And +it wasn’t as if you was in the ’abit of keepin’ the +sacramential plate in the vestry.’</p> + +<p>‘There are other things that a man can steal,’ +said the Rector moodily; ‘more precious things than +paten or chalice. But no matter. I don’t suppose +Bopolt meant any harm, only—only he might have +told me. Good-afternoon, Mr. Stammers.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you feel yourself strong enough for the walk +’ome, sir? You look rather pale—overcome by the +’eat.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, yes; quite strong. Good-afternoon;’ and +Stephen Davoren plodded his way down the shadeless +High-street till he came to a little court leading +to the church; Wykhamston Church being, for some +reason or other, hidden away at the back of the +High-street, as though it were an unsightly thing, +and only approachable by courts and alleys.</p> + +<p>Old John Bopolt, the parish clerk, quavering and +decrepit after the manner of rural clerks, had his +habitation in the court which made the isthmus of +communication between the High-street and the +churchyard. He rose hastily from his tea-table at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> +sight of his Rector, and made a little old-world bow, +while Mrs. Bopolt and Mrs. Bopolt’s married daughter, +and the married daughter’s Betsy Jane, an unkempt +girl of fourteen or so, huddled together with +a respectful and awestricken air before that dignitary.</p> + +<p>‘Bopolt,’ said the Rector, in a sterner tone than +he was wont to use, ‘what right had you to allow +the church to be made a lounging-place for idle +strangers?’</p> + +<p>‘A lounging-place, sir! I never did any such-like +thing. There was no lounging went on, to my +knowledge; but I’ve been in the habit of showing +the monniments occasionally, as you know, sir, to +any respectable stranger, and the rose winder over +the south door.’</p> + +<p>‘Showing the monuments; yes, that’s one thing. +But to let a stranger have the key habitually—’</p> + +<p>‘Meanin’ the gentleman at the George, sir,’ faltered +the clerk, with an embarrassed air. ‘He was +quite the gentleman; and Mr. Filby, the organist, +sir, knew as he was in the ’abit of playin’ the organ +for a ’our or so, and left the keys for him regular, +did Mr. Filby, and says to me, “John, whenever +Mr. Vandeleur at the George likes to play the organ, +he’s free and welcome, and you can tell him so, with +my respects.”’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span></p> + +<p>‘He bribed you, I suppose?’ said Mr. Davoren.</p> + +<p>‘He may have given me a trifle at odd times as +some recompensation for my trouble in opening the +door for him, sir. I don’t wish to deceive you; and +if I’d thought for a moment there was any harm, I’d +have cut my fingers off sooner than open the churchdoor +for him. But I made certain as you knew, sir, +more particularly as I’d seen Miss Davoren go into the church +more than once when Mr. Vandeleur was there.’</p> + +<p>‘Of course,’ said the Rector, without flinching, +‘she had her choir work to attend to. Well, John, +there’s no use in being angry about a mistake; only +remember the church is not a place for the amusement +of amateur musicians. Good-afternoon.’</p> + +<p>The family, who had looked on in unspeakable +awe during this brief dialogue, now began to breathe +freely again, and a kettle, which had been sputtering +destruction over Mrs. Bopolt’s bright fender unregarded, +was now snatched off the top bar by that +careful matron, who had not dared to move hand or +foot in the presence of an offended Rector.</p> + +<p>Stephen Davoren walked slowly homeward, a +little more sick at heart than when he began his +voyage of discovery. Other people had known the +seducer; other people had seen his daughter go into +the church to meet her tempter, polluting that sacred<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> +place by the conflict of an earthly passion. Other +people had guessed something of the dreadful truth, +perhaps. He only had been blind.</p> + +<p>The thought of this, that his little world might +be in the secret of his sad story, helped to break his +heart. If it had not been broken by the mere fact +of his daughter’s ruin, it would have been crushed +by the weight of his own shame. He could not look +the world in the face any more. He tried to do his +duty manfully, preached the old sound homely sermons; +but when he spoke of sin and sorrow, he +seemed to speak of his lost daughter. He went +among his poor, but the thought of Janet set his +wits wandering in the midst of his simple talk, and +he would make little feeble speeches, and repeat himself +helplessly, hardly knowing what he said.</p> + +<p>His parishioners perceived the change, and told +each other that the Rector was breaking fast; it was +a pity Miss Davoren was away: ‘She’d have cheered +him up a bit, poor old gentleman.’</p> + +<p>Lucius came home from Winchester later in the +year—his school course ended, and the winner of a +scholarship which would help him at the university—came +home to hear the story of his sister’s flight, +his Janet, the sister whose genius and beauty had +been his highest pride.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span></p> + +<p>He took the news of this calamity more quietly +than his father and mother had dared to hope; insisted +upon hearing every detail of the event, but +said little.</p> + +<p>‘You made inquiries about this man, this Mr. +Vandeleur, of course, father?’ he said.</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ answered the Rector in his despondent +way, ‘I wrote to Harwood—you remember my old +friend Harwood, the solicitor?—and set him to work, +not telling him the whole story, as you may suppose. +But it resulted in nothing. I put an advertisement +into the <cite>Times</cite>, too, imploring your sister—’ with a +little husky noise before the word, as if he would +fain have uttered his missing girl’s name but could +not, ‘imploring her to come back, offering forgiveness, +affection, silence, so worded that none but she +could understand. I think she must have left England, +Lucius. I do not believe she would have left +that appeal unanswered.’</p> + +<p>‘Vandeleur!’ said Lucius quietly; ‘an assumed +name, no doubt. Some scoundrel she met at the +Castle, or at Lady Baker’s. Vandeleur, I pray God +I may come across him before I’m many years +older.’</p> + +<p>This was all he said, and from this time forth +he never pronounced his sister’s name. He saw<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> +how far this grief had gone towards shortening his +father’s life, how dark a cloud it had spread over his +mother’s declining years. A twelvemonth later, and +both were gone; the father dying suddenly one +bright spring morning of heart-disease, organic disorder +of long standing, but who shall say how accelerated +by that bitter trouble? The faithful wife +drooped from the day of her husband’s death, and +only four months afterwards sank quietly to her rest, +thankful that her journey was ended, placidly happy +in the secure hope of a swift and easy passage to +the better land, where she would find the partner +of her life waiting for her, the little daughter who +died years ago greeting her with loving welcome.</p> + +<p>And thus Lucius Davoren had been left quite +alone in the world in the first year of his university +life, two years before he came up to London to walk +the hospitals, and just five years before he started +for America with Geoffrey Hossack.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IIa">CHAPTER II.<br> +<span class="fs70">HOMER SIVEWRIGHT</span>.</h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">There</span> was not a plethora of patients in the Shadrack-road, +nor were the cases which presented themselves +to Mr. Davoren for the most part of a deeply-interesting +character. He had a good supply of +casualties, from broken limbs, dislocated shoulders, +collar bones, and crushed ribs, down to black eyes; +he had numerous cases of a purely domestic nature—cases +which called him out of his bed of nights; +and he had a good many small patients in the narrow +streets and airless alleys—little sufferers whose +quiet endurance, whose meek acceptance of pain as +a necessity of their lives, moved him more than he +would have cared to confess. So profound a pity as +he sometimes felt for these little ones would have +seemed hardly professional. His practice among +children was singularly fortunate. He did not +drench them with those nauseous compounds which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> +previous practitioners had freely administered in a +rough-and-ready off-hand fashion; but he did, with +a very small amount of drugs, for the most part +succeed in setting these delicate machines in order, +restoring health’s natural hue to pallid cheeks, +breathing life into feeble lungs. It was painful +to him often to find himself obliged to prescribe +good broths and nourishing solids where an empty +larder and an unfurnished purse stared him, as it +were, palpably in the face; and there were many +occasions when he eked out his instructions with +contributions in kind—a shilling’s worth of beef +or a couple of mutton-chops, from the butcher at +the end of the street, a gill of port from the nearest +tavern. But him, too, Poverty held in his iron grip, +and it was not always that he could afford to part +with so much as a shilling.</p> + +<p>Such luxuries as fresh air and clean water—restoratives +which might be supposed easy of access +even in the Shadrack-road district, though there +were dwellings around and about Shadrack-Basin +where even these were hardly obtainable—he urged +upon his patients with all his might, and in the +households he attended there arose a startling innovation +in the way of open windows. From these very +poor patients he, of course, received no money; but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> +he had other patrons, small tradesmen and their +families, who paid him, and paid him honourably, +down on the nail for the most part, and on a scale he +felt he must blush to remember by and by when he +became a distinguished west-end physician. Small +as the payments were, however, they enabled him to +live, so very small were his own requirements. His +Amati ate nothing. He had, himself, a stoical indifference +to good living, and could have sustained +himself contentedly upon pemmican, within reach of +all the richest and rarest viands earth could yield +to a Lucullus. His establishment consisted of an +ancient serving-woman, who had withdrawn herself +from a useful career of charing for his exclusive service, +a woman who returned to the bosom of her +family every night and came back to her post in the +early morning, and a boy of a low-spirited turn of +mind and an inconvenient tendency to bleeding at +the nose. It irked him that he was obliged to pay +the rent of an entire house, however small, requiring +for his own uses at most three rooms. But people +had told him that he could not hope to do any good +in the Shadrack-Basin district if he began his professional +career in lodgings; and he was fain to +submit. He concluded that there must be some +lurking element of aristocracy in the minds of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> +Shadrackites, not suggested by their outward habits, +which were of the whelk-and-periwinkle-eating +order.</p> + +<p>His house was small, inconvenient, and shabbily +furnished. He had taken the furniture at a valuation +from Mr. Plumsole, his predecessor—a valuation +which, if it had been based on justice, should have +been nothing; since a more rickety race of chairs and +tables, a more evil-looking family of bedsteads and +dressing-tables, chiffoniers and sofas, had never been +called into being by the glue-pot. There was not a +perfect set of castors in the house, or a chair which +had not some radical defect in one of its legs, or a +table that realised one’s notion of a correct level. +Lucius was obliged to buy a tool-box and a glue-pot +very soon after his investiture as proprietor of Mr. +Plumsole’s goods and chattels; and a good deal of +his leisure was consumed by small experiments in +domestic surgery, as applied to chairs and tables. +He performed the most delicate operations; reduced +dislocations, and cured compound fractures in a wonderful +way; with the aid of a handful of tin tacks +and a halfpennyworth of glue. But he felt somehow +that this was not the direct road to the mastery of a +great science, and would give a weary little sigh as +he went back to his medical books, after a sharp<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> +struggle with a refractory chair-leg, or an obstinate +declivity in the flap of a Pembroke table.</p> + +<p>He was very poor, very patient, very much in +earnest; as earnest now as he had been in those +days of wild adventure in the Far West, when amid +all the excitement of the chase his thoughts had ever +gone beyond, searching for Nature’s secrets, longing +to wrest from her vast stores of hidden wealth some +treasure which might be useful to his fellow-creatures. +Of all those vague unspoken hopes nothing +had come. He had left no footmark behind him in +that distant world; he had brought home no trophy. +Nothing had resulted from all those days of hardship +and peril, except a secret which it was horror to +remember. He turned his face now resolutely to +the real world—the cold, hard, workaday world of an +over-populated city—and set himself to do what good +there was for him to do in his narrow sphere.</p> + +<p>‘It may be some atonement for the blood I shed +yonder,’ he said to himself.</p> + +<p>In his small way he prospered—prospered in +doing good. When he had been at this drudgery a +little more than a year, the parish surgeon died—popular +report said of a too genial temper and a leaning +towards good fellowship, not unassociated with +Irish whisky—and Lucius was elected in his stead.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> +This gave him a pittance which helped him, paid his +rent and taxes and the charwoman, and gave him +admittance to the dwellings of the poor. Thus it was +he came to have so many children in his case-book, +and to spend his scanty surplus in small charities +among his patients.</p> + +<p>He worked hard all day, and, after the manner of +his kind, was often called up in the night; but he +had his evenings for the most part to himself, to use +as he listed. These precious intervals of leisure he +spent in reading—reading which was chiefly professional—solacing +himself sometimes with a dip into a +favourite author. His library consisted of a shelf-full +of books on one of the decrepit chiffoniers, and was +at least select. The Greek playwrights, Shakespeare, +Montaigne, St. Thomas à Kempis, Molière, Sterne, +De Musset, Shelley, Keats, Byron made up his stock; +and of these he never knew weariness. He opened one +of these volumes haphazard when the scientific reading +had been unusually tough, and he had closed his +medical books with a sigh of relief, opened one of his +pet volumes anywhere, and read on till he read himself +into dreamland. Dreams will come, even in the +Shadrack-Basin district, to a man who has not yet +crossed the boundary line of his thirtieth birthday; +but Lucius Davoren’s were only vague dreams, inchoate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> +visions of future success, of the days when he +was to be famous, and live among the lofty spirits of +the age, and feel that he had made his name a name +to be remembered in centuries to come. Perhaps +every young man who has been successful at a public +school and at the university begins life with the same +vision; but upon Lucius the fancy had a stronger +hold than on most men, and almost amounted to a +belief, the belief that it was his destiny to be of use +to his fellow-creatures.</p> + +<p>But he had another key to open the gates of +dreamland, a key more potent than Shakespeare. +When things had gone well with him, when in the +day’s work there had been some little professional +success, some question that interested his keen fancy, +and had been solved to his satisfaction; above all, +when he had done some good thing for his fellow-creatures, +he would take a shining mahogany-case +from the chiffonier beneath his book-shelf, lay it +tenderly on the table, as if it were a living thing, +open it with a dainty little key which he wore attached +to his watch-chain, and draw forth his priceless +treasure, the Amati violin, for which he, to whom +pounds were verily pounds, had given in his early +student days the sum of one hundred guineas. How +many deprivations, how many small sacrifices—gloves,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> +opera-tickets, ay, even dinners—that violin represented! +He naturally loved it so much the better +for the pangs it had cost him. He had earned it, if +not with the sweat of his brow, at least by the exercise +of supreme self-denial.</p> + +<p>Then, with careful hand, with delicate sympathetic +touch, fingers light as those with which a +woman gathers her favourite flower, he would draw +forth his fiddle, and soon the little room would be +filled with gentle strains—plaintive, soothing, meditative, +the music of dreams; full of tender thoughts, +of pensive memories; music which was like thinking +aloud. And after those fond memories of familiar +melody, music which was as easy a language as his +mother tongue, he would open one of his battered +old volumes, and pore over the intricate pages of +Viotti, or Spohr, or De Beriot, or Lafont, until midnight, +and even the quieter hours that follow, had +sounded from all the various steeple-clocks and dockyard-clocks +and factory-clocks of that watery district.</p> + +<p>He had been working upwards of a year as parish +surgeon, and in all that time, and the time that went +before it, had not been favoured with any more aristocratic +patronage than that of the neighbouring +tradesmen, his wealthiest patient being a publican<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> +at the corner of the great Essex-road, reported the +richest man in the district; when chance, or that +combination of small causes which seems generally +to lead up to the greatest effects, brought him into +friendly and professional relations with a man of a +different class; a man about whom the Shadrack-road +knew little, but thought much.</p> + +<p>Lucius was returning from his daily round one +winter afternoon, towards the end of November, +when the skies that roof in the Shadrack-Basin +region begin to darken soon after three o’clock. It +was nearer five when the parish surgeon set his face +homeward, and the Shadrack-road was enfolded in +its customary fog; the street-lamps—not too brilliant +in the clearest weather—and the lighted shop-windows +showing dimly athwart that sombre smoke-curtain. +Suddenly, gleaming a little brighter than +the rest, he saw a moving lamp, the lamp of a fast +hansom; then heard an execration, in the usual cabman-voice; +a crash, a grinding noise as of wheels +grating against wheels; a volley of execrations rising +in terrible crescendo; and then the loud commanding +voice of the passenger in the stranded vehicle, +demanding to be let out.</p> + +<p>Lucius went to the assistance of the distressed +passenger—if that could be called distress which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> +could command so lusty an utterance—and extricated +him from the hansom, which had run foul of +a monster dray, laden with beer barrels.</p> + +<p>The passenger availed himself of Mr. Davoren’s +arm, and alighted, not without some show of feebleness. +It seemed as if his chief strength were in his +voice. Seen somewhat dimly beneath that fog curtain, +he appeared an old man, tall but bent, with a +leonine head and a penetrating eye—keen as the eye +of hawk or eagle.</p> + +<p>He thanked the surgeon briefly, dismissed the +cabman with a stern reproof and without his fare.</p> + +<p>‘You know me,’ he said; ‘Homer Sivewright, +Cedar House. You can take out a summons if you +fancy you’re badly treated. You’ve jerked a great +deal more than eighteenpence out of my constitution.’</p> + +<p>The cabman vanished in the fog, grumbling but +acquiescent.</p> + +<p>‘At seventy and upwards,’ said Mr. Sivewright to +Lucius, ‘the human economy will hardly bear shaking. +I shall walk home.’</p> + +<p>He seemed feeble, somewhat uncertain upon his +legs; and Lucius’s humanity came to the rescue.</p> + +<p>‘Take my arm as far as your house,’ he said; +‘my time is not especially valuable.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span></p> + +<p>‘Isn’t it?’ demanded the old man, looking at him +suspiciously; ‘a young man about London whose +time is of no use to him is in a bad road.’</p> + +<p>‘I didn’t say my time was of no use to me. Perhaps +there are not many men in London who work +harder than I. Only, as I take no pleasure, I have +sometimes a margin left after work. I can spare +half-an-hour just now, and if you like to lean on my +arm it is at your service.’</p> + +<p>‘I accept your friendly offer. You speak like a +gentleman and an honest man. My house is not +half a mile from here; you must know it if you +know this neighbourhood—Cedar House.’</p> + +<p>‘I think I do. A curious old house, belonging +evidently to two periods, half stone, half brick, standing +back from the road behind a heavily-buttressed +wall. Is that it?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. It was once a palace or a royal hunting-lodge, +or whatever you like to call it. It was afterwards +enlarged, in the reign of Anne, and became a +wealthy citizen’s country seat, before there were all +these abominations of factories and ropewalks and +docks between the City and the eastern suburbs. I +got the place for an almost nominal rent, and it +suits me, as an empty hogshead would suit a mouse—plenty +of room to turn round in it.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span></p> + +<p>‘The house looks very large, but your family is +large, no doubt.’</p> + +<p>‘My family consists of myself and my granddaughter, +with two old servants,—trustworthy, of +course. That is to say, they have learned by experience +exactly to what extent they may safely rob +me.’</p> + +<p>They were walking in an eastward direction as +they talked; the old man leaning somewhat heavily +on the younger.</p> + +<p>Lucius laughed pleasantly at his companion’s +cynicism.</p> + +<p>‘Then you don’t believe even in the honesty of +faithful servants?’</p> + +<p>‘I believe in nothing that is not demonstrable by +the rule of three. The fidelity of old servants is like +the fidelity of your household cat—they are faithful +to their places; the beds they have slept upon so +many years; the fireside at which they have a snug +corner where the east wind cannot touch their rheumatism.’</p> + +<p>‘Yet there are instances of something better than +mere feline constancy. Sir Walter Scott’s servants, +for instance, who put their shoulders to the wheel +manfully when Fortune played their master false—the +old butler turning scrub and jack-of-all-trades,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> +the old coachman going to the plough-tail. There is +something awful in the descent of a butler, too, like +the downfall of an archbishop.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know anything about your Sir Walter +Scott,’ growled Mr. Sivewright; ‘I suppose it is +natural to youth to look at all things brightly, though +I have known youth that didn’t. You talk gaily +enough for a young man who devotes no time to +pleasure.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you think pleasure—in the common acceptation +of the word, meaning late hours and mixed company—really +conduces to good spirits?’</p> + +<p>‘Only as opium engenders sleep—to leave a man +three times as wakeful afterwards,’ said Mr. Sivewright. +‘I have done without that kind of pleasure +myself throughout a long life, yet I hardly count +myself wise. Fairly to estimate the lightness of his +own particular burden, a man should try to carry a +heavier one. There is no better tonic for the hard-worker +than a course of pleasure. You are in some +trade or profession, I presume,’ he added, turning +his sharp glance upon his companion; ‘a clerk, perhaps?’</p> + +<p>‘No; but something that works harder than a +clerk. A parish doctor.’</p> + +<p>Mr. Sivewright recoiled palpably.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span></p> + +<p>‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Lucius; ‘it was not as +a possible patient that I pulled you out of the cab. +My practice doesn’t lie among the upper classes.’</p> + +<p>‘Nor do I belong to the upper classes,’ answered +the other quickly. ‘I forgive you your profession, +though I am among those prejudiced people who have +an innate aversion from doctors, lawyers, and parsons. +But the machinery of commerce won’t allow us to +dispense with the lawyers; and I suppose among +the poor there still lingers a remnant of the old belief +that there’s some use in doctors. The parsons +thrive upon the foolishness of women. So there is +a field still left for your three learned professions.’</p> + +<p>‘That way of talking is a fashion,’ said Lucius +quietly; ‘but I daresay if you were seriously ill to-morrow, +your thoughts would turn instinctively towards +Savile-row. And perhaps if you were going to +die, you’d feel all the happier if the friendly voice +of your parish priest breathed familiar words of hope +and comfort beside your pillow.’</p> + +<p>‘I know nothing of my parish, except that its +rates are four-and-twopence in the pound,’ returned +the other in his incisive voice.</p> + +<p>A quarter of an hour’s walking, beguiled by such +talk as this, brought them to the house of which +Lucius had spoken, a dwelling altogether out of keeping<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> +with the present character of the Shadrack-road. +That heavily-buttressed wall, dark with the smoke +and foul weather of centuries; that rusty iron gate, +with its florid scroll work, and forgotten coat-of-arms +(a triumph of the blacksmith’s art two hundred years +old); that dark-browed building within, formed of a +red-brick centre, square, many-windowed, and prosaic, +with a tall narrow doorway, overshadowed by a stone +shell, sustained by cherubic heads of the Anne period, +flanked by an older wing of gray moss-discoloured +stone, with massive mullioned windows, had nothing +in common with the shabby rows and shops and +skimpy terraces and bulkheads and low-roofed, disreputable +habitations of the neighbourhood. It stood +alone, a solitary relic of the past; splendid, gloomy, +inscrutable.</p> + +<p>Nothing in the man Sivewright interested Lucius +Davoren half so much as the fact that he lived in this +queer old house. After all a man’s surroundings are +often half the man, and our first impression of a new +acquaintance is generally taken from his chairs and +tables.</p> + +<p>The grim old iron gate was not a portal to be +opened with a latch-key. It looked like one of the +outworks of a fortification, to be taken by assault. +Mr. Sivewright pulled at an iron ring, suspended<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> +beyond the reach of the gutter children of the district, +and a remote bell rang within the fastness, a hoarse +old bell, rusty no doubt like the gate. After a +lengthy interval measured by the gauge of a visitor’s +patience, but which Mr. Sivewright accepted +with resignation as a thing of course, this summons +produced an elderly female, with slippered feet, a +bonnet, and bare arms, who unlocked the gate, and +admitted them to an enclosure of fog, stagnant as +compared with the fog in circulation without, and +which seemed to the doctor of a lower temperature, +as if in crossing that narrow boundary he had travelled +a degree northward.</p> + +<p>‘Come in,’ said Mr. Sivewright, with the tone of +a man who offers reluctant hospitality, ‘and have a +glass of wine. You’ve had a cold walk on my account; +you’d better take a little refreshment.’</p> + +<p>‘No, thanks; but I should like to see your house.’</p> + +<p>‘Should you? There’s not much to see; an old +barrack, that’s all,’ said the old man, stopping short, +with a doubtful air, as if he would have infinitely +preferred leaving the surgeon outside. ‘Very few +strangers ever cross my threshold, except the taxgatherer. +However,’ with an air of resignation, ‘come +in.’</p> + +<p>The old woman had opened the tall narrow door<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> +meanwhile, revealing an interior dimly lighted by a +lamp which must have been feeble always, but which +was now the veriest glimmer. Lucius followed his +new acquaintance through this doorway into a large +square hall, from which a broad oaken staircase ascended +to an open gallery. There was just enough +light for Lucius to see that this hall, instead of being +bare and meagrely furnished as he had expected to +find it, was crowded with a vast assemblage of heterogeneous +objects. Pictures piled against the gloomy +panelled walls. Sculpture, porcelain, and delf of every +nation and every period, from monster vases of imperial +lacquer to fragile déjeuners of Dresden and +Copenhagen; from inchoate groups of vermin and +shell-fish from the workshop of Pallissy, to the exquisite +modelling of teacups resplendent with gods and +goddesses from Capo-di-Monte; from gaudy dishes +and bowls of old Rouen delf, to the perfection of Louis-Seize +Sèvres. Armour of every age, vases of jasper +and porphyry, carved-oak cabinets, the particoloured +plumage of stuffed birds, Gobelins tapestry, South-Sea +shells, Venetian glass, Milan ironwork, were +curiously intermingled; as if some maniac artist in +the confusion of a once fine taste had heaped these +things together. By that dim light, Lucius saw only +the fitful glimmer of steel casques and breastplates,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> +the half-defined shapes of marble statues, the outline +of jasper vases and huge Pallissy dishes. Later he +came to know all those treasures by heart.</p> + +<p>A Louis-Quatorze clock on a bracket began to +strike six, and immediately a chorus of clocks in adjacent +rooms, in tones feeble or strong, tenor or bass, +took up the strain.</p> + +<p>‘I am like Charles the Fifth, particular about my +clocks,’ said Mr. Sivewright. ‘I keep them all going. +This way, if you please, Mr.—’</p> + +<p>‘Davoren.’</p> + +<p>‘Davoren! That sounds a good name.’</p> + +<p>‘My father cherished a tradition to that effect—a +good middle-class family. Our ancestor represented +his native county in Queen Elizabeth’s first Parliament. +But I inherited nothing except the name.’</p> + +<p>He was staring about him in that doubtful light, +as he spoke, trying to penetrate the gloom.</p> + +<p>‘You are surprised to see such a collection as that +in the Shadrack-road? Dismiss your wonder. I am +not an antiquarian; but a dealer. Those things represent +the remnant of my stock-in-trade. I kept a +shop in Bond-street for five-and-thirty years.’</p> + +<p>‘And when you retired from business you kept all +those things?’</p> + +<p>‘I kept them as some men keep their money, at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> +compound interest. Every year I live increases the +value of those things. They belong to manufactures +that are extinct. With every year examples perish. +Ten years hence the value of my stock will have multiplied +by the square of my original capital.’</p> + +<p>Mr. Sivewright opened a door on one side of the +hall, and, motioning to his guest to follow him, entered +a room somewhat brighter of aspect than the +hall without. It was a large room, sparsely furnished +as to the luxurious appliances of modern homes, but +boasting, here and there, in rich relief against the panelled +walls, one of those rare and beautiful objects +upon which the virtuoso is content to gaze throughout +the leisure moments of a lifetime. In the recess +on one side of the fireplace stood a noble old buffet, +in cherry wood and ebony; in the corresponding recess +on the other side a cabinet in Florentine mosaic; +from one corner came the solemn tick of an eight-day +clock, whose carved and inlaid walnut-wood case was +a miracle of art; and upon each central panel of the +walls hung a cabinet picture of the Dutch school. So +much for the pleasure of the eye. Mere sensual comfort +had been less regarded in the arrangement of Mr. +Sivewright’s sitting-room. A small square of threadbare +Persian carpet covered the centre of the oaken +floor, serving more for ornament than for luxury.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> +The rest was bare. A mahogany Pembroke table, +value about fifteen shillings, occupied the middle of +the room; one shabby-looking arm-chair, horsehair-cushioned, +high-backed, and by no means suggestive +of repose; two other chairs, of the same family, but +without arms; and a business-like deal desk in one +of the windows, completed the catalogue of Mr. Sivewright’s +goods and chattels.</p> + +<p>Preparations for dinner, scanty like the furniture, +occupied the table; or rather preparations for that +joint meal which, in some economic households, combines +the feminine refreshment of tea with the more +masculine and substantial repast. On one side of the +table a small white cloth neatly spread, with a single +knife and fork, tumbler, and Venetian flask half-full +of claret, indicated that Mr. Sivewright was going to +dine: on the other side, a small oval mahogany tray, +with a black Wedgewood teapot, suggested that some +one else was going to drink tea. A handful of fire +burned cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned grate, contracted +into the smallest possible compass by cheeks +of firebrick. Throughout the room, scrupulously +neat in every detail, Lucius recognised the guiding +spirit of parsimony, tempered in all things by some +gentler household spirit which contrived to impart +some look of comfort even to those meagre surroundings.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> +A pair of candles, not lighted, stood on the +table. Mr. Sivewright lighted one of these, and for +the first time Lucius was able to see what manner of +man his new acquaintance was. All he had been able +to discover in the fog was the leonine head and hawk’s +eye.</p> + +<p>The light of the candle showed him a countenance +once handsome, but now deeply lined, the complexion +dark and sallow, deepening to almost a copper tint in +the shadows. The nose aquiline and strongly marked; +the upper lip singularly long, the mouth about as indicative +of softness or flexibility as if it had been +fashioned out of wrought iron; the cheeks worn and +hollow; the brow and temples almost hidden by the +long loose gray hair, which gave that lion-like aspect +to the large head—altogether a face and head to be +remembered. The figure tall and spare, but with +breadth of shoulder; at times bent, but in some moments +of vivacity drawn suddenly erect, as if the man +by mere force of will could at pleasure recover the +lost energy of his departed youth.</p> + +<p>‘A curious face,’ thought Lucius; ‘and there is +something in it—something that seems like a memory +or an association—which strikes me more forcibly +than the face itself. Yet I know not what. I daresay +I have dreamed of such a face, or have shaped it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span> +in my own fancy to fit some poetic creation—Ugolino, +Lear, who knows?’</p> + +<p>‘Sit down,’ said Mr. Sivewright, pointing to a +chair opposite his own, into which he had established +himself with as comfortable an air as if the chair itself +had been the crowning triumph of luxurious upholstery. +‘You can drink claret, I suppose?’ taking +a couple of glasses from the Florentine cabinet, and +filling them with the wine on the table. ‘I drink no +other wine myself. A sound light Medoc, which can +hurt nobody.’</p> + +<p>‘Nobody whose stomach is fortified with a double +casing of iron,’ thought Lucius, as he sipped the +acrid beverage, which he accepted out of courtesy.</p> + +<p>‘Ten minutes past six,’ said Mr. Sivewright, ringing +a bell; ‘my dinner ought to be on the table.’</p> + +<p>An inner door behind Lucius opened as he spoke, +and a girl came into the room carrying a little tray, +with two small covered dishes. Lucius supposed the +newcomer to be a servant, and did not trouble himself +to look up till she had placed her dishes on the +table, and lingered to give the finishing touches to +the arrangement of the board. He did look up then, +and saw that this ministering spirit was no common +hireling, but one of the most interesting women he +had ever seen.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p> + +<p>She was hardly to be called a woman; she was +but in the opening blossom of girlhood; a fragile-looking +flower, pale as some waxen-petalled exotic +reared under glass, with the thermometer at seventy-six. +She had something foreign, or even tropical, in +her appearance; eyes dark as night, hair of the same +sombre hue. Her figure was of middle height, slim, +but with no sharpness of outline; every curve perfection, +every line grace. Her features were delicately +pencilled, but not strikingly beautiful. Indeed, +the chief and all-pervading charm of her appearance +was that exquisite delicacy, that flower-like fragility +which moved one to exclaim, ‘How lovely, but how +short-lived!’</p> + +<p>Yet it is not always these delicate blossoms which +fade the first; the tough-stemmed poppy will sometimes +be mown down by Death’s inexorable sickle, +while the opal-hued petals of the dog-rose still breast +the storm. There was a strength of endurance beneath +this fragile exterior which Lucius would have +been slow to believe in.</p> + +<p>The girl glanced at the stranger with much +surprise, but without the slightest embarrassment. +Rarely did a stranger sit beside that hearth. But +there had been such intruders from time to time,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> +traders or clients of the old man’s. She had no curiosity +upon the subject.</p> + +<p>‘Your dinner is quite ready, grandfather,’ she +said; ‘you had better eat it before it grows cold.’</p> + +<p>She lifted the covers from the two dainty little +dishes—a morsel of steak cooked in some foreign +fashion—a handful of sliced potato fried in oil.</p> + +<p>Lucius rose to depart.</p> + +<p>‘I won’t intrude upon you any longer, Mr. Sivewright,’ +he said; ‘but if you will allow me to call +upon you some day and look at your wonderful collection, +I shall be very glad.’</p> + +<p>‘Stay where you are,’ answered the other in his +authoritative way; ‘you’ve dined, I’ve no doubt.’ A +convenient way of settling <em>that</em> question. ‘Lucille, +my granddaughter, can give you a cup of tea.’</p> + +<p>Lucille smiled, with a little gesture of assent +strikingly foreign, Lucius thought. An English girl +would hardly have been so gracious to a nameless +stranger.</p> + +<p>‘I told you, when we first met in that abominable +fog, that I liked your voice,’ said Mr. Sivewright. +‘I’ll go farther now, and say I like your face. I forgive +you your profession, as I said before. Stay, and +see my collection to-night.’</p> + +<p>‘That is as much as to say, “See all you want<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> +to see to-night, and don’t plague me with any future +visits,”’ thought Lucius, who found that meagrely-furnished +room, that scanty fire, more attractive since +the appearance of Lucille.</p> + +<p>He accepted the invitation, however; drew his +chair to the tea-table, and drank two cups of tea and +ate two or three small slices of bread-and-butter with +a sublime disregard of the fact that he had not broken +his fast since eight o’clock in the morning. He +had acquired a passion for mild decoctions of congou +in those days of privation far away beyond the Saskatchewan; +and this particular tea seemed to have a +subtle aroma which made it better than any he had +ever brewed for himself beside his solitary hearth.</p> + +<p>‘I became a tea-drinker four years ago, in the Far +West,’ he said, as an excuse for his second cup.</p> + +<p>‘Do you mean in America?’ the girl asked eagerly.</p> + +<p>‘Yes. Have you ever been over yonder?’</p> + +<p>‘Never; only I am always interested in hearing +of America.’</p> + +<p>‘You had much better be interested in hearing of +the moon,’ said Mr. Sivewright, with an angry look; +‘you are just as likely to discover anything there that +concerns you.’</p> + +<p>‘You have relations or friends in America, perhaps, +Miss Sivewright?’ inquired Lucius; but a little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> +warning look and gesture from Lucille prevented his +repeating the question.</p> + +<p>He began to tell her some of his adventures beyond +the Red River—not his hours of dire strait and +calamity, not the horror of his forest experiences. +Those were things he never spoke of, scenes he dared +not think of, days which it was misery to him to +remember.</p> + +<p>‘You must have gone through great hardship,’ +she said, after listening to him with keen interest. +‘Were you never in actual peril?’</p> + +<p>‘Once. We were lost in a forest westward of the +Rocky Mountains. But that is a period I do not care +to speak of. My dearest friend was ill—at the point +of death. Happily for us a company of Canadian emigrants, +bound for the gold-fields, came across our +track just in time to save us. But for that providential +circumstance I shouldn’t be here to tell you the +story. Wolves or wolverines would have picked my +bones.’</p> + +<p>‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Lucille, with a shudder.</p> + +<p>‘Yes. Wolves are not agreeable society. But +human nature is still more horrible when it casts off +the mask of civilisation.’</p> + +<p>Mr. Sivewright had finished his dinner by this +time, and had absorbed two glasses of the sound<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> +Medoc without a single contortion of his visage; a +striking instance of the force of habit.</p> + +<p>‘Come,’ said he. ‘I’ll show you some of my collection. +You’re no judge of art, I suppose. I never +knew a young man who was; though they’re always +ready enough with their opinions.’</p> + +<p>He took up one of the candles, and led the way +to the hall, thence to a room on the other side of the +house, larger than the family sitting-room, and used +as a storehouse for his treasures. Here Lucius beheld +the same confusion of bric-à-brac which had +bewildered him on his first entrance into that singular +mansion, only on a larger scale. Pictures again, +statues again, cabinets, tables, fragmentary pieces of +mediæval oak carving, stray panels that had once +lined old Flemish churches, choir-stalls with sacred +story carved upon their arms and backs; armour +again, grim and ghastly as the collection of the Hôtel +Cluny, demonstrating how man’s invention, before it +entered the vast field of gunnery, had lavished its +wanton cruelty on forms that hack and hew, and jag +and tear and saw; spiky swords, pole-axes with serrated +edges, pikes from which dangled iron balls +studded with sharp points; and so on. Ceramic ware, +again, of every age, from a drinking-vessel dug from +beneath one of the earth-mounds on the shores of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> +Euphrates to the chocolatière out of which Marie +Jeanne Vaubernier, otherwise Du Barri, took her last +breakfast. And, rising grim above the frivolities of +art, loomed the gaunt outline of a Scottish Maiden, +the rough germ of the Gallic guillotine.</p> + +<p>The old man looked round his storehouse with a +smile of triumph, holding aloft his single candle, +every object showing strangely, and casting uncanny +shadows in that feeble light, he himself not the least +curious figure in the Rembrandtesque picture. He +looked like some enchanter, who, at a breath, had +called these things into being.</p> + +<p>‘You astound me!’ exclaimed Lucius, looking +about him with unaffected wonder. ‘You spoke some +time ago of having saved the remnant of your stock; +but you have here a collection larger than I should +have supposed any dealer in curiosities would care +to amass, even in the full swing of his business.’</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps,’ answered Mr. Sivewright with a +dreamy air. ‘For the mere purposes of trade—for +trade upon the nimble-ninepence system—there is no +doubt too much. But these things have accumulated +since I left off business. The passion for collecting +them was not to be put away as easily as I +put up my shutters with the expiry of a long lease. +My harpy of a landlord asked a rent so exorbitant,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> +that I preferred cutting short a successful trade to +pandering to his greed. True that the situation had +increased in value during the last twenty-one years +of my residence; but I declined to toil for another +man’s profit. I turned my hack upon Bond-street, +determined to take life quietly in future. I found +this old house—to be let cheap, and roomy enough +to hold my treasures. Since that time I have amused +myself by attending all the great sales, and a good +many of the little ones. I have been to Paris, Brussels, +Antwerp—and farther afield—on special occasions. +My collection has grown upon me—it represents +all I possess in the world, all that I can ever +leave to my descendants. As I told you, I anticipate +that as the value of money decreases, and the age +grows more artistic, the value of these specimens, all +relics of departed arts, will be multiplied fourfold.’</p> + +<p>‘A wise investment, in that case,’ replied Lucius; +‘but if the age should have touched its highest point +of luxurious living, if the passion for splendid surroundings, +once the attribute only of a Buckingham +or a Hertford, now the vice of the million, should +work its own cure, and give place to a Spartan simplicity, +how then?’</p> + +<p>‘My collection would most likely be purchased +by the State,’ said the old man coolly; ‘a destiny<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> +which I should infinitely prefer to its disintegration, +however profitable. <em>Then</em>, Mr. Davoren, the name of +Homer Sivewright would go down to posterity linked +with one of the noblest Museums ever created by a +single individual.’</p> + +<p>‘Pardon me,’ said Lucius; ‘but your name +Homer—is that a family or merely a Christian name?’</p> + +<p>‘The name given me by my foolish old father—whose +father was a contemporary of Bentley—who +gave his life to the study of Homer, and tried to +establish the thesis that early Greece had but one +poet; that the cyclic poets were the merest phantasma; +and that Stasinus, Arctinus, Lesches, and the +rest, were but the mouthpieces of that one mighty +bard. Every man is said to be mad upon one point, or +mad once in twenty-four hours. My father was very +mad about Greek. He gave me my ridiculous name—which +made me the laughing-stock of my schoolfellows—a +university education and his blessing. He +had no more to give. My college career cost him the +only fortune he could have left me; and I found myself, +at one-and-twenty, fatherless, motherless, homeless, +and penniless, and—what to my poor father +would have seemed worst of all—plucked for my incapacity +to appreciate the niceties of Homeric Greek.’</p> + +<p>‘How did you weather the storm?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p> + +<p>‘I might not have weathered it at all, but for a +self-delusion which sustained me in the very face of +starvation. But for that I could hardly have crossed +Waterloo-bridge without being sorely tempted to take +the shortest cut out of my perplexities. I fancied +myself a painter. That dream kept me alive. I got +bread somehow; sold my daubs to a dealer; made +some progress even in the art of daubing; and only +after five years of hard work and harder living awoke +one day to the bitter truth that I was no more a +painter than I was a Grecian, no nearer Reynolds +than Porson.’</p> + +<p>‘You bore your disappointment bravely, I imagine.’</p> + +<p>‘Why imagine that?’</p> + +<p>‘Because your physiognomy teaches me your +ability to come safely through such an ordeal—a +will strong enough to stand against even a worse +shock.’</p> + +<p>‘You are right. I parted with my delusion quietly +enough, though it had brightened my boyhood, and +kept me alive during five weary years. As I could +not be a painter of pictures, I determined to be a +dealer in them, and began life once more in a little +den of a shop, in a court near Leicester-square—began +with ten pounds for my capital; bought a bit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> +of old china for three-and-sixpence, and sold it for +ten shillings; had an occasional stroke of luck as +time went by; once picked up a smoke-darkened +picture of a piggery, which turned out an indisputable +Morland; went everywhere and saw everything +that was to be seen in the shape of pictures and +ceramic ware; lived in an atmosphere of art, and +brought to bear upon my petty trade a genuine passion +for art, which stood me in good stead against +bigwigs whose knowledge was only technical. In +four years I had a stock worth three thousand pounds, +and was able to open a shop in Bond-street. A man +with a window in Bond-street must be an arrant ass +if he can’t make money. The dilettanti found me +out, and discovered that I had received the education +of a gentleman. Young men about town made my +shop a lounge. I sold them the choicest brands of +cigars, under the rose, and occasionally lent them +money; for which I charged them about half the +interest they would have paid a professed usurer. My +profits were reinvested in fresh stock as fast as they +accumulated. I acquired a reputation for judgment +and taste; and, in a word, I succeeded; which I +should never have done had I insisted upon thinking +myself a neglected Raphael.’</p> + +<p>‘I thank you for your history, more interesting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> +to my mind than any object in your collection. I do +not wonder that you were loth to part with the gems +of art you had slowly gathered. But had none of +your children the inclination to continue so fascinating +a trade?’</p> + +<p>‘My children!’ repeated Homer Sivewright, with +a gloomy look; ‘I have no children. When you talk +to a stranger, Mr. Davoren, beware of commonplace +questions. They sometimes gall a raw spot.’</p> + +<p>‘Pardon me; only seeing that interesting young +lady—your granddaughter—’</p> + +<p>‘That granddaughter represents all my kindred +upon earth. I <em>had</em> a son—that girl’s father. But +there is not a figure carved on yonder oaken choir-stalls +of less account to me than that son is now.’</p> + +<p>Lucius was silent. He had been unlucky enough +to stumble upon the threshold of a family mystery. +Yes, he had fancied some touch of sadness, some +vague shadow of a quiet grief, in that sweet young +face. The child of a disgraced father; her gentle +spirit even yet weighed down by the memory of some +ancient shame. He thought of the sorrow that had +darkened his own youth—the bitter memory which +haunted him even yet—the memory of his lost +sister.</p> + +<p>He went through the collection, seeing things as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> +well as he could by the light of a solitary candle. +Mr. Sivewright displayed his various treasures with +infinite enthusiasm; dilating upon the modelling here, +the colouring there; through all the technicalities of +art. He kept his guest absorbed in this investigation +for nearly two hours, although there were moments +when the younger man’s thoughts wandered back to +the parlour where they had left Lucille.</p> + +<p>He was thinking of her even while he appeared to +listen with intense interest to Mr. Sivewright’s explanation +of the difference between <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pâte tendre</i> and +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pâte dure</i>; wondering if she lived alone in that huge +rambling house with her grandfather, like little Nell +in the <em>Old Curiosity Shop</em>; only it was to be hoped +with no such diabolical familiar as Quilp privileged +to intrude upon her solitude. So anxious was he to +be satisfied on this point, that he ventured to ask +the question, despite his previous ill-fortune.</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ answered Mr. Sivewright coolly, ‘we live +quite alone. Dull, you’ll say, perhaps, for my granddaughter. +If it is, she must resign herself to circumstances. +There are worse things to bear than +want of company. If she hadn’t this home, she’d +have none. Well, I suppose you’ve seen as many +of these things as you care about. I can see your +mind’s wandering. So we may as well bid each<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> +other good-night. I’m obliged to you for your +civility this afternoon. This way.’</p> + +<p>He opened the door into the hall. A somewhat +abrupt dismissal, and one Lucius had not expected. +He had reckoned upon finishing his evening far more +pleasantly in the society of Lucille.</p> + +<p>‘I should like to bid Miss Sivewright good-evening,’ +he said.</p> + +<p>‘There’s no occasion. I can do it for you. There’s +your hat, on the black-marble slab yonder,’ said the +old man, seeing his visitor looking round in search +of that article, with a faint hope that he might have +left it in the parlour.</p> + +<p>‘Thanks. But I hope you don’t forbid my coming +to see you again sometimes?’ Lucius asked bluntly.</p> + +<p>‘Humph!’ muttered the old man, ‘it would sound +ungracious to talk of forbidding any future visit. +But I have lived in this house five years, and have +not made an acquaintance. One of the chief attractions +of this place, to my mind, was the fact that it +was cut off by a ten-foot wall from the world outside. +With every wish to be civil, I can’t see why I should +make an exception in your favour. Besides, you’ve +seen all there is worth seeing within these walls; +you could have no possible pleasure in coming to us. +We are poor, and we live poorly.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span></p> + +<p>‘I am not a seeker of wealthy acquaintance. A +quiet fireside—an atmosphere of home—brightened +by the refinements of art; that is what I should +value above all things in a house where I was free to +visit; and that your house could give me. But if +you say No, I submit. I cannot force myself upon +you.’</p> + +<p>‘I have a granddaughter who will be penniless if +she offends me,’ said the old man, with the same +gloomy look which had darkened his face when he +spoke of his son. ‘I do not care for any strange influence +to come between us. As it is, we are happy—not +loving each other in any silly romantic fashion, +but living together in mutual endurance. No; I +should be a fool to admit any disturbing element.’</p> + +<p>‘Be it so,’ said Lucius. ‘I am a struggling man, +and have hardly trodden the first stage of an uphill +journey. The friendship I offer is not worth much.’</p> + +<p>‘I should refuse it in exactly the same manner if +you were a millionnaire,’ answered the other, opening +the heavy old door, and admitting the fog. He led +the way across the forecourt, unlocked the tall iron +gate, and his visitor passed out into the sordid realities +of the Shadrack-road.</p> + +<p>‘Once more, good-night,’ said Mr. Sivewright.</p> + +<p>‘Good-night,’ answered Lucius, as the gate closed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> +upon him, with a creak like the caw of an evil-minded +raven. He turned his face homeward, intensely mortified. +He was a proud man, and had offered his +friendship to a retired bric-à-brac dealer, only to have +it flatly rejected. But it was not wounded pride +which vexed him as he walked home through the +fog.</p> + +<p>‘There’s no such thing as love at first sight,’ he +said to himself; ‘yet when a man has lived for half-a-dozen +years without seeing a pretty face in his +own rank of life, his heart is apt to be rather inflammable.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IIIa">CHAPTER III.<br> +<span class="fs70">HARD HIT.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Lucius Davoren</span> found himself curiously disturbed +by the memory of that pretty face in his own +rank of life—that glimpse of a fireside different from +the common firesides of the Shadrack-Basin district—the +fat and prosperous hearths, where the atmosphere +was odorous with tea, shrimps, muffins, and +gin-and-water; the barren hearth-stoves by which +destitution hugged itself in its rags. He went about +his daily work with his accustomed earnestness, was +no whit the less tender to the little children, watched +with the same anxious care by pauper sick beds, +handled shattered limbs or loathsome sores with the +same gentle touch; in a word, did his duty thoroughly, +in this dismal, initiative stage of his career.</p> + +<p>But he never passed Cedar House without a regretful +sigh and a lingering gaze at its blank upper +windows; which, showing no trace of the life within, +had a wall-eyed look that was worse than the utter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> +blindness of closed shutters. He sometimes went +out of his way even, for the sake of passing those inexorable +walls. He wasted a few minutes of his busy +day loitering by the iron gate, hoping that by some +kindly caprice of Fortune the pale sweet face of Lucille +Sivewright would appear behind the rusty bars, +the ponderous hinge would creak, and the girl who +haunted his thoughts would emerge from her gloomy +prison.</p> + +<p>‘Does she never come out?’ he asked himself +one fine winter day, when there was sunshine even +in the realms of Shadrack. It was a month after his +adventure with Homer Sivewright, and he had lingered +by the gate a good many times. ‘Does she +never breathe the free air of heaven, never see the +faces of mankind? Is she a cloistered nun in all but +the robe, and without the companionship which may +make a convent tolerable?—without even the affection +of that grim old grandfather? for how coldly he spoke +of her! What a life!’</p> + +<p>Lucius was full of pity for this girl, whom he had +only known one brief hour. If any one had suggested +that he was in love with her, he would have scorned +the notion. Yet there are passions which endure for +a lifetime; which defy death and blossom above a +grave; though their history may be reckoned by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> +rare hours of brightness, too easily reckoned in the +dull sum of life.</p> + +<p>‘Love at sight is but the fancy of poets and fools,’ +thought Lucius; ‘but it would be strange if I were +not sorry for a fair young life thus blighted.’</p> + +<p>His violin had a new pathos for him now, in those +occasional hours of leisure when he laid aside his +books and opened the case which held that magician. +His favourite sonatas breathed a languid melancholy, +which sounded to him like the complaint of an imprisoned +soul—that princess of fairy tale—the bric-à-brac +dealer’s granddaughter. But to think of her +thus, as he played dreamily by his lonely fireside, was +only to feel a natural compassion for an oppressed +fellow-creature.</p> + +<p>This tendency to dwell upon one subject, and that +a foolish one, since his pity could not be of the smallest +service to its object, finally worried him not a +little. Thus it was that, finding himself his own +master an hour or so earlier than usual one January +afternoon, he told himself that the wisest thing he +could do would be to get away from the Shadrack-road +atmosphere altogether.</p> + +<p>‘The life I lead is too narrow, too completely +monotonous,’ he thought. ‘No wonder I have taken +to exaggerate the importance of trifles. Yes, I will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> +refresh myself by a few hours’ liberty in a brighter +world. I will go and hunt up Geoffrey Hossack.’</p> + +<p>They were firm friends still, though their lives +lay as wide apart as two rivers which have their source +from the same watershed, and wander off by opposite +ways to the sea, never to touch again. They had lost +sight of each other for some time of late. Geoffrey, +ever a peripatetic spirit, had been doing Norway, with +an excursus into Lapland during the last two years; +but a letter received just before Christmas had announced +his return, and his sojourn at a manor-house +in Yorkshire.</p> + +<p>‘I shall begin the new year in the City of cities,’ +he wrote; ‘and one of my first occupations will be to +beat up your quarters in that queer world of yours +beyond the Tower. But if you are kind enough to +forestall me, you will find me in my old rooms at +Philpott’s.—Yours, as per usual, G. H.’</p> + +<p>The new year had begun, and had brought no sign +from Geoffrey; so Lucius took advantage of his leisure +to go westward in quest of his friend. He detested +the slow tortures of an omnibus, and was too +poor to afford himself a hansom; so he gave himself +the luxury of a walk.</p> + +<p>That journey took him almost from one end of +London to the other. The forest of spars, the ropewalk,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> +the open gates of the docks, the perpetual procession +of hogsheads, cotton bales, iron bars, packing-cases, +and petroleum barrels, gave place to the +crowded streets of the City, where all the operations +of commerce seemed to be carried on quietly, by men +who walked to and fro, carrying no merchandise, but +buying and selling as it were by sign and countersign. +Then came that borderland on the westward +side of Temple Bar—that somewhat shabby and +doubtful region where loom the churches of St. Clement +and St. Mary, which seem to have been especially +designed as perpetual standing impediments to +the march of architectural progress in this quarter; +then the brighter shop-windows and more holiday air +of the western Strand; and then Charing-cross; and +a little way farther on, hanging-on to the skirts of Pall +Mall and the Clubs, behold Philpott’s or the Cosmopolitan +Hotel, an old-fashioned house with a narrow +façade in red-brick, pinched-in between its portlier +neighbours—a house which looked small, but boasted +of making up forty beds, and retaining all the year +round a staff of thirty servants.</p> + +<p>Mr. Hossack was at home. The waiter of whom +Lucius asked the question brightened at the sound of +his name, as if he had been a personal friend, and +took Lucius under his protection on the instant.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span></p> + +<p>‘This way, sir; the first-floor. Mr. Hossack has +his own particular rooms here. We once refused them +to a Cabinet Minister, because Mr. Hossack wanted +them.’</p> + +<p>‘A general favourite, I suppose.’</p> + +<p>‘Lord bless you, sir, down to the vegetable maid, +we worship him.’</p> + +<p>The enthusiastic waiter opened a door, and ushered +in the guest. There had been no question as to +card or name. Geoffrey Hossack was accessible as +the sunshine.</p> + +<p>He was half buried in a low capacious chair, his +head flung back on the cushions, a cigar between his +lips, an open French novel flung face downwards on +the carpet beside him, amongst a litter of newspapers. +The winter dusk had almost deepened into night, and +the room was unlighted save by the fire. Yet even +in that fitful light Lucius saw that his friend’s countenance +was moody; a fact so rare as to awaken +curiosity, or even concern.</p> + +<p>‘Geoff, old fellow!’</p> + +<p>‘Why, Davoren!’ cried Geoffrey, starting up from +his luxurious repose, and flinging the unfinished +cigar into the fire. ‘How good of you! And I ought +to have come to your place. I’ve been in London a +fortnight.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span></p> + +<p>‘My dear old boy, one hardly expects Alcibiades +beyond the Minories. I have been living at that +dingy end of town until to come westward is a new +sensation. When I saw Trafalgar-square and the +lighted windows of yonder Club to-night, I felt like +Columbus when he sighted the coast of San Salvador. +I had a leisure afternoon, and thought I couldn’t +spend it better than in looking you up. And now, +Geoff, for your Norwegian and Laplandian experiences. +You were looking uncommonly gloomy when +I came in; as if your memories of the north were not +of the brightest.’</p> + +<p>‘My northern memories are pleasant enough,’ +said the other, putting aside the question lightly, +just in that old familiar way Lucius knew so well. +‘Come, Lucius, plant yourself there,’ rolling over +another capacious chair, the last device of some +satanic upholsterer for the propagation of slothful +habits; ‘take one of those Havanas, and light up. I +can never talk freely to a man till I can hardly see +his face across the clouds of his tobacco—a native +modesty of disposition, I suppose; or perhaps that +disinclination to look my fellow-man straight in the +face which is accounted one of the marks of a villanous +character. Goodish weed, isn’t it? Do you remember<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> +British Columbia, Davoren, and the long +days and nights when there was no tobacco?’</p> + +<p>‘Do I remember?’ echoed the surgeon, looking at +the fire. ‘Am I ever likely to forget?’</p> + +<p>‘Of course not. The question was a mere <em>façon +de parler</em>. There are things that no man can forget. +Can I forget, for instance, how you saved my life? +how through all those wearisome nights and days +when I was lying rolled up in my buffalo skins raving +like a lunatic, fancying myself in all sorts of places +and among all sorts of people, you were at once +doctor and sick-nurse, guardian and provider?’</p> + +<p>‘Please don’t talk of that time, Geoff. There are +some things better forgotten. I did no more for you +than I’d have done for a stranger; except that my +heart went with my service, and would have almost +broken if you had died. Our sufferings and our peril +at that time seem to me too bitter even for remembrance. +I can’t endure to look back at them.’</p> + +<p>‘Strange!’ exclaimed Geoffrey lightly. ‘To me +they afford an unfailing source of satisfaction. I +rarely order a dinner without thinking of the days +when my vital powers were sustained—“sustained” +is hardly the word, say rather “suspended”—by +mouldy pemmican. I seldom open a new box of +cigars without remembering those doleful hours in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> +which I smoked dried grass, flavoured with the last +scrapings of nicotine from my meerschaum. It is the +converse of what somebody says about a sorrow’s +crown of sorrow. The memory of past hardship +sweetens the comfort of the present. But I do shudder +sometimes when I remember awakening from <em>my</em> +delirium to find <em>you</em> down with brain-fever, and poor +little Schanck sitting awestricken by your side, like +a man who had been holding converse with spirits. +I don’t mean schnapps, but something uncanny. +Thank God, those Canadian emigrants found us out +soon afterwards, or He only knows how our story +would have ended.’</p> + +<p>‘Thank God!’ echoed Lucius solemnly. ‘I know +nothing of my illness, can remember nothing till I +found myself strapped like a bundle upon a horse’s +back, riding through the snow.’</p> + +<p>‘We moved you before you were quite right in +your head,’ answered Geoffrey apologetically. ‘The +Canadians wouldn’t wait any longer. It was our only +chance of being put into the right track.’</p> + +<p>‘You did a wise thing, Geoff. It was good for +me to wake up far from that wretched log-hut.’</p> + +<p>‘Come now, after all, we had some very jolly times +there,’ said Geoffrey, with his habit of making the +best of life; ‘sitting by the blazing pine-logs jawing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> +away like old boots. It was only when our ’baccy ran +out that existence became a burden. I give you my +honour that sometimes when civilised life begins to +hang heavy, I look back to the days when we crossed +the Rocky Mountains with a regretful sigh. I almost +envy that plucky little German sea-captain who left +us at Victoria, and went on to San Francisco to dig +for gold.’</p> + +<p>‘I verily believe, Geoff, you would have contrived +to be cheerful in the Black Hole at Calcutta, or on +the middle passage. You have a limitless reserve +fund of animal spirits.’</p> + +<p>‘There you’re wrong. I believed as much myself +till the other day. But I have lately discovered +a latent faculty hitherto unsuspected even by myself; +the capacity for being miserable.’</p> + +<p>‘You have sustained some family affliction,—or +you have taken to wearing tight boots?’</p> + +<p>‘Neither. I wish you’d help yourself to some +brandy-and-soda yonder,’ interjected Mr. Hossack, +pointing to a side-table on which those refreshments +were provided, and ringing the bell clamorously; ‘I’ll +order dinner before I unbosom myself. George,’ to +the enthusiastic waiter, who appeared in prompt answer +to the noisy summons, ‘the best you can do for +this gentleman and me, at seven sharp; and don’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> +come fidgeting in and out to lay the cloth until five +minutes before you bring the soup tureen. By the +way, we’ll begin with oysters and Montrachet, and +you can give us a bottle of Yquem afterwards. No +sparkling wine. We’ll wind up with Chambertin, if +you’ve a bottle in good condition. But don’t bring it +half-frozen out of the cellar, or muddled by hasty +thawing. Exercise judgment, George; you have to +deal with connoisseurs. Now,’ continued this epicurean +youth, flinging himself back into the depths of +his chair, ‘before I begin my egotistical prosing, let +me hear what you’ve been doing all this time, my +Lucius.’</p> + +<p>‘That may be told in two words. Hard work.’</p> + +<p>‘Poor old Davoren!’</p> + +<p>‘Don’t take that simple statement as a complaint. +It is work I like. I might have set up my Penates +in what is called a genteel neighbourhood, and earned +my crust a good deal more easily than I can earn it +yonder. But I wanted wide experience—a complete +initiation—and I went where humanity is thickest. +The result has more than satisfied me. If ever I +move westward it will be to Savile-row.’</p> + +<p>The sybarite contemplated his friend admiringly, +yet with a stifled yawn, as if the very contemplation +of so much vital force were fatiguing.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span></p> + +<p>‘Upon my word, I don’t know that I wouldn’t exchange +my three-per-cents for your ambition, Lucius,’ +he said. ‘To have something to achieve, something +to win—that is the keenest rapture of the human +mind, that makes the chief delight of the chase. +Upon my honour, I envy you. I seem to awake to +the conviction that it is a misfortune to be born with +the proverbial silver spoon in one’s mouth.’</p> + +<p>‘The man who begins life with a fortune starts +ahead of the penniless struggler in the race for fame,’ +answered the surgeon. ‘There is plenty of scope for +your ambition, Geoff, in spite of the three-per-cents.’</p> + +<p>‘What could I do?’</p> + +<p>‘Try to make yourself famous.’</p> + +<p>‘Not possible! Unless I took to a pea-green coat, +like that rich young West Indian swell in the last generation. +Fame! bah! for Brown, Jones, or Robinson +to talk of making themselves famous is about as +preposterous as it would be for Hampstead-hill to +try and develop a volcano. Men born to fame have a +special brand upon their foreheads, like the stamp on +Veuve Clicquot’s champagne corks. I think I see it +in the anxious lines that mark yours, Lucius.’</p> + +<p>‘There is the senate,’ said Davoren; ‘the natural +aim of an Englishman’s ambition.’</p> + +<p>‘What! truckle to rural shopkeepers for the privilege<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> +of wasting the summer evenings and the spring +tides in a stuffy manufactory of twaddle. <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Pas si bête!</i>’</p> + +<p>‘After all,’ returned Lucius, with a faint sigh, +‘you have something better than ambition, which is +only life in the future—mere fetish worship, perhaps—or +the adoration of a shadow which may never become +a substance. You have youth, and the power +to enjoy all youth’s pleasures; that is to say, life in +the present.’</p> + +<p>‘So I thought till very lately,’ answered Geoffrey, +with another sigh; ‘but there is a new flavour of +bitterness in the wine of life. Lucius, I’m going to +ask you a serious question. Do you believe in love +at first sight?’</p> + +<p>A startling question at any rate, for it brought +the blood into the surgeon’s toil-worn face. Happily +they were still sitting in the fire-light, which just now +waxed dim.</p> + +<p>‘About as much as I believe in ghosts or spirit-rapping,’ +he answered coldly.</p> + +<p>‘Which means that you’ve never seen a ghost or +had a message from spirit-land,’ answered Geoffrey. +‘Six months ago I should have called any one an ass +who could love a woman of whom he knew no more +than that her face was lovely and her voice divine. +But as somebody—a baker’s daughter, wasn’t she?—observed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> +“We know what we are, but we know not +what we may be.”’</p> + +<p>‘You have fallen in love, Geoff?’</p> + +<p>‘Descended into abysmal depths of folly, a million +fathoms below the soundings of common sense. +There’s nothing romantic in the business either, +which of course makes it worse. It’s only foolish. +I didn’t save the lady’s life; by stopping a pair of +horses that were galloping to perdition with her; or +by swimming out a mile or so to snatch her from the +devouring jaws of an ebb tide. I have no excuse for +my madness. The lady is a concert-singer, and I +first saw her while dancing attendance upon some +country cousins who were staying in town the other +day, and led me like a victim to musical mornings +and evening recitals, and so on. You know that I +have not a passionate love of music.’</p> + +<p>‘I know that you had a very moderate appreciation +of my violin.’</p> + +<p>‘All the tunes sounded so much alike. Want of +taste on my part, of course. However, my cousins—Arabella +and Jessie, nice girls, but domineering—insisted +that I should go to concerts, so I +went. They both sing and play, and wanted to improve +their style, they said; selfishly ignoring the +fact that I had no style to improve; and allowing me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> +to pay for all the tickets. One morning—splendid +weather for snowballing; I wished myself young +again and at Winchester, as I looked at the streets—we +went to a Recital, which took place in a dreary-looking +house near Manchester-square, by the kind +permission of the tenant. The concert people might +as well have borrowed a roomy family vault. It +would have been quite as cheerful. Well, we surrendered +our tickets—parallelograms of sky-blue +pasteboard, and uncommonly dear at half a guinea—to +a shabby footman, who ushered us up-stairs over +a threadbare stair carpet to a faded drawing-room, +where we found some elderly ladies of the dowdy +order, and a miscellaneous collection of antique gentlemen +in well-worn coats of exploded cut. These I +took to represent the musical nobility. It was not a +cheerful concert. First came a quartette, in ever so +many parts, like a dull sermon; a quartette for a +piano, violoncello, and two fiddles, with firstly, and +secondly, and thirdly. Every now and then, when +the violoncello gave forth rather deeper groans than +usual, or one of the fiddles prolonged a wire-drawn +note, the musical nobility gave a little gasp, and +looked at one another, and one of the old gentlemen +tapped the lid of his snuffbox. After the quartette +we had a pianoforte solo, to my unenlightened mind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> +an arid waste of tuneless chords, and little meandering +runs to nowhere in particular, a little less interesting +than a problem in Euclid. I prefer my cousin +Arabella’s hearty thumping, and frantic rushes up +and down the keyboard, to this milk-and-water style, +which is, I understand, classical. Number three was +a vocal duet by Handel, which I won’t describe, as it +lulled me into a placid slumber. When I reopened +my eyes there was a gentle murmur of admiration +floating in the atmosphere; and I beheld a lady +dressed in black, with a sheet of music in her hand, +waiting for the end of the symphony.’</p> + +<p>‘<em>The</em> lady, I suppose,’ said Lucius, duly interested.</p> + +<p>‘The lady. I won’t attempt to describe her; for +after all what can one say of the loveliest woman except +that she has a straight nose, fine eyes, a good +complexion? And yet these constitute so small a +part of Beauty. One may see them in the street +every day. This one stood there like a statue in the +cold wintry light, and seemed to me the most perfect +being I had ever beheld. She appeared divinely unconscious +of her beauty, as unconscious as Aphrodite +must have been in that wild free world of newborn +Greece, though all creation worshipped her. She +didn’t look about her with a complacent smile, challenging<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> +admiration. Her dark-fringed eyelids drooped +over the violet-gray eyes, as she looked downward at +the music. Her dress was Quaker-like, a linen collar +round the full firm throat, the perfect arm defined by +the plain black sleeve. Art had done nothing to enhance +or to detract from her beauty. She sang “Auld +Robin Gray” in a voice that went to my inmost heart. +The musical nobility sniffed and murmured rapturously. +The old gentleman rapped his snuffbox, and +said Bwava! and the song was re-demanded. She +curtsied and began something about a blue bodice +and Lubin, and in this there were bird-like trills, +and a prolonged shake, clear and strong as the carol +of a sky-lark. Lucius, I was such a demented ass +at that moment, that if the restraints of civilisation +hadn’t been uncommonly strong upon me, I should +have wept like a schoolboy before a caning.’</p> + +<p>‘Something in the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">timbre</i> of the voice,’ said Lucius, +‘simpatica.’</p> + +<p>‘Sim-anybody you like; it knocked me over as if +I’d been a skittle.’</p> + +<p>‘Have you seen her since?’</p> + +<p>‘Have I seen her! I have followed her from concert-room +to concert-room, until my <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">sensorium</i>—that’s +the word, isn’t it?—aches from the amount of classical +music that has been inflicted upon it—the x<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> +minors and z majors, and so forth. Sometimes I +hunted her down in some other aristocratic drawing-room, +by the kind permission, &c.; sometimes I found +her at the Hanover-square Rooms. Mitchell has a +standing order to send me a ticket for every concert +at which she sings. It’s deuced hard work. I’m due +this time to-morrow at St. George’s Hall, Liverpool.’</p> + +<p>‘But, my dear old Geoff, can anything be more +foolish?’ expostulated Lucius, forgetful of that rusty +old gate in the Shadrack-road, to which purest pity +had so often led him.</p> + +<p>‘I daresay not. But I can’t help myself.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you know anything about the lady?’</p> + +<p>‘All that a diligent process of private inquiry +could discover; and yet very little. The lady is a +widow—’</p> + +<p>‘Disenchanting fact.’</p> + +<p>‘Her name, Bertram.’</p> + +<p>‘Assumed, no doubt.’</p> + +<p>‘Very possibly. She has lodgings in Keppel-street, +Russell-square, and lives a life of extreme seclusion +with one little girl. I saw the child one +morning, a seraph of seven or eight, with flowing +flaxen hair, blue frock, and scarlet legs, like a tropical +bird, or a picture by Millais.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p> + +<p>‘That sounds like respectability.’</p> + +<p>‘Respectability!’ cried Geoffrey, flaming with indignation. +‘I would no more doubt her honour than +I would question that of my dead mother. If you had +heard her sing “Voi che sapéte,” the clear thrilling +tones, now swelling into a flood of melody, now sinking +to the tenderest whisper! Could such tones as +those come from an impure heart? No, Lucius. I +need no certificate of character to tell me that Jane +Bertram is true.’</p> + +<p>Lucius smiled—the slow smile of worldly wisdom—and +then breathed a faint regretful sigh for his +friend’s delusion.</p> + +<p>‘My dear Geoff,’ he said, ‘I daresay the conclusion +you arrive at is natural to the unsophisticated +mind. A great orator addresses us like a demigod; +ergo, he must be by nature godlike. Yet his life may +be no better than Thurlow’s or Wilkes’s. A woman +is divinely beautiful; and we argue that her soul, too, +must be divine. The history of the musical stage +tells us that in days gone by there were women who +sang like angels, yet were by no means perfect as +women. For God’s sake, dear old friend, beware of +music. Of all man’s ensnarers the siren with lyre +and voice is the most dangerous. Of all woman’s +tempters he who breathes his earthly desires in heavenly-sounding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> +melody is the most fatal. In my own +family there has been a wretched example of this +nature. I speak with all the bitterness that comes +from bitter experience.’</p> + +<p>‘That may be so,’ returned the other, unconvinced; +‘but there are instincts which cannot lie. +My belief in Jane Bertram is fixed as the sun in +heaven.’</p> + +<p>‘Did you contrive to obtain an introduction?’</p> + +<p>‘No. I found that impossible. She knows no +one, goes nowhere, except for her professional engagements. +Even the people who engage her—music +publishers, and what not—know nothing +about her; except that she sings better than five +out of six sopranos of established reputation, and +that she has struggled into her present modest position +out of obscurity and hard work. She was only +a teacher of music until very lately. She would do +wonders if she went on the stage, my informant told +me; and such a course was suggested to her; but +she peremptorily declined to entertain the idea. She +earns, in the season, about five pounds a week. What +a pittance for a goddess!’</p> + +<p>‘And who was Mr. Bertram?’</p> + +<p>‘I was not curious upon that subject; enough +for me to know that he is in his grave. But had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> +I been ever so inquisitive my curiosity must have +gone unsatisfied. The people who know so little +about her know still less about her late husband. +He has been dead some years. That is all they +could tell me.’</p> + +<p>‘And you positively go down to Liverpool to hear +her sing!’</p> + +<p>‘As I would go back to the shores of the Red +River for the same purpose. Ay, live again on +mouldy pemmican, and hear again the howling of +the wolves at sunset.’</p> + +<p>‘And is this kind of thing to go on indefinitely?’</p> + +<p>‘It will go on until circumstances favour my +passion, until I can win my way to her friendship, +to her confidence; until I can say to her, without +fear of repulse or discouragement, “Jane, I love +you.” I am quite content to serve a longish apprenticeship, +even to classical music, for the sake +of that reward.’</p> + +<p>Lucius stretched out his hand, and the two men’s +broad palms met in the grasp of friendship.</p> + +<p>‘Upon my honour, Geoffrey, I admire you,’ said +the surgeon. ‘I won’t preach any more. Granted +that your passion is foolish, at least it’s thorough. +I honour a man who can say to himself, “That woman +I will marry, and no other; that woman I will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span> +follow, through honour and dishonour, evil report +and good report—”’</p> + +<p>‘Stop,’ cried Geoffrey; ‘let there be no mention +of dishonour in the same breath with her name. If +I did not believe in her truth and purity, I would +pluck this passion out of my breast—as the Carthusian +prior in the mediæval legend plucked deadly sin +out of the entrails of St. Hugo of Lincoln—though I +cut my heart open to do it. I love her, and I believe +in her.’</p> + +<p>‘And if you ceased to believe in her, you would +cease to love her?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ answered Geoffrey Hossack firmly.</p> + +<p>He had risen from his seat by the hearth, and +was pacing the dusky chamber, where the street +lamps without and the red fire within made a curious +half-light. Truly had his friend called him thorough. +Intense, passionate, and impulsive was this generous +nature—a nature which had never been spoiled by +that hard school in which all men must learn whose +first necessity is to get their living, that dreary breadwinner’s +academical career to which God condemned +Adam as the direst punishment of his disobedience +and deceit. ‘No longer shalt thou wander careless in +these flowery vales and groves, where generous emotions +and affectionate impulses and noble thoughts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> +might bud and blossom in the happy idlesse. For +thee, sinner, the daily round of toil, the constant +hurry, the ever-goading pressure of sordid necessities, +which shall make thee selfish and hard and +remorseless, with no leisure in which to be kind to +thy brother strugglers, with hardly a pause in which +to remember thy God!’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IVa">CHAPTER IV.<br> +<span class="fs70">‘O WORLD, HOW APT THE POOR ARE TO BE PROUD!’</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Lucius</span> thought much of his friend after that frank +confession at the Cosmopolitan. Geoffrey had dined +none the less well because of his passion. He had +eaten oysters, and bisque soup, and stewed calves’ +head with truffles, and mutton, and wild duck, with +the appetite that had been educated in an American +pine-forest; had drunk Château d’Yquem, and Chambertin, +and wound up with curaçoa, and had waxed +merry to riotousness as the evening grew late,—Lucius +taking but a moderate share in the revel, +yet enjoying it. Was it not a glimpse of a new life, +after the Shadrack-road, where pleasure had a universal +flavour of gin-and-water?</p> + +<p>They parted after midnight with warm protestations +of friendship. They were to see each other +again. Geoffrey was to look his friend up in the +Shadrack district as soon as his engagements permitted. +But wherever <em>she</em> went, he would follow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> +her, were it to that possible continent or archipelago +at the southern pole.</p> + +<p>So Lucius went back to the region of many spars +and much rigging, and solaced his lonely evenings +with the pensive strains of his violin, and pondered +long and gravely upon that wondrous mystery of love +which could befool even so healthy a nature as that of +honest, open-hearted, plain-spoken Geoffrey Hossack. +Love allied with music! ‘Yes,’ he thought, as he +sighed over the long-drawn chords of an adagio, ‘<em>that</em> +is the fatal witchcraft.’</p> + +<p>Anon came February, season of sleet and east +winds, the month in which winter—after seeming, +towards the end of January, to have grown genial +and temperate, with even faint whispers of coming +spring—generally undergoes a serious relapse, and +plunges anew into hyperborean darkness, fog, tempest, +snow. Lucius had passed the old house in the +Shadrack-road almost every day since November (even +when it lay out of his beat he contrived to walk that +way), but had seen no more sign of human life about +that dismal mansion than if it had been in Chancery; +not even the old woman in a bonnet—not even a +baker’s barrow delivering the daily loaf—not so much +as a postman. He might almost have beguiled himself +into the belief that the whole experience of that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> +November evening—the old man—the pale poetic-looking +girl—the marvellous collection of art treasures +seen by the flickering light of a single candle—were +the mere phantasmagoria of an overworked brain, +a waking dream, the inchoate vision of a disordered +fancy.</p> + +<p>He went twice every Sunday to a church that +stood midway between his own house and the once +regal mansion; a new church of the Pugin-Gothic +order, with open seats, a painted window, other windows +which awaited the piety of the congregation to +be also painted, and a very young incumbent of the +advanced type, deeply read in the lives of the saints, +and given to early services. This temple was so +small that Lucius fancied he could scarcely have +failed to see Miss Sivewright were she a worshipper +there. Sunday after Sunday, during the hymns, ancient +and modern, he looked with anxious gaze round +the fane, hoping to see that one interesting face +among the crowd of uninteresting faces. Four out +of five of the congregation were women, but Lucille +Sivewright was not one of them. He began to resign +himself to the dreary truth that they two were +doomed never to meet again.</p> + +<p>Hope, in its last agony, was suddenly recalled to +new life. He came home from his daily drudgery<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> +one evening, thoroughly tired, even a little disheartened; +‘discouraged,’ as the American lady described +herself, when she confessed to poisoning eight +of her relations, simply because she began to regard +them as encumbrances, and feared that, if permitted +to live, they might reduce her to poverty. On this +particular evening the star of science—that grand and +ever-sustaining idea that he was to sow the seed of +some new truth in the broad field of scientific progress—waxed +paler than usual, and Lucius also was +discouraged. He came home bodily and mentally +tired. He had been tramping to and fro all day under +a drizzling rain, and in a leaden atmosphere +laden with London smoke.</p> + +<p>Even in that shabby ill-built domicile which he +called home, sorry comfort awaited him. His ancient +serving-woman, Mrs. Babb, had let the parlour fire +go out. The kettle, which, singing on the hob above +a cheerful blaze, seemed almost a sentient thing, now +leaned on one side disconsolately against a craggy +heap of black coal, like a vessel aground upon a coral +reef. The tray of tea-things—the neat white cloth +indicative of chop or steak—adorned not his small +round table. Mrs. Babb, absorbed in the feminine +delights of a weekly cleaning, had suffered herself +to become unconscious of the lapse of time.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span></p> + +<p>He gave the loose, ill-hung bell-wire an angry +jerk, flung himself into his accustomed arm-chair, +and stretched out his hand haphazard in search of a +book. Plato, Montaigne, Sterne, any philosopher +who should teach him how to hear the petty stings of +the scorpion—daily life.</p> + +<p>But before his hand touched the volumes, its motion +was arrested. He beheld something more interesting +than Plato, since in all probability it concerned +himself, namely, a letter, at a corner of the +mantelpiece, just on a level with his eye. Egotism +triumphed over philosophy. The letter, were it even +a bill, was more vital to him for the moment than all +the wisdom of Socrates.</p> + +<p>He snatched the envelope, which was directed in +a rugged uncompromising caligraphy, unfamiliar to +him. He tore it open eagerly, and looked at the +signature, ‘Homer Sivewright.’</p> +<br> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>‘Dear Sir,—When you obliged me with your assistance +the other day, I believe I made some profane +remark about your profession, which you took in good +part. One forgives such gibes from a testy old man. +You told me that when I found myself ill, my +thoughts would naturally tend towards Savile-row. +There you were wrong. I do find something out of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> +gear in my constitution—possibly liver—or perhaps +general break-up. But instead of thinking of the +high-flyers of the West-end, with their big fees and +pompous pretensions, I think of you.</p> + +<p>‘I told you the other night that I liked your face. +This is not all. My housekeeper, who has kindred +in this district, informs me that you have worked +some marvellous cure upon her husband’s brother’s +second cousin’s wife’s sister. The relationship is remote, +but the rumour of your skill has reached my +servant. Will you come this way at your convenience? +Don’t come out of your way on purpose to +see me. My means, as I informed you, and as you +might see for yourself in all my surroundings, are +scanty, and I can afford to pay very little more than +the poorest among your patients. I state the case +thus plainly that there may be no future disagreement.—Truly +yours,</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<span class="smcap">Homer Sivewright</span>.’<br> +</p> +</div> +<br> + +<p>‘Is the old man a miser; or an enthusiast, who +has sacrificed himself and his granddaughter to his +love of art? Equally hard upon the granddaughter +in either case,’ reflected Lucius, trying to contemplate +the business in the chilly light of common +sense, wondering at and half-ashamed of the sudden<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> +delight which had moved him when he found that +Mr. Sivewright’s letter was nothing less than a passport +to Lucille Sivewright’s home.</p> + +<p>‘I’ll go the instant I’ve dined,’ he said to himself, +giving another tug at the loose bell-wire. ‘Yet +who knows whether the old churl will let me see his +interesting granddaughter? Perhaps he’ll put me +on a strictly professional footing; have me shown up +to his den by that old woman, and shown down again +without so much as a glimpse of Lucille’s pensive +face. Yet he can hardly pay me badly and treat me +badly too. I’ll ask permission to attend him as a +friend; and then perhaps he’ll melt a little, and admit +me to his hearth. I like the look of that old +wainscoted room, with its bare floor and clean-swept +hearth, and handful of bright fire. It seemed to +breathe the poetry of poverty.’</p> + +<p>Mrs. Babb came clattering in with the tea-things +and chop all together, profuse in apologies for having +forgotten to wind up the kitchen clock, and thus become +oblivious as to time.</p> + +<p>‘On a clear day I can see the clock at the public +round the corner by stretching my head out of the +back-attic window,’ she said; ‘but being thick to-day +I couldn’t, and I must have been an hour behind +ever since dinner. And the fire gone out too!’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span></p> + +<p>The fire was quickly lighted; the kettle carried +off to boil down-stairs; but Lucius didn’t wait for +his tea. That gentle decoction, which was, in a +general way, the very support of his life, to-night was +almost indifferent to him. He ate his chop, ran up +to his narrow dressing-room, where the weekly cleansing +process had left a healthy odour of mottled soap +and a refreshing dampness, washed away the smoke +and grime of the day with much cold water, changed +all his garments, lest he should carry the taint of +fever-dens whither he was going, and went forth as +gaily as to a festival.</p> + +<p>‘Am I as great a fool as dear old Geoffrey?’ he +asked himself during that rapid walk. ‘No; at least +I know something of my goddess. I could read the +story of her patient self-sacrificing life even in that +one hour. Besides, I am by no means in love with +her. I am only interested.’</p> + +<p>It was a new feeling for him to approach the gate +with the certainty of admission. He tugged resolutely +at the iron ring, and heard the rusty wires +creak their objection to such disturbance. Then +came a shuffling slipshod step across the barren forecourt, +which, with different tenants, might have been +a garden. This footstep announced the old woman +in the bonnet, who seemed to him the twin sister of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> +his own housekeeper, so closely do old women in that +sphere of life resemble each other—like babies. She +mumbled something, and admitted him to the sacred +precincts. The same half-light glimmered in the +hall as when he had seen it first; the whole treasury +of art wrapped in shadow. The same brighter glow +streamed from the panelled parlour as the old woman +opened the door and announced ‘Dr. Davory.’ +Homer Sivewright was sitting in his high-backed +arm-chair by the hearth, getting all the heat he +could out of the contracted fire. His granddaughter +sat opposite him, knitting with four needles, which +flashed like electric wires under the guidance of the +soft white hands. The tea-tray—with its quaint old +teapot in buff and black Wedgewood—adorned the +table.</p> + +<p>‘I thought you’d come,’ said the old man, ‘though +my letter was not very inviting, if you cultivate +wealthy patients.’</p> + +<p>‘I do not,’ answered Lucius, taking the chair +indicated to him, after receiving a stately foreign +curtsy from Miss Sivewright, an unfamiliar recognition +which seemed to place him at an ineffable distance. +‘I was very glad to get your note, and to +respond to it promptly. I shall be still more glad if +you will place my medical services upon a friendly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> +footing. At your age a man requires the constant +attendance of a doctor who knows his constitution. +There may be very little treatment wanted, only the +supervision of an experienced eye. Let me be your +friend as well as your medical adviser, and drop in +whenever I am wanted, without question of payment.’</p> + +<p>The old man shot a keen glance from his cold +gray eyes; eyes which looked as if they had been +in the habit of prying into men’s thoughts. ‘Why +should you be so generous?’ he asked; ‘I have no +claim upon you, not even that hollow pretence which +the world calls friendship. You have nothing to gain +from me. My will, disposing of my collection—which +is all I have to bequeath—was made ten years +ago; and nothing would ever tempt me to alter it +by so much as a ten-pound legacy. You see there’s +nothing to be gained by showing me kindness.’</p> + +<p>‘Grandfather!’ remonstrated the girl, in her low +serious voice.</p> + +<p>‘I am sorry you should impute to me any such +sordid motive,’ said Lucius quietly. ‘My reason for +offering my services gratis is plain and above board. +There is no fireside at this end of the town at which +I care to sit, no society congenial to me. I spend +all my evenings alone, generally in hard study, sometimes +with the books I love, or with my violin for my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> +companion. This kind of life suits me well enough +on the whole. Yet there are intervals of depression +in which I feel its exceeding loneliness. No man is +all-sufficient to himself. Give me the privilege of +spending an evening here now and then—I will not +wear out my welcome—and let me watch your case +as a labour of love. You say that the recompense +you can offer me will be small. Better for both your +dignity and mine that there should be none at all.’</p> + +<p>‘You speak fair,’ answered Sivewright, ‘but that’s +a common qualification. I have a granddaughter +there whom you may imagine to be my heiress. If +she is, she is heiress only to my collection; and even +my judgment may be mistaken as to the value of +that. In any case, consider her disposed of—put +her put of the question.’</p> + +<p>‘Grandfather!’ remonstrated the girl again, this +time blushing indignantly.</p> + +<p>‘Better to speak plainly, Lucille.’</p> + +<p>‘Since you cannot see me in any character except +that of a fortune-hunter, sir,’ said Lucius, rising, +‘we had better put an end to the discussion. There +are plenty of medical men in this neighbourhood. +You can find an adviser among them. I wish you +good-evening.’</p> + +<p>‘Stop,’ exclaimed Sivewright, as the surgeon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> +walked straight to the door, wounded inexpressibly, +‘I didn’t mean to offend you. But you offered me +your friendship, and it was best you should know +upon what footing I could accept the offer. You +now know that I have no money to leave any one—don’t +suppose me a miser because I live poorly; +that’s a common error—and that my granddaughter +is disposed of. Knowing this, do you still offer me +your professional services for nothing? do you still +wish for a place beside my hearth?’</p> + +<p>‘I do,’ said the young man eagerly, and with one +swift involuntary glance at Lucille, who sat motionless, +except for the dexterous hands that plied those +shining wires. He thought of the humiliation of +Hercules, and how well it would have pleased him to +sit at her feet and hold the worsted that she wound.</p> + +<p>‘So be it then; you are henceforth free of this +house. My door, which so seldom opens to a stranger, +shall offer no barrier to you. If you discover circumstances +in our lives that puzzle you, do not trouble +yourself to wonder about them. You will know all +in good time. Be a brother to Lucille.’ She held +out her hand to the visitor frankly at these words. +He took it far more shyly than it was given. ‘And +be a son,’ with a long regretful sigh, ‘if you can, to +me. I told you the other day that I liked your voice,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> +that I liked your face. I will go farther to-night and +say, I like you.’</p> + +<p>‘Thank you,’ answered Lucius gravely, ‘that is +just what I want. I doubt if I have a near relation +in the world, and I know but one man whom I count +my friend. Friendship with me, therefore, means +something very real. It is not a hackneyed sentiment, +worn threadbare by long usage. But now that +we have arranged things pleasantly, let us have our +medical inspection.’</p> + +<p>‘Not to-night,’ said Mr. Sivewright. ‘Come to +me to-morrow, if you can spare me the time. My +symptoms are not of a pressing kind. I only feel +the wheels of life somewhat clogged; the mainspring +weaker than it used to be. Let us give to-night to +friendship.’</p> + +<p>‘Willingly,’ answered Lucius. ‘I will be with +you at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.’</p> + +<p>He drew his chair nearer to the hearth, feeling +that he was now really admitted to the charmed circle. +To most young men it would have been far from an +attractive house; for him it possessed an almost +mysterious fascination. Indeed, it was perhaps the +element of mystery which made Lucille Sivewright +so interesting in his eyes. He had seen plenty of +women who were as pretty—some who were more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> +beautiful—but not one who had ever filled his +thoughts as she did.</p> + +<p>‘Pour out the tea, child,’ said Mr. Sivewright, +and that fragrant beverage was dispensed by Lucille’s +white hands. It was one of the few details of housekeeping +in which the old man permitted extravagance. +The tea was of the choicest, brewed without stint, +and the small antique silver jug, adorned with elaborate +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">repoussé</i> work, contained cream. Lucius thought +he had never tasted anything so exquisite as that cup +of tea. They sat round the fire, and the old man +talked well and freely—talked of the struggles of his +youth, his art-worship, those wonderful strokes of +fortune to which the dealer in bric-à-brac is ever +liable—talked of everything connected with his career, +except his domestic life. On that one subject he was +dumb.</p> + +<p>Lucius thought of the castaway, the son who was +of no more account to his father than one of the +wooden images in the crowded storehouse across the +hall. What had been his crime? Perhaps never to +have been loved at all. This old man’s nature seemed +of a hard-grained wood, which could scarcely put forth +tender shoots and blossoms of affection—a man who +would consider his son his natural enemy.</p> + +<p>‘You spoke of your violin some time ago,’ Lucille<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> +said, by and by, in a pause of the conversation. Mr. +Sivewright, having talked about himself to his heart’s +content, leaned back in his chair and contemplated +the fire. ‘Do you really play? I am so fond of the +violin.’</p> + +<p>‘Are you, indeed?’ cried Lucius, enraptured. ‘I’ll +bring it some night, and—’</p> + +<p>‘Don’t!’ ejaculated the old man decisively. ‘I am +something of Chesterfield’s opinion, that fiddling is +beneath a gentleman. If I hear you scraping catgut +I shall lose all confidence in your medicines.’</p> + +<p>‘Then you shall not hear me,’ said Lucius, with +perfect good humour. He was determined to make +friends with this grim old bric-à-brac dealer if he +could, just as one resolves to overcome the prejudices +of an unfriendly dog, believing that beneath +his superficial savagery there must be a substratum +of nobility. ‘I only thought a little quiet music +might amuse Miss Sivewright, since she says she is +fond of the violin.’</p> + +<p>‘She doesn’t know what she is fond of,’ replied +Sivewright testily; ‘she is full of fancies and whims, +and likes everything that I abhor. There, no tears, +child,’ as those dark gentle eyes filled; ‘you know I +hate those most of all.’</p> + +<p>Lucius came to the rescue, and began to talk with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> +renewed vivacity, thus covering Lucille’s confusion. +He spoke of himself, giving all those details of his +childhood and youth, the knowledge of which between +new acquaintances at once establishes the familiarity +that is half-way towards friendship.</p> + +<p>He left early, fearful of outstaying his welcome; +left with a sense of perfect content in this quiet domestic +evening, although the old man had certainly +not gone out of his way to conciliate his visitor. Lucille +had talked very little, but even her silence had +been interesting to Lucius. It seemed to him the +indication, not of dulness, but of a gentle melancholy; +a mind overshadowed by some olden sorrow, and perhaps +depressed by the solitude of that dreary mansion. +He was not satisfied with a continental curtsy at +parting, but offered Lucille his hand, which she took +as frankly as if she had fully accepted him in the +character of an adopted brother.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_Va">CHAPTER V.<br> +<span class="fs70">‘I HAD A SON, NOW OUTLAW’D FROM MY BLOOD.’</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Ten</span> o’clock the next morning beheld Lucius again at +the tall gate. He was admitted without question, and +the open door of the parlour showed him Lucille—in +a gray stuff gown, a large linen apron, and a white +muslin cap, like a French grisette’s—rubbing the +oaken wainscot with a beeswaxed cloth; while a +small tub of water on the table and some china cups +and saucers set out to drain, showed that she had +been washing the breakfast things. This circumstance +explained the spotless neatness of all he had seen—the +shining wainscot, the absence of a grain of dust +upon any object in the room. She came out to wish +him good-morning, nowise abashed.</p> + +<p>‘I daresay your English young ladies would think +this very shocking,’ she said. ‘I ought to be practising +Czerny’s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Exercises de Facilité</i>, ought I not, at this +time in the morning?’</p> + +<p>‘Our English girls are very stupid when they +devote all their time to Czerny,’ he answered, ‘to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> +utter disregard of their domestic surroundings. I’m +not going to talk that hackneyed trash which Cobbett +brought into fashion, about preferring the art of +making puddings to music and literature; but I think +it simply natural to a woman of refinement to superintend +the arrangements of her home—yes, and to +use brooms and dusters, rather than allow resting-place +for so much as a drachm of flue or dust. But +you talk of our English ladies as a race apart. Are +you not English, Miss Sivewright?’</p> + +<p>‘Only on my father’s side, and his mother was a +Spanish-American. My mother’ (with a sigh) ‘was a +Frenchwoman.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah,’ thought Lucius, ‘it is in such mixed races +one finds beauty and genius.’</p> + +<p>How pretty she looked in her little muslin cap, +adorning but not concealing the rich dark hair! How +well the neutral-tinted gown, with its antique simplicity, +became her graceful form!</p> + +<p>‘Talking of music,’ he said, ‘have you no piano?’</p> + +<p>‘No, I am sorry to say. My grandfather has a +prejudice against music.’</p> + +<p>‘Indeed! There are few who care to confess such +a singular prejudice.’</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps it is because’—falteringly and trifling +nervously with the linen band of her apron—’ because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> +a person with whom he quarrelled long ago was fond +of music.’</p> + +<p>‘A somewhat unreasonable reason. And you are +thus deprived of even such companionship as you +might find in a piano! That seems hard.’</p> + +<p>‘Pray do not blame my grandfather: he is very +good to me. I have an old guitar—my mother’s—with +which I amuse myself sometimes in my own +room, where he can’t hear me. Shall I show you the +way to my grandfather’s bedroom? He seldom comes +down-stairs till after twelve o’clock.’</p> + +<p>Lucius followed her up the broad oak staircase, +which at each spacious landing was encumbered with +specimens of those ponderous Flemish cabinets and +buffets, which would seem to have sprung into being +spontaneous as toadstools from the fertile soil of the +Low Countries. Then along a dusky corridor, where +ancient tapestry and dingy pictures covered the walls, +to a door at the extreme end, which she opened.</p> + +<p>‘This is grandpapa’s room,’ she said, upon the +threshold, and there left him.</p> + +<p>He knocked at the half-open door, not caring to +enter the lion’s den unauthorised. A stern voice +bade him ‘Come in.’</p> + +<p>The room was large and lofty, but so crowded +with the same species of lumber as that which he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> +seen below that there was little more than a passage, +or strait, whereby he could approach his patient. +Here, too, were cabinets of ebony inlaid with <em>pietra +dura</em>; in one corner stood an Egyptian mummy—perchance +a departed Pharaoh, whose guilt-burdened +soul had shivered at the bar of Osiris six thousand +years ago; while on the wall above him hung a grim +picture—of the early German school—representing +the flaying of a saint and martyr, hideously faithful +to anatomy. The opposite wall was entirely covered +by moth-eaten tapestry, upon which the fair fingers +of mediæval chatelaines had depicted the Dance of +Death. Gazing with wondering eyes round the room, +Lucius beheld elaborately-carved arm-chairs in Bombay +black wood, peacock mosquito-fans, sandal-wood +caskets, poonah work, and ivory chessmen; lamps +that had lighted Roman catacombs or burned on Pagan +altars; Highland quaichs from which Charles +Edward may have drunk the native usquebaugh; a +Greek shield, of the time of Alexander, shaped like +the back of a tortoise; a Chinese idol; a South Sea +islander’s canoe. A hundred memories of lands remote, +of ages lost in the midst of time, were suggested +by this heterogeneous mass of property, which +to the inexperienced eye of Lucius seemed more interesting +than valuable.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span></p> + +<p>The old man’s bed stood in a corner near the fireplace—a +small four-poster, with clumsily-carved +columns, somewhat resembling that bedstead which +the student of history gazes upon with awe in Mary +Stuart’s bedchamber at Holyrood, thinking how often +that fair head must have laid itself down there, weary +of cark and care, and crown and royal robes, and false +friends and falser lovers—a shabby antique bedstead, +with ragged hangings of faded red silk.</p> + +<p>There was a fire in the grate, pinched like the +grate below; a three-cornered chair of massive carved +ebony, covered with stamped and gilded leather, stood +beside it. Here sat the master of these various treasures, +his long gray hair crowned with a black-velvet +skullcap; his gaunt figure wrapped in a ragged damask +dressing-grown, edged with well-worn fur; a garment +which may have been coeval with the bedstead.</p> + +<p>‘Good-morning,’ said Mr. Sivewright, looking up +from his newspaper. ‘You look surprised at the +furniture of my bedroom; not room enough to swing +a cat, is there? But you see I don’t want to swing +cats. When I get a bargain I bring it in here, and +have it about me till I get tired of looking at it, and +then Wincher and I carry it down-stairs to the general +collection.’</p> + +<p>‘Wincher?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes, Jacob Wincher, my old Jack-of-all-trades; +you haven’t seen him yet? He burrows somewhere +in the back premises—sleeps in the coal-cellar, I believe—and +is about as fond of daylight and fresh air +as a mole. A faithful fellow enough. He was my +clerk and general assistant in Bond-street; here he +amuses himself pottering about among my purchases; +catalogues them after his own fashion, and could give +a better statement of my affairs than any City accountant.’</p> + +<p>‘A valuable servant,’ said Lucius.</p> + +<p>‘Do you think so? I haven’t paid him anything +for the last seven years. He stays with me, partly +because he likes me in his slavish canine way, partly +because he has nowhere else to go. His wife keeps +my house, and takes care of Lucille. And now for +our consultation; the pain in my side has been a +trifle worse this morning.’</p> + +<p>Lucius began his interrogatory. Gently, and with +that friendly persuasiveness which had made him beloved +by his parish patients, he drew from the old +man a full confession of his symptoms. The case +was grave. An existence joyless, hard, laborious, +monotonous to weariness, will sometimes exhaust the +forces of the body, sap the vital power, as perniciously +as the wear and tear of riotous living. High pressure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> +has pretty much the same effect, let the motive +power be love of gain or love of pleasure. In a word, +Homer Sivewright had worn himself out. There was +chronic disease of long standing; there was general +derangement which might end fatally sooner or later. +He was over sixty years of age. He might die within +the year; he might live two, three, four, five years +longer.</p> + +<p>‘You have not spared yourself, I fear,’ said Lucius, +as he put his stethoscope into his pocket.</p> + +<p>‘No; I have always had one great object in life. +A man who has that rarely spares himself.’</p> + +<p>‘Yet a man who wears himself out before his time +by reckless labour is hardly wiser than those foolish +virgins who left their lamps without oil.’</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps. It is not always easy to be wise. A +man whose domestic life is a disappointment is apt +to concentrate his labour and his thoughts upon some +object outside his home. My youth was a hard one +from necessity, my middle age was hard from habit. +I had not acquired the habit of luxury. My trade +grew daily more interesting to me, ten times more so +than anything the world calls pleasure. I spent my +days in sale-rooms, or wandering in those strange +nooks and corners to which art treasures sometimes +drift—the mere jetsam and flotsam of life’s troubled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> +sea, the unconsidered spoil of ruined homes. My +nights were devoted to the study of my ledger, or the +text-books of my trade. I had no desire for any +other form of life. If I could have afforded all the +comforts and pleasures of modern civilisation—which +of course I could not—my choice would have kept me +exactly where I was.’</p> + +<p>‘In future,’ said Lucius in his cheery tone—he +never discouraged a patient—‘it will be well for you, +to live more luxuriously. Stint yourself in nothing, +and let the money you have hitherto spent in adding +to your collection be henceforth devoted to good old +port and a liberal dietary.’</p> + +<p>‘I have spent nothing lately,’ said Sivewright +sharply; ‘I have had nothing to spend.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t want to doubt your word,’ replied Lucius; +‘but I tell you frankly you must live better than you +have done, if you wish to live much longer.’</p> + +<p>‘I do,’ cried the old man with sudden energy; ‘I +have prayed for long life—I who pray so little. Yes, +I have sent up that one supplication to the blind +blank sky. I want to live for long years to come. +If I had been born three hundred years ago, I should +have sought for the sublime secret—the elixir of life. +But I live in an age when men believe in nothing,’ +with a profound sigh.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span></p> + +<p>‘Say rather in an age when men reserve their faith +for the God who made them, instead of exhausting +their powers of belief upon crucibles and alembics,’ +answered Lucius in his most practical tone.</p> + +<p>Then followed his <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">régime</i>, simple and sagacious, +but to be followed strictly.</p> + +<p>‘I should like to say a few words to your granddaughter,’ +he said; ‘so much in these cases depends +upon good nursing.’</p> + +<p>‘Say what you please,’ replied Mr. Sivewright, +ringing his bell, ‘but let it be said in my hearing. +I don’t relish the notion of being treated like a child; +of having powders given me unawares in jam, or senna +in my tea. If you have a sentence of death to pronounce, +pronounce it fearlessly. I am stoic enough +to hear my death-warrant unmoved.’</p> + +<p>‘I shall make no such demand upon your stoicism. +The duration of your life will depend very much on +your own prudence. Of course at sixty the avenue +at the end of which a man sees his grave is not an +endless perspective. But you have a comfortable time +before you yet, Mr. Sivewright, if you will live wisely +and make the most of it.’</p> + +<p>Lucille came in response to the bell, and to her +Lucius repeated his directions as to diet and general +treatment.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span></p> + +<p>‘I am not going to dose your grandfather with +drugs,’ he said; ‘a mild tonic, to promote appetite, +is all I shall give him. He complains of sleeplessness, +a natural effect of thinking much, and monotonously +brooding on some one theme, and that not +a pleasant one.’</p> + +<p>The old man looked at him sharply, angrily even.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t want any fortune-telling,’ he said; ‘stick +to your text. You profess to cure the body, and not +the mind.’</p> + +<p>‘Unless the mind will consent to assist the cure, +my art is hopeless,’ answered Lucius.</p> + +<p>He finished his advice, dwelling much on that +essential point, a generous diet. The girl looked at +her grandfather doubtfully. He seemed to answer +the look.</p> + +<p>‘The money must be found, child,’ he said, in a +fretful tone, ‘if I part with the gems of my collection. +After all, life is the great necessity; all ends with that.’</p> + +<p>‘You will find your spare cash better bestowed +upon your own requirements than on Egyptian mummies,’ +said Lucius, with a disparaging glance at the +defunct Pharaoh.</p> + +<p>Mr. Sivewright promised to be guided by his +counsel, and civilly dismissed him.</p> + +<p>‘Come to me as often as you like,’ he said, ‘since<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> +you come as a friend; and let it be in the evening if +that is pleasantest to you. I suppose there will be +no necessity for any more serious examinations like +this morning’s,’ with a faint smile, and a disagreeable +recollection of the stethoscope, which instrument +seemed to him as much an emblem of death as the +skull and crossbones on an old tombstone.</p> + +<p>Lucius and Lucille went down-stairs together, +and he lingered a little in the oak-panelled parlour, +from which all tokens of her housewifery cares had +now vanished. A bunch of violets and snowdrops +in a tall Venetian beaker stood in the centre of the +table; a few books, an open workbasket, indicated +the damsel’s morning occupation. She had taken off +her linen apron, but not the cap, which gave the +faintest spice of coquetry to her appearance, and which +Lucius thought the prettiest headgear he had ever +seen.</p> + +<p>They talked a little of the old man up-stairs; but +the surgeon was careful not to alarm Mr. Sivewright’s +granddaughter. Alas, poor child, coldly and grudgingly +as he acknowledged her claim upon him, he was +her only guardian, the sole barrier between her and +the still colder world outside her gloomy home.</p> + +<p>‘You do not think him <em>very</em> ill?’ she asked anxiously.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span></p> + +<p>‘I do not think there is any reason for you to be +anxious. Careful I am sure you will be; and care +may do much to prolong his life. He has used himself +hardly.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ she answered in a mournful tone. ‘He has +had troubles, heavy troubles, and he broods upon +them.’</p> + +<p>‘Change of air and scene might be advantageous. +There is an oppressive atmosphere in such a house +as this, in such a quarter of the town.’</p> + +<p>‘I have sometimes found it so.’</p> + +<p>‘When the spring comes, say about the middle of +April, I should strongly recommend a change for you +both. To Hastings, for instance.’</p> + +<p>The girl shook her head despondently.</p> + +<p>‘He would never consent to spend so much +money,’ she said. ‘We are very poor.’</p> + +<p>‘Yet Mr. Sivewright can find money for his purchases.’</p> + +<p>‘They cost so little; a few shillings at a time. +The things he buys are bargains, which he discovers +in strange out-of-the-way places.’</p> + +<p>‘Is he often out of doors?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, and for long hours together. But lately +he has been more fatigued after those long rambles +than he used to be.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span></p> + +<p>‘He must abandon them altogether. And you +have spent some years alone in this old house?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. I am accustomed to solitude. It is rather +dull sometimes. But I have my books, and the house +to take care of, for old Mrs. Wincher does only the +rougher part of the work, and some pleasant memories +of the past to amuse me when I sit and think.’</p> + +<p>‘Is your past a very bright one?’</p> + +<p>‘Only the quiet life of a school in Yorkshire, +where I was sent when I was very young, and where +I stayed till I was seventeen. But the life seemed +bright to me. I had governesses and schoolfellows +whom I loved, and green hills and woods that were +only less dear than my living friends.’</p> + +<p>This paved the way for farther confidences. She +spoke of her youth, he of his; of his father and +mother, of his sister, the little one buried in the +family grave, not that other whose fate he knew not; +his college days; things he had spoken of the night +before. She stopped him in the middle.</p> + +<p>‘Tell me about America,’ she said; ‘I want to +know all about America. Some one I loved very +much went to America.’</p> + +<p>‘I should have hardly thought your life had been +eventful enough for much love,’ said Lucius somewhat +coldly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span></p> + +<p>‘I have not seen the person I speak of since I was +seven years old,’ she answered, with a sigh. ‘I think +I may trust you; we are friends, are we not?’</p> + +<p>‘Did not your grandfather authorise me to consider +myself almost your adopted brother?’</p> + +<p>‘The person I spoke of just now is one whose +very name is forbidden here. But that cruelty cannot +make me forget him. It only strengthens my +memory. He is my father.’</p> + +<p>‘Your father? Yes, I understand; the son whom +your grandfather cast off. But not without cause, I +suppose?’</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps not,’ answered Lucille, the dark deep +eyes filling with tears that were quickly brushed +away. ‘He may have been to blame. My grandfather +has never told me why they quarrelled. He +has only told me in hard cruel words that they learned +to hate each other before they learned to forget each +other. I was not old enough to know anything except +that my father was always kind to me, and always +dear to me. I did not see him very much. He +was out a great deal, out late at night, and I was +alone with an old servant in my grandfather’s house +in Bond-street, where we had lived ever since I could +remember, though I was not born there. We had a +dark little parlour behind the shop, which went back<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> +a long way, and was crowded like the room on the +other side of the hall. The days used to seem very +long and dull, so little sunshine, so little air. But +everything grew bright when papa came in for an +hour, and took me on his knee, and told me long wild +stories, German stories, I believe, yet half his own +invention; stories of kelpies and lurleys and haunted +castles, of a world that was peopled with fairies, where +every leaf and every flower had its sprite. But I shall +tire you with all this talk,’ she said, checking herself +suddenly; ‘and perhaps your patients are waiting for +you.’</p> + +<p>‘They must wait a few minutes longer. Tire me? +no, I am deeply interested in all you tell me. Pray +go on. Those were your happy hours which your +father spent at home.’</p> + +<p>‘Happy beyond all measure. Sometimes, of a +winter’s evening—winter was the pleasantest time in +that dark little parlour—he would sit idly by the fire +in a great arm-chair; sometimes he would take his +violin from a shelf in the corner by the chimney-piece, +and play to me. I used to climb upon his knee, and +sit half buried in the big chair while he played; such +sweet music, low and solemn, like the music of one’s +dreams. I have heard nothing like it since. Those +were happy nights when he stayed at home till I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> +went to bed, happy hours beside the fire. We used +to have no light in the room but the fire-light, and I +fancied the shadowy corners were full of fairies.’</p> + +<p>‘Did you hear nothing of the quarrel between +your father and your grandfather? Children, even at +seven years old, are quick to observe.’</p> + +<p>‘No. If they quarrelled it was not in my hearing. +My grandfather lived entirely in his business. +He seldom came into the parlour except for his meals, +or until late at night, when I had gone to bed. I only +know that one morning he was very ill, and when he +came down-stairs he had an awful look in his face, +like the face of a man risen from the grave, and he +beckoned me to him, and told me my father had gone +away, for ever. I cannot tell you my grief, it was +almost desperate. I wanted to run away, to follow my +father. And one night, which I remember, O so well, +a wet winter night, I got up and put on my clothes +somehow, after Mrs. Wincher had put me to bed, and +crept down the dark staircase, and opened the door +in the passage at the side of the shop, which was +rarely used, and went out into the wet streets. I can +see the lamps reflected on the shining pavement to +this day, if I shut my eyes, and feel the cold wet +wind blowing upon my face.’</p> + +<p>‘Poor child!’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes, I was a very miserable child that night. I +wandered about for a long time, looking for my +father in the crowd; sometimes following a figure +that looked like his ever so far, only to find I had followed +a stranger. I remember the shop-windows +being shut one by one, and the streets growing dark +and empty, and how at last I grew frightened, and sat +down on a doorstep and began to cry. A policeman +came across the street and looked at me, and shook +me roughly by the arm, and then began to question +me. I was quite disheartened by this time, and had +given up all hope of finding my father: so I told him +my name and where I lived, and he took me home, +through a great many narrow streets and turnings +and windings. I must have walked a long way, for I +know I had crossed one of the bridges over the river. +Everybody had gone to bed when the policeman +knocked at the door in Bond-street. My flight had +not been found out. My grandfather came down to +open the door in his dressing-gown and slippers. He +didn’t even scold me, he seemed too much surprised +for that, when he saw me wet and muddy and footsore. +He gave the man money, and carried me up +to my little bedroom at the top of the house, and +lighted a fire with his own hands, and did all he +could to make me warm and comfortable. He asked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> +me why I had gone out, and I told him. Then for +the first time that I can remember, he took me in his +arms and kissed me. “Poor Luce,” he said, “poor +little orphan girl!” He was very kind to me for +the next three days, and then took me down to +Yorkshire to the school, where I stayed nearly ten +years.’</p> + +<p>‘A strange sad story,’ said Lucius, deeply interested. +‘And have you never been told your father’s +fate?’</p> + +<p>‘Only that he went to America, and that my +grandfather has never heard of him from the hour +in which they parted until now.’</p> + +<p>‘May he not have had some tidings, and kept the +truth from you?’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t think he would tell me a direct falsehood; +and he has most positively declared that he has received +no letter from my father, and has heard nothing +of him from any other source. He is dead, no +doubt. I cannot think that he would quite forget +the little girl who used to sit upon his knee.’</p> + +<p>‘You believe him to have been a good father then, +in spite of your grandfather’s condemnation of him?’</p> + +<p>‘I believed that he loved me.’</p> + +<p>‘Have you no recollection of your mother?’</p> + +<p>‘No. She must have died when I was very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> +young. I have seen her portrait. My grandfather +keeps it hidden away in his desk, with old letters, +and other relics of the past. I begged him once to +give it to me, but he refused. “Better forget that +you ever had a father or a mother,” he said, in his bitterest +tone. But I have not forgotten my mother’s +face, and its sweet thoughtful beauty.’</p> + +<p>‘I am ready to believe that she was beautiful,’ +said Lucius, with a tender smile. Lucille’s story +had brought them ever so much nearer together. +Now, indeed, he might allow himself to be interested +in her—might freely surrender himself captive to the +charm of her gentle beauty—the magic of her sympathetic +voice. That little pathetic picture of her sorrowful +childhood—a tender heart overflowing with love +that none cared to garner—<em>that</em> made him her slave +for ever. Was this love at first sight, that foolish +unreasoning passion, which in Geoffrey Hossack he +deemed akin to lunacy? No, rather an intuitive recognition +of the one woman in all the world created +to be the sharer of his brightest hopes, the object +of his sweetest solicitude, the recompense and crown +of his life. He had to tear himself away after only +a few friendly words, for Duty, speaking with the +voice of his parish patients, seemed to call him from +this enchanted scene.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span></p> + +<p>‘I shall look in once or twice a week, in the evening,’ +he said, ‘and keep a watchful eye upon my +patient. Good-bye.’</p> + +<p>Towards the end of that week he spent another +evening at Cedar House, and in the following week +two more evenings and so on, through windy March, +and in the lengthening days of April, until he looked +back and wondered how he had managed to live before +his commonplace existence had been brightened by +these glimpses of a fairer world. The old man grew +still more familiar—friendly even—and allowed the +two young people to talk at their ease; nor did he +seem to have any objection to their growing intimacy. +As the days grew longer, he suffered them to wander +about the old house in the spring twilight, and out +into a desert in the rear, which had once been a garden, +where there still remained an ancient cedar, with +skeleton limbs that took grim shapes in the dusk. +Not a second Eden, by any means, for this blossomless +garden ended in a creek, where grimy barges, +laden with rubble or sand, or rags, or bones, or coal, +or old iron, lay lopsided in the inky mud, against the +mouldering woodwork of a dilapidated wharf, waiting +to be disburdened of their freight.</p> + +<p>Yet to one at least these wanderings, these lingering +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tête-à-têtes</i> by the creek, looking down dreamily at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> +the Betsy Jane of Wapping, or the Ann Smith of +Bermondsey, were all-sufficient for happiness.</p> + +<p>Seeing the old man thus indulgent, Lucius assured +himself that he could have formed no other +views about his granddaughter; since, as Lucius +himself thought, it would naturally occur to him +that he, Lucius, must needs fall madly in love with +her. He felt all the more secure upon this point +since he had so long been a constant visitor at +Cedar House, and had met no one there who could +pretend to Miss Sivewright’s favour. A snuffy old +dealer had been once or twice closeted with Mr. Sivewright, +but that was all. And however base a tyrant +Lucille’s grandfather might be, he could scarcely contemplate +bestowing his lovely grandchild upon an old +man in a shabby coat, who presented himself on the +threshold of the parlour with an abject air, and brought +some object of art or virtu wrapped in a blue-cotton +handkerchief for the connoisseur’s inspection.</p> + +<p>So the year grew older, and Lucius Davoren +looked out upon a new existence, cheered by new +hopes, and happy thoughts which went with him +through the long days of toil, and whispered to his +soul in the pauses of his studious nights.</p> + +<p>Even the hideous memory of what went before +his illness in America—that night in the pine-forest,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> +that winter dusk when the wicked face looked in at +his window, when the wolfish eyes glared at him for +the last time, save in his dreams—even that dread +picture faded somewhat, and he could venture to +meditate calmly upon the details of that tragedy, and +say to himself, ‘The blood I shed yonder was justly +shed.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.<br> +<span class="fs70">‘BY HEAVEN, I LOVE THEE BETTER THAN MYSELF.’</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">While</span> Lucius dreamed his dream beside the wharf +where the barges lay moored under the smoky London +sky, Geoffrey was following his siren from one +provincial town to another, not without some enjoyment +in the chase, which filled his empty life with +some kind of object, no matter though it were a +foolish one. Given youth, health, activity, and a +handsome income, there yet remains something +wanting to a man’s existence, without which it is +apt to become more or less a burden to him. That +something is a purpose. Geoffrey having failed—from +very easiness of temper, from being everybody’s +favourite, first in every pleasure-party, foremost +in every sport that needed pluck and endurance, +rather than from lack of ability—to achieve distinction +at the University, had concluded that he was fit +for nothing particular in life; that he had no vocation, +no capacity for distinguishing himself from the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> +ruck of his fellow men; and that the best thing he +could do was to live upon the ample fortune his merchant +father had amassed for him, and get as much +pleasure as he could out of life.</p> + +<p>Almost his first experience of pleasure and independence +had been those two years’ travel in the +Far West. Pleasure in that particular instance had +brought him face to face with death, but was counted +pleasure nevertheless. After doing America, he had +done as much of the old world as he happened to feel +interested in doing, not scampering round the globe +in ninety days like Mr. Cook’s excursionists, but +taking an autumn in Norway, a winter in Rome, a +spring in Greece, a summer in Sweden, and so on, +until he began to feel, in his own colloquial phrase, +that he had used up the map of Europe.</p> + +<p>Apart from his passion for the lovely concert-singer, +Mrs. Bertram, which was strong enough to +have sustained his energies had the siren sought to +lure him to the summit of Mount Everest, he really +enjoyed this scamper from one provincial town to +another, these idle days spent in sleepy old cities, +which were as new to him as any unexplored region +in central Europe. The great dusky cathedrals or +abbey-churches into which he strolled before breakfast, +careless but not irreverent; and where he sometimes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> +found white-robed curates and choristers chanting +the matin service; the empty square, where the +town-pump and a mediæval cross had it all to themselves, +except on market-days; the broad turnpike-road +beyond the High-street, where, perhaps, an +avenue of elms on the outskirt of the town testified +to the beneficent care of some bygone corporation not +quite destitute of a regard for the picturesque; these +things, which repeated themselves, with but little +variety, in most of the towns he explored, were not +without a certain mild interest for Mr. Hossack.</p> + +<p>He would gaze in wondering contemplation upon +those handsome red-brick houses at the best end of +the High-street, those respectable middle-class houses +which every one knows, and of which every English +town can boast, no matter how remote from the fever +of that commerce which makes the wealth of nations. +Houses whose windows shine resplendent, without +stain or blemish of dust, smoke, or weather; houses +on whose spotless doorstep no foot seems to have +trodden, whose green balconies are filled with geraniums +more scarlet than other geraniums, and on +whose stems no faded leaf appears; houses whose +sacred interior—archtemple of those homelier British +virtues, ready money and soapsuds—is shrouded from +the vulgar eye by starched muslin curtains pendant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> +from brazen rods; houses at which the taxgatherer +never calls twice, doors whose shining knockers have +never trembled in the rude grasp of a dun.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, in the gloaming, Geoffrey beheld the +bald head of an elderly gentleman above the brass +curtain-rod, and a pair of elderly eyes gazing gravely +across the empty street, not as if they expected to +see anything. The brass-plate on the door would +inform him of the elderly gentleman’s profession—whether +he was family solicitor or family surgeon, +architect or banker; and then Mr. Hossack would +lose himself in a labyrinth of wonder, marvelling how +this old man had borne the burden of his days in +that atmosphere of monotonous respectability, always +looking out of the same shining window, above the +same brazen bar. He would go back to his hotel, +after this small study of human life, a wiser and a +happier man, thanking Providence for that agreeable +combination of youth, health, and independent fortune +which gave him, in a manner, the key of the +universe.</p> + +<p>Stillmington, in Warwickshire, was a place considerably +in advance of the dull old market towns +where one could hear the butcher’s morning salutation +to his neighbour from one end of the street to +the other, where, indeed, the buzzing of a lively bluebottle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> +made an agreeable interruption of the universal +silence. Stillmington lay in the bosom of a fine +hunting country, and, as long as foxes were in season, +was gay with the cheery clatter of horses’ hoofs +on its well-kept roads, the musical clink of spurs on +its spotless pavements. Stillmington boasted an +aristocratic hotel, none of your modern limited-liability +palaces, but a family hotel of the fine old +English expensive and exclusive school, where people +ate and drank in the splendid solitude of their +private apartments, and stared at one another superciliously +when they met in the corridors or on the +staircase, instead of herding together at stated intervals +to gorge themselves in the eye of their fellow +man, like the passengers on board a Cunard steamer. +Stillmington possessed also a wholesome spring, +whose health-restoring waters were, however, somewhat +out of vogue, and a public garden, through +whose leafy groves meandered that silvern but weedy +stream the river Still; a garden whose beauties were +somewhat neglected by the upper five hundred of +Stillmington, except on the occasion of an archery +meeting or a croquet tournament.</p> + +<p>In the bright April weather, all sunshine and +blue skies, like a foretaste of summer, Geoffrey found +himself at Stillmington. His enchantress had been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> +delighting the ruder inhabitants of Burleysbury, the +great manufacturing town fifteen miles away, whose +plethora of wealth served to sustain the expensive +elegance of her unproductive neighbour, and was now +at Stillmington. There were to be two concerts, with +an interval of a week between them, and Geoffrey, +whose knowledge of Mrs. Bertram’s movements was +of the fullest, had ascertained that she meant to +spend that intervening week in Stillmington. He +had followed her from town to town, through all the +deviations of a most circuitous tour; now at Brighton, +anon at Liverpool, now at Cheltenham, anon at York. +He had heard her sing the same songs again and +again, and had known no weariness. But in all his +wanderings he had never yet spoken to her. It was +not that he lacked boldness. He had written to her—letters +enough to have made a bulky volume had he +cared to publish those sentimental compositions—but +on her part there had been only the sternest +silence. No response whatever had been vouchsafed +to those fervid epistles, offering his hand and fortune, +his heart’s best blood even, if she should happen +to desire such a sacrifice; letters teeming with +unconscious and somewhat garbled quotations from +Byron, made eloquent by plagiarism from Moore, +with here and there a touch of that energetic passion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> +which glows in the love-songs of Robert Burns; yet +to the very core honest and manly and straightforward +and true. She must have been colder than ice +surely to have been unmoved by such letters.</p> + +<p>She had recognised the writer. That he knew. +However crowded the hall where she sang, Geoffrey +knew that his presence was not unperceived by her. +He saw a swift sudden glance shot from those deep +gray eyes as she curtsied her acknowledgment of +the applause that welcomed her entrance; that keen +glance which swept the crowd and rested for one +ecstatic moment upon him. The lovely face never +stirred from its almost statuesque repose—a pensive +gravity, as of one who had done with the joys and +emotions of life—yet he had fancied more than once +that the eyes brightened as they recognised him; as +if even to that calm spirit there were some sense of +triumph in the idea of so much dogged devotion, +such useless worship.</p> + +<p>‘I daresay she feels pretty much as Astarte, or +Baal, or any of those ancient parties would have felt, +if they had been capable of feeling, when they were +propitiated with human sacrifices. She won’t answer +my letters, or afford me a ray of encouragement, but +likes to know that there is an honest fool breaking +his heart for her. No matter. I would rather break<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> +my heart for her than live happy ever afterwards, as +the story-books say, with any one else. So courage, +Geoffrey; let us show her how much ill-usage true +lovers can bear, and still love on, and hope on, till +love and hope are extinguished together in one untimely +grave.’</p> + +<p>And Geoffrey, whose philosophic mind was wont +thus to relieve the tedium of the toilet, would contemplate +his visage in the glass as he arranged his +white tie, and wonder that ill-starred passion had not +made greater ravages in his countenance; that he +had not grown pale and wan, and seamed with premature +wrinkles.</p> + +<p>‘I wonder I’m not as grim-looking as Count +Ugolino, by this time,’ he said to himself; and then +went down to his private sitting-room at the Royal +George, to eat a dinner of five courses in solitary +state, for the benefit of that old-established family +hotel. Love as yet had not affected his appetite. +He did excellent justice to the <em>cuisine</em> of the <em>chef</em> at +the George, an artist far above the common type of +hotel cooks.</p> + +<p>This young worldling was not without expedients. +Inaccessible as his bright particular star might be, +he yet contrived to scrape acquaintance with one of +the lesser lights in that planetary system of which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> +she was a part. A little finesse and a good deal of +brandy-and-soda obtained for him the friendship of a +youthful pianist, whose duty it was to accompany the +singers. From this youth, who wore his hair long, +affected the dreamily classical school, and believed +himself a mute inglorious Chopin, Geoffrey heard all +that was to be heard about Mrs. Bertram. But, alas, +this all was little more than the musicsellers had +already told him.</p> + +<p>No one knew any more about her than the one +fact of her supreme isolation, and that reserve of manner +which was, perhaps unjustly, called pride. She +lived alone; received no one, visited no one, kept her +fellow performers at the farthest possible distance. +If she took a lodging, it was always remote from the +quarter affected by the rest of the little company; +if she stayed at an hotel, it was never the hotel chosen +by the others.</p> + +<p>So much as this Geoffrey contrived to hear—not +once only, but many times—without committing himself +to the faintest expression of his feelings. He +would have perished sooner than degrade his passion +by making it the subject of vulgar gossip.</p> + +<p>‘If I cannot win her without a go-between,’ he +said to himself, ‘I am not worthy of her.’</p> + +<p>Many times, stung to the quick by the freezing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> +contempt with which she treated his letters, he had +watched and lain in wait for her, determined to force +an interview, should the opportunity arise. But no +such opportunity had yet arisen. He would do nothing +to create a scandal.</p> + +<p>Here at Stillmington he had new hopes. The +little town was almost empty, and offered a depressing +prospect to the speculator who was to give the +two concerts. The hunting season was over; the +water-drinking and summer-holiday season had not +yet begun. Stillmington had assumed its most exclusive +aspect. The residents—a class who held themselves +infinitely above those birds of passage who +brought life and gaiety and a brisk circulation of +ready money to the place—had it all to themselves. +Respectable old Anglo-Indian colonels and majors +paraded the sunny High-street, slow and solemn and +gouty, and passed the time of day with their acquaintance +on the opposite pavements in stentorian voices, +which all the town might hear, and with as much +confidence in the splendour of their social position as +if they had been the ground-landlords of the town. +Indeed, the lords of the soil were for the most part a +very inferior race of men, who wore dusty coats, +shabby hats with red-cotton handkerchiefs stuffed +into the crown, and had a sprinkling of plaster of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> +paris in their hair, and a three-foot rule sticking out +of their breast pockets—men who belong to the bricklaying +interest, and had come into Stillmington thirty +years ago, footsore and penniless, in search of labour. +These in their secret souls made light of the +loud-voiced majors.</p> + +<p>The town was very quiet; the glades and groves +in the subscription garden—where the young lilacs +put forth their tender leaves in the spring sunshine, +and the first of the nightingales began her plaintive +jug-jug at eventide—were lonely as those pathless +regions of brushwood at the mouth of the Mississippi +where the alligator riots at large among his scaly tribe. +To this garden came Geoffrey, on the second day of his +residence at Stillmington. Mr. Shinn, the pianist, +had dropped a few words that morning, which were +all-sufficient to make this one spot the most attractive +in the world for Geoffrey Hossack. Mrs. Bertram +and her little girl had walked here yesterday afternoon. +Mr. Shinn had seen them go in at the gate +while he was enjoying a meditative cigar, and thinking +out a reverie in C minor during his after-dinner +stroll.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey was prompt to act upon this information. +“What more likely than that his divinity would walk +in the same place this afternoon? There was a blue<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> +sky, and the west wind was balmy as midsummer +zephyrs. All nature invited her to those verdant +groves.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Hossack paid his money at the little gate, +where a comfortable-looking gatekeeper was dozing +over a local newspaper, and went in. Nature had +liberally assisted the landscape gardener who laid out +the Stillmington Eden. Geoffrey followed a path +which wound gently through a shady grove, athwart +whose undergrowth of rhododendron and laurel +flashed the bright winding river. Here and there a +break in the timber revealed a patch of green lawn +sloping to the bank, where willows dipped their +tremulous leafage into the rippling water. Ferns, +and such pale flowers as will flourish in the shade—primrose, +wild hyacinth, and periwinkle—grew +luxuriantly upon the broken ground beside the path, +where art had concealed itself beneath an appearance +of wildness. To the right of this grove there was a +wide stretch of lawn, where the toxophilites held +their festivals—where the croquet balls went perpetually +on certain days of the week, from the first +of May to the last of September. But happily the +croquet season had not yet begun, and the birds had +grove and lawn to themselves.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey went to the end of the grove, meeting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> +no one. He strolled down to the bank and looked at +the river, contemplated the weeds with the eye of +boatman and of angler.</p> + +<p>‘It ought to be a good place for jack,’ he muttered, +yawned, and went back to the grove.</p> + +<p>It was lonely as before. Thrushes, linnets, blackbirds, +burst forth with their little gushes of melody, +now alone, now together, then lapsed into silence. +He could hear the fish leap in the river; he could +hear the faint splash of the willow branches shaken +by the soft west wind. He yawned again, walked +back to within a few yards of the gate, came back +again, stretched himself, looked at his watch, and +sank exhausted on a rustic seat under the leafy arm +of a chestnut.</p> + +<p>‘I wonder if she will come to-day,’ he thought, +wishing he had been at liberty to solace himself with +a cigar. ‘It would be just like my luck if she didn’t. +If I had only seen her yesterday instead of that ass +Shinn, with his confounded reverie in C minor. But +there was I loafing at the other end of the town, +expecting to find her looking at the shop-windows, +or getting a novel at the circulating library, when I +ought to have been down here. And if I ever do +contrive to speak to her, I wonder what she’ll say. +Treat me with contumely, no doubt; blight me with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span> +her scorn, as she has blighted my epistolary efforts. +And yet, sometimes, I have seen a look in those +gray eyes that seemed to say, “What, are you so +true? Would to God I could reward your truth!” +A delusion, of course—mad as my love for her.’</p> + +<p>The mildness of the atmosphere, those little +gushes of song from the birds, the booming buzz +of an industrious bee, the faint ripple of the river, +made a combination of sound that by and by beguiled +him into forgetfulness, or not quite forgetfulness, +rather a pleasant blending of waking thought +and dreaming fancy. How long this respite from the +cares of actual life lasted he knew not; but after a +while the sweet voice of his enchantress, which had +mingled itself with all his dreams, seemed to grow +more distinct, ceased to be a vague murmur responsive +to the voice of his heart, and sounded clear and +ringing in the still afternoon atmosphere. He woke +with a start, and saw a tall slim figure coming slowly +along the path, half in sunshine, half in shadow—a +lady with a face perfect as a Greek sculptor’s Helen, +dark chestnut hair, eyes of that deep gray which +often seems black—a woman about whose beauty +there could hardly be two opinions. She was dressed +in black and gray—a black-silk dress of the simplest +fashion, a loose mantle of some soft gray stuff, which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> +draped her like a statue, a bonnet made of black lace +and violets.</p> + +<p>She was talking to a little girl with a small round +face, which might or might not by and by develop +into some likeness of the mother’s beauty. The child +carried a basket, and knelt down every now and then +to gather primroses and violets on the uneven ground +beside the path.</p> + +<p>‘Sweet child,’ said Geoffrey within himself, apostrophising +the infant, ‘if you would only run ever so +far away, and leave me quite free to talk to your +mamma!’</p> + +<p>He rose and went to meet her, taking off his hat +as she approached.</p> + +<p>‘I would not lose such an opportunity for worlds,’ +he thought, ‘even at the risk of being considered a +despicable cad. I’ll speak to her.’</p> + +<p>She tried to pass him, those glorious eyes overlooking +him with a superb indifference, not a sign +of discomposure in her countenance. But he was +resolute.</p> + +<p>‘Mrs. Bertram,’ he began, ‘pray pardon me for +my audacity: desperation is apt to be rash. I have +tried every means of obtaining an introduction to +you, and am driven to this from very despair.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span></p> + +<p>She gave him a look which made him feel infinitely +small in his own estimation.</p> + +<p>‘You have chosen a manner of introducing yourself +which is hardly a recommendation,’ she said, +‘even were I in the habit of making acquaintances, +which I am not. Pray allow me to continue my walk. +Come, Flossie, pick up your basket, and come with +mamma.’</p> + +<p>‘How can you be so cruel?’ he asked, almost +piteously. ‘Why are you so determined to avoid +me? I am not a scoundrel or a snob. If my mode +of approaching you to-day seems ungentlemanlike—’</p> + +<p>‘Seems!’ she repeated, with languid scorn.</p> + +<p>‘If it <em>is</em> ungentlemanlike, you must consider that +there is no other means open to me. Have I not +earned some kind of right to address you by the constancy +of my worship, by the unalterable devotion +which has made me follow you from town to town, +patiently waiting for some happy hour like this, in +which I should find myself face to face with you?’</p> + +<p>‘I do not know whether I ought to feel grateful +for what you call your devotion,’ she said coldly; +‘but I can only say that I consider it very disagreeable +to be followed from town to town in the manner +you speak of, and that I shall be extremely obliged if +you will discontinue your most useless pursuit.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span></p> + +<p>‘Must it be always useless? Is there no hope for +me? My letters have told you who and what I am, +and what I have dared to hope.’</p> + +<p>‘Your letters?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes; you have received them, have you not?’</p> + +<p>‘I have received some very foolish letters. Are +you the writer?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes; I am Geoffrey Hossack.’</p> + +<p>‘And you go about the world, Mr. Hossack, asking +ladies of whom you know nothing whatever to +marry you,’ she replied, looking him full in the face, +with a penetrating look in the full clear gray eyes—eyes +which reminded him curiously of other eyes, yet +he knew not whose.</p> + +<p>‘Upon my honour, madam,’ he answered gravely, +and with an earnest warmth that attested his sincerity, +‘you are the first and the only woman I ever +asked to be my wife.’</p> + +<p>That truthful tone, those candid eyes boldly meeting +her gaze, may have touched her. A faint crimson +flushed her cheek, and her eyelids drooped. It +was the first sign of emotion he had seen in her face.</p> + +<p>‘If that be true, I can only acknowledge the +honour of your preference, and regret that you have +wasted so much devotion upon one who can never be +anything more than a stranger to you.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span></p> + +<p>Geoffrey shot a swift glance after the child before +opening the floodgates of his passion. Blessed innocent, +she had strayed off to a distant patch of sunlit +verdure carpeted with wild hyacinths—‘the heavens +upbreaking through the earth.’</p> + +<p>‘Never?’ he echoed; ‘never more than a stranger? +Is it wise to make so light of an honest passion—a +love that is strong to suffer or to dare? Put me +to the test, Mrs. Bertram. I don’t ask you to trust +me or believe in me all at once. God knows I will be +patient. Only look me in the face and say, “Geoffrey +Hossack, you may hope,” and I will abide your +will for all the rest. I will follow you with a spaniel’s +fidelity, worship you with the blind idolatry of an +Indian fakir; will do for you what I should never +dream of doing for myself—strive to win reputation +and position. Fortune has been won for me.’</p> + +<p>‘Were you the Lord Chancellor,’ she said, with a +slow sad smile, ‘it would make no difference. You +and I can never be more than strangers, Mr. Hossack. +I am sorry for your foolish infatuation, just as +I should pity a spoiled child who cried for the moon. +But that young moon sailing cold and dim in the sky +yonder is as near to you as I can ever be.’</p> + +<p>‘I won’t believe it!’ he exclaimed passionately, +feeling very much like that spoiled child who will not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> +forego his desire for the moon. ‘Give me only a +chance. Do not be so cruel as to refuse me your +friendship: let me see you sometimes, as you might +if we had met in society. Forgive me for my audacity +in approaching you as I have done to-day. Remember +it was only by such a step I could cross the +barrier that divides us. I have waited so long for +this opportunity: for pity’s sake do not tell me that +I have waited in vain.’</p> + +<p>He stood bareheaded in the fading sunlight—young, +handsome—his candid face glowing with fervour +and truth; a piteous appealing expression in +those eyes that had been wont to look out upon life +with so gay and hopeful a glance,—not a man to be +lightly scorned, it would seem; not a wooer whose +loyal passion a wise woman would have spurned.</p> + +<p>‘I can only repeat what I have already told you,’ +Mrs. Bertram said quietly, as unmoved by his appeal +as if beneath her statuesque beauty there had been +nothing but marble; no pitiful impulsive woman’s +heart to be melted by his warmth, or touched by his +self-abasement. ‘Nothing could be more foolish or +more useless than this fancy—’</p> + +<p>‘Fancy!’ he repeated bitterly. ‘It is the one +heartfelt passion of a lifetime, and you call it fancy!’</p> + +<p>‘Nothing could be more foolish,’ she went on,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> +regardless of his interruption. ‘I cannot accept +your friendship in the present; I cannot contemplate +the possibility of returning your affection in the +future. My path in life lies clear and straight before +me—very narrow, very barren, perhaps—and it must +be trodden in solitude, except for that dear child. +Forget your mistaken admiration for one who has +done nothing to invite it. Go back to the beaten +way of life. What is that Byron says, Byron who had +drained the cup of all passions? Love makes so little +in a man’s existence. You are young, rich, unfettered, +with all the world before you, Mr. Hossack. +Thank God for so many blessings, and’—with a little +laugh that had some touch of bitterness—‘do not cry +for the moon.’</p> + +<p>She left him, with a grave inclination of the +proud head, and went away to look for her child—left +him planted there, ashamed of himself and his +failure; loving her desperately, yet desperately angry +with her; ready, had there only been a loaded pistol +within reach, to blow his brains out on the spot.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.<br> +<span class="fs70">‘SORROW HAS NEED OF FRIENDS.’</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Geoffrey</span> went to the concert at the Stillmington +Assembly Rooms that evening, his disappointment +notwithstanding. Granted that he had comported +himself in a mean and cad-like fashion; granted that +this woman he loved was colder than granite, unapproachable +as the rocky spurs of Australian mountains, +whose sheer height the foot of man has never +scaled; granted that his passion was of all follies +the maddest,—he loved her still. That one truth +remained, unshaken and abiding, fixed as the centre +of this revolving globe. He loved her.</p> + +<p>The audience at the Assembly Rooms that evening +was not large; indeed, Stillmington spent so +much money upon gentility as to have little left for +pleasure. The Stillmingtonites visited one another +in closed flies, which were solemnly announced towards +the end of each entertainment as Colonel or +Mr. So-and-so’s carriage. The distance that divided<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> +their several abodes was of the smallest, yet he was a +daring innovator who ventured to take his wife on +foot to a Stillmington dinner-party, rather than immure +her during the brief journey in one of Spark’s +flies. Concerts, however, the Stillmingtonites approved +as a fashionable and aristocratic form of entertainment—not +boisterously amusing, and appealing +to the higher orders, for the most part through +the genteel medium of foreign languages. There +was generally, therefore, a fair sprinkling of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">élite</i> +of Stillmington in the Assembly Room on such occasions, +and there was a fair sprinkling to-night—a +faint flutter of fans, an assortment of patrician shoulders +draped with opera cloaks of white or crimson; +an imposing display of elderly gentlemen with shining +bald heads and fierce gray whiskers; and, on +the narrower benches devoted to the vulgar herd, a +sparse assemblage of tradesmen’s wives and daughters +in their best bonnets.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey Hossack sat amongst the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">élite</i>, sick at +heart, yet full of eager longing, of feverish expectancy, +knowing that his only hope now was to see her thus, +that the fond vain dream of being something nearer +to her was ended. Nothing was left him but the +privilege of dogging her footsteps, of gazing at her +from among the crowd, of hearing the sweet voice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> +whose Circean strains had wrought this madness in +his mind, of following her to the end of life with his +obnoxious love.</p> + +<p>‘I shall become a modern Wandering Jew,’ he +thought, ‘and she will hate me. I shall provoke +her with my odious presence till she passes from +indifference to aversion. I can’t help it. My destiny +is to love her, and a man can but fulfil his destiny.’</p> + +<p>She sang the old Italian song he loved so well—that +melody whose pathetic tones have breathed their +sad sweetness into so many ears—recalling fond memories +and vain regrets, thoughts of a love that has +been and is no more, of lives only beyond the grave.</p> + +<p>To Geoffrey those pensive strains spoke of love in +the present—love dominant, triumphant in its springtide +of force and passion.</p> + +<p>‘Voi che sapéte che cosa è amor,’ he repeated to +himself bitterly; ‘I should rather think I did. It’s +the only thing I do know in the present obfuscation +of my faculties.’</p> + +<p>Their eyes met once in the look she cast round +the room. Great Heaven, what regretful tenderness +in hers! Such a look as that maddened him. Had +she but looked at him thus to-day in the garden, he +would surely have done something desperate—clasped +her in his arms, and sworn to carry her to the uttermost<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span> +ends of the earth, if thereby he might be sure +of his prize. Could she look at him thus, she who +had been colder than the icy breath of the polar seas, +when he had pleaded with all the force of his passion +two short hours ago?</p> + +<p>His eyes never left her face while she sang. When +she vanished, the platform was a blank. Other performers +came and went; there was other music, vocal +and instrumental—to him it seemed no more than +the vague murmur of a far-off waterfall in the ears +of slumber. She came back again, after an interval +that seemed intolerably long, and sang something of +Balfe’s—a poem by Longfellow, called ‘Daybreak’—mournful, +like most of her songs, but full of music.</p> + +<p>During the interval between the two concerts +Geoffrey paced Stillmington and its environs with +an indefatigable industry that might have shamed +the local postman, for <em>he</em> at least was weary, while +Geoffrey knew not weariness. Vainly did he haunt +that aristocratic High-street, vainly linger by the +door of the circulating library, the fancy repository, +the music-shop where somebody was perpetually trying +pianos with woolly basses and tinkling trebles; +vainly did he stroll in and out of the garden where +he had dared to molest Mrs. Bertram with his unwelcome +adoration,—she was nowhere to be met with.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> + +<p>One comfort only remained to him, a foolish one, +like all those fancies whence love derives consolation. +He knew where his enchantress lived, and in the quiet +dusk, when the gentle hush of evening enfolded Stillmington +like a mantle, he would venture to pace the +lonely street beneath her windows; would watch her +taper gleaming faintly in that gray nightfall which +was not yet darkness, would, as it were, project his +spirit into her presence, and keep her company in +spite of herself.</p> + +<p>The street where she lodged was on the outskirts +of the town, newly built—a street of commonplace +dwellings of the speculative builder’s pattern; a row +of square boxes, with not a variation of an inch from +number one to number thirty; sordid, unpicturesque: +habitations which even love could not beautify. Mrs. +Bertram occupied the upper floor above a small haberdasher’s +shop, such a shop as one felt could be kept +only by a widow—a scanty display of poor feminine +trifles in the window, children’s pinafores, cheap +gloves, cheap artificial flowers, cheap finery of divers +kinds, whose unsubstantial fabric a spring shower +would reduce to mere pulp or rag useless even for the +paper-mill.</p> + +<p>Here, between seven and eight o’clock, Mr. Hossack +used to smoke his after-dinner cigar, despairing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> +yet deriving a dismal pleasure from the sense of his +vicinity to the beloved, like those who, in the gloaming, +pace a churchyard within whose pale their treasure +lies. The twinkling light shining palely athwart +the white blind cheered him a little. Her hand had +perhaps kindled it. She was there alone—for Geoffrey, +in whom the parental instinct was unawakened, did +not count a child as company—amidst those humble +surroundings, she whose loveliness would enhance the +splendour of a palace. Thus, with all love’s exaggeration, +he thought of her.</p> + +<p>One evening he was bold enough to penetrate the +little shop. ‘Had they any gloves that would fit +him?—eights or nines he believed he required.’ As +he had supposed, the shopkeeper was a widow. She +emerged from the little parlour at the back, dressed +in rusty weeds, to assist a young woman with a small +pinched visage and corkscrew ringlets, who was feebly +groping among the shelves and little paper packets +with hieroglyphical labels.</p> + +<p>‘Lor, Matilda Jane, you never know where to find +anything! There’s a parcel of drab men’s on that +top shelf. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sir. We +have a large selection of cloth and lisle-thread gloves. +You’d like lisle-thread, perhaps, as the weather’s setting +in so warm?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes, lisle-thread will do,’ answered Geoffrey, +who had never worn anything but Jouvin’s best, at +five shillings a pair.</p> + +<p>He seated himself, and looked round the stuffy +little shop. Above this gloomy den Mrs. Bertram +lived. He listened for her light step while the drab +men’s were being hunted for.</p> + +<p>‘I think you have one of the ladies who sang at +the concert lodging with you?’ said this hypocrite, +while he made believe to try on the thread gloves.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir; Mrs. Bertram: a very sweet young +person; so mild and affable.’</p> + +<p>‘But not chatty, mother,’ interjected the damsel +in ringlets. ‘It’s as much as one can do to get half-a-dozen +words out of her; and it’s my belief she’s as +proud as she can be, in spite of her soft voice.’</p> + +<p>‘Hold your tongue, Matilda Jane; you’re always +running people down,’ remonstrated the matron. ‘I +think that pair will fit you nicely, sir,’ as Geoffrey +thrust his strong fingers into the limp thread. ‘Poor +dear lady, there wasn’t much pride left in her this +morning, when she spoke to me about her little +girl.’</p> + +<p>‘Her little girl! There is nothing the matter, +I hope?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir, there is. The poor little dear has took<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> +the scarlatina. Where she could have took it, I can’t +imagine; for it’s not in this street: indeed, we’re +very free from everything except measles in this part +of the town; and they’re everywhere, as you may +say, where there’s children. But the little girl has +took the scarlatina somehow, and Mrs. Bertram’s +dreadful down-hearted about it. The poor child’s +got it rather bad, I grant you; but then, as I tell +her mar, it’s only scarlatina: those things ending +with a “tina” are never dangerous—it isn’t as if it +was scarlet-fever.’</p> + +<p>‘You are sure the child is in no danger?’ cried +Geoffrey anxiously; not that he cared for children in +the abstract; but <em>her</em> child—a priceless treasure, +doubtless—<em>that</em> must not be imperilled.</p> + +<p>‘No, sir; indeed I don’t think as there’s any +danger. I’ll allow the fever’s been very high, and +the child has been brought down by it; but the +doctor hasn’t hinted at danger. He is to look in +again this evening.’</p> + +<p>‘He comes twice a day, does he? That looks as +if the case were serious.’</p> + +<p>‘It was Mrs. Bertram’s wish, sir. Feeling anxious +like, she asked him.’</p> + +<p>Geoffrey was silent for a few minutes, meditating. +If he could establish some kind of <em>rapport</em> between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> +himself and these people, it would be something +gained: he would feel himself nearer to his beloved +in her affliction. Alas, that she should be sorrowful, +and he powerless to comfort her; so much a stranger +to her, that any expression of sympathy would seem +an impertinence!</p> + +<p>‘I have heard Mrs. Bertram sing a great many +times,’ he said, ‘and have been charmed with her +singing. I am deeply interested in her (as a musical +amateur), and in anything that concerns her welfare. +I shall venture to call again to-morrow evening, to +inquire how the little girl is going on. But pray do +not mention me to Mrs. Bertram; I am quite unknown +to her, and the idea that a stranger had +expressed an interest in her might be displeasing. +I’ll take half-a-dozen pairs of gloves.’</p> + +<p>He threw down a sovereign—a delightful coin, +which not often rang upon that humble counter. +The widow emptied her till in order to find change +for this lavish customer.</p> + +<p>‘Half-a-dozen gloves, at fifteenpence, seven-and-sixpence. +Thank you, sir. Is there anything in +socks or pocket-handkerchiefs I can show you?’</p> + +<p>‘Not to-night, thanks. I’ll look at some handkerchiefs +to-morrow,’ said Geoffrey; and departed, +rejoiced to find that by the expenditure of a few shillings<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> +he could keep himself informed of Mrs. Bertram’s +movements.</p> + +<p>He went straight to the best fruiterer in the +town, whose shop was on the point of closing. Here +he bought some hot-house grapes, at fourteen shillings +a pound, which he dispatched at once to Mrs. +Bertram’s lodging. He had sent her his tribute of +choice flowers continually, in the course of his long +pursuit, but she had never deigned to wear a blossom +of his sending.</p> + +<p>She was to sing on the following evening. ‘If +her child is worse, she will not appear,’ he thought. +But when he called at the little shop that afternoon, +he heard the child was somewhat better, and that +she meant to sing.</p> + +<p>‘There was some grapes came last night, sir, +soon after you left,’ said the widow. ‘Was it you +that sent them? Mrs. Bertram seemed so pleased. +The poor little thing was parched with fever, and the +grapes was such a comfort.’</p> + +<p>‘You didn’t say anything about me?’ said Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘Not a syllable, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘That’s right. I’ll send more grapes. If there +is anything else I can do, pray let me know. I’m +such a stupid fellow. You may send me a dozen of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> +those handkerchiefs,’—without looking at the fabric, +which was about good enough for his groom. ‘I shall +be so grateful to you if you can suggest anything +that I could do for the little girl.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t think there’s anything, sir. Her mar +lets her want for nothing. But the grapes was a +surprise. “I didn’t think there were any to be +had,” Mrs. Bertram said. But perhaps she’d hardly +go to the price, sir; for she doesn’t seem to be very +well off.’</p> + +<p>Pinched by poverty! What a pang the thought +gave him! And he squandered his useless means +without being able to purchase contentment. He +had been happy enough, certainly, in his commonplace +way, before he had seen her; but now that he +had tasted the misery of loving her, he could not +go back to that empty happiness—the joy of vulgar +minds, which need only vulgar pleasures.</p> + +<p>He was in his seat in the front row when the +concert began. Whatever musical faculty might be +latent in his composition stood a fair chance of development +nowadays, so patiently did he sit out pianoforte +solos, concertante duets, trios for piano, violin, +and ’cello; warblings, soprano and contralto, classical +or modern; hearing all alike with the same callous +ear till she appeared—a tall slim figure simply robed;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> +a sad sweet face, full of a quiet pride that seemed to +hold him aloof, yet with that fleeting look of love and +pity in those tender eyes which seemed to draw him +near.</p> + +<p>To-night that serious countenance was in his eyes +supremely pathetic; for he knew her secret sorrow, +knew that her heart was with her sick child.</p> + +<p>She sang one of the old familiar songs—nothing +classical, only an old-fashioned English ballad, ‘She +wore a wreath of roses,’ a simple sentimental story of +love and sorrow. The plaintive notes moved many to +tears, even the Stillmingtonites, who were not easily +melted, being too eminently genteel for emotion.</p> + +<p>‘Good heavens, what a fool she makes of me!’ +thought Geoffrey; ‘I who never cared a straw for +music.’</p> + +<p>He waited near a little door at the back of the +Assembly Rooms, by which he knew the concert +people went in and out—waited until Mrs. Bertram +emerged, one of the earliest. She was not alone. +Her landlady’s daughter, the young woman in corkscrew +ringlets, accompanied her. He followed them +at a respectful distance, observed by neither.</p> + +<p>Pity and impetuous love made him bold. No +sooner were they in a quiet unfrequented street than +he quickened his pace, came up with them, and dared<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span> +once more to address the woman who had scorned +him.</p> + +<p>‘Forgive me, Mrs. Bertram,’ he said. ‘I have +heard of your little girl’s illness, and I am so anxious +to know if I can be of any use to you. Is there anything +I can do?’</p> + +<p>‘Nothing,’ she answered sadly, not slackening +her pace for a moment. ‘It is kind of you to +wish to help me, but unless you could give my +darling health and strength—she was so well and +strong only a few days ago—you can do nothing. +She is in God’s hands; I must be patient. I daresay +it is only a childish illness, which need not make +me miserable. But—but she is all the world to me.’</p> + +<p>‘Are you satisfied with your doctor, or shall I get +you other medical advice? I will telegraph to London +for any one you would like to have.’</p> + +<p>‘You are very kind,’ she answered gently, her +manner strangely different from what it had been +in the garden. ‘No; I have no reason to be dissatisfied +with the doctor who is attending my pet. +He is kind, and seems clever. I thank you for your +wish to help me in my trouble. Good-night.’</p> + +<p>They were in the street where she lived by this +time. She made him a little curtsy, and passed on +very quickly to the shop door, and vanished from his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> +eager eyes. He paced the street for an hour, watching +the light in the two little windows above the shop, +before he went back to his hotel, and for him the +night was sleepless. How could he rest while she +was unhappy?</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.<br> +<span class="fs70">GEOFFREY INCLINES TO SUSPICION.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Towards</span> morning self-indulgent habits triumphed +over anxious love. After tossing all night in feverish +unrest, Mr. Hossack slept soundly till noon; but not +a commonplace slumber, for the visions of his head +upon his bed were made beautiful to him by the image +of his beloved. She was with him in that dream-world +where all is smooth and fair as the wide bosom +of Danube when no storm-wind ruffles his waters; a +world where there were neither sick children nor concerts—nothing +but happiness and love.</p> + +<p>He awakened himself reluctantly from so sweet a +delusion, dressed and breakfasted hurriedly, and went +straight to the little draper’s shop at the fag end of +Stillmington. After Mrs. Bertram’s gentler manner +last night, he felt as if he might venture to approach +her. Sorrow had brought them nearer to each other; +she who had so sternly repulsed his love had not rejected +his sympathy. She had thanked him, even,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> +for his proffered aid, in that thrilling voice which in +speech as in song went straight to his heart.</p> + +<p>The young woman was behind the counter when +he went in, reading a number of the <cite>London Journal</cite> +in pensive solitude.</p> + +<p>‘How is the little girl this morning?’ he asked +eagerly.</p> + +<p>‘O, sir, I’m sorry to say she’s not so well. She +was light-headed last night, and her poor mar sat up, +and looks as pale as a ghost to-day, and the doctor +seemed more serious like. But as mother tells Mrs. +Bertram, it’s only scarlatina; it isn’t as if it was +scarlet fever, you know.’</p> + +<p>The little door of communication between the shop +and the staircase opened at this moment, and Jane +Bertram’s pale face appeared—how pale and wan! +He could not have thought one night’s suffering +would have worked such a change.</p> + +<p>‘She is worse,’ she said, looking at the girl with +haggard eyes that hardly seemed to have sight in +them. ‘For God’s sake run for the doctor.’</p> + +<p>‘She can’t be so bad as all that. Come, bear up, +Mrs. Bertram, that’s a dear,’ answered the girl kindly. +‘You’re so nervous, and you’re not used to illness. +I’ll run and fetch Mr. Vincent if you like, but I daresay +there’s no need.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span></p> + +<p>She shuffled on her bonnet as she spoke.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know,’ Mrs. Bertram said helplessly; ‘I +don’t know what I ought to do; she was never so ill +before.’</p> + +<p>She went up-stairs, Geoffrey following, emboldened +by pity. He stood by the open door of the little +bedroom—commonly furnished, but neat and spotless +in its pure drapery of white dimity, its well-scrubbed +floor, and freshly-papered wall. The sick +child lay with her golden hair spread loosely on the +pillow, her blue eyes bright with fever. The landlady +sat by the bed, sharing the mother’s watch.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bertram bent over the child, kissed her with +fond passionate kisses, and murmured broken words +of love, then turned towards the door, surprised to +see the intruder.</p> + +<p>‘You here!’ she exclaimed, seeing Geoffrey, but +with no anger in the sorrowful face.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I want so much to be of use to you. Will +you spare me two minutes, in here?’ he asked, pointing +to the sitting-room, the door of which stood open. +‘The little girl is safe with our good friend.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ the mother answered piteously. ‘I can do +nothing for her. Only God can help us—only He +who pitied the sinful woman in her agony.’</p> + +<p>The words struck strangely on his ear, but he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> +let them pass unnoticed as the wild cry of an almost +despairing soul. What should she have to do with +sin? she in whose countenance reigned purity and a +proud innocence none could dare impeach.</p> + +<p>‘I spoke to you last night about getting farther +advice,’ he said. ‘Mind, I don’t suppose it’s in the +least degree necessary; your child’s recovery is no +doubt merely a question of time. These childish +fevers must run their course. But I can see that you +are unduly anxious. It might be a comfort to you +to see another doctor, a man especially experienced +in the treatment of children. I knew just such a +man—one who has been particularly successful with +children; not an eminent man by any means, but one +who has worked among the poor, whose heart is in +his profession, whose work is really a labour of love. +I can speak of him with perfect confidence, for he is +my friend, and I know all this to be true. Let me +telegraph for him; I am sure that he will come as +quickly as an express train can bring him.’</p> + +<p>Her eyes brightened a little, and she gave him a +look full of gratitude.</p> + +<p>‘How good of you to think of this!’ she said. ‘O +yes, pray, pray send for him. Such a man as that +might save my darling, even if she were in danger, +and the doctor here says there is no danger. Pray<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> +send for this good man. I am not very rich, but I +will gladly pay any fee within my means, and be his +debtor for farther payment in the future.’</p> + +<p>‘He will not want payment,’ answered Geoffrey, +with a smile. ‘He is my friend, and would make a +longer journey than from London here to serve me. +Rely upon it, he will be with you before this evening. +Good-bye, Mrs. Bertram, and try to be hopeful. If +I thought there were a better man in all London than +the man I am going to summon, rely upon it I would +have that better man.’</p> + +<p>He gave her his hand, which she did not refuse; +at least, she let her feverish little hand rest in his for +one brief delicious moment, perhaps unconsciously. +But he felt that he had gained ground since that day +in the garden. He had won the right to approach her.</p> + +<p>He jumped into the first fly he met, told the man +to drive his hardest to the railway station—it was before +the days of postal telegraph offices—and dispatched +his message, paying for both telegram and +reply.</p> + +<p>The message ran thus:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>‘<em>From Geoffrey Hossack, Stillmington, Warwickshire, +to Lucius Davoren, 103 Shadrack-road, London.</em></p> + +<p>‘Come here at once to see a sick child. No time<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> +to be lost. Your coming quickly will be the greatest +favour you can do me. The patient’s address is 15 +Marlow-street, New-town, Stillmington. Answer paid +for.’</p> +</div> +<br> + +<p>The telegram handed over to the clerk, he began +to speculate upon the probabilities of delay. After +all, this telegraphic system, which would have seemed +so miraculous to our ancestors, is not rapid enough +for the impatience of Young England’s impetuous +spirit.</p> + +<p>It seems a slow business at the best. Science +has made the matter swift as light, but clerkly sluggishness +and slow-footed messengers clog electricity’s +wings, and a message which takes a hundred seconds +for its actual transmission from the operator to the +dial may not be delivered for a couple of hours.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey went back to Marlow-street to hear the +last tidings of the little patient. She was sleeping +peacefully, and her mother seemed more hopeful. +This lightened his heart a good deal, and he went +back to his hotel, smoked a cigar, played a game +at pyramids with some officers from the Stillmington +Barracks, and thus beguiled the time until a waiter +brought him the answer to his telegram. It was +brief and decisive:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p> + +<p>‘I shall come to Stillmington by the last train. +Must see patients before leaving.’</p> + +<p>The last train! That meant considerable delay. +It was now four o’clock, and the last train came into +Stillmington at eleven. How coolly these doctors +take things! Geoffrey felt as if his friend ought to +have abandoned all his other patients to their fates +for the sake of this sick child. The last train! Was +this the measure of friendship?</p> + +<p>Happily the latest report of the little girl was +cheering. Doubtless all would be well. On the +strength of this hope Geoffrey dined; and dined +tolerably well, having asked the officers to share +his meal. This hospitality prolonged the business of +dining till after nine o’clock, when Geoffrey pleaded +an engagement as an excuse for getting rid of his +guests, and went for the third time that day to Marlow-street. +He had drunk little or nothing at the +social board, and had felt the exercise of hospitality +somewhat irksome; but he was the kind of young +man to whom dinner-giving is an absolute necessity.</p> + +<p>The draper’s shop in Marlow-street had closed its +shutters, but the door stood open, and the damsel in +ringlets was airing herself on the threshold after the +labours of a day which had brought her about half a +dozen customers.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span></p> + +<p>To Geoffrey’s question, which had become almost +a formula, she answered hopefully. The child was +better. She had sat up for a minute and had drunk +a cup of milk, and had taken sundry spoonfuls of beef-tea, +and had eaten three grapes, and had spoken ‘quite +lively and sensible-like. Children are so soon down, +and so soon up again,’ said the damsel. ‘It’s no +good taking on about them, as I told Mrs. Bertram this +morning.’</p> + +<p>‘She is happier now, I suppose,’ said Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘O dear, yes, quite herself again.’</p> + +<p>‘Will you ask her if I may see her for a minute +or two? I want to tell her about the doctor I have +sent for.’</p> + +<p>The girl went up-stairs and returned speedily.</p> + +<p>‘Mrs. Bertram will be happy to see you,’ she said, +‘if you’ll please to walk up.’</p> + +<p>If he would please to walk up! Would he please +to enter paradise, did its gates stand open for him? +To see her even in her grief was sweet as a foretaste +of heaven. She received him this evening with a smile.</p> + +<p>‘God has heard my prayer,’ she said; ‘my little +darling is better. I really don’t think I need have +troubled your kind friend to come down. I begin +to feel more confidence in Mr. Vincent, now that my +treasure is better.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span></p> + +<p>‘I am rejoiced to hear it. But my friend will be +here to-night. He is one of the best of men. He +saved my life once under circumstances of much hardship +and danger. We have faced death together. I +should not be here to tell you this but for Lucius +Davoren.’</p> + +<p>‘Lucius Davoren!’ She repeated the name with +a wondering look, horror-stricken, her hand clutching +the back of the chair from which she had risen. ‘Is +your friend’s name Lucius Davoren?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. Can it be possible that you know him? +That would be very strange.’</p> + +<p>‘No,’ she said slowly; ‘I do not know this friend +of yours. But his name is associated with a somewhat +painful memory.’</p> + +<p>‘Very painful, I fear, or you would hardly have +grown so pale at the mention of his name,’ said +Geoffrey, with a jealous horror of anything like a +secret in his divinity’s past life.</p> + +<p>‘I was foolish to be agitated by such a trifle. +After all it’s only a coincidence. I daresay there are +a good many Davorens in the world,’ she answered +carelessly.</p> + +<p>‘I doubt it. Davoren is not a common name.’</p> + +<p>‘Has your friend, this Mr. Lucius Davoren, been +successful in life?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span></p> + +<p>‘I can hardly say that. As I told you when I first +spoke of him, he is by no means distinguished. He +is indeed almost at the beginning of his professional +career. Yet were I racked with the most obscure of +diseases, I should laugh all your specialists to scorn +and cry, “Send for Lucius Davoren.”’</p> + +<p>‘He is poor, I suppose?’ she asked curiously.</p> + +<p>‘Very likely; in the sense of having no money +for luxury, splendour, or pleasure—things which he +holds in sovereign contempt. He can afford to give +the best years of his youth to patient labour among +the poor. That is the education he has chosen for +himself, rather than a West-end practice and a single +brougham; and I believe he will find it the shortest +road to everlasting fame.’</p> + +<p>‘I am glad you believe in him,’ she said warmly, +‘since he is such a great man.’</p> + +<p>‘But you have not yet recovered from the shock +his name caused you just now.’</p> + +<p>‘Not quite. My darling’s illness has made me +nervous. If you think your friend will not be offended, +I would rather avoid seeing him,’ she added, +in a pleading tone. ‘I really don’t feel well enough +to see a stranger. I have passed through such alternations +of hope and fear during the last few days. +Will your friend forgive me if I leave Mrs. Grabbit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> +to receive his instructions? She is a good soul, and +will forget nothing he tells her.’</p> + +<p>‘Do just as you like,’ replied Geoffrey, mystified, +and somewhat disturbed in mind by this proposition; +‘of course you needn’t see him unless you please. +But he’s a very good fellow, and my truest friend. +I should like you to have made his acquaintance. +You’ll think me a selfish beg—fellow for saying so; +but I really believe you’d have a better opinion of me +if you knew Lucius Davoren. His friendship is a kind +of certificate. But of course, if you’d rather not see +him, there’s an end of it. I’ll tell him that you have +unpleasant associations with his name, and that the +very mention of it agitated you.’</p> + +<p>‘No!’ she cried, with a vehemence that startled +him. ‘For God’s sake say nothing, tell him nothing, +except that I am too ill to see any one. I detest anything +like fuss. And why make a mountain out of +the veriest molehill? His name reminded me of past +sorrow, that is all.’</p> + +<p>‘Capricious,’ thought Geoffrey; ‘with a temper +by no means as regular as the classic beauty of her +face, I daresay. But were she as violent as Shakespeare’s +shrew before Petruchio tamed her, I should +not the less adore her. Past sorrow! Some doctor +called Davoren may have attended her husband on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span> +his death-bed. She is just the kind of woman to lock +her heart up in a tomb, and then go about the world +luring mankind to their destruction by her calm +passionless beauty, and answering all with the +same dismal sentence, “My heart is with the +dead.”’</p> + +<p>He submitted to Mrs. Bertram’s decision. He +promised to meet his friend at the station, bring him +straight to the sick-room, and with his own hand +carry Mr. Davoren’s prescription to the chief chemist +of Stillmington.</p> + +<p>And thus he left her; perplexed, but not all +unhappy. Blessings on that sweet child for her +timeous indisposition! It had opened the way to +his acquaintance with the mother; an acquaintance +which, beginning with service and sympathy, promised +to ripen quickly into friendship.</p> + +<p>The last train brought Lucius. The friends met +with a strong hand-grasp, a few hearty words of greeting, +and then walked swiftly from the station, which, +after the manner of provincial stations, had been +placed a good half mile from the town, for the advantage +of local fly-drivers, no doubt, and the livery-stable +interest.</p> + +<p>‘And pray who is this small patient in whose +welfare you are so concerned, Geoff?’ asked Lucius.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> +‘Has some piteous case of local distress awakened +your dormant philanthropy? I know you’re a good +fellow, but I didn’t know you went in for district-visiting.’</p> + +<p>‘There’s no philanthropy in the question, Lucius. +Only selfish, pig-headed love. I say pig-headed, because +the lady doesn’t value my affection; scorns it, +in fact. But I hold on with a bulldog pertinacity. +After all, you see, an Englishman’s highest quality +is his bulldoggedness.’</p> + +<p>‘But what has your bulldog affection to do with +a sick child?’</p> + +<p>‘Heaven bless the little innocent! One would +suppose she had fallen ill on purpose to bring about +my acquaintance with her most unapproachable mother. +Don’t you remember my telling you that Mrs. +Bertram has a little girl—a red-legged angel, after +Millais?’</p> + +<p>‘O, yes, by the way, there was a child,’ said +Lucius indifferently. Then warming as he contemplated +the case in its professional aspect, ‘She is +not very ill, I hope?’</p> + +<p>‘Scarlatina,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘But she seems +to be mending to-night.’</p> + +<p>‘Scarlatina!’ exclaimed Lucius; ‘and you brought +me down to Stillmington to see a case of scarlatina,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> +which any local apothecary would understand just as +well as I!’</p> + +<p>‘You dear old fellow! don’t be angry. It wasn’t +so much the scarlatina. I wanted you to see Mrs. +Bertram. I wanted you to see with your own eyes +that the woman I love is worthy of any man’s affection.’</p> + +<p>‘And, you think I should be in a position to decide +that question after half-an-hour’s acquaintance? A +question which has taken some men a lifetime to +solve, and which some have left unanswered at their +death. No, Geoff, I don’t pretend to be wiser than +other men where a woman’s character is in question. +And if my instinct warned me against your enchantress, +and if I should advise you speedily to forget +her, how much do you think my counsel would influence +you?’</p> + +<p>‘Not much, I’m afraid, Lucius. It wouldn’t be +very easy for me to cast off her thrall. I am her +willing bondslave. Nothing less than the knowledge +that she is unworthy of my love—that her past life +holds some dishonourable secret—would change my +purpose. She has left my letters unanswered, she +has rejected my offered devotion, and with something +like scorn; yet there has been a look in her face, +more transient than an April sunbeam, that has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> +given me hope. I mean to hold on—I mean to win +her love—in spite of herself, if need be.’</p> + +<p>He gave a brief sketch of that little scene in +the garden, his audacity, her almost contemptuous +indifference; and then explained how Fortune, +or, as he put it, the scarlatina, had smiled upon +him.</p> + +<p>‘And you think, notwithstanding her affected indifference, +that she loves you?’</p> + +<p>‘Loves is too strong a word. What have I done +to merit her love, except follow her as a collie follows +a flock of sheep? What is there in me to deserve or +attract her love? I am not ravishingly beautiful. I +do not sing with a heart-penetrating voice. It is +only natural I should worship her. It is the old +story of the moon and the water brooks.’</p> + +<p>‘But you talked about a look which gave you +hope.’</p> + +<p>‘A look! Yes, Davoren. Such a look—sorrow +and tenderness, regret, despair, all blended in one +swift glance from those divine eyes—a look that +might madden a man. Such a look as Paris may +have seen in Helen’s eyes before he planned the +treason that ended in flaming Troy. But after all +it may have meant nothing; it may have existed +only in my wild imagining. When a man is as deep<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> +in love as I am, Heaven only knows to what hallucinations +he may be subject.’</p> + +<p>‘Well,’ said Lucius cheerily, with that practical +spirit which men bring to bear upon other men’s +passions, ‘I shall see the lady, and be able at least +to form some opinion as to whether she loves you or +not. Whether she be worthy of your love is a question +I would not attempt to solve, but the other is +easier. I think I shall discover if she loves you. +What a pleasant smell of the country—newly-turned +earth and budding hedgerows—there is about here! +It refreshes my senses after the odours of the Shadrack-road, +where we have a wonderful combination of +bone-burning, tan-yard, and soap-caldron.’</p> + +<p>‘I am glad you enjoy the country air,’ said Geoffrey, +in a somewhat sheepish tone, ‘and I do hope +you’ll be able to spare to-morrow for a dog-cart exploration +of the neighbourhood, as that may atone +for my having brought you here somewhat on a fool’s +errand. The fact is, Mrs. Bertram would rather not +see you.’</p> + +<p>‘Rather not see the doctor who has come from +London to attend her sick child! An odd kind of +mother.’</p> + +<p>‘You’re wrong, Lucius; she’s a most devoted +mother. I never saw any one so broken down as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> +she was this morning, before the little thing took a +turn for the better. Don’t run away with any false +notion of that kind; she idolises that child. Only +she has knocked herself up with nursing; and she +has been alarmed, and agitated, and, in short, isn’t +in a fit state to see any one.’</p> + +<p>‘Except you,’ said Lucius.</p> + +<p>‘My dear fellow, in her distress about the child +she has thought no more of me than if I were—a—a +gingham umbrella,’ said Geoffrey, after casting about +wildly for a comparison. ‘She thinks of nothing but +that red-legged angel. And you can imagine that +at such a moment she would shrink from seeing a +stranger.’</p> + +<p>‘Even the doctor who comes to see her child. +She is the first mother I ever knew to act in such a +manner. Don’t be angry with me, Geoff, if I say +that this looks to me very much as if your divinity +feared to trust herself to eyes less blind than yours—as +if she knew there is that in herself, or in her +life, which would not impress a dispassionate observer +favourably. Your blind worship has made +her a goddess. She doesn’t want to come down from +her pedestal in the shadowy temple of your imagination +into the broad glare of every-day life.’</p> + +<p>Of course Geoffrey was angry. Was he a fool, or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> +a schoolboy, to be caught by meretricious charms—to +take tinsel for gold?</p> + +<p>‘I have seen women enough in my time to know +a good one when I meet one; and that this woman +is good and true I will stake my life, my hope of +winning her even, which is dearer to me than life.’</p> + +<p>‘And if you found her less than you believe her, +you would do what you said three months ago—pluck +her out of your heart?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, though her jesses were my heartstrings.’</p> + +<p>‘Good; that’s all I want to know. I tell you +frankly, Geoff, I don’t like this wandering apprenticeship +to your new divinity. I don’t like the idea of a +life-passion picked up by the roadside—of all your +hopes of future happiness being grounded upon a +woman of whom you know absolutely nothing.’</p> + +<p>‘Only that she is the noblest woman I ever met,’ +said Geoffrey doggedly.</p> + +<p>‘Which means that she has a handsome face,’ +said the other.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.<br> +<span class="fs70">SOMETHING TOO MUCH FOR GRATITUDE.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">By</span> this time Mr. Hossack and his friend had come +from the pleasant country road into the shabbiest +outskirt of Stillmington, that outskirt which contained +Marlow-street. Strange that even in so select +a town as Stillmington, Poverty will set up its tents.</p> + +<p>The shop had been shut some time, but the door +stood ajar, and a light burnt dimly within. Geoffrey +and his companion were expected. Miss Grabbit was +yawning over a tattered novel in her accustomed place +behind the counter.</p> + +<p>‘O, is it the doctor, sir?’ she exclaimed, brightening. +‘Will you walk up-stairs, please? Mother’s +with the little girl, and she’s been sleeping beautiful. +I feel sure she’s took a turn.’</p> + +<p>‘Is Mrs. Bertram up-stairs?’ asked Geoffrey.</p> + +<p>‘No, she’s lying down a bit on our sofa in there,’ +pointing to the closed door of communication between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> +the shop and parlour. ‘She was right down worn +out, and mother persuaded her to try and get a little +rest. Mother will take all your directions, sir,’ she +added to Lucius.</p> + +<p>That gentleman bowed, but said nothing. A +curious mother this! The mothers he knew were +wont to hang upon his words as on the sacred sentences +of an oracle. He followed Geoffrey up the +narrow stairs to the little bedroom where the child +lay asleep. The pure spotless look of the small +chamber struck him, and the beauty of the child’s +face was no common beauty. There was something +in it which impressed him curiously—something +that seemed familiar—familiar as a half-remembered +dream. Good Heaven, was it not his dead sister’s +face that this one recalled to him—the face of the +little sister who died years ago?</p> + +<p>The fancy moved him deeply; and his hand trembled +a little as he lightly raised the bedclothes from +the child’s throat and chest, with that gentle touch +of the doctor’s skilful hand, and bent down to listen +to the breathing. All was satisfactory. He went +through his examination calmly enough, that transient +emotion once conquered; felt the slender wrist, +performed that unpleasant operation with a silver +spoon to which we have all submitted our unwilling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span> +throats at divers periods, and then pronounced that +all was going on well.</p> + +<p>He had gone round the bed to the side facing the +door, in order to get nearer to his patient, who lay +nearer this side than the other. He sat by the pillow, +and gave his directions to Mrs. Grabbit without +looking up from the little girl, whose hot hand lay +gently held in his, while his grave eyes were bent +upon the small fever-flushed face. Geoffrey had entered +softly during the last few moments, and stood +at the foot of the bed.</p> + +<p>When Lucius had finished his instructions as to +treatment, he looked up.</p> + +<p>The door opposite the bed was open, and a woman +stood upon the threshold—a tall slim figure dressed +in black, a pale anxious face, beautiful even in its +sadness.</p> + +<p>At sight of that silent figure, the surgeon started +from his seat with a smothered cry of surprise. The +sad eyes met his steadily with an imploring look, a +look that for him spoke plainly enough.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey looked at him wonderingly, perplexed by +that startled movement.</p> + +<p>‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.</p> + +<p>‘Nothing. But I saw a lady looking in at that +door. The mother perhaps.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span></p> + +<p>Geoffrey darted into the sitting-room. Yes she was +there, standing by the window in the wan light of a +week-old moon, with tears streaming down her face.</p> + +<p>‘My dear Mrs. Bertram, pray, pray do not distress +yourself!’ cried Geoffrey, to whom the office of +consoler was new and strange. ‘All is going on +well; nothing could be more satisfactory—Lucius +says so. She will be herself again in a few days.’</p> + +<p>‘Thank God, and thank your friend for me,’ she +said, in a voice choked with sobs. ‘I could not rest +down-stairs; I wanted to hear what he said. Tell +him I thank him with all my heart.’</p> + +<p>‘Thank him with your own lips,’ pleaded Geoffrey; +‘he will value your words far above mine. And +you don’t know what a good fellow he is.’</p> + +<p>‘Let Mrs. Bertram feel assured that I am only +too happy to have been of use,’ said the voice of +Lucius from the threshold.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bertram hurried to the door, where the +surgeon’s figure stood, tall and dark, on the unlighted +landing.</p> + +<p>‘O, let me speak to him, let me take his hand!’ +she cried, with uncontrollable agitation; and the +next moment stood face to face with Lucius Davoren, +with her hand clasped in his.</p> + +<p>They could hardly see each other’s faces, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> +that was a lingering handclasp. Geoffrey stood a +little way apart, watching them with some slight +wonder, and thinking that quite so much gratitude +could hardly be necessary even for a doctor who had +travelled over a hundred miles to write a prescription +for an idolised child.</p> + +<p>‘It’s a pity I’m not in the medical line myself,’ +he thought, somewhat bitterly; and yet he had been +anxious that Mrs. Bertram should acknowledge his +friend’s services.</p> + +<p>He reflected that a doating mother was doubtless +a foolish creature. He must not be angry with his +divinity if she seemed hysterical, or even in a state +bordering on distraction.</p> + +<p>‘Come, Lucius,’ he said; ‘Mrs. Bertram has +gone through no end of agitation to-day, or rather +yesterday, for it’s past midnight. We had better +leave her to rest.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ said Lucius, in a slow thoughtful tone, +‘good-night. I will come to see the little girl again +early to-morrow morning—say at eight o’clock—as I +must leave Stillmington soon after nine.’</p> + +<p>‘O, come,’ remonstrated Geoffrey, ‘you must give +yourself a holiday to-morrow.’</p> + +<p>‘Impossible. Pain and disease will not give my +patients a holiday.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span></p> + +<p>‘But surely their complaints can stand over for +a day or so,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Parish patients can’t +have such complicated diseases. I thought all the +worst evils flesh is heir to came from high living.’</p> + +<p>‘There are numerous diseases that come from +low feeding, or almost no feeding at all. No; I +must go back by an early train to-morrow. But I +should like to see you at eight o’clock, if that will +not be too soon, Mrs. Bertram.’</p> + +<p>‘Not at all too soon,’ she answered; and they departed, +Geoffrey with an uncomfortable foreboding +that, so soon as the little girl recovered, his occupation +would be gone. What other excuse could he find +for intruding himself upon Mrs. Bertram’s solitude?</p> + +<p>‘Well, Lucius,’ he began, as soon as they were +clear of the house, ‘what do you think of her?’</p> + +<p>‘I think she is very handsome,’ answered Lucius, +with a thoughtful slowness which was peculiarly irritating +to his friend. ‘What more can I think of +her after so brief an interview? She seems,’ with an +almost painful effort, ‘very fond of her child. I am +very sorry for her unprotected and solitary position; +but—’</p> + +<p>‘But what?’ cried Geoffrey impatiently. ‘How +you torment the soul of a fellow with your measured +syllables!’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span></p> + +<p>‘I think the very wisest—nay, the only rational—thing +you can do is to forget her.’</p> + +<p>‘Never! And why should I wish to forget +her?’</p> + +<p>‘Because all surrounding circumstances point to +the conclusion that she is no fitting wife for you. +A woman so lovely, so accomplished, would hardly +lead so lonely a life—I don’t speak of her professional +career, since that is a natural use for a woman +to make of a fine voice if she wants to get her own +living—if there were not some strong reason for her +seclusion—some painful secret in the past, some fatal +tie in the present. She knows you to be young, +generous, wealthy, and her devoted slave; yet she +rejects your devotion. She would scarcely repulse +such a lover were she free to marry. Believe me, +there is something in the background, some obstacle +which you will never overcome. Be warned in time, +my dear true-hearted Geoffrey; don’t waste the best +years of your life in the pursuit of a woman who can +never reward your affection, who was not born to +make you happy. There are plenty of women in the +world quite as lovely, and—I won’t say better worthy +of you,’ with ever so faint a quiver of his voice, ‘but +better able to bless your love.’</p> + +<p>‘When I meet such a woman I will forget her,’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span> +answered the other. ‘I thought you were a better +judge of human nature, Lucius; I thought you would +be able to recognise a good and pure woman when +you saw one. True that you had seen very little of +this one; yet you saw her with her fond mother’s +heart bared before you; you saw her warm and grateful +nature. You had sneered at her as a heartless +mother: see how facts belied your unkind suspicion. +You saw her moved to passionate tears by the mere +thought of your kindness to her child.’</p> + +<p>‘For God’s sake, say no more about her!’ cried +Lucius, with sudden passion. ‘The subject will +breed a quarrel between us. You wanted my advice, +and I have given it you—dispassionately. Reason, +not feeling, has influenced my words. Pure, good, +true: yes, I would willingly believe her all that, did +I not—did not circumstances point to the other conclusion. +It is hard to look in her face and say, This +is not a woman to be loved and trusted. But are you +the man to endure a shameful secret in your wife’s +past history? Could you face the hazard of some +cruel discovery after marriage—a discovery which +should show you the woman you love as a victim, perhaps, +but not without guilt?’</p> + +<p>‘I will never believe her less than she seems to +me at this moment!’ cried Geoffrey. ‘What makes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> +you speculate on her past life? why suppose that +there must be some ignominious secret? Only because +she gets her own living, I suppose; because +she is obliged to travel about the world without +her own maid, and has no footman, or carriage, or +circle of polite acquaintances, and possibly has never +been presented at court. I wonder at you, Davoren; +I could not have believed you were so narrow-minded.’</p> + +<p>‘Think me narrow-minded, if you like, but be +warned by me. My voice to-night is the voice of the +majority, which always takes the narrowest view of +every question. You have asked for my advice, +and you shall have it, however distasteful. Don’t +marry a woman of whom you know so little as you +know about Mrs. Bertram.’</p> + +<p>‘Thanks for your advice. Of course I know you +mean well, old fellow; but if Mrs. Bertram would +take me for her husband to-morrow, I should be the +proudest man in Stillmington, or in Christendom.’</p> + +<p>‘I think I know enough of her to feel very sure +she will never consent to marry you,’ said Lucius.</p> + +<p>‘You are quick in forming conclusions,’ exclaimed +Geoffrey, with a somewhat distrustful glance at his +friend, ‘considering that you saw Mrs. Bertram for +something less than five minutes.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span></p> + +<p>They arrived at the hotel, where Geoffrey, although +displeased with his friend, was not forgetful +of hospitality’s sacred rites. He ordered a spatchcock +and a bottle of Roederer, and over this repast +the two young men sat till late, talking of that subject +which filled Geoffrey’s heart and mind. Like a +child, he was one moment angry with his friend, and +in the next eager to hear all that Lucius could say +about his passion and its object—eager for advice +which he had no idea of following; bent upon proving, +by love’s eloquent oratory, that his divinity was +all that is perfect among women. And so the night +waned; and Geoffrey and his guest were the last +among the inmates of that respectable family hotel +to retire to their chambers in the long corridor, where +the old-fashioned eight-day clock ticked solemnly in +the deep of night.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Geoffrey would fain have presented himself in +Marlow-street next morning with his friend, but having +no reasonable excuse for visiting Mrs. Bertram +at such an early hour, he contented himself with +accompanying Lucius to the end of the street and +then walking on to the station, there to await his +coming.</p> + +<p>He had to wait a good deal longer than he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span> +expected, and as the slow minute hand crept round +the dial of the station clock his impatience increased +to fever point. He had a good mind to go back to +Marlow-street. What in heaven’s name could Lucius +have to say about that simple case of scarlatina which +could not be said in a quarter of an hour? Ten +minutes had been enough last night; to-day he had +been more than an hour. Nine had struck on that +slow-going station clock. The next up-train went at +9.15. Did Lucius mean to miss it, after all his talk +about his London patients? As it was, he could not +be in London till the afternoon. It seemed to Geoffrey +as if this morning visit to the sick child was +somewhat supererogatory, since Lucius had declared +the case to be one of the simplest.</p> + +<p>Fretting himself thus he left the station, and on +the windy high road between trim hedges, in which +the hawthorn was sprouting greenly, and the little +white flower-buds already began to show themselves, +saw Lucius hurrying towards him at a sharp pace.</p> + +<p>‘I thought you meant to lose the next train,’ +said Geoffrey somewhat sharply. ‘Well, what’s your +news?’</p> + +<p>‘The little girl has passed a very quiet night and +is going on capitally, and you need have no farther +alarm.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span></p> + +<p>‘I didn’t ask you about the little girl. You would +hardly spend an hour talking about the scarlatina—Keep +her cool, and give her the mixture regularly; +and as soon as she is able to eat it let her have the +wing of a chicken—as if one didn’t know all that +bosh. Why, you doctors rattle it off just as we used +to say our Latin verbs at Winchester—<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">amo</i>, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">amas</i>, +<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">amat</i>, and so on. Of course, you have been talking +about other things—drawing Mrs. Bertram out, I +suppose? Come, Lucius, we’ve only five minutes. +What did you think of her to-day?’</p> + +<p>‘The same as I thought last night. That she is +a beautiful and noble woman, but that her past life +has been overshadowed by some sad secret which we +are never likely to know.’</p> + +<p>‘And you still warn me against her?’</p> + +<p>‘Still, with all my strength. Admire her, and respect +her for all that is admirable in her nature, pity +her for her misfortunes, but keep aloof.’</p> + +<p>‘Thanks for your remarkably disinterested advice,’ +said Geoffrey, with a bitter laugh. ‘After devoting +an hour of your precious time to this lady’s society, +you arrive at the conclusion that she is the last +woman in the world for me. Yet you pay that child +an unnecessary visit this morning in order to see +the mother once more, and you come to me with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span> +a face as pale as—as the countenance of treachery +itself.’</p> + +<p>‘Geoffrey!’</p> + +<p>‘However, as I don’t mean to take your advice it +makes very little difference. By the bye, here’s your +fee, Lucius; I promised Mrs. Bertram to see to that.’ +And he tried to thrust a folded cheque into the surgeon’s +hand.</p> + +<p>This Lucius rejected with infinite scorn.</p> + +<p>‘What! you first ask my opinion, then call me a +traitor because it happens not to jump with your own +fancy, and then offer me money for a service for which +you must know I could never dream of accepting +payment. How utterly this foolish infatuation has +changed you! But I have no time for discussion. +Good-bye. There goes the bell, and I have to get my +ticket.’</p> + +<p>They ran into the station. Geoffrey, penitent +already, stuck close to his friend until Lucius was +seated in the second-class carriage which was to take +him back to London and hard labour. Then he +stretched out his hand.</p> + +<p>‘Shake hands, old fellow,’ he said, with a remorseful +look; ‘of course I didn’t mean anything; or only +in a Pickwickian sense. Good-bye.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span></p> + +<p>The train bore off its burden and left Geoffrey +stranded on the platform, perplexed, unhappy.</p> + +<p>‘I daresay he is right,’ he said to himself, ‘and I +<em>know</em> that he is a good fellow. Yet why did he stay +so long with her, and why did he look so pale and +thoughtful when I met him?’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.<br> +<span class="fs70">A DAUGHTER’S LOVE, AND A LOVER’S HOPE.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Lucius Davoren’s</span> life had taken a new colour since +that letter which opened the doors of the dismal old +house in the Shadrack-road. His existence had now +an object nearer to his human heart than even professional +success. Dearly as he loved his profession, +it is just possible that he loved himself a little better, +and this new object, this new hope, concerned himself +alone. Yet it did not in any manner distract him +from his patient labours, from his indefatigable +studies, but rather gave him a new incentive to industry. +How better could he serve the interests of +her whom he loved than by toiling steadily on upon +the road which he believed must ultimately lead him +to success, and even to fame—that far brighter reward +than mere material prosperity?</p> + +<p>Mr. Sivewright’s condition had in no wise improved. +That gradual decay had gone on a long time +before the sturdy old man had cared to make his pains<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span> +and languors known to any human being, much less +to a member of that fraternity he affected to despise—the +medical profession. All Lucius Davoren’s care +failed to bring back the vigour that had been wasted. +He kept the feeble lamp of life burning, somewhat +faintly, and that was all he could do yet awhile.</p> + +<p>For some little time after the surgeon’s admission +to the house, Mr. Sivewright spent his evenings +by the fireside in the parlour down-stairs. At Lucius’s +earnest request he had consented to the purchase of +a more luxurious chair than the straight-backed instrument +of torture in which he had been accustomed +to sit. Here by the hearth, where a better fire +burned than of old—for Lucius insisted that mistaken +economy meant death—the bric-à-brac dealer +sat and talked; talked of his youth, his bargains, his +petty triumph over rival traders, but of that lost +wanderer, his son, never.</p> + +<p>‘There must be something hard in a man’s nature +when even the approach of death does not soften +his heart towards his own flesh and blood,’ thought +Lucius.</p> + +<p>There came a time when the old man felt himself +altogether too weak to leave his room. The broad +shallow steps of the solid old staircase—so easy to the +tread of youth and strength—became for him too<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span> +painful a journey. He only left his bed to sit by the +little bit of fire in his own room, or on warmer days +by the open window.</p> + +<p>This was some time after Lucius Davoren’s visit +to Stillmington, when spring had been succeeded by +summer, which in the Shadrack-road district was distinguishable +from the other seasons chiefly by an +Egyptian plague of flies and an all-pervading atmosphere +of dust; also by the shrill cries of costermongers +vending cheap lots of gooseberries or periwinkles, +and by an adoption of somewhat oriental or +<em>al-fresco</em> habits among the population, who lounged +at their doors, and stood about the streets a good +deal in the long warm evenings, while respectable +matrons did their domestic needlework seated on their +doorsteps, whence they might watch their young barbarians +at play in the adjacent gutter.</p> + +<p>From this somewhat shabby and ragged out-of-door +life on the king’s highway, it was a relief for +Lucius to enter the calm seclusion of the shadowy +old house, where the June sunshine was tempered at +midday by half-closed oaken shutters, and where it +seemed to the surgeon there was ever a peculiar coolness +and freshness, and faint perfume of some simple +garden flower unknown elsewhere. In this sultry +weather, when the outer world was as one vast oven,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span> +that sparsely-furnished parlour with its dark wainscot +walls was a place to dream in; the dim old hall with +its chaotic treasures saved from the wreck of time, a +delicious retreat from the clamour and toil of life. +Here Lucius loved to come, and here he was sure of +a sweet welcome from her whom he had loved at first +sight, and whom familiarity had made daily dearer to +him.</p> + +<p>Yes, he confessed now that the interest he had +felt in Lucille Sivewright from the very first had its +root in a deeper feeling than compassion. He was +no longer ashamed to own that it was love, and love +only, that had made yonder rusty iron gate, by which +he had so often lingered, sad and longing, seem to +him as the door of paradise.</p> + +<p>One evening, after the old man had taken to his +room up-stairs, and Lucille had been sorrowful and +anxious, and had seemed in peculiar need of consolation, +the old, old story was told once more under the +pale stars of evening, as these two wandered about +that patch of dusty sward above which the old cedar +stretched his shrunken branches, and cast grim +shadows on the shadowy grass. The creek with its +black barges lay before them; beyond, a forest of +roofs, and attic windows, and tall factory chimneys, +and distant spars of mighty merchantmen faintly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span> +visible against the pale-gray sky. Not a romantic +spot, or a scene calculated to inspire the souls of +lovers, by any means. Yet Lucius was every whit as +eloquent as he would have been had they wandered +on the shores of Leman, or watched the sun go down +from the orange groves of Cintra.</p> + +<p>The girl heard him in profound silence. They +had come to a pause in their desultory wanderings by +the decaying ruin of an ancient summer-house, at an +angle of the wall close to the creek—a spot which to +the simpler tastes of untravelled citizens in the last +century may have seemed eminently picturesque. +Lucille sat on the broken bench in a somewhat dejected +attitude, her arms resting on a battered old +table, her face turned away from Lucius towards the +dingy hulls that lay moored upon those muddy waters, +unbeautiful as that dark ferry-boat which Dante saw +advancing shadowy athwart the ‘woeful tide of Acheron.’</p> + +<p>He had spoken earnestly, and had pleaded well, +but had been unable to read any answer in those +truthful eyes, whose every expression he fancied he +knew. Those had been persistently averted from +him.</p> + +<p>‘Lucille, why do you turn from me? My dearest, +why this discouraging silence? Do my words pain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> +you? I had dared to hope they would not be unwelcome, +that you must have expected to hear them. +You must have known that I loved you, ever so long +ago, for I have loved you from the very first.’</p> + +<p>‘You have been very good to me,’ she said, in a +low broken voice.</p> + +<p>‘Good to you!’</p> + +<p>‘So good that I have sometimes thought you—liked +me a little.’ (A woman’s periphrasis; feminine +lips hardly dare utter that mighty word ‘love.’) +‘But if it is really so—which seems almost too +much for me to believe’ (if he could but have seen +the proud happy look in her eyes as she said that!) +‘I can only beg you never to say any more about +it—until—’</p> + +<p>‘Until what, Lucille?’ exclaimed Lucius impatiently. +He had not expected to find hindrance or +stumbling-block in the way of his happiness here. +From Homer Sivewright there would no doubt be +opposition, but surely not here. Had he so grossly +deceived himself when he believed his love returned?</p> + +<p>‘Until my life is changed from what it is now, +such a broken life, the merest fragment of a life,’ +answered Lucille quietly. ‘How can I think of returning +the affection you speak of—you so worthy to +be loved—while I am in this miserable state of uncertainty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span> +about my father—not knowing if he is +living or dead, fortunate or unhappy? I can never +give my heart to any one, however noble’—with a +lingering tenderness which might have told him that +he was beloved—‘until all doubts are cleared upon +that one subject. Until then, I belong to my father. +At any moment he might appear to claim me; and I +am his’—with a passionate emphasis—‘his, by the +memory of that childhood, when I loved him so +dearly. Let him order me to follow him to the +other end of the world, and I should go—without +one fear, without one regret.’</p> + +<p>Lucius was silent for some moments, stung to +the quick. Was a mere memory, the very shadow +of her childhood’s affection, so much nearer to her +than his deep unselfish love—his love, which might +brighten her dull life in the present, and open a fair +vista of future happiness—that hopeful active love, +which was to make a home for her, and win fame for +him in the days to come, always for her sake?</p> + +<p>‘What, Lucille,’ he said reproachfully, ‘you hold +my love so lightly that it can count for nothing when +weighed against the memory of a father who deserted +you—who has let all the years of your girlhood go by +without making the faintest attempt to claim you, or +even to see you?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span></p> + +<p>‘How do I know what may have prevented him?’ +she asked—‘what barrier may have stood between +him and me? Death perhaps. He did not desert +me.’</p> + +<p>‘Was not his sudden departure from your grandfather’s +house desertion of you?’</p> + +<p>‘No. He was driven away. I am very sure of +that. My grandfather was hard and cruel to him.’</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps. But whatever quarrel may have parted +those two, your claim on your father remained. You +had not been hard or cruel; yet he abandoned you—tacitly +renounced all claim upon you when he left +his father’s house. I don’t want to blame him, +Lucille; I don’t want to spoil that idealised image +which you carry in your heart; but surely it is not +for you to sacrifice a very real affection in the present +for a vague memory of the past.’</p> + +<p>‘It is not vague. My memory of those days is +as vivid as my memory of yesterday—more vivid +even. I have but to close my eyes—now, at this +very moment while you are talking to me—and I can +see my father’s face; it is not your voice I hear, but +his.’</p> + +<p>‘Infatuation, Lucille,’ exclaimed the surgeon +sadly. ‘Had you known your father a few years +longer, you might have discovered that he was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span> +utterly unworthy of your love—that fond confiding +love of a child’s guileless heart, prone to make for +itself an idol.’</p> + +<p>‘If I had found him unworthy, I do not believe +my love would have altered; I should only have been +so much the more sorry for him. Remember, I am +used to hear him badly spoken of. My grandfather’s +bitterest words have never lessened my love for +him.’</p> + +<p>‘Granted that your love for him is indestructible, +why should it stand between you and me—if I am +not quite indifferent to you? Answer me that question +first, Lucille; I am too much in earnest to be +satisfied with half knowledge. Do you care for me, +ever so little?’</p> + +<p>She looked round at him for the first time, smiling, +yet with tearful eyes—an expression that was +half mournful, half arch.</p> + +<p>‘Ever so little,’ she repeated. ‘I might own to +that. It does not commit me to much.’</p> + +<p>‘More than a little, then? O, be frank, Lucille! +I have shown you all the weakness—or the strength—of +<em>my</em> heart.’</p> + +<p>‘I love you very dearly,’ she said shyly.</p> + +<p>She was clasped to his breast before the words +were half spoken, the kiss of betrothal pressed upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span> +her trembling lips. She withdrew herself hastily +from that first fond embrace.</p> + +<p>‘You have not heard half that I have to say, Mr. +Davoren.’</p> + +<p>‘I will never consent to be Mr. Davoren again.’</p> + +<p>‘I will call you Lucius, then; only you must +hear what I have to say. I do love you, very truly,’ +with a warning gesture that stopped any farther demonstration +on his part; ‘I do think you good and +brave and noble. I am very proud to know that you +care for me. But I can bind myself by no new tie +until the mystery of my father’s fate has been solved, +until I am very sure that he will never claim my love +and my obedience.’</p> + +<p>‘If I were to solve that mystery, Lucille—or at +least attempt to solve it,’ said Lucius thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>‘Ah, if! But you would never think of that! +You could not spare time and thought for that; you +have your profession.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, and all my hopes of winning a position +which might make you proud of being my wife by +and by. It would be a hard thing to forego all those, +Lucille—to devote my mind and my life to a perhaps +hopeless endeavour. Fondly as I love you, I am not +chivalrous enough to say I will shut up my surgery +to-morrow and start on the first stage to the Antipodes,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span> +or the Japan Islands, or Heaven knows where, +in quest of your father. Yet I might do something. +If I had but the slightest foundation to work upon I +should hardly be afraid of success. I would willingly +do anything, anything less than the entire sacrifice +of my prospects—which must be your prospects too, +Lucille—to prove how dear you are to me.’</p> + +<p>‘You really would? Ah! if you could find him—if +you could reunite us, I should love you so dearly—at +least, no,’ with a little gush of tenderness, ‘I +could not love you better than I do now. But you +would make me so happy.’</p> + +<p>‘Then I will try, dearest, try honestly. But if +I fail—after earnest endeavour, and at the end of a +reasonable period—if I fail in bringing your father +to you living, or discovering when and how he died, +you will not punish me for my failure. You will be +my wife two or three years hence, come what may, +Lucille. Give me that hope, sweet one. It will make +me strong enough to face all difficulties.’</p> + +<p>‘I love you,’ she said in her low serious voice, +putting her little hand into his; and that simple admission +he accepted as a promise.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.<br> +<span class="fs70">THE BIOGRAPHY OF A SCOUNDREL.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">The</span> weakness and the languor that kept Homer +Sivewright a prisoner in his bedroom were not the +tokens of mortal illness. Death kept as yet at a +respectful distance. The patient’s life might be +prolonged even to man’s appointed measure of three +score and ten, with care and skilful treatment. +There was organic disease, but of a mild type. +Lucius was not without hopes of a rally—that a +period of perfect repose and quiet might, in some +measure, restore the enfeebled frame—which, gaunt +and wasted by sickness, was yet so mighty a skeleton. +The man was tough; a creature of strong fibres, and +muscles that had once been like iron. Above all, +his life had been strictly temperate. Lucius augured +well from these facts. The disease would remain always, +more or less subject to treatment, but there +might be a partial recovery.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span></p> + +<p>‘You need not be anxious,’ he said, when Lucille +questioned him earnestly about her grandfather. ‘Mr. +Sivewright will be a long time dying. Or, in other +words, he will fight hard with Death. We may keep +him alive for some years longer, Lucille, if we take +trouble.’</p> + +<p>‘I shall not think anything a trouble. I do not +forget how good he has been to me, in his own cold +way. But he has seemed so much weaker lately.’</p> + +<p>‘Only because he has at last consented to succumb +to Nature. He would not before admit, even to himself, +that he is an old man. Nature counselled him to +rest, but it pleased him better to go on labouring, and, +as it were, pretending to be still young. He has given +in at last; and Nature, the great restorer, may do +much for him, always assisted by careful nursing—and +I think you are the best nurse I ever met with, +Lucille.’</p> + +<p>‘I have not much experience, but I do my best.’</p> + +<p>‘And your best is better than other people’s. You +have the soft low voice, the gentle footstep, which +make a woman’s help precious in a sick-room. Don’t +be anxious about your grandfather, dearest. We shall +pull him through, rely upon it.’</p> + +<p>There was that in his protecting tone, the fond +look in the grave eyes, which told how secure the lover<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span> +felt, despite that hard condition wherewith Lucille +had hampered the promise of her love. Thus time +went on in the dull old house, which to these two was +not all gloomy—which to one at least was full of hope +and pleasant thoughts, and bright dreams of a fair +life to come.</p> + +<p>Propriety, as known in what is called society, had +no bondage for these lovers. In their lives there was +actually no Mrs. Grundy; not even a next-door neighbour +of the maiden-lady persuasion to keep count of +Mr. Davoren’s visits, and to wonder what old Mr. +Sivewright meant by allowing such an outrage of the +proprieties under his very nose. Lucius came and +went as he pleased, stayed as long as he liked, within +reasonable limits. He read Shakespeare to Lucille +in the summer gloaming; he poured out all the +wealth of his mind to her in long conversations that +were almost monologues, the girl eager to learn, he +eager to teach; or rather to make the woman he loved +a sharer in all his thoughts, fancies, creeds, and +dreams—verily the better and purer half of himself. +At other times they wandered about the bare old garden +together, or sat in the ruined summer-house; and +happy in that complete and perfect universe which +they possessed in each other, forgot that the mud-bespattered +wharf was not the Rialto, the slimy water<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span> +that stagnated beneath the barges something less +lovely than the Adriatic’s sunlit blue.</p> + +<p>They talk much of the future, after the manner +of lovers. Although they were so completely happy +in each other’s company, and in that calm security +which blesses innocent reciprocal love, this little spot +of time, the present, counted for nothing in their +scheme of life. It may be said that they were happy +without being aware of their happiness. And this +is true of many lives. The one happy hour in the +long dull life slips by unnoted, like water-drops running +between one’s fingers. And then years after—when, +remembering that brief glimpse of paradise, +we look back and would fain return to that green spot +beside life’s long dusty beaten turnpike-road—the +grass is withered, or the Commons Enclosure Act has +swallowed up our pleasant resting-place: or where +Poetry’s fairy palace shone radiant in youth’s morning +sunlight, there is now only the cold marble of a +Tomb.</p> + +<p>Lucius and Lucille talked of their future—the +fame that he was to win, the good that he was to do; +noble schemes for the welfare of others, to be realised +when fame and wealth were gained; cottage hospitals +in pleasant suburban spots, near enough at +hand for the sick or worn-out Londoner, and yet with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span> +green fields and old trees and song birds about them; +chosen retreats where the country yet lingered; little +bits of rustic landscape over which the enterprising +builder had not yet spread his lime-whitened paw; +meadows whose hawthorn hedges were undefiled by +smoke, across whose buttercups and crimson sorrel-flowers +no speculative eye had yet ranged with a +view to ground rents.</p> + +<p>The young surgeon had various schemes for the +improvement of his fellow-creatures’ condition—some +wholly philanthropic, others scientific. To all Lucille +listened with the same eager interest, worshipping +him in her loving womanly way, as if he had been as +wise as Socrates. After that first confession of her +love, wrung from unwilling lips, there had been no +more reserve. She made no mystery of her affection, +which was childlike in its simple reverence for those +lofty qualities that women are apt to perceive in +the object of their regard some time before the rest +of the world has awakened to a sense thereof. But +she held firmly by the condition which she had imposed +on her lover. She would never be his wife, she +would begin no new stage of existence, until the +mystery of her father’s fate had been solved.</p> + +<p>The time had now come when Lucius deemed it a +point of honour to inform Mr. Sivewright of this engagement,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span> +but not of the condition attaching thereto. +He had not forgotten what the old man had said in +the first instance, ‘My granddaughter is disposed of;’ +but this he imagined was only an idle threat. Day +by day he found himself more necessary to the invalid. +Mr. Sivewright looked anxiously for his visits, detained +him as long as it was possible for him to stay, +would have him come back in the evening to sit for +an hour or so in the sick-room, talking, or reading +the day’s news to him; proved himself, in fact, the +most exacting of patients. But in all their intercourse +he had expressed no dislike to that intimacy +between Lucius and Lucille which he must needs +have been aware of; since he saw them together +daily, and must have been blind if he failed to see +that they were something nearer and dearer to each +other than common friends.</p> + +<p>‘He cannot be very much surprised when he +hears the truth,’ thought Lucius, and only deferred +his confession until he perceived a marked improvement +in his patient.</p> + +<p>This arose a little later in the summer, when the +old man was able to come down-stairs again, now and +then, and even creep about the dreary waste he called +his garden.</p> + +<p>One evening, in the very spot where he had first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span> +told his love to Lucille, Lucius mustered courage and +took Mr. Sivewright into his confidence, only reserving +that hard condition which Lucille had attached to +her promise.</p> + +<p>The old man received this communication with a +cynical grin.</p> + +<p>‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I have seen it all along. As +if one ever could trust a young man and a young +woman to play at being brother and sister without +their exchanging that sentimental make-believe for +the reality of love-making! Well, I am not angry. +I told you my granddaughter was disposed of. That +was true so far as it went. I had views for her; but +they were vague, and hinged upon my own health and +vigour. I thought I had a stronger part to play in +life’s drama. Well,’ with a faint sigh, ‘I can afford +to resign those old hopes. You may marry Lucille +whenever you can afford to keep her in comfort and +respectability. Now, my dear Mr. Davoren,’ turning +to the surgeon with a look of infinite cunning in his +keen eyes, ‘I daresay you think you have made a +lucky hit—that, in spite of all I have told you, this +show of poverty is only a miser’s pretence: that I +have railway shares and consols and debentures and +Heaven knows what in my shabby old desk, and that +I shall die worth half-a-million. Dismiss that delusion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span> +from your mind at once and for ever. If +you take Lucille Sivewright for your wife you take a +pauper. My collection is all I possess: and I shall +leave that most likely to a museum.’</p> + +<p>Thus ungraciously did Mr. Sivewright receive +Lucius into the bosom of his family. Yet, in his own +eccentric fashion, he seemed attached to the young +man; courted his society, and had evidently an exalted +belief in his honour.</p> + +<p>Nothing had Lucius yet done towards even the +beginning of that endeavour to which he had pledged +himself; but he had thought deeply and constantly +of the task that had been imposed upon him, and had +tried to see his way to its accomplishment.</p> + +<p>Given a man who had been missing twelve years, +who in person, profession, and surroundings was utterly +unknown to him, and who had cut every tie that +bound him to kindred or home; who might be in +any quarter of the globe, or in his grave—and how to +set about the work of finding him? That was the +problem which Lucille had proposed to him as calmly +as if it were the simplest thing in the world.</p> + +<p>A very little consideration showed him that his +only hope lay in beginning his investigation close at +home. Unless he could obtain certain details from +the old man—unless he could overcome Homer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span> +Sivewright’s objection to the subject, and induce him +to talk freely about his missing son—the case seemed +beyond all measure hopeless. And even if the father +could be made to speak, even if Lucius could learn all +that was to be told of Ferdinand Sivewright’s history +at the time he left his home in Bond-street, there +would be still a dreary gulf of twelve years to be +bridged over.</p> + +<p>To question the old man was, however, the easiest +and most obvious course. He might or might not +remain obstinately dumb.</p> + +<p>One morning, when the patient’s case seemed more +than usually promising—pain banished, and something +of his old strength regained—Lucius made his +first approach to this difficult subject.</p> + +<p>Their conversation, which was apt to wander +widely, from the sordid business of life to the loftiest +regions of metaphysical speculation, had on this occasion +drifted into a discussion of the Christian faith.</p> + +<p>Mr. Sivewright contemplated that mighty theme +from a purely critical standpoint; talked of the Gospel +as he talked of the <cite>Iliad</cite>; admitted this and denied +that; brought the hard dry logic of an unpoetical +mind, the narrow scepticism of a suspicious nature, +to bear upon divine truths. Lucius spoke with the +quiet conviction of a man who believed and was not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span> +ashamed to stand to his colours. From a theological +argument he led the old man to the question of +Christian charity, as distinguished from mere Pagan +humanitarianism; and here he found his opportunity.</p> + +<p>‘I have often wondered,’ he said, ‘that you—who +seem in most things a man of a calm temperament, +even if somewhat stern—should yet cherish a +lifelong anger against an only son. Forgive me for +touching upon a subject which I know is painful to +you—’</p> + +<p>‘It is not painful,’ answered Sivewright sharply; +‘no more painful than if you spoke to me of any +scoundrel in the next street whose face I had never +seen. Do you think that hearts are everlasting wear? +There was a time when to think of my false, ungrateful +guilty son was like the smart of a gun-shot +wound. But that was years ago. All the tissues of +my body have been changed since he deserted me. +Do you suppose that regret and affection and shame, +and the sense of kinship, do not wear out as well as +flesh and blood? Twelve years ago Homer Sivewright +lamented the only son who had disgraced him. I, the +man who speaks to you to-day,’ touching his breast +with his lean hand, ‘have no son.’</p> + +<p>‘A hard saying,’ replied Lucius compassionately,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span> +for there was more real feeling in this man’s assumed +coldness than in many a loud-spoken and demonstrative +grief; ‘yet I can but believe—unworthy as +he may have seemed to you—he still holds a corner +in your heart.’</p> + +<p>A cloud came over the keen eyes, the gray head +drooped, but Homer Sivewright made no admission +of weakness.</p> + +<p>‘Seemed unworthy,’ he repeated; ‘he <em>was</em> unworthy.’</p> + +<p>‘You have never told me his crime.’</p> + +<p>The old man lifted his head, and looked at the +speaker with those penetrating eyes of his, for an +instant resentfully, then with the cynicism which was +his second nature.</p> + +<p>‘What, are you curious?’ he said. ‘Well, I suppose +you have a right to know something of the family +you propose to honour with your alliance. Know, +then, that the father of your intended wife was a liar +and a thief.’</p> + +<p>Lucius recoiled as if some outrageous insult had +been offered to himself.</p> + +<p>‘I cannot believe—’ he began.</p> + +<p>‘Wait till you have heard the story before you +attempt to dispute the facts. You know what my +youth was—laborious, self-denying. I married early,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span> +but my marriage was a disappointment. I made the +somewhat common error of taking a handsome face +as a certificate of womanly excellence. My wife was +a Spanish American, with a face like an old Italian +picture. Unhappily, she had a temper which made +her own life a burden, and produced a corresponding +effect upon the lives of other people. She had an +infinite capacity for discontent. She could he spasmodically +gay under the influence of what is called +pleasure, but happy never. Had I been monarch of +the world, I doubt if I could have ever gratified half +her wishes, or charmed the sullen demon in her +breast. She rarely desired anything that was not +unattainable. Judge, then, how she endured the only +kind of existence I could offer her.</p> + +<p>‘I did all in my power to make her life pleasant, +or at least tolerable. As my means improved I gave +her the command of money; bought birds and flowers +for her sitting-room, and furnished it with my choicest +Buhl cabinets, my prettiest Louis-Seize sofa, the spoil +of French palaces; but she laughed to scorn my attempts +to beautify a home above a shop. Her father—a +planter, and when I married her a bankrupt—had +once been rich. The days of his prosperity had +scarcely outlasted her childhood, but they had lasted +long enough to accustom her to habits of recklessness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span> +and extravagance which no after experience could +eradicate. I soon found that to give her freedom in +money matters would be to accomplish my own ruin. +From an indulgent husband I became what she called +a miserly tyrant. Passive discontent now changed to +active aversion; and she began a series of quarrels +which, on more than one occasion, ended in her running +away from home, and taking refuge with a distant +relation of her mother’s—a frivolous extravagant +widow whom I detested. I followed and brought her +back from these flights; but she returned unwillingly, +and each occasion widened the breach.</p> + +<p>‘Our child made no link between us. When the +boy grew old enough to take any part in our quarrels, +he invariably sided with his mother. Naturally +enough, since he was always with her, heard her +complaints of my ill-usage, was indulged by her with +wanton folly, and gratified with pleasures that were +paid for with money stolen from me. Yes, that was +the beginning of his unprincipled career. The mother +taught her son to plunder my cash-box or my till.’</p> + +<p>‘Very horrible!’ said Lucius.</p> + +<p>‘Even to him, however,’ continued Mr. Sivewright, +who, having once drifted into the story of his +domestic wrongs, waxed garrulous, ‘even to him she +was violent; and I discovered ere long that there was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span> +often ill-blood between them. Taunts, innuendoes, +sneers, diversified the sullen calm of our wretched +hearth; and one day the boy, Ferdinand, came to me +and entreated me to send him to school; he could +not endure life with his mother any longer. “Why, +I thought you doated on her,” said I. “I am fond +enough of <em>her</em>,” he answered, “but I can’t stand her +temper. You’d better send me to school, father, or +something unpleasant may happen. I threw a knife +at her after dinner yesterday. You remember what +you told me about that Roman fellow whose head you +showed me on a coin the other day—the man who +murdered his mother. I’m not likely to go in for +the business in his cold-blooded way; but if she goes +on provoking me as she does sometimes, I may be +goaded into stabbing her.”</p> + +<p>‘He wound up this cool avowal by informing me +that he would like to complete his education in Germany. +He was at this time about twelve.’</p> + +<p>‘You complied, I suppose?’ suggested Lucius.</p> + +<p>‘Not entirely. I wished my son to be an English +gentleman. I wanted, if possible, to eradicate the +South American element, which had already exhibited +itself in violent passions and an inordinate love of +pleasure. One talent, and one only, he had displayed +to any great extent; and that was a talent, or, as his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span> +mother and her few friends declared, a genius for +music. From five years old his chief delight was +scraping a fiddle or strumming on his mother’s piano. +Now, for my own part,’ added Mr. Sivewright candidly, +‘I hate music.’</p> + +<p>‘And I have loved it,’ said Lucius thoughtfully. +‘Yet it is strange that the darkest memories of my +life are associated with music.’</p> + +<p>‘I didn’t want the son for whom I had toiled, +and was willing to go on toiling for the rest of my +days, to become a fiddler. I told him as much in +the plainest words, and sent him to a private tutor; +in that manner beginning an education which was +to cost me as much as if I had been a man of wealth +and position. I hoped that education might cure +the vices of his childhood, and make him a good +man. From the tutor he went to Harrow, from Harrow +to Oxford, your own college, Balliol. But before +this period of his life his mother ran away from +me for the last time. I declined to go through the +usual business of bringing her home again, but gave +her a small allowance and requested her to remain +away. She stayed with the South American widow +in Thistle-grove; spent her allowance, I fear, chiefly +upon brandy, and died in less than a year after she +left me. My son went to see her when she was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> +dying; heard her last counsel, which doubtless advised +him to hate me; and went back to Harrow, a +boy, with the passions of a man.’</p> + +<p>There was a pause, and once more the old man’s +chin sunk upon his breast, the cold gray eyes fixed +themselves with that far-off gaze which sees the +things that are no more. Then rousing himself with +an impatient sigh he went on.</p> + +<p>‘I needn’t trouble you with the details of his +University life. Enough that he contrived to make +it an epitome of the vices. He assented sullenly to +adopt a profession—the law; skulked; spent his +days and nights in dissipation; wasted my money; +and compelled me at last to say, “Shut up your +books, if you have ever opened them. Nature never +meant you for a lawyer. But you have all the sharpness +of your mother’s wily race. Come home, and in +my petty business learn the science of commerce. +You may be a great merchant by and by.”’</p> + +<p>‘You must have loved him in those days, or you +would hardly have been so lenient,’ said Lucius.</p> + +<p>‘Loved him, yes,’ answered the other, with a long +regretful sigh. ‘I loved him and was proud of him; +proud in spite of his vices; proud of his good looks, +his cleverness, his plausible tongue—the tongue that +lied to me and swindled me. God help me, he was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span> +the only thing I had to love! He came home, pretended +to take to the business. Never was a man +better qualified to prosper in such a trade. He had +a keen appreciation of art; was quick at learning the +jargon which deludes amateur buyers; and in the +business of bargain-driving would have Jewed the +veriest Jew alive. But his habits were against anything +like sustained industry. It was not till after +he had won my confidence, and wheedled me into +giving him a partnership, that I discovered how little +he had changed his old ways. As he had robbed me +before he was twelve years old, so he robbed me now; +only as his necessities were larger, I felt his dishonesty +more. I saw my stock shrinking, my books +doctored. Vainly I tried to battle with an intellect +that was stronger than my own. Long after I knew +him to be a rogue, he was able to demonstrate to me, +by what seemed the soundest logic, that I was mistaken. +One day, when he had been living with me +something more than a year, he informed me, in his +easy-going way, that he had married some years before, +lost his wife soon after, and that I was a grandfather. +“You’re fond of children,” he said. “I’ve +seen you notice those little curly-headed beggars +next door. You’d better let me send for Lucille.”’</p> + +<p>‘You consented?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span></p> + +<p>‘Of course. Lucille came the same night. A +pale melancholy child, in whose small face I saw no +likeness to any of my race. Of her mother I could +ascertain very little. My son was reticent. His wife +was of decent birth, he said, and had possessed a +little money, which he had spent, and that was all +he ever told me. Of how or where she died, he said +nothing. Lucille talked of green fields and flowers +and the sea; but knew no more of the whereabouts +of her previous home than if she had come straight +from Paradise.’</p> + +<p>‘Then you do not even know her mother’s maiden-name?’</p> + +<p>‘No. That’s hard upon you, isn’t it? There’ll +be a blank in your children’s pedigree.’</p> + +<p>‘I will submit to the blank; only it seems rather +hard upon Lucille that she should never have known +her mother’s relatives, that she should have been +cheated of any affection they might have given her.’</p> + +<p>‘Affection! the affection of aunts and uncles and +cousins! Milk-and-water!’</p> + +<p>‘Well, sir, you and your son contrived to live together +for some years.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, it lasted a long time—I knowing I was +cheated, yet unable to prove it; he spending his days +in sloth, his nights in dissipation, yet every now and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span> +then, by some brilliant stroke of business, compelling +me to admire him. My customers liked him, the +young men especially; for he had all those modern +ideas which were as strange to me as a Cuneiform +inscription. Somehow he brought grist to the mill. +His University friends found him out, made my shop +a lounge, borrowed my money, and paid me a protective +rate of interest. We had our quarrels—not violent +and noisy, like the quarrels in which women are +concerned, but perhaps all the more lasting in their +effect. Where he went at night I knew not, until +going into his room very early one morning to wake +him—there was to be a great picture-sale twenty miles +from London that day, and I wanted him to attend it—I +saw some gold and notes scattered on the table +by his bedside. From that moment I knew the worst +of his vices. He was a gambler. Where he played +or with whom I never knew. I never played the spy +upon him, or attempted to get at his secrets in any +underhand manner. One day I taxed him with this +vice. He shrugged his shoulders, and affected supreme +candour. “I play a little sometimes,” he +said—“games of skill, not chance. It is impossible +to keep such company as I keep and not take an occasional +hand at whist or écarté. And you ought not +to forget that my friends have been profitable to you.”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span> +A year after this I had occasion to sell a portion of +my stock at Christie’s, in order to obtain ready money +to purchase the lease of premises adjoining my own—premises +which would enable me to enlarge my art +gallery. The things were sold, and, a few days afterwards, +settled for. I brought home the money—between +five and six hundred pounds—locked it in my +safe, impregnable even to my junior partner, and sat +down to dinner with the key in my pocket, and, as I +believed, my money secure.’</p> + +<p>Again there was a pause, painful recollections +contracting the deeply-lined brow, gloomy thoughts +clouding the eyes.</p> + +<p>‘Well, I had come home late; the child was in +bed, and my son and I dined together by the fire in +the little parlour behind the shop—my wife’s fine +drawing-room had been absorbed long ago into the +art gallery. Never had Ferdinand been so genial +or so gay. He was full of talk about the extension +of our premises; discussed our chances of success +like a thorough man of business. We had a bottle +of good old burgundy in honour of our brilliant prospects. +I did not drink more than usual; yet half +an hour after dinner I was in the deepest sleep that +ever stole my senses, and reduced me to the condition<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span> +of a lifeless log. In a word, the wine had been +drugged, and by the hand of my son. When I awoke +it was long after midnight, the hearth was black and +cold, the candles had burned down to the sockets. +I woke with a violent headache, and that nausea +which is the after-taste of opium or morphine. I sat +for some minutes shivering, and wondering what was +the matter with me. Almost mechanically I felt in +my pocket for the key of the safe. Yes, there it lay, +snug enough. I staggered up to bed, surprised at +the unusual effect of a couple of glasses of burgundy, +and was so ill next morning that my old housekeeper +sent for the nearest apothecary. He felt my pulse, +looked at my eyes, and asked if I had taken an opiate. +Then it flashed upon me in a moment that I had +been drugged. The instant the apothecary left me +I got out of bed, dragged on my clothes, and went +down to examine my safe. The money was gone. +Ferdinand knew when I was to receive the cash, and +knew my habits well enough to know where I should +put it, careful as I had been not to let him see me +dispose of it. I had been robbed—dexterously—by +my own son.’</p> + +<p>‘Scoundrel!’ muttered Lucius.</p> + +<p>‘Yes. I might have stomached the theft; I +couldn’t forgive the opiate. That stung me to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span> +quick. A man who would do that would poison me, +I thought; and I plucked my only son out of my +heart, as you drag up a foul weed whose roots have +gone deep and have a tough hold in a clay soil. It +was a wrench, and left a feeling of soreness for after +years; but I think my love for him died in that +hour. Could one love so paltry a villain? I made +no attempt to pursue him, nor to regain my money. +One can hardly deliver one’s own flesh and blood to +the tender mercies of the criminal code.’</p> + +<p>‘You never told his daughter?’</p> + +<p>‘No; I was not cruel enough for that. I did my +best to impress upon her mind that he was unworthy +of affection or regret, without stating the nature of +his offence. Unhappily, with her romantic temperament, +to be unfortunate is to be worthy of compassion. +I know that she has wept for him and regretted him, +and even set up his image in her heart, in spite of +me.’</p> + +<p>‘How much do you know of your son’s fate?’</p> + +<p>‘Almost nothing. By mere accident I heard that +he went to America within a month of the day on +which he robbed me. More than that I never heard.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you remember the name of the ship—or +steamer—in which he went?’</p> + +<p>‘That’s a curious question; however, I don’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span> +mind answering it. He went in a Spanish sailing-ship, +El Dorado, bound for Rio.’</p> + +<p>This was all—a poor clue wherewith to discover +the whereabouts of a man who had been missing +twelve years.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.<br> +<span class="fs70">LUCIUS HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH A FAMOUS PERSONAGE.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">It</span> is one thing for a man to make a rash promise, +but another thing for him to keep it. A man in love +will pledge himself to any enterprise—to any adventure—even +to the discovery of a new planet or +a new continent, should his mistress demand as +much. After contemplating the question from every +possible point of view, Lucius Davoren was disposed +to think that he had pledged himself to the performance +of something that was more impossible than +astronomical or geographical discovery, when he promised +to find Lucille Sivewright’s father, or, failing +that, obtain for her at least the story of his fate.</p> + +<p>It had seemed a great point to get the old man +to speak freely of his lost son; but even with this +new light thrown upon the business, an Egyptian +darkness still surrounded the figure of the missing +man. He had sailed for a certain port. He might +be still a denizen of that Southern city. Yet what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span> +less likely in such a man’s career than continued +residence anywhere? The criminal is naturally a +wanderer. He has no fixed abiding-place. Fresh +woods and pastures new are the necessity of his contraband +existence. Like a smuggled keg of cognac, +he passes from place to place under a cloud of +mystery. None see him arrive or depart. Like +the chameleon, he changes colour—now wearing +dyed whiskers and a wig, now returning to the hues +of nature. He has as many names as the Roman +Jupiter.</p> + +<p>Had Lucius been a free man, he might have gone +straight to Rio, and hunted up the traces of the missing +man, unaided and alone. He might have discovered +some clue even after the lapse of years since +the sailing of the Spanish merchantman El Dorado. +It was just within the limits of possibility that he +might have found the man himself.</p> + +<p>But to do this would have involved the abandonment +of much that was of vital moment to himself—would +have indeed thrown the whole scheme of his existence +out of gear. In the first place he was poor, +and his pitiful salary as parish doctor was of inestimable +value to him. Now, a parish doctor has no more +liberty to rove than the parish turncock, and vast +would be the wonder of the vestry—or the overseers—if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span> +informed that the parish surgeon had gone for a +fortnight’s grouse shooting on the Sutherland hills, +or set sail for the Mediterranean in a friend’s yacht, +or joined one of the great Cook’s caravans bound for +Egypt or Peru.</p> + +<p>Again, Lucius had now the nucleus of a very fair +private practice. His patients, for the most part +small tradesmen, paid punctually, and there were +among them some wealthy traders whose custom was +worth having. He saw the beginning, very small it +is true, but the beginning of fortune. That dream +of Savile-row was to be realised out of such small beginnings. +His patients believed in him, and talked +of him; and so far as reputation can be made in such +a place as the Shadrack-Basin district, his reputation +was fast being made. To turn his back upon all this +would be to sacrifice, or at any rate to postpone indefinitely, +his hope of winning a home for the woman +he loved.</p> + +<p>Beyond this there remained a third reason why +he should refrain from setting forth upon that wild-goose +chase which, however barren as to result, would +at least serve to prove him the most devoted and chivalrous +of lovers. To go to Rio was to leave Lucille, +and for an indefinite period; since the business upon +which he would go was essentially a business requiring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span> +deliberation, ample leisure, time for inquiry, for +travelling to and fro, time enough to waste in following +up trails which, though promising much, might +prove false,—time and indomitable patience. How +could he afford time and patience with his heart racked +by fears for the safety of Lucille? What might not +happen during his absence? The old man was in +so precarious a condition that his illness might at +any moment take a fatal turn—in a state so critical +that to deliver him over to a strange doctor, and perhaps +a careless one, would be a kind of assassination.</p> + +<p>Thus, after profound thought, Lucius determined +that even love should not impel him to so rash a course +as a voyage to Rio in quest of Ferdinand Sivewright.</p> + +<p>‘After all,’ he said to himself, ‘there is no wiser +saying than that of Apelles to the cobbler, “Let every +man stick to his own trade.” I may be a clever surgeon, +but a very poor detective-officer; and it will be +safer to spend the little money I can spare in employing +a retired policeman than in trying my ’prentice +hand in the art of detection. We bluster a good deal +in the newspapers about the incompetence of the police, +when they fail to hunt up a criminal who has +plunged into the great sea of humanity, leaving not +a bubble to mark the place where he went down; yet +I doubt if any of those brilliant journalists who furnish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span> +indignant editorials on the police question would +do much better in the detective line than the officials +whose failures they ridicule. Yes, I will submit the +case to Mr. Otranto, the private detective.’</p> + +<p>Once resolved, Lucius lost no more time; but +called at Mr. Otranto’s office in the city, and was fortunate +enough to find that gentleman at home—a +plain-mannered little man, with a black frock-coat +buttoned up to the chin, and the half-military stamp +of the ex-policeman strong upon him. He was a +brisk little man, too, disinclined to waste time upon +unnecessary detail.</p> + +<p>To him Lucius freely confided all he knew about +Ferdinand Sivewright—his character, antecedents, +the ship in which he sailed, the port from which he +went, the approximate date of his departure.</p> + +<p>Mr. Otranto shrugged his shoulders. He had +whistled a little impromptu accompaniment to Mr. +Davoren’s statement under his breath; a kind of internal +whistling, indicative of deepest thought.</p> + +<p>‘I’m afraid it’s not the most hopeful case,’ he +said; ‘twelve years is a long time. See what a +number of earthquakes and shipwrecks and revolutions +and what you may call general blow-ups you +get in a dozen years; and then consider the case of +one individual man who may drop through at any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span> +moment, who, being by nature a bad lot, will change +his name any number of times. However, I can put +the business into the hands of a party out yonder who +will do all that can be done on the spot.’</p> + +<p>‘Yonder, meaning Rio?’ inquired Lucius. ‘Have +you correspondents so far afield?’</p> + +<p>‘Sir,’ said Mr. Otranto, with a complacent glance +at the map of the world which hung against the wall +opposite him, ‘there are very few corners of this habitable +earth where I have <em>not</em> a correspondent.’</p> + +<p>The business was settled without farther discussion. +Lucius gave Mr. Otranto a substantial deposit, +to prove that his inquiry was not prompted by frivolity, +and to insure that gentleman’s zeal; private inquiry +being, as Mr. Otranto indirectly informed his +client, a somewhat expensive luxury.</p> + +<p>This done, Lucius felt that he had not been false +to his pledge. He told Lucille nothing, however, +except that he meant to keep his promise, so far as +it was possible and reasonable for him to keep it.</p> + +<p>‘If I tell you that I think you foolish for cherishing +a wild hope, dearest, you will tell me that I am +unkind,’ he said, as they paced their favourite walk +in the barren old garden at sunset that evening.</p> + +<p>‘Lucius,’ asked Lucille, not long after this, ‘I +am going to ask you a favour.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span></p> + +<p>‘My dearest, what do I live for except to please +you?’</p> + +<p>‘O, Lucius, a great many things; for your patients, +for science, for the hope of being a famous +doctor by and by.’</p> + +<p>‘Only secondary objects in my life now, Lucille. +They once made the sum of life, I grant; they are +henceforth no more than means to an end—and that +end is the creation of a home for you.’</p> + +<p>‘How good of you to say that! I am hardly +worthy of such love, when my heart dwells so much +upon the past. Yet, Lucius, if you could only know +how I cling to the memory of that dim strange time, +which seems almost as far away as a dream, you +would forgive me even for putting that memory above +my affection for you.’</p> + +<p>‘I forgive you freely, darling, for a sentiment +which does but prove the tenderness and constancy +of your nature. I am content even to hold the second +place. But what is the favour you have to ask, Lucille?’</p> + +<p>‘Let me hear you play. Poor grandpapa is seldom +down-stairs of an evening now. There could be +no harm in your bringing your violin, and playing a +little now and then when he has gone back to his +room. His room is so far from the parlour that he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span> +would never hear you; and, after all, playing the +violin is not a crime. Do let me hear you, Lucius! +The old sweet sad music will remind me of my father. +And I know you play divinely,’ she added, looking up +at him with innocent admiring eyes.</p> + +<p>What could he do? He was mortal, loved music +to distraction, and had some belief in his own playing.</p> + +<p>‘So be it, my sweetest. I’ll bring the Amati; +but you must stow him away in some dusky corner +between whiles, where your grandfather cannot possibly +discover him, or he might wreak his vengeance +upon my treasure. After all, as you say, there can +be no harm in a violin, and it will be hardly a breach +of honour for me to play you a sonata now and then, +after my patient has gone to bed. Your father must +have been a fine player, or his playing would have +hardly made such an impression upon you as a child +of seven.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ she answered dreamily, ‘I suppose it was +what you call fine playing. I know that it was sometimes +mournful as the cry of a broken heart, sometimes +wild and strange—so strange that it has made +me cling closer to his knees, as I sat at his feet in +the dusky room, afraid to look round lest I should +see some unearthly form conjured out of the shadows<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span> +by that awful music. You know how children look +behind them with scared faces as they cower round +the Christmas fire, listening to a ghost story. I have +felt like that when I listened to my father’s playing.’</p> + +<p>‘I will bring you pleasanter music, Lucille, and +conjure no ghosts out of the evening shadows—only +happy thoughts of our future.’</p> + +<p>This was the prelude to many peaceful evenings, +full of a placid happiness which knew not satiety. +Lucius brought his Amati, feeling very much like a +conspirator when he conveyed the instrument into +Mr. Sivewright’s house by stealth, as it were, and +gave it into Lucille’s keeping, to be hidden by day, +and only to be brought forth at night, when her +grandfather had retired to his remote bedchamber, +beyond ken of those sweet sounds.</p> + +<p>The old woman in the bonnet—who was at once +housekeeper, cook, laundress, and parlour-maid in +this curious establishment—was of course in the +secret. But Lucius had found this ancient female +improve upon acquaintance, and he was now upon +intimate and friendly terms with her. She had lived +for an indefinite length of years in Mr. Sivewright’s +service—remembered Lucille’s childhood in the dark +old back rooms in Bond-street—but no power of +persuasion could extract any information from her.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span> +Upon entering Mr. Sivewright’s household in the +remote past she had promised to hold her tongue; +and she was religiously silent to this hour. Of the +old man she could never be induced to say more than +that he was a ‘carrack-ter;’ a remark which, accompanied +as it always was with a solemn shake of her +head, might be complimentary or otherwise.</p> + +<p>Lucille she praised with fondest enthusiasm, but +of Lucille’s father she said not a word. On the +various occasions when Lucius had ventured to press +his questions on this subject, she had acted always +in the same manner. Her countenance assumed a +dark and forbidding aspect; she abruptly set down +the dish, or tray, or teapot, or whatever object she +might happen to be carrying, and as abruptly vanished +from the room. Persistence here availed nothing.</p> + +<p>‘Mr. Sivewright bound me over not to talk about +his business when he first engaged me,’ she said +once, when hard pressed by Lucius, who had hoped +through her to obtain some better clue to the fate of +Ferdinand Sivewright. ‘I’ve held my tongue for +uppards o’ five-and-twenty years. It ain’t likely I +should begin to blab now.’</p> + +<p>Although uncommunicative, this faithful domestic +was not unfriendly. She treated Lucille with an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span> +affectionate familiarity, and in a manner took the +lovers under her wing.</p> + +<p>‘I was sure and certain, the first time I laid eyes +on him, that you and Dr. Davory would keep company,’ +she said to Lucille; and her protecting influence +overshadowed the lovers at all times, like the +wings of a guardian angel. She evidently regarded +herself in the light of Miss Sivewright’s duenna; +and would come away from some mysterious operations +in the labyrinthine offices and outhouses of the +ancient mansion, where she had a piece of lumber +which she spoke of casually as her good gentleman, +in order to hover about Lucille and Lucius in their +walks, or to listen, awestricken and open-mouthed, +to the strains of the violin. Discovering ere long +that this rough unpolished jewel was not wanting in +some of the finer qualities of the diamond, Lucius +admitted Mrs. Wincher, in some measure, to his +confidence—discussed his future freely in her presence, +imparted his hopes and fears, and felt that +perhaps within this unbeauteous husk dwelt the soul +of a friend; and assuredly neither he nor Lucille +could afford to sacrifice a friend on account of external +shortcomings. So Mrs. Wincher was accepted +by him, bonnet and all, and her hoverings about the +pathway of innocent love went unreproved.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span></p> + +<p>‘I am so glad you are not angry with Wincher +for being a little too familiar,’ said Lucille. ‘She +cannot forget that she took care of me when I was +a poor solitary child in those back rooms in Bond-street; +and I know she is faithful and good.’</p> + +<p>Jacob Wincher, or Mrs. Wincher’s good gentleman, +was a feeble prowling old man, who took charge +of the collection, and pottered about from morn till +dewy eve—which, by the way, never was dewy in the +Shadrack district—dusting, polishing, arranging, and +rearranging Mr. Sivewright’s treasures—a very feeble +old man, but learned in all the mysteries of bric-à-brac, +and enthusiastic withal; a man whose skilful +hands wandered about among egg-shell china, light +as the wings of a butterfly. He had been Mr. Sivewright’s +factotum in Bond-street, but was no more +inclined to be communicative than Mrs. Wincher, +whom he spoke of, with reciprocal respect, as his +good lady.</p> + +<p>Happy summer evenings, when, in the deepening +dusk, Lucius awoke the sweet sad strains of his violin, +while Lucille sat knitting by the window, and +Mrs. Wincher, in the inevitable bonnet, occupied the +extreme edge of a chair by the door, listening with +folded arms and the serious attention of a musical +critic.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span></p> + +<p>‘I can’t say but what I’ve a preference for livelier +toons,’ she would remark, after patiently awaiting +the end of a dirge by Spohr, ‘but the fingering is +beautiful. I like to watch the fingering. My good +gentleman used to play the fiddle very sweet afore +we was married—“John Anderson my Jones,” and +the “Bird Waltz,” and “British Grenayders,” and +such-like—but he give it up afterwards. There was +no time to waste upon music in Bond-street. Up +early and abed late, and very often travel a hundred +miles backards and forrards between morning and +night to attend a sale in the country—that was Mr. +Sivewright’s motter.’</p> + +<p>These musical entertainments were naturally of +rare occurrence. Mr. Sivewright had been for some +time gradually improving, and was more inclined for +society as his strength returned, but was, on the +other hand, disinclined to come down-stairs; so +Lucius and Lucille had to spend the greater part +of their time in his room, where Lucius entertained +his patient with tidings of the outer world, while +Lucille made tea at a little table in the narrow space +which the collector had left clear in the midst of his +crowded chamber. There were a few flowers now in +the one unobstructed window, and Lucille had done<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span> +all she could, with her small means, to make the +room pretty and homelike.</p> + +<p>Mr. Sivewright listened while the lovers discussed +their future, but with no indulgent ear.</p> + +<p>‘Love and poverty!’ he said, with his harsh +laugh; ‘a nice stock-in-trade upon which to set +up in the business of life! However, I suppose +you are no more foolish than all the fools who +have travelled the same beaten road before your +time: and the same old question remains to be +solved by you, just as it has been solved by others—whether +the love will outwear the poverty, or the +poverty wear out the love.’</p> + +<p>‘We are not afraid to stand the test,’ said +Lucius.</p> + +<p>‘We are not afraid,’ echoed Lucille.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.<br> +<span class="fs70">HE FEARS HIS FATE TOO MUCH.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">The</span> quiet course of Lucius Davoren’s life, so full of +hard work and high hopes and simple unalloyed happiness, +was by and by interrupted by a summons +from Geoffrey, that spoiled child of fortune, who, +in his hour of perplexity, turned again to that +staunch friend whose counsel he had set at naught.</p> + +<p>This was Geoffrey Hossack’s letter:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p class="right fs90"> +‘Stillmington, August 13th.<br> +</p> + +<p>‘Dear Lucius,—I daresay you’ll be surprised to +see me still abiding in this sleepy old place, when +yesterday’s gray dawn saw the first shot fired on +many a moor from York to Inverness. However, +here I am, and in sore distress of mind, no nearer +a hopeful issue out of my perplexities than I was +when you ran down here nearly four months ago to +see that dear child. Will you come down again, like +a good old fellow, forget how rude and ungracious I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span> +was the last time I saw you, and hear my difficulties, +and help me if you can?</p> + +<p>‘After all, you are the only man whose good sense +and honour I would trust in such a crisis of my life—the +only friend before whom I would bare the +secrets of my heart. Do come, and promptly.</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘Yours, as ever, <span style="padding-left: 4em">G. H.’</span><br> +</p> +</div> +<br> + +<p>Of course Lucius complied. He left London early +in the afternoon, and arrived at Stillmington towards +evening. He found Geoffrey waiting on the platform, +with much of the old brightness and youthfulness of +aspect, but with a more thoughtful expression than +of old in the candid face, a graver look about the firm +well-cut mouth. They greeted each other in the usual +off-hand manner.</p> + +<p>‘Uncommonly sweet of you to come, old fellow,’ +said Geoffrey. ‘I ought to have run up to you, of +course, only—only I’ve taken root here, you see. I +know every post in the streets, every tree in the +everlasting avenues that make the glory of this slow +old town. But still I remain. You’re looking fagged, +Lucius, but bright as of old.’</p> + +<p>‘I have been working a little harder than usual, +that is all,’ replied Lucius, who was disinclined to +speak of his new happiness yet awhile. It would be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span> +time enough to tell Geoffrey when the future lay +clearer before him; and as he had somewhat ridiculed +his friend’s passion, he did not care to own +himself a slave.</p> + +<p>‘Now, Geoffrey, what is the matter?’ he asked +presently, as they strolled slowly along one of those +verdant avenues of lime and chestnut which surrounded +the little gem-like town of Stillmington +with a network of greenery. ‘Still the old story, I +suppose.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, Lucius, the old story, with very little variation. +She is here, and I can’t tear myself away, but +go dawdling on from day to day and hour to hour. +Half-a-dozen times I have packed my portmanteaus +and ordered the fly to take me to the station, and +then at the last moment I have said to myself, “Why +should I go away? I am a free man, and an idle +one, and may just as well live here as anywhere +else.”’</p> + +<p>‘Ah, Geoff, that comes of your being without a +profession.’</p> + +<p>‘It would be just the same if I were half-way towards +the Woolsack—ay, if I were Lord Chancellor—I +should only be torn in twain between my profession +and my hopeless foolish love.’</p> + +<p>‘But how does it happen that she—Mrs. Bertram—is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span> +still here? Are there perpetual concerts in Stillmington?’</p> + +<p>‘No; but after the little girl’s illness, perhaps +in consequence of that, she took a disgust for concert +singing. She fancied the hurrying from place to +place—the excitement caused by frequent change of +scene—bad for her darling’s health. Nor was this +her only reason; she has often told me her own dislike +of public life. So when the little girl recovered, +Mrs. Bertram advertised for pupils in the local papers. +The doctor, who had taken a great fancy to her, recommended +her to all his patients, and in less than +a month she had secured half-a-dozen pupils, and +had taken nicer rooms than those in which you saw +her. She has now a singing class three times a week. +I hear them sol-faing when I pass the windows during +my morning walk. There is even a little brass-plate +on the door: “Mrs. Bertram, teacher of music.” +Imagine, Lucius, the woman I love to the verge of +idolatry is obliged to put a brass-plate on her door +and teach squalling misses, while I am wallowing in +wealth.’</p> + +<p>‘A much better life for any woman than that of +a public singer,’ said Lucius; ‘above all for—’</p> + +<p>‘Such a lovely woman as Jane Bertram. Yes, +I agree with you. Who could see her and not adore<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span> +her? But think, Lucius, how superior this woman +must be to all the things which most women love, +when she can willingly surrender professional success, +the admiration of the public, even the triumph of her +art, for the love of her child: and shut herself in from +the world, and resign herself to lead a life as lonely +and joyless as the life of a convent.’</p> + +<p>‘It proves, as you say, that the lady possesses a +superior mind; for which I should have given her +credit even without such evidence. But it appears +that in her seclusion she has not closed her door +against you; since you are so familiar with her opinions +and her mode of life.’</p> + +<p>‘There you are wrong. I have never crossed the +threshold of her present abode. On the very day you +left Stillmington she told me in the plainest words, +but with a gentleness that made even unkind words +seem sweet, that she could receive no farther visits +from me. “You have been very good,” she said, +“and in the hour of trouble such friendship as you +have shown to me is very precious. But now the +danger is past I can only return to my old position. +It is my destiny to live quite alone; pray do not try +to come between me and Fate.”’</p> + +<p>‘You pleaded against this decision, I suppose?’</p> + +<p>‘With all the force of the truest passion that man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span> +ever felt. I think I was almost eloquent, Lucius, for +at the last she burst into tears; she entreated me to +desist, told me that I was too hard upon her, that I +tempted her too cruelly. How could I tempt her if +she did not care a straw for me? These ambiguous +phrases fanned the flame of hope. I left her at her +command, which I dared not disobey; but I stayed +in Stillmington.’</p> + +<p>‘You have stayed on all this time and seen no +more of her?’</p> + +<p>‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Pas si bête.</i> No, I have seen her and talked to +her now and then. She is obliged to give her child +an airing every fine afternoon. She has no maid here, +and the mother and child walk out together. Sometimes, +but not too often, for that would seem like +persecution, I contrive to meet them, and join them +in their ramble in one of the long avenues or across +a breezy common; and then, Lucius, for a little +while I am in Paradise. We talk of all manner of +things; of life and its many problems, of literature, +art, nature, religion, and its deepest mysteries; but +of her past life she never speaks, nor of her dead +husband. I have studiously refrained from any word +that might seem to pry into her secrets, and every +hour I have spent with her has served but to increase +my love and honour for her.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span></p> + +<p>‘You have again asked her to be your wife?’</p> + +<p>‘Over and over again, and she has refused with +the same steadfast persistence, with a constancy of +purpose that knows no change. And yet, Lucius, +I believe she loves me. I am neither such a blockhead +nor such a scoundrel as to pursue any woman +to whom I was an object of dislike, or even of indifference. +But I see her face light up when we +meet; I hear the sweet tremulous tones of her voice +when she speaks of the love she refuses to grant +me. No, Lucius, there is no indifference, there is +no obstinate coldness there. God only knows the +reason which keeps us asunder, but to me it is an +inexorable mystery.’</p> + +<p>‘And you have sent for me only to tell me this. +In your letter you spoke of my helping you. How +can any help of mine aid you here?’</p> + +<p>‘In the first place, because you are a much +cleverer fellow than I am, a better judge of human +nature, able to read aright much that is a mystery +to me. In the second place, you, who are not blinded +by passion, ought speedily to discover whether I am +only fooling myself with the fancy that my love is +returned. You know I was just a little inclined to +be jealous of you the last time you were here, old +fellow.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span></p> + +<p>‘You had not the faintest reason.’</p> + +<p>‘I know. Of course not. But I was fool enough +to grudge you even her gratitude. I don’t mean to +repeat that idiotcy. You are the only friend whose +opinions I really respect. The common run of one’s +acquaintance I look upon as egotistical monomaniacs; +that is to say, they have all gone mad upon the subject +of self, and are incompetent to reason upon anything +that has not self for its centre. But you, +Lucius, have a wider mind; and I believe, your judgment +being untroubled by passion, you will be able +to read this mystery aright, to fathom the secret my +darkened eyes have vainly striven to pierce.’</p> + +<p>‘I believe that I can, Geoffrey,’ said Lucius +gravely. ‘But tell me first, do you really wish this +mystery solved, for good or for evil, at the risk even +of disenchantment?’</p> + +<p>‘At any hazard; the present uncertainty is unbearable. +I am tortured by the belief that she loves +me, and yet withholds her love. That if inclination +were her only guide, she would be my wife. And yet +she toils on, and lives on, lonely, joyless, with nothing +but her child’s love to brighten her dreary days.’</p> + +<p>‘There are many women who find that enough +for happiness. But, no doubt, as your wife her existence +might be gayer, her position more secure.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span></p> + +<p>‘Of course. Think of her, Lucius, that loveliest +and most refined among women, slaving for a pittance.’</p> + +<p>‘I do think of her, I sympathise with her, I admire +and honour her,’ answered the other, with unwonted +earnestness.</p> + +<p>‘And yet you advise me against marrying her. +That seems hardly consistent.’</p> + +<p>‘I have advised you not to marry her in ignorance +of her past life. If she will tell you the secret of that +past—without reserve—and you find nothing in the +story to diminish your love, I will no longer say do +not marry her. But there must be nothing kept +back—nothing hidden. She must tell you all; even +if her heart almost breaks in the telling. And it will +then be for you to renounce her and your love; or to +take her to your heart of hearts to reign there for +ever.’</p> + +<p>‘I do not fear the test,’ cried Geoffrey eagerly. +‘She can have nothing to tell me that she should +blush to speak or I to hear. She is all goodness and +truth.’</p> + +<p>‘Have you ever asked for her confidence?’</p> + +<p>‘Never. Remember, Lucius, I possess her friendship +only on sufferance. In a moment she may give +me my irrevocable dismissal, forbid me ever to speak<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span> +to her any more, as she has forbidden me to visit +her. I could not afford to surrender even those occasional +hours we spend together.’</p> + +<p>‘In that case why send for me? I thought you +wanted to bring matters to a crisis.’</p> + +<p>‘Why, so I do. Yet at the thought of her anger +I grow the veriest coward. Banishment from her +means such unutterable misery, and to offend her is +to provoke the sentence of banishment.’</p> + +<p>‘If she is as good and true as you believe, and as +I too believe her to be, she will not be offended by +your candour. She may have a confession to make +to you which she could hardly make unasked; but +which, once being made, might clear away all doubt, +remove every impediment to your happiness.’</p> + +<p>‘You are right. Yes, I will hazard all. What +is that old verse?</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“He either fears his fate too much,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Or his desert is small,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Who dares not put it to the touch,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">To gain or lose it all.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Just imagine my feelings on the twelfth, Lucius, +when I thought of my collection of guns going to +rust, and those Norwegian hills that I had made up +my mind to shoot over this very August.’</p> + +<p>‘Bravely said, Geoff. And now I will do my uttermost<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span> +to aid you. I think that I may have some +small influence with Mrs. Bertram. Her gratitude +exaggerated the trifling service I did her sick child. +I will write her a letter; as your friend I can say +much more than you could say for yourself. You +shall deliver it into her hands, and then ask her, in +the simplest, plainest words, to tell you whether she +loves or does not love you; and, if she owns to caring +for you a little, why it is she rejects your love. +I think you will come at the truth then.’</p> + +<p>‘You will write to her!’ cried Geoffrey aghast. +‘You, almost a stranger!’</p> + +<p>‘How can I be a stranger when she thinks I saved +her child’s life? Come, Geoffrey, if I am to help +you I must go to work in my own way. Give Mrs. +Bertram my letter, and I’ll answer for it, she will +give you her confidence.’</p> + +<p>Geoffrey looked at his friend with the gaze of +suspicion. Yet, after entreating his aid, he could +hardly reject it, even if the manner of it seemed +clumsy and undiplomatic.</p> + +<p>‘Very well, I’ll do it. Only, I must say, it +strikes me as a hazardous business. Write your letter; +but for heaven’s sake remember she is a woman +of a most sensitive nature, a most delicate mind! I +implore you not to offend her.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span></p> + +<p>‘I know more of her mind than you do,—by the +light of psychology.’</p> + +<p>‘Very likely,’ replied Geoffrey rather gloomily. +‘But you haven’t hung upon her words or studied +her looks day after day as I have done. Psychology +is an uncommonly easy way of getting at a woman’s +mind if you know much of her after a single interview. +However, write your letter, and I’ll deliver it. +I can cut my throat if it makes her angry.’</p> + +<p>‘One does not cut one’s throat at seven-and-twenty,’ +said Lucius coolly. ‘And now, Geoff, if +you have no objection, I should not be sorry to bend +my steps towards your hotel with a view to refreshment. +We seem to have wandered rather far afield.’</p> + +<p>Geoffrey, in his desire for unrestrained converse +with his friend, had led him away from the town, by +a winding road that ascended a gentle hill; a wooded +hill covered with richest green sward, whence they +looked downward on the gentlemanlike town of Stillmington, +with its white villas and spotless streets +and close-cut lawns and weedless flower-beds, over +which the sister spirits of order and prosperity spread +their protecting wings. The respectable family hotel +proudly dominated the smaller tenements of the High-street, +its well-kept garden gaudy with geraniums, +its fountain spirting mildly in the sunset.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span></p> + +<p>‘Come along, old fellow,’ said Geoffrey; ‘it was +rather too bad of me to forget how far you’d travelled. +I’ve ordered dinner for eight sharp; and hark, the +clock of Stillmington parish church proclaims half-past +seven, just time enough to get rid of the dust of +the journey before we sit down. And after—’</p> + +<p>‘After dinner,’ said Lucius, ‘I’ll write to Mrs. +Bertram.’</p> + +<p>‘Then by Apollo, as old Lear says, I’ll deliver +the letter to-night. I couldn’t afford to sleep upon +it. My courage would evaporate, like Bob Acres’s, +before morning.’</p> + +<p>Thus, with simulated lightness, spoke the lover, +while strange doubts and gnawing fears consumed +his heart.</p> +<br> +<br> + +<p class="center no-indent fs90 wsp">END OF VOL. I.</p> +<br> +<br> + +<p class="center no-indent fs80"> +LONDON:<br> +ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.<br> +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter transnote"> +<h2 class="nobreak bold fs150" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> + +<table class="autotable lh"> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">pg 2 Changed:</td> +<td class="tdl">It is December, the bleakest, deariest month</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">to:</td> +<td class="tdl">It is December, the bleakest, dreariest month</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">pg 14 Changed:</td> +<td class="tdl">torn moosekin shoes upon his feet</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">to:</td> +<td class="tdl">torn mooseskin shoes upon his feet</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">pg 113 Changed:</td> +<td class="tdl">a cabinet in Forentine mosaic</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">to:</td> +<td class="tdl">a cabinet in Florentine mosaic</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">pg 236 Changed:</td> +<td class="tdl">hope and fear during the ast few days</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">to:</td> +<td class="tdl">hope and fear during the last few days</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">pg 294 Changed:</td> +<td class="tdl">Like the chamelion, he changes colour</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">to:</td> +<td class="tdl">Like the chameleon, he changes colour</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">pg 300 Changed:</td> +<td class="tdl">So be it, my weestest.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">to:</td> +<td class="tdl">So be it, my sweetest.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">pg 302 Changed:</td> +<td class="tdl">she praised with fondest enthusiam</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">to:</td> +<td class="tdl">she praised with fondest enthusiasm</td> +</tr> +</table> + +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75875 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75875-h/images/a007_deco.jpg b/75875-h/images/a007_deco.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef1c072 --- /dev/null +++ b/75875-h/images/a007_deco.jpg diff --git a/75875-h/images/cover.jpg b/75875-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1fa3b47 --- /dev/null +++ b/75875-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/75875-h/images/p001_deco.jpg b/75875-h/images/p001_deco.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6cbcec5 --- /dev/null +++ b/75875-h/images/p001_deco.jpg diff --git a/75875-h/images/titlr.jpg b/75875-h/images/titlr.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3cc5429 --- /dev/null +++ b/75875-h/images/titlr.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5dba15 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, 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. 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