His father began, with an exclamation, to speak, but recalled to himself by another low but emphatic call from his wife, “James, James!” restrained himself. He gave Archie, however, a look, under which the unfortunate young man fell back, feeling as if something had struck him to his heart. Oh, the contempt in it, the indignation, as of something unworthy a word! and to know that he did not deserve it, and yet have his lips sealed and nothing to say for himself. It was almost harder to bear than any fury of reproach. Archie felt himself shamed in the way in which shame was most bitter, and in the presence of those who made his disgrace most terrible to bear—the girl whom he admired with a kind of adoration, and the woman whom he hated without knowing why. As he stood there, drawn back a step, lowering, gloomy, his eyes sunk in their sockets, he looked the picture of conscious meanness, and almost guilt. And such he appeared to his father, whose passion of disappointment and rage of offended affection was scarcely to be restrained. Rowland got up from his seat abruptly and went into the library, which was the room he used. He came back in a minute or two, holding a cheque in his hand, which he tossed at his son, as he had once tossed the twenty-pound note. “Send that,” he said, “to youraunt for your friend.” He walked back towards his place, then turned again, and adding, “By to-day’s post,” sat down with his face towards the fire.
Archie stood for a moment with the cheque lying at his feet. All the old rebellion rose within his heart. It was more bitter this time than the last. Should he leave it there lying, the wretched money, and turn his back upon his father, who even when he was kind was so in scorn, and flung the help for the friend, whom he believed Archie had refused to help, as he would have flung a bone to a dog. Should he go and leave it, and turn his back upon this house for ever? There was a moment’s struggle, very bitter and sore, in Archie’s breast: and then he remembered Colin, the pale-faced lad, whose illness, it had been no great surprise, but so overwhelming a blow to hear of, just at the moment when he had made himself incapable of helping him. Then he stooped down, and picking up the paper went to the writing-table and wrote a hasty letter, stooping over the blotting-book as he stood. “Aunt Jane,” he wrote, “you have done me a very ill turn, but I do not blame you: and my father will perhaps end by driving me desperate; and most likely you will none of you ever know the reason. But here’s the money for Colin Lamont, though it’s been flung at my head, like the time before, and though I have not even you to take my part now. Anyhow it will be good for him. His is a better case, however ill he is, than mine.—A. Rowland.”
Archie put this letter and the cheque into an envelope, which he placed conspicuously on the table thathis father might see it, and then he left the house, with a soul more heavy and a heart more sore than words could say.
“Your brother is always getting to loggerheads with your father,” said Eddy to Marion, who was helping him with a design for the wall. “You should give him good advice, and get him to take a jaw pleasantly. They all do it, don’t you know.”
“Who all do it?—but I’m astonished at papa,” said Marion; “for why should Archie give all his money to a lad that was not at all of his kind, but just a companion for a while, when we were—not as we are now. Archie has not so much money that he could give it away to—a friend.”
“Why should he indeed?” said Eddy. “Friends that want money are always to be had in plenty; but money is best in one’s pocket, which is the right place for it, as you say.”
“I am just surprised at papa,” said Marion; “for it should be a father’s part to keep us from foolishness, and not to put it into our heads. Archie is silly enough without giving him any encouragement. He was always for giving things away; and this Colin—for I am sure it must be Colin—is just one that will never be better whatever is done for him. It is just throwing away money.—Shall I cut out all these leaves the same, or would it be better if they were a little different, like leaves upon a tree?”
“Oh, make them like the drawing, please,” said Eddy.—“Archie is a very good fellow, but he takes things too seriously. What is the use of looking sotragical? The best of fathers loves a chance for a sermon. You must speak to him like a mother, Miss May.”
“I have always been the most sensible,” said May; “but I am the youngest, and I don’t see how I could speak to him like a mother. I will, perhaps, speak to papa, and tell him how wrong it is, when a boy is disposed to be saving and takes care of his money, to put such things in his head. For what could Colin Lamont matter to him in comparison with himself? And where would we have been now, if papa had thrown away his money and made that kind of use of it? It is not for Archie’s sake, for Archie is just very silly; but I think I will perhaps speak to papa.”
And then they returned with enthusiasm to the decorations for the hall.
Poor Archie, for his part, wandered out disconsolate upon the hills: everything was turning out badly for him. There had been a moment when things were better, when he had overcome various troubles—his unaccustomed gun, and Roderick and the groom, and the sudden valse into which he had been driven, with still less chance of escape. For a week or two things had gone so well, that he had began to trust a little in his fate; but now again the balance had turned, and everything was going badly. Small comfort was there in prospect for him. He had denuded himself altogether of all his revenues, and now there came upon him the consciousness of many things that would be required of him, many claims which he would be unable to respond to. He would not have a sixpence to give toa boy, or a penny to a beggar. He would have to guard against every little expense as if he were a beggar himself. He could not go to Glasgow again, however much he might wish to do so, scarcely even to go across the ferry. He had nothing, and would have nothing till Christmas, these long and weary months. And Eddy did nothing but lift his eyebrows, half-amused at the misery of which he was the cause. And never could Archie explain, neither to his father, nor to Aunt Jane, the reason why he had refused her prayer for Colin Lamont. When he thought of that, Archie gnashed his teeth, and in the silence of the hillside, dashed his clenched hands into the air. He must bear it all and never say a word—and all the time see before him the other, smiling, who could make it all plain. But Archie did not know how much greater and more awful trouble was yet in store.
Thenight of the ball arrived at last. The stables in Rosmore, and all the accommodation to be had in the neighbourhood, were filled with horses and carriages of every description. Everybody had come. The great element of success, which predetermines the question, the arrival of all expected, made the hearts of the hosts glad. Rowland had forgotten that little episode which still hung heavy on Archie’s soul, and stood beaming, the proudest man in the county, to receive his guests. The sound of the arrivals was music to his ears. Thathe, so simple as he stood there, the foundry lad, the railway man, the creator of his own fortune, should be receiving the best people in the countryside, opening large and liberal doors of hospitality, entertaining in the superior position of a host people whose names he had heard afar off in those early days, was a sort of happiness which he could scarcely believe, and which filled his heart with a glow of elation and proud delight. Perhaps it was not a very elevated or elevating sentiment. To shake hands with the Earl of Clydesdale, and welcome him to one’s house, might not fill one’s own bosom with any sense of bliss. But Lord Clydesdale was to James Rowland the king of his native district, high above all cavil or partnership, and there could be no such evident sign to him of the glorious position to which he had himself attained. This sense of triumph beamed all over him, and made his accent more and more cordial, his anxiety about the pleasure of his guests more and more warm. There was nothing he would not have done to add to the brightness of the joyous assembly. The least little momentary shade of dullness in any corner went to his heart. When he saw either girl or boy who was not dancing, he would come down upon them like a rescue party, providing partner, or supper, or refreshment, or repose, whatsoever they wanted. It could not be said that his success and glory made him selfish. He wanted everybody to enjoy as he was himself enjoying. Impossible to imagine a more beneficent form of success.
He had quite forgotten his censure of Archie. He clapped him on the shoulder when he appeared, withan exhortation—“Now Archie, man! shake yourself together—put your best foot foremost—make it go off! Mind we are all upon our promotion. If it is not the finest ball that has been given on Clydeside, I will never hold up my head more.” This address a little lightened Archie’s heart, still sore and heavy from the blame to which he had been subject—so undeservedly as he knew, but as nobody else was aware. And he was young, and though alarmed by the part he had himself to play, it was not in human nature not to feel some stir of exhilaration in the arrival of all that fine company, the music striking up, the crowd of other young people streaming in. What he would have thought of admission to such a scene a year ago! To be sure, this was chastened by the thought of the important part he had to play, as son of the house. He found Rosamond at his elbow, after his father had given him that exhortation.
“You should ask Lady Jean first,” said the young lady, holding, as usual, her head high and not looking at him while she spoke.
“Me—ask Lady Jean! to what?” he asked, with an uneasy laugh.
“To dance, of course—unless the Duchess comes: is the Duchess coming? Without her you have nothing better than a baronet and his wife. Therefore, unless your father dances, you must take out Lady Jean.”
“My father—dances?” cried Archie, with an uncontrollable laugh. It seemed to him the most ridiculous idea in the world.
“Most gentlemen do in their own houses,” saidRosamond, “but if he does not, then you. Lady Jean first. Then Lady Marchbanks: and not for some time that little pretty woman, whose husband was knighted the other day. She is my lady too, and perhaps you would never know the difference. But please to mind what I say.”
“Lady this, and Lady that—and when am I to come to you?” said Archie, taking a little courage.
“Oh, I will keep one for you—not till you have got through all your duty dances. That is the disadvantage many people say of a ball in one’s own house. But I like responsibility,” said Rosamond. “It is better than thinking merely what will be most fun.”
By the inspiration of this double charge, Archie became a new man. He led Lady Jean very tremulously, it must be allowed, through a quadrille—or she led him, it would perhaps be better to say; but he was very docile and very humble, and her ladyship did not dislike the modest young man, who, for the first time for some days, opened full his mother’s eyes, innocent and honest, upon those to whom he spoke. She said, “He’s not an ill lad, that young Rowland,” to the ladies about her. And Miss Eliza repeated it up and down the room. “We all know what dear Lady Jean means,” cried that lady. “She is maybe sparing of her praises, but when she does say a good word, it comes from the heart. He has many things to contend against, but he’s not an ill lad. I have always said it myself. Few women have greater opportunities of studying young folk than I have, though I’m only, as you may say, an old maid myself. And so is Lady Jean forthat matter. We are just a real respectable fraternity—or would it be better to say sisterhood?—but that’s a word with other meanings. No, he’s not an ill lad. He has always been very civil to me, and the boys all like him. They say there’s no humbug in him. But Lady Jean is the one to give a thing it’s right name.”
Whether any echo of this comforting report reached Archie’s ken it would be hard to tell, but it somehow blew across his father’s ears, and made him laugh till the tears came to his eyes. He sought out Evelyn in the midst of her guests to report it to her. “It’s Scotch praise,” he said, “but it means more than you would suppose.”
“I think it is very poor praise, and Archie deserves a great deal better,” said his wife, which pleased him too.
“But that from Lady Jean is more than raptures from another,” he replied.
As for Eddy Saumarez, though he was not much to look at, he was always a popular man, as he himself said, in a ball-room. He did not dance very gracefully, nor indeed, though his confidence in himself carried him through all kinds of performances creditably, was he a graceful person in anyway: but he was adroit, and despite his somewhat insignificant person, strong, and carried his partner skilfully through the most complicated crowd. His enjoyment of the evening was interrupted or increased (it would be difficult to say which) by the appearance of a man whom nobody knew, and most people took for one of the servants (a supposition very injurious to Mr. Rowland’s servants,who were well-made, well-set-up individuals, excellent specimens of humanity). Johnson wore an evening coat with long tails, too long for him, and a white tie with long ends too big for him, and gloves with half-an-inch of vacant finger, which made his hands look like a bundle of loose skeins of white yarn. His face wore an anxious look as he came in unnoticed, eagerly looking for the only face he knew. Even the genial Rowland, who was ready to welcome everybody, passed over this personage with vague surprise, supposing that he must belong to some reserve force of the pantry, or had been brought in in attendance on some guest. He knew nobody but Eddy, and Eddy, who was dancing without intermission, contrived never to catch hisprotégé’seyes. It was not that he was unconscious of the presence of this visitor, whom nobody took any notice of. On the contrary, Eddy kept a careful watch upon him in his corner.
“Look yonder,” he said to his partner; “but don’t look as if you were looking. Do you see that queer little being in the corner? Oh, yes, I know him; but I don’t mean to see him. He has got an invitation here by mistake, and he depends on me to introduce him right and left.—Who is he? ah, that’s what I can’t tell. He is not a man I shall introduce to you. Did you ever see such a droll little beggar? I knew he would be fun. There he goes prowling into the other corner, where he thinks he will catch my eye. But I don’t mean him to catch my eye. Oh, you know well enough, don’t you, how to avoid seeing any one you don’t want to see? Cruel? no: he has no business tobe here. The little brute must pay for his impudence. Reverse, shall we? Ah, he thought he had me then!” Eddy said with a laugh. “We were running right into him. But you’ll see I shall get clear away.”
Perhaps Rosamond heard some part of this talk as her brother darted past. For it was she in all her pride who sailed up to poor Johnson in his corner, who was diving under the dancers’ arms and stretching over their shoulders, in a vain attempt to attract the attention of his false friend.
“You are looking for my brother,” she said, “and he is paying no attention. He seldom does when it is not for his own advantage. But perhaps I may do as well.”
Johnson murmured something about surprise and honour. “You will do just as well, Miss Saumarez, if you will introduce me to some nice girls,” he said eagerly. “Master Eddy promised me: but I know his promises is like pie crust. May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”
Rosamond almost looked at him in her scorn—the next dance! as though every place on her card had not been filled in the first five minutes.
“I will dance a quadrille with you,” she said, “if you will remain here quietly till I am ready, and not ask any one else.”
“Oh, miss!” cried Johnson, in delight; “fancy my conducting myself like a gay Lothario, and asking any one else, when I have an offer from you!”
Rosamond was not used to blushing, but she colouredhigh at this. She did not see the fun of it as Eddy would have done. She had no sense of humour.
“If you will wait here till I am ready, I will dance with you,” she said.
Johnson had been very indignant and deeply disappointed, not to be introduced to “the big-wigs,” as Eddy had promised. But when Eddy’s beautiful sister proposed to him to dance with her, not even waiting to be asked, his feelings sustained a wonderful change. He relaxed his watch upon Eddy, and waited with wonderful patience for the blissful moment when he should take his place among that dazzling throng. With this before him, he could enjoy the sight and the ecstatic sensation of forming part of the assembly, even though he knew no big-wigs. When they saw him dancing with Miss Saumarez, who was one of the beauties, if not, Johnson thought, flattered and flattering,thebeauty of the evening, they would change their minds about him. And indeed, the shabby little man made an extraordinary sensation when he joined, by the side of Miss Saumarez, the next quadrille. Who was he? where did he come from? everybody asked. And whispers ran among the throng, that a person so shabby, dancing with Miss Saumarez, one of the house party, must to the blood of the millionaires belong, and was probably the scion of a secondary Rothschild. Much curiosity was roused concerning him, and shabby as he looked, there is little doubt that after Rosamond he might have danced with almost any one he pleased. As a matter of fact, Archie, always good-natured, and unsuspicious of anything remarkable about Johnson,introduced him to several ladies, who did not object to allow him to inscribe his name upon their programmes. And Marion did more than this. She was just standing up with him for a waltz, and with her hand on his arm was about to enter the field, when another change occurred which made Johnson’s appearance and behaviour more extraordinary than ever. He suddenly stopped in the midst, just at the moment when he ought to have put his limp hand upon her waist, a contact which Rosamond had been unable to submit to, but which Marion, with her much less cultivated sense, found quite unobjectionable.
“Excuse me, miss, for a moment,” Johnson said, dropping her arm, and leaving her alone in the midst of the dancers.
He had seen something in the distance which made him turn pale. And it happened that at that moment, after so long and so ineffectually attempting to catch Eddy’s eye, he at last succeeded in doing so without the slightest difficulty. Eddy had been startled beyond expression by the sight of Johnson’s shabby figure by his sister’s side, and distracted by this sight from all idea of fun; and restraining with difficulty the impulse he had to seize the fellow by the shoulders and turn him out—which evidently he had no right to do—had followed him, no longer now with laughing eyes that saw every movement while appearing to see nothing, but with the furious gaze of the plotter upon whom the tables are turned. When Johnson started, shrank, and dropped Marion’s arm, Eddy, watching, saw the whole pantomime, and saw also the fellow’s almost imperceptible signal towards the window, which stood open behind its drawn curtains for the ventilation of the great warm, heated hall. Eddy turned his own sharp, suspicious eyes toward the spot at which Johnson had looked, and there he saw a somewhat startling sight—a man in morning dress, buttoned up in a warm overcoat, like a visitor newly arrived, standing at the hall door, and gazing with astonishment as at a totally unexpected scene. The sight startled him, though he did not know why. It could be nothing to him, so far as he knew. He did not know what it could be to Johnson. But he was startled. The man looked like some commercial functionary, business-like, and serious, surprised beyond measure to find himself suddenly introduced from the open air and quiet, frosty, chilly night, to the crowded ball-room with all its decorations.
Eddy made a dive through the throng towards the window, with an explanation to those around him that the draught was too much for Lady Jean.
“I must try and draw the curtains down,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders at the unreasonableness of women. And in another moment was outside, standing under the brilliant cold stars, which looked down coldly upon this curious little unexpected effect.
“What’s the matter?” he said breathlessly to the other dark figure, conspicuous only by the whiteness of his large shirt, among the bushes.
“I don’t know,” said Johnson, “unless you’ve been at it again, Master Eddy. Did you see that man? that’s the clerk at the bank that cashed your cheque.I don’t know what brings him here, if you don’t. Anyhow, I thought it the best policy to slip away.”
Eddy’s teeth began to chatter—perhaps with the cold.
“You confounded fool,” he said, “did you give them the chance of identifying you? I didn’t think you would have been such an ass.”
“As for that,” cried Johnson, “I’m square. I’ve only got to say it was given me by you, my fine young fellow. By George, I never had no suspicion. And p’raps it aint that—p’raps it’s something else; but it looks fishy seeing that fellow in the middle of all the folks dancing. It has given me a turn! I hope, Master Eddy, for your own sake, as you have not been at it again.”
“Oh, what’s that to you?” cried Eddy impatiently. He was biting his lower lip till it bled, unconsciously to himself.
“It might be a great deal to me,” said Johnson, “if it is not on the square. They’ve a set of queer laws of their own in Scotland: you never know where you are with them; and you didn’t trouble yourself very much to get me partners, Mr. Eddy. Oh, ah, didn’t see me; tell that to them as will believe it.”
“If you think you are in danger, Johnson, from the arrival of that fellow,” said Eddy, “you’d better scuttle. They don’t understand a joke these bank men.”
“A joke,” cried Johnson. “Me that am on the square if ever a man was! and you that—”
“Have nothing at all to do with it,” said Eddy with cool superiority. “If you think that you’re likelyto get into trouble, take my advice and walk home. I’ll pitch you out a coat, and it’s a fine night. You should start to-morrow, as soon as it’s day; and I advise you to get over the hills to Kilrossie, and take the boat there. Good-night—it’s cold standing out here jabbering about nothing. You should never have come; and how dared you touch a lady, you little snob!” Eddy cried.
“By George,” cried the other; and then he added with complacency in his tone: “If it’s Miss Saumarez, she is a stunner, Master Eddy. It was she—that offered to me.”
“You confounded, miserable little cad,” said Eddy, furiously driving him back among the bushes with a sudden blow. But he stole back to the house on the outskirts of the crowd, and seizing the first coat he could find, pitched it out of a window above, on Johnson’s head. He had humanity enough, though he was not unwilling to sacrifice the scapegoat, to give him something warm to wrap himself in. After this he returned to the ball-room, with a thousand apologies to his partner, and eloquent description of the difficulty he had found in so arranging the curtains as to keep the draught from Lady Jean. “The shortest way would have been to shut the window, I know,” said Eddy, “but we can’t have the ball-room made into a black hole of Calcutta, can we? So I compromised matters, as I always do.”
“Do you, Mr. Saumarez?” said the young lady with a look of faith, such as young ladies often wear—ready to receive what he said as truth, or to laugh at it astransparent humbug, it did not matter which. And Eddy danced all night undisturbed and imperturbable. The bank clerk was nothing to him. He sat out two square dances with Miss Monteith, the heiress. But every other on the programme Eddy danced, even the Scotch reel, of which he said, “I shall only make you all laugh, of course, but never mind.” Everybody did laugh, no doubt, at his performance, but they liked him all the better for trying it. It was a part of the programme into which Archie entered with spirit, for once sure of his ground. This was at a tolerably advanced period, when the guests who lived at the greatest distance were already ordering their carriages, and Archie, in the absence of his father, after the reel was over, had to preside over all the arrangements for the conclusion of the most successful entertainment that had ever been known in Rosmore, and to give Lady Jean his arm to the door. “It has been a pleasant party,” said Lady Jean. “And you must come over and see us, and have a day or two with my brother on the moors. Clydesdale, I am telling young Mr. Rowland he must come over and see what he can do among the grouse, some fine day very soon.”
“You must do that,” said the Earl himself. “You must do that. I will write and fix a day.”
What greater honour could have been done to the son of the railway man? He felt the glory of it, though the thought of such a visit was enough to take all the courage out of Archie. He stood a little dazed by the honour that had been done him, watching the carriage as it drove away, and pleased to feel the coldfresh air upon his forehead, when the butler came up to him with a serious face. “Mr. Archibald,” he said, “the Master would like to see you in the library as soon as the principal people are gone.”
“Very well,” said Archie, a little surprised; but he made no haste to obey his father’s call. There were a few more dances after the great people were gone, and Miss Eliza had made three or four ineffectual starts before she could collect her party together, who were the last to go. “Indeed, Mr. Archie,” she said, “you will just be worn off your feet hunting up these wild lassies for me. For the moment you’ve found one, there’s a new waltz started, and the other three are on the floor. And when they’ve done, Helen’s off again just to have a last turn, and there’s nothing left for it that I can see but for you and me to perform apas seulto frighten them all away—Here they are at last, the whole four, which is all that can be squeezed into Alick Chalmers’s coach, whatever we do. And the lads must just walk, it will do them good after the three or four suppers they’ve had. And it has been a beautiful ball. I see your mammaw and papaw have stolen away, which I’m not surprised at, considering how late it is. You will say good-night to them for me, and many thanks for a delightful evening. And ye must all come up to your tea to-morrow and talk it over. Good-night—and good-night.”
Eddy was at the carriage door also, superintending with much laughter the packing in of the five ladies in their ball-dresses into Alick’s fly. All the dignified and ceremonious leave-takings were over—this was purelight-hearted fun and frolic. While Miss Eliza’s four young ladies were still waving their handkerchiefs from the windows of the coach as it disappeared into the darkness, and “the boys,” an equal number of them, four young men, were buttoning their coats and lighting their cigars, the butler appeared again. Once more he touched Archie on the shoulder, this time with more solemnity than ever. “Mr. Archibald,” he said, “the Master is waiting for you in the library. You’re to go to him without another moment’s delay.”
“What have you been doing, Rowland—are you going to get a wigging?” said Eddy. “Thank heaven,” he added with a yawn, “my governor’s several hundred miles away.”
Archie did not make any reply: but he was not at that moment in any fear of a wigging. Lady Jean’s gracious words, and the fun of Miss Eliza’s good-humoured party, had brought warmth and confidence to his heart. There could be nothing to be laid to his charge to-night. He knew that he had done his duties well, better than ever before. He had been careful of everybody’s comfort, emancipating himself by that thought from his native shyness and fear of putting himself forward. Perhaps his father meant to say something kind to him, to express some satisfaction. It was with this feeling of confidence and ease, a feeling so unusual to him, and even with a little pleasureable sense of expectation, that Archie turned the handle of the library door.
Archiehad not remarked at all the incident which had startled Johnson, and which Eddy Saumarez, alone at present among the relics of the supper, and making a final meal with considerable appetite, was going over and over in his eager and fertile mind, trying to make out its meaning, and in what way it could affect himself, and on the course he ought to pursue. The man in the overcoat, closely buttoned up, coming suddenly out of the cold outside to the lighted and dazzling ball-room, with his pale face and startled air, was as a picture to the mind of Eddy, full of innumerable suggestions and possible fate: but it would have conveyed no idea at all to the intelligence of Archie even had he perceived it. Somebody about business; if not, as was most likely, some invited guest who had not caught the boat, or had been otherwise detained on the way, was all the son of the house would have thought of. Somebody about business did not mean much to Archie. It could have, he would have been quite sure, nothing whatever to do with him.
The hall in which the dancing took place was separated from the great door by a vestibule and inner door, chiefly made of glass, and half-covered by heavy curtains. The stranger, when he jumped from the dog-cart which had brought him round the loch, a long detour, had pushed into the vestibule, finding it open and no servants visible. There had been a generalwithdrawal both of the servants of the house and the many strange footmen, who had attended the guests, to the servants’ hall, where a supper was going on, quite as merry, and not much less luxurious, than the other supper in the dining-room: and at this moment there was nobody about to direct the visitor. He had accordingly, his business being urgent, opened the glass door, to find himself in the ball-room, as has been already described. He stood there much surprised, looking round him for some one who could direct him to the master of the house. And, as luck would have it, the master of the house himself was the first to perceive this curious apparition in the midst of his guests. At that end of the hall none of the usual loiterers were standing about. They were all at the other end and along the upper sides of the ball-room, which were free from those draughts which, as the elder people confided to each other, can never be quite shut out from a room so close to the open air. Mr. Rowland made his way through the dancers, dodging here and there a quickly gyrating pair, with a smile upon his face, towards the man in the greatcoat, who stood helplessly at the door not knowing what to do. He held out his cordial hand to him as if he had been the most welcome of visitors. “I don’t remember your face,” he said, “excuse me; and you’re very late: but the fun, as you see, is still going on.”
The newcomer stared at him, with his lips apart.
“You are Mr. Rowland,” he said.
“Well, yes, naturally,” said the good-humoured host,with a laugh; “it appears you don’t know me any more than I know you.”
“I’m from the Bank of Scotland—the Glasgow branch,” said the stranger. “I have come, if you please, with a private communication from the manager, very important. If I could speak a word to you by yourself——”
“The Bank of Scotland! Then you have not come to the ball?” said Rowland.
The newcomer looked round with a glance of admiration and awe. He was a young man, and he thought it a scene of enchantment, though his Scotch pride was too great to permit any desire to intrude himself into that dazzling assembly. He drew himself up a little and replied, “I have nothing to do with the ball. I knew nothing about it. I have driven round the head of the loch, a very long road; and I’ve no prospect but to spend the whole night that way, getting back. Ten minutes, sir, if you can give it me, will be enough for what I have to say.”
“Come this way,” said Rowland, drawing back the curtain that covered the library door. He had preferred to keep his sanctuary uninvaded by the visitors, to whom the rest of the house had been thrown open. He stirred the fire in the grate, which was burning low, and turned up higher the subdued light of the lamp.
“Sit down there,” he said, “and get warm; and tell me what this business is that has brought you so far on a cold night. I suppose you missed the boat?”
“I just missed it by two minutes, so there was nothing to do but to drive; if I had known that therewas a ball, I think I should have stayed on the other side till the morning, whatever the manager said.”
“Oh, never mind that,” said Rowland, with a genial laugh. “Dancing’s not much in my line—a little business will be a diversion. What is it? The Bank of Scotland has not broke, I hope, nor the Bank of England either. Banks have no great reputation, I’m afraid, in these parts.”
“The Bank of Scotland, sir, is not like your Glasgow Banks,” said the visitor, with some severity, for he was an east country man. He paused a little, and then he took from the breast pocket of his overcoat a case, and from that a piece of paper. “Will you tell me if this is your signature?” he said.
It was a cheque for a thousand pounds—a cheque crumpled and refolded in diverse ways, as if it had already passed through several hands. Rowland took it with great surprise, and held it to the light.
“My signature?” he said.
It was mere bewilderment, not intuition, which kept him silent as he examined the writing; and then there sprang a sudden flutter and dart of anguish through his heart, which he neither understood nor could account for.
“It looks like my signature—why do you ask such a question?”
He said this, scarcely knowing why, to gain time: though he could not have told why he wanted to gain time.
“God be thanked!” said the stranger. “You lift a load from my mind. It was paid yesterday by one ofour young clerks; but our attention was not called to it till to-day. On comparing it with your usual signature, we felt a doubt; and the cheque itself was unlike you. It was not crossed—it was drawn to nobody’s order; and it’s a considerable sum, Mr. Rowland—nothing to you—but to most people a considerable sum. If you say it’s all right, you will lift a load from my mind. It was young Farquhar that paid it—a fine young fellow. And his career would be spoiled——”
These words came in a sort of strange mist to Rowland’s mind. He was standing all the time with the cheque in his hands, holding it to the light. Everything external was in a mist to him, both what he saw and what he heard. The very cheque, with that signature “James Rowland” sprawling on it as his own signature sprawled, seemed to float in the air. But within his mind, everything was acute and clear—a great anguish rending him as with a serpent’s fangs—a dart through all his veins, dull in his heart like a stone, violent in his head, as if all the blood had gone there to throb and knell in his ears, and beat like a hammer in his temples. All the time he was standing with his back to the ill-omened messenger, holding the cheque as if he were examining it, in his hands.
His voice, when he spoke, had a dull and thick sound, and he did not turn round, but remained as if fixed in that position, with the cheque stretched out in both his hands, and his head bent to get the light upon it.
“I needn’t trouble you any more,” he said; “thecheque’s—all right. It was drawn for a special purpose; it is nothing to me, as you say.”
Here he broke into a hoarse laugh. “Nothing to me! What’s a thousand pounds in comparison with——. You can relieve your friend, young Farquhar’s mind. Young Farquhar, is that his name? But he ought to be more careful. That’s a large sum to pay to bearer over the counter without any guarantee. But he did quite right—quite right—my name’s enough for many a thousand pounds.” He moved from where he was standing to ring the bell, but did not turn round. Then he went back to the lamp and pushed the shade lower down.
“I’ll keep the cheque,” he said, “to remind me not to do such a thing again. Saunders, will you take this gentleman into the dining-room, and see that he has some supper before he goes. I don’t know your name,” he added, turning upon the stranger and putting out his hand, “but I highly approve your energy in coming, and I’ll take care to say so to the directors.”
“My name is Fergusson—and I’m very glad of your approval, Mr. Rowland: and the night journey will be nothing, for I am going back with a light heart.”
“Yes, yes,” said Rowland, “on account of young Farquhar: but you should tell him to be careful. Take a good supper, and then you’re less likely to catch cold. You’ll excuse me entrusting you to my butler, for you see for yourself that to-night——”
“I am only grieved I troubled you,” said the bank clerk.
“No, no, nothing of the sort—and mind, Saunders, that Mr. Fergusson has a good glass of wine.”
He waited until they were gone, and then he dropped heavily into a chair. He had no doubt, none whatever—not for a moment. Who could have done it but one? He took out that fatal scrap of paper again, and laid it out before him on the table in the intense light. It was very like his signature. He would have himself been taken in, had that been possible. Some of the lines were laboured, while his were merely a dash; but it was very like—so like, he thought, that no new hand could have done it, no one uninstructed. He might himself have been taken in, had he not known, as the bank people did, that he never drew a cheque like that—a cheque with no protection—drawn to bearer, not crossed, nothing to ensure its safety. He smiled a little at the ridiculous thought that he could have been capable of doing that—then suddenly flung himself down upon the table, covering his face with his hands.
Oh, pain intolerable! oh anguish not to be shaken off! His boy—Mary’s son, who had her eyes—his heir, his successor, the only one to continue his name. Oh burning, gnawing, living pang, that went through and through him like a spear made not of steel, but of fire! He writhed upon it, as we all do in our time, feeling each sharp edge, as well as the fiery point that pins us helpless to the earth. What was Prometheus upon his rock, of whom the ancients raved—a trifler, a nothing, in comparison with the father, who had just been persuaded of the guilt of his only son.
And all the time the music was sounding outside the door, the sound of the light feet going and coming in rhythmic waves, the confused hum of voices and laughter. The boy who had put this spear into his father’s heart was there, enjoying it all. Rowland had been pleased to see that Archie was enjoying it. He had said to himself that the boy was no such cub after all; that perhaps that failure of his about his comrade might be explained; that he might have been dazzled by the possession of money, and too completely unused to it to understand the spending of it. He might have been afraid to give what was wanted, fearing that he would be blamed. There must be some reason. He had persuaded himself that this must be the case in the sensation of a certain pride in his children, which the sight of them among the others had produced.
And now, and now!—James Rowland had gone through the usual experiences of man—he had known sorrow, and he had known the pangs of repentance. He had not always been satisfied with himself, and he had been disappointed in others from time to time. But what were all these miseries to this?
As he lay there with his face hidden, a hand was suddenly laid upon his shoulder. “James—what is the matter, what is the matter?” his wife said.
He turned at first from her, with a thought that she was the last person who should hear—she who was not the mother, who had nothing to do with the boy; and then he turned towards her: for was not she bound to be his own comforter, to help him in everything? He raised himself up slowly, and lifted his face from his hands, which had left the mark of their pressure upon his ashy cheeks.
“The matter!” he said; “the worst is the matter!—the worst that can happen. I am afraid of nothing more in this world!”
“James!” she cried,—then with an attempt to smile—“You are trying to frighten me. What is it? A man has been here.—Dear James, it is not the loss of—your money?—for what is that! We will bear it together, and be just as happy.”
Evelyn’s mind, in spite of herself, was moved by accounts in story-books of catastrophes which were announced in this way. I am not sure that he even heard her suggestion, much less was capable of comprehending the devotion to himself that was in it. He moved his hand to the pink paper which lay stretched upon the table in the full light of the lamp. “Look at that,” he said.
She took it up perplexed. A cheque for a thousand pounds, which to Evelyn, unaccustomed to the possession of money, looked, as the bank clerk had said, like a large sum. She looked at it again, turning it over, as if any enlightenment was to be had in that way. Then it occurred to her in the midst of her alarm, that after all her husband’s great fortune could not be represented by a cheque for a thousand pounds. “What does it mean?” she said, still holding it vaguely in her hands.
“Can’t you see?” He was almost harsh in his impatience, snatching it out of her hand and holding itup to the light “They were fools to pay it at the bank; and, as for that young Farquhar, I’ll—— Can’t you see? Look there, and there——”
“I don’t know what you mean me to see, James. It is a little laboured, not quite like your hand. You must have been tired when you—— Ah!” said Evelyn breaking suddenly off, and beginning to examine, fascinated, the terrible document that looked so simple. She looked up in his face, quite pale, her lips dropping apart. “You don’t mean me to think——”
“Think? See! look at it; it is forged—that is what it is.”
She looked at him, every tint of colour gone from her face, her eyes wide open, her lips trembling. It might have been supposed that she had done it. “Oh James, James!” she cried in a low voice of terror and dismay. Then there flashed before her eyes a whole panorama of moving scenes: the pale and lowering face of Archie; the lively one of Eddy Saumarez; the disreputable Johnson—all came and went like distracting shadows. In a second she went over a whole picture-gallery of visionary portraits. Her husband looked at her intently, as if to read the name of the culprit in her eyes; but she only repeated, “Oh James, James!” as if this appeal was all that she could say.
“You see it,” he said with a sort of exasperated calm. “Though that young Farquhar—confound him, oh, confound him!—--” Here he stopped again, as if the thought were too much. “He’s got a father and mother now, no doubt, who can trust him with everything they’ve got; who look forward to his becoming adirector of the bank; whom he goes home to every night self-conceited—Oh, confound them every one!”
“James,” she said, laying her hand doubtfully again upon his shoulder, “is it Mr. Farquhar who has got your money? Is it—? Whom do you—suspect?”
He broke out into a loud, harsh laugh. “I haven’t much choice, have I?” he said, “there are not many that could have done it. There is only one, so far as I can judge. He’s been set on horseback and he’s ridden to the devil; and to make it up—though God knows how it’s gone, for he has nothing to show for it—he puts his father under a forced contribution—that’s about what it is.”
“You mean Archie!—no, no, no,” cried Evelyn; “it is not Archie—it is not Archie! James, you are angry; you are letting prejudice lead you astray.”
“Prejudice—against my only son! If it had been prejudice in his favour, prejudice to look over his faults, to think him better than he is——”
“No, no, no,” said Evelyn, “that is not your way. You want perfection, and you can’t bear not to have it, James. There is nothing—nothing vicious about Archie. He must have been vicious to want that money? No, no, no. I am as sure that you are mistaken as that I’m alive.”
He shook his head, but he was a little comforted for the moment. “You can send for him if you are so confident,” he said; and then there came to them in a sudden gust the sound of the music, the movement of the dancers, which made the floor thrill even where they were apart in that room full of trouble: and thehorror of the combination brought from Evelyn a cry of pain, as she put up her hands to her face.
“Oh, don’t send for him now! in the middle of all that, where he is doing his best, poor boy—where he has forgotten everything that’s been troubling him;—don’t, James, don’t, for your wife’s sake send for the poor boy now——”
“For my wife’s sake!—It is you who are my wife, Evelyn.”
“If I am, it is not to sweep her influence away, but to help it. Have mercy on her boy! Oh, James, you have been hard upon him: you are a good man, but you have been hard upon him. Why did you expose him the other day about that money? There might be a hundred reasons that you never stopped to hear. James, I am in Mary’s place; and what she would have done I am doubly bound to do. Don’t ruin her boy. Don’t, for God’s sake, James, even if your anger is just, destroy her boy!”
He rose up and walked about the room in his way, laughing at intervals that hard, dry, little laugh, which was his signal of distress.
“It shows what you think of me,” he said, “that you bid me not to ruin him. What’s the meaning of that accursed bit of paper lying there? It means that I have adopted the lie and the guilt to save him. I have said it was all right—not for his sake—but to save an open shame.”
“Ah, James! for his sake too.”
He put his arm round her, and bent his head down upon her shoulder for a moment. She felt his heartbeating like a loud, hard piece of machinery, thumping and labouring in his breast; and she thought she divined the pain that was in him, forcing all his organs into such fierce movement. And so she did, in fact; but who can altogether understand the bitterness in another’s heart?
He sat down again after a while, and said—
“Send for him—he must answer for himself.”
“I will have to go and see to the people who are leaving, James; you ought to come too.”
“I can’t, it is impossible.”
“Then Archie must stay to take your place. He has done very well, as well as any boy could have done. He must back me up, and help me to see all the people away.”
Rowland made a gesture of disgust at the people, the music, the gaiety, the whole brilliant, delightful entertainment which he had devised so splendidly, and only an hour or two ago enjoyed so intensely. He could not bear the thought, much less the sight of it now. He remained alone while Evelyn went back to go through the final proceedings—to shake hands with the guests, and receive their acknowledgments. He sat and listened to the music and the sound of the feet keeping time, and the driving up of the carriages outside, and the commotions of the departure. Twice in his impatience, as the reader has seen, he rang for the butler, who was dispensing hospitality on a scale little inferior to that of his master, and who was much annoyed to be disturbed. Saunders took one message after another to Archie, as has been seen, without verymuch effect. The butler’s feelings were all with the young man. He too was of opinion, from his master’s aspect and a something in the air which the inferior members of a household are quick to perceive, that there was “a wigging” in store for Archie; and everybody in the servants’ hall instinctively took Archie’s side, and agreed with Saunders that to keep out of the governor’s way as long as he could, was very natural on the part of the young man. Several of them wondered whether the man in the topcoat, who had supper punctually served to him in the dining-room, was the man who had made the row, an opinion to which Mr. Saunders himself privately inclined. But the opinion of these functionaries did not reach to Mr. Rowland in his library. He sat and listened to all the voices and counted the carriages as they rolled away. There could be but few remaining when he sent the last message to Archie. But when Saunders went out of the library with his errand, he met Mrs. Rowland coming in. She had stolen away from Miss Eliza and her vigorous group of dancers. Evelyn’s heart was sick too, in dismal expectation of the interview to come. She knew beforehand how it would be. Rowland would dash the accusation in his son’s face, taking everything for granted, while Archie would either retire in sullen offence, or deny violently with as little reason or moderation as his father. They would meet like the clash of angry waves, neither making the smallest impression on the other; and then they would drift afloat with what she felt to be an irremediable wrong between them, something far more grave than had everappeared on the stormy horizon before. And what could Evelyn do, she who would so fain have taken all the trouble upon her shoulders, and saved them both? Oh no, there was no such luck in store for her! She could not save her husband from committing himself to a great accusation, or Archie from violent rebellion and denial. If he took it too calmly, Evelyn felt that even her own faith in him would fail, and if he were violent, it would make the breach with his father all the greater. She went and stood by her husband’s side, putting her hand upon his arm as he sat at the table with the shade of the lamp raised, and the light full upon his angry face, waiting till his son should come.
And Archie came in so unconscious, almost self-satisfied, expecting a little approbation, and to find that his exertions had been appreciated! There was a half smile on his mouth which changed the expression of a face so often lowering and heavy with anticipation of evil. He feared no evil this night. His eyes were limpid and blue, without a cloud, though with a faint mist of boyish drowsiness in them just coming over the brightness of excitement. He was excited still, but a little sleepy, the call upon him being almost over: and it was nearly four o’clock in the morning, a sufficient reason for fatigue. “Did you want me, father?” he said, in his fresh, boyish voice. Evelyn stood by her husband’s side, holding his arm with a firm significant pressure. She gave one look at the lad who stood there, with his half smile, fearing no one, and then, with a sick heart, turned her face away.
“Yes, sir, I wanted you. I have been waiting for you here for hours,” Rowland said.
Archie was startled by this unexpected tone. The smile went away from his mouth. His eyes woke up from that mist of coming slumber and looked a little anxious, a little wondering, ready to be defiant, in his father’s face.
Rowland took up the piece of paper that lay on the table in the fierce white light of the lamp. Archie had clearly perceived it was a cheque, but what it could be for he did not imagine. His father took it up, and once more flung it at him as he had done so often. “Look at that,” in a voice of thunder, “and tell me what it means!” he cried.
“Whatis the meaning of it?” said Archie. He was so tired and pleased and sleepy, that he did not even now feel sure that anything was wrong. A faint idea struck his mind that his father, though he did not look amiable, might yet be making him another present, as he had done before. He caught it this time as it whirled towards him, and looked at it puzzled, but without any alarm. “It is a cheque,” he said, looking up from it, with again that vague, slumbrous smile creeping about the corners of his mouth.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“What should I say?” asked the young man. “Is it—another present you are making me?—but it’s agreat sum,” he added, waking up more and more; “it can’t be that.”
He was so simple as he stood, almost so childish, taking the awful missive, of the nature of which he had no understanding, which meant ruin, shame, everything that was dreadful, into his hand so innocently, that there came from the breast of the spectator standing by—the only being whom the boy feared—a suppressed but irrestrainable groan of emotion. Yet Evelyn felt that to her husband his son’s ignorance meant nothing but acting, a consummate deceit, got up beforehand, the result of guilty expectation, not of innocent ignorance.
“Mind, how you drive me wild!” Rowland said hoarsely. “I give you yet a place of repentance. For your mother’s sake, and for my wife’s sake, who is not your mother—own to it like a man even now—and I’ll forgive you yet.”
Archie’s unconsciousness was almost foolish, as he stood there with the thing in his hand. Evelyn, trembling from head to foot in her own impatience and anxiety, could scarcely bear it. “Oh speak, speak!” she cried under her breath.
“Own to what?” the boy said. “A place of repentance—for what?” His consternation and amazement were clear enough; only to his father they seemed the deepest deceit.
“Down upon your knees!” he cried, springing to his feet. “Do you know what that means?—not mere cheating of your father, which perhaps was all you thought of; it means the ruin of your whole life; itmeans penal servitude—a little while ago it meant death. Go down on your knees and ask my pardon. I will never trust you again, nor will I ever have a happy moment, knowing what you are; but I will forgive you, as far as the world is concerned, and hide your shame.”
Evelyn, whom her husband had thrown off in his hurried movement, stood wringing her hands, her tears dropping upon them, her countenance convulsed with terror and pity. “Oh speak to him, Archie, tell him, tell him!” she said.
Then the poor young fellow came fully to life, though even now he did not quite understand what it was he was accused of. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said; “for there is nothing in the world that can mean penal servitude to me. You are mad, I think, father. I have done nothing to ruin my life—Me! what could I have done—what has been in my power? If I were as bad in nature as you think me—what, what has been in my power?”
“Archie,” said Rowland, recovering his composure by a great effort; “I want no useless talk. Let’s understand all that as said. Self-defence is out of the question. If you will tell me as humbly as you can what led you to such a crime as forgery, perhaps—God forgive you, I’ll try to think the best—thinking less of it because it was your father——”
“Forgery!” cried Archie with a great shout, as if to earth and heaven.
“You need not proclaim your shame and mine—Forgery. What is the money to me? I would ratherthan ten thousand pounds, than all I have in the world, that you had come to me and told me—oh, any story you pleased—if it were gambling, if it were some wretched woman—whatever it was. Man,” cried the father in his anguish, “you are my only son. It was my fault, perhaps, that I was disappointed in you. But if you had come to me and said, ‘I have been a fool, I have need of a thousand pounds to clear me of my folly,’—do you think I would have refused? I might have been angry then—not knowing what was in store—but if I know myself, I would not have been hard upon you. I would have thought you were but young—I would have felt you were like your mother. God forgive you, boy, you’re like your mother there where you stand, a felon, a criminal, subject to the law. And my only son, my only son!”
He turned away with a loud sob, that came from his heart like the report of a pistol, and throwing himself in his chair, covered his face with his hands.
“A felon and a criminal,” said Archie, in his turn half mad with passion, and having made a dozen efforts to break in. “Oh, I knew you hated me; but I never thought it would go so far.—— Me a felon—me subject to the law! It’s just a damned cursed lie!” cried the boy, tears of rage in his eyes. “Ay! I never swore in my life, but I’ll swear now. It’s a damned lie! It’s a cursed lie! Oh, publish it to the whole world, if you like; what do I care? it’s all over between you and me. You may call me your son if you like, but no more will I call you father. Oh, get a trumpet and tell it all over the world, and see if one will believeyou that ever knew Archie Rowland. Shame!” cried the lad; “father! do you not think shame to say it? do you not think shame?”
The innocent face was gone—the look, that almost seemed like imbecility in its unawakened ignorance. His features were distorted and quivering with fury, his eyes full of great hot tears of pain, which splashed upon that paper in his hand in round circles, making the boy’s passion wilder still with the shame that he had been made to cry like a girl! But these fierce drops were not the easy tears of a child. He flung the cheque upon the table with a laugh that was more painful still.
“Put it up in a frame,” he said, “in your hall, or in the bank, or where folk can see it best; and write on it, ‘Forged by Archie Rowland.’ And send your policeman out to take me, and bring me to trial, and get me condemned. You’re a rich, rich man, and maybe you will be able to do it: for there’s nobody will believe that you invented all that to ruin your son, your only son. Oh, what grand words to say! Or maybe it washerinvention!” cried Archie, as a movement caught his ear, which drew his wild eyes to Evelyn. He stood staring at her for a moment in silence. “It would not be so unnatural if it were her invention,” he said.
There was a moment of awful silence—for great though the passion was in Rowland’s accusation, the fury of the unjustly accused was greater. It was a storm against which no lesser sentiment could stand. The slight untrained figure of the lad rose to strangemight and force, no softness in it or pliancy. He stood fiercely at bay, like a wild animal, panting for breath. And the father made no reply. He sat staring, silenced by the response, which was a kind of fiercer echo of his own passion.
“You have nothing to say, it appears,” said Archie, with quick breathing, “and I will say nothing. I will go to the place I was brought up in. I will not run away. And then ye can send your warrant, or whatever you call it, to arrest me. I will bide the worst you can do. Not a step will I move till you send to take me. You will find me there night or day. Good-bye to ye,” he said abruptly. A momentary wavering, so slight that it was scarcely perceptible, moved him, one of those instantaneous impulses which sometimes change the whole character of life—a temptation he thought it—to cry “father! father,” to appeal against this unimaginable wrong. But he crushed it on the threshold of his mind, and turned to the door.
“Archie!” cried Evelyn in despair, rushing after him. “Archie! I believe every word you say.”
He took no notice of her, nor of the hand with which she grasped his sleeve, but pausing, looked round for a moment at his father, then he flung open the door: disdaining even to close it after him, and walked quickly away.
“James!—for God’s sake go after him, stop him. James! James! for the love of God——”
“Ye mean the devil!” said Rowland, quickly, “that put all that into his head.”
He rose up and took the cheque from the table,but, perceiving the stain of the tear, threw it down again, as if it had stung him. There are some things that flesh and blood cannot bear, and the great blot of moisture upon that guilty paper was one of them. It all but unmanned this angry father. “Put that thing away, lock it up, put it out of my sight,” he said, with a quivering in his throat.
He had no doubt of his son’s guilt. He had known other cases in which a fury of injured innocence had been the best way of meeting an accusation. And yet there was something in Archie’s passion which, while it roused his own, penetrated him with another strange contradictory feeling—was it almost approval, of the bearing of the boy? But not on so slight an argument as that was he shaken in his foregone conclusion. He walked up and down the room, curiously made into a sort of public, comfortless, unprotected place by the flinging open of the door, and presently began to speak, flinging broken sentences from him. The hall, with its decorations, the waxed and shining floor, with a broken flower, a fallen card, a scrap of ribbon, dropped upon it here and there, that air of the banquet hall deserted which is always so suggestive, formed the background to his moving figure. And even Evelyn, in her absorption in the wild tragic excitement of this domestic drama, did not think of the stealthy servants moving about, and the eager ears so intent upon picking up some indication of what the trouble might be.
“He knows very well,” said Rowland. “Oh, he knows very well that I will never have him arrested ordo anything to disgrace my own name. It’s cheap, cheap all that bravado about waiting till I send to take him; he might wait till doomsday, as he well knows. Hold your tongue, Evelyn. It’s well your part to defend him, when he had the grace to say it was your invention.”
“Poor boy, poor boy! he did not know what he was saying.”
“Are you so sure of that? He knew what he was saying, every word. He’s a bold hand—it’s a superior way when the artist can do it—I’ve seen the thing before. Injured pride, and virtue—oh, virtue rampant! That never had a thought, nor could understand what wickedness meant. I have seen it before. And cheap, cheap all yon about waiting till I sent the policeman, when he knows I would not expose my name, not for more than he’s worth a thousand times over. Worth! he’s worth nothing; and my name, my name that is known over two continents—and more! That’s what you would call irony, isn’t it?” said Rowland, with his harsh laugh. “Irony! I’m not a man of much reading, but I’ve seen it in books. Irony!—a name known over half the world; though, perhaps, I shouldn’t be the man to say it. And forged! forged by the man’s own son that made it.”
“James, for God’s sake! It was not Archie. I believe every word he said.”
“That the whole thing was your invention?” said Rowland. “That’s what he said; the rest was rubbish, I remember that. And you believe every word? You are a fool, like most women—and many men too.That old sage, as ye call him, was right, though people cry out. Mostly fools! It was said before him though. Men walk in a vain show, and disquiet themselves in vain. They lay up riches, and know not who is to gather them. Was there ever such a fool as me to keep thinking of my boy, my little callant, as I thought, and never once to remember that he was growing up into a low-lived lout all the time.”
“Archie is not so,” said Evelyn. “He is not so; his faults are on the outside. He did not do this. I never believed he did it. James, you will never have been a fool till now if you let the boy go.”
“Bah! he has no intention of going. You take the like of that in earnest. He will go to his bed and sleep it off, and then—to-morrow’s a new day. I am dead-tired myself,” said Rowland, stretching his arms; “as tired as a dog. I’ll sleep till one, though I’ve had enough to murder sleep. No, no, he’ll not go; yon’s all cheap, cheap, because he knows I will do nothing against him. You are a fine creature, Evelyn, but you are no wiser than the rest. Good-night, my dear, I am going to bed.”
“Without a word of comfort to him, James?”
“Comfort! he wants no comfort. And if he did,” said Rowland, with a smile of misery, “it would be hard to come to me for it, who have none to give. If you know anybody that has that commodity to part with, send them to that boy’s father,—send them to the man that has had the heart taken out of him. I am going to my bed.”
He went slowly upstairs, and then, for the firsttime, Evelyn saw the butler, Saunders, within hearing, though busily employed, with one or two subordinates, in putting out the lights and closing the shutters. She watched her husband, with his slow, unelastic step, going one by one up the long flight of steps. He had never learned to subdue his energetic step, and take them less than two together before. She was almost glad to see those signs of exhaustion. The fervour of his passion had dropped. He would, perhaps, turn aside, she thought, to Archie’s room, and would understand his son, and the two might meet heart to heart at last.
Evelyn waited a long time, shivering and chill in those dismal hours of the morning. She saw the servants conclude their work and go away unwillingly to their rest. She sat down in the library, with the room open to the dark, desolated hall, in which only a faint light was left burning, and listened to all the creakings and rustlings that seemed to run through the still and sleeping house. No one came. Had his father, after all, gone to his door and made peace? Had the tired boy fallen asleep in spite of himself? Had it all been vapouring, as James said? She waited in her ball dress, with a rough woollen shawl, the first she could find, wrapped about her; and the lamp, burning with a steady, monotonous light, throwing a lengthened gleam upon the dark curtains of the glass door.
It had all been almost as she thought. Rowland had paused, his feet had almost carried him, his heart, yearning, had almost forced him to Archie’s room to make a last appeal, perhaps to listen, perhaps to understand. But he would not allow himself to be moved by impulse, and turned heavily in the other direction to his own room, where he fell, as he had prophesied, heavily asleep. And Archie, tired beyond description, his very passion unable to resist the creeping languor in his brain, had almost gone to sleep too, leaning his head against the bed, in the attitude in which he had thrown himself down in order that he might try to understand this new mystery. But in this he was not successful, for after a minute or two, the sound of the heavy step, which was his father’s, startled him, and he became more wide awake than ever, listening with a beating heart, wondering would he come. He heard the pause, and wondered more and more. When Rowland took the other direction, Archie sprang to his feet and began hurriedly to change his dress. It took him a considerable time to do this for his fingers were trembling, and his whole being shaken. He had to pull everything out of his drawers to find the old shabby coat which he had worn when he first came to Rosmore. The room looked as if it had been scattered in scorn or frenzy with everything he possessed. But that was not Archie’s meaning. He got his old suit at last, and put it on, tossing his evening clothes into a corner. He took off the watch his father had given him, and denuded himself of everything that had come to him since Rowland returned home. Poor Archie, his humiliation was complete. The old clothes seemed to bring back the old mien, and it was the lad of the Sauchiehall road, and not the young gentleman of Rosmore, who, seeing that thelights were out and all the house silent, stepped out of the chaos of his desolated bedchamber and took his way downstairs.