THE END OF THE BEGINNING.
Harry drifted through the fog, the sport of misery and rage. He was a
beaten man, and slow as another to own it to himself. Now he swore that
he and he alone would unravel the mystery of his father's fate; now the
sense of his own impotence appalled him; but at last the bitter fact of
his defeat came home to him in all its nakedness.
Yes, he had been beaten by a readier and a keener wit, and the most
plausible tongue a villain ever wagged. He had been at the mercy of
that specious charlatan, that unscrupulous blackleg, that scoundrel
self-confessed. He knew it now. Lowndes had put him in the wrong. He
was no match for a man like that. Nevertheless, he was in the right,
and one day it would be proved--and one day Lowndes would get his
deserts.
And yet--and yet--there were words and looks and tones that had sounded
genuine enough. The man was not wholly false or bad. His good side, his
staunch side, had shown itself again and again, in good and staunch
actions performed without ostentation, and in motive transparently
pure. That side existed in him still, and Harry felt that he had spoken
as though it did not. He was sorry for many things he had said. He
wished he had said other things instead or as well. He wished he had
not flung those shares into the fire, though they proved that Lowndes
had expected him, and they must have been intended for a sop. Still he
was sorry he had thrown them on the fire; and he wished he could unsay
that boast about his being a gentleman because he had not listened;
other considerations apart, it struck him now almost as a contradiction
in terms.
So to existing tortures he must needs add that of savage
self-criticism. It was the morbid wont of Harry Ringrose, the penalty
of a temperament. In a little, however, sheer perplexity gripped his
mind again, and wrenched it from himself. The old unanswered questions
were upon him once more.
What had there been between Lowndes and Scrafton and his own poor
father? Were these men in league with the fugitive? Had they planned
the wrong which had ruined and disgraced his family? Lowndes had long
ago confessed that the raising of the £20,000 was his idea, that the
actual acquisition of the £10,000 was his deed. The chances were that
his scheme had gone further and cut deeper, and that at least a part of
the plunder was for himself. Then what had he done with his share--and
what had Scrafton done with his?
How else could Scrafton come in?
Harry thought of that ghoulish face, of those cruel hands, and the
blood ran cold in every vessel. If ever he had seen a man capable of
any crime, a man without bowels, as Lowndes was without principle, that
man was Jeremiah Scrafton. What if between them they had murdered the
ironmaster for those ten thousand pounds? What if they had driven him
out of his mind and clapped him into an asylum, or into some vile den
of Scrafton's? Ever quicker to imagine than to reason, the young fellow
tasted all the horror of his theories before he realised their
absurdity: where, again, were the proceeds of the crime? Lowndes was
only now emerging from the very depths of poverty, while as for
Scrafton, he was either an extremely poor man, or a stage miser come to
life. Besides, there was the letter from Dieppe.
So he went from one blind alley of the brain to another; and of all the
faces that passed him in the fog, there was none he knew--he had no
friend to turn to in his sore dilemma. And he was trudging westward,
going back to face his mother and to live with her in the little flat,
with this miserable mystery unsolved, with these haunting suspicions
unconfirmed, and therefore to be locked indefinitely in his own bosom.
Vultures for his vitals, and yet he must face them, and alone.
No one to tell--no friend to consult. The words were a dirge in his
heart. Suddenly they changed their tune and became a question. He
stopped dead in the street. It was the Strand. He had just passed the
gulf of fog which hid Waterloo Bridge.
He stood some minutes, ostensibly studying the engravings in the shop
at the Adam Street corner, and looking again and again at his watch as
though anxious to know the time, but too absent to bear it in mind. It
was five minutes to one when he looked first; by five minutes past that
shop-window and the Strand itself knew Harry Ringrose no more. He was
deep in the yellow gulf, which was dimly bridged by the lights of the
bridge.
The train took an hour to feel its way to Richmond: it was worse than
the hour spent in the waiting-room of the Crofter Fisheries, Limited.
At Richmond the fog was white. To make an end of it, Harry took a cab,
and kept the man waiting while he asked if Miss Lowndes was in. A smart
parlour-maid told him that she was; otherwise there was no change.
Fanny rose hastily from a low chair in front of a blazing fire; her
face was flushed but smiling, and she held up a paper in one hand while
she gave Harry the other.
He took it mechanically. He had not meant to take it at all. It was the
wretched _Tiddler_, of all papers, which disarmed him.
"I was just thinking about you," said his friend. "I was trying to find
out which is yours this week."
"Yes?"
There was no life in his voice. His heart had leapt with pleasure, only
to begin aching in a new place.
"We take it in every week on your account," said Fanny Lowndes.
"You mean that you do," said Harry, pointedly.
She coloured afresh.
"No; it is my father who brings it home from the City."
"Then he never will again!"
For some seconds their eyes were locked.
"Mr. Ringrose, what do you mean? Your tone is so strange. Has anything
happened?"
"Not to your father. He and I have quarrelled--that's all."
"When?"
"This morning."
"And you have come to tell me about that!"
"I didn't mean to do so. I came to speak to one of the only two friends
I have in the world besides my mother. I came to speak to you
while--while you would speak to me. And now I've gone and spoilt it
all!"
"Of course you haven't," said the girl, with her kind smile. "Sit down
and tell me all about it. I think all the more of you for saying the
worst thing first." Yet she looked alarmed, and her tone was only less
agitated than his.
"It is not the worst," groaned Harry Ringrose, "and I can't sit down to
say the sort of thing I've come to say. Oh, but I was a coward to come
to you at all! It was because I had no one else to turn to; and you
have always been my friend; but it was a cowardly thing to do! I will
go away again without saying a word."
She had sunk down upon her low chair, and was leaning forward so that
he could not see her face, but only the red gold of her hair in the
ruddy firelight.
"No; now you must go on," she said, without raising her face.
"It is about your father--and mine."
"I expected that."
"I asked him some plain questions which he could not--or would
not--answer. In desperation--in distraction--I have come to put those
questions to you!"
"It is useless," was the low reply. "I cannot answer them--either."
"Wait until you hear what they are. They are very simple. What was
there between Scrafton and your father and mine? What had your father
and Scrafton to do with my father's flight? That's all I ask--that's
all I want to know."
"I cannot tell you what you want to know."
"Cannot," he said gently, "or dare not?"
"Cannot!" she cried, and was on her feet with the word, her burning
face flung back and her grey eyes flashing indignation.
Harry bowed.
"That is enough for me," he said, "and I apologise for those last
words--but you would understand them if you had heard all that passed
this morning."
"I do not want to know what passed. My father's affairs are not
necessarily mine. I cannot tell you what you want to know because--I do
not know myself."
"You have made that clear to me," said Harry, staring out of the window
and through the fog. He could see the gate with the ridiculous name
still painted upon it. It stood wide open as he had left it in his
haste. He thought of the first time he had seen it and entered by it;
he thought of the second time, which had also been the last; and all at
once he thought of a question asked upon the other side of the gate,
and never answered, nor repeated, nor yet remembered, from that day to
this.
He turned to his companion.
"You once told me that you knew my father?"
"Yes, I knew him."
"You have seen him here in this house?"
"Yes."
"I am going to ask you what I asked you once before. You did not answer
then. I entreat you to do so now. When was the last time you saw my
father in this house?"
The girl drew back in dismay; not a syllable came from her parted lips.
"Was it since I asked you the question last?" cried Harry, his
imagination at its wildest work in a moment.
"No."
"Was it after he was supposed to have disappeared?"
"No."
"Was it after he left my mother up north?"
Miss Lowndes turned away, but there was a mirror over the mantelpiece,
and in it he could see her scarlet anguish. Harry set his teeth. He
must know the truth--the truth came first.
"So he was here on his way through town. I understood it was my mother
who saw him last. I have to thank you--I do so from my heart--for
setting me so far upon the right track. Oh, I know what it must be to
you to have such things forced from you! I hate to press you like this.
No, Miss Lowndes, duty or no duty, you have only to say the word, and I
will leave you alone." He could not bear the sight of her quivering
shoulders, of the pretty pink ear that was all her hands now let him
see of her face. Unconsciously, however, he had made his strongest
appeal in his latest words; his magnanimity fired that of the girl, his
consideration touched her to the quick, and she turned to him with
noble impulse in her frank, wet eyes.
"I will tell you of the last time I saw your father," she cried, "on
one condition. You are to question me no more when I have finished."
Harry took her hand.
"I promise," he said, and released it instantly. It was no time to
think of her. He must think only of his purpose--his duty--his sacred
obligation as a son.
"It was on Easter Eve," said his friend steadily. "I was up in my
room--it was just dinner-time--and I saw him come in at the gate." She
could not conceal a shudder. "He looked terrible--terrible--so sad and
so old! My father must have seen him too. I heard their voices, but I
did not hear what they said; my father lowered his voice, and I thought
I heard him telling Mr. Ringrose to do the same. It was all I did hear.
My father came upstairs and said a business friend had come
unexpectedly, and would I mind not coming down? So my dinner was sent
up to me, and afterwards in the dark I saw them go together to the
gate; and at the very gate they met that dreadful man--that man whose
face alone is enough to haunt one. Oh, you know him better than any of
us! You are a master in the same school."
"Not now," said Harry. "I left yesterday on that man's account. Didn't
he come here yesterday to tell your father?"
"Not here. He may have been to the new offices. I saw last night there
had been some unpleasantness. Unpleasantness! If you knew what we have
suffered from that monster! One reason why we got in such difficulties
was because he was always coming----" She checked herself suddenly,
with a gesture of disgust and of some underlying emotion.
"And is that all?" asked Harry gently. "Am I to know nothing beyond
that meeting at the gate?"
"No, I will tell you the very last I saw of your father--and I will
tell you what I think. The very last I saw of him was when they all
three went out together after talking for a few minutes in the
dining-room below mine. I did not hear a word. What I think is--may God
forgive me, whether I am right or wrong--that the flight was arranged
in those few minutes."
"You think your father knew all about it?"
"I cannot help thinking that."
"When did he come back?"
The girl turned white.
"Your promise!" she gasped. "You promised to ask no more questions!"
"I see," said Harry, grimly. "Your father crossed the Channel with
mine. This is news indeed!"
"It is not!" cried Miss Lowndes. "I don't admit it. I don't know it. I
don't believe it. He told me he had been up in Scotland; he was always
going up to Scotland then. Oh, why do you try to wring more from me
than I know? I have told you all I know for a fact. Why do you break
your promise?"
"I didn't mean to," he answered brokenly. "And yet--it was my duty--to
my poor father."
"Your father is gone," she cried. "Spare mine--and me."
"Do you mean that he is--dead?"
She looked at him an instant with startled eyes, as though his had read
the secret suspicion of her heart; then with a wild sob, "I do not
know, I do not know," she cried piteously. With that she burst into
tears. He tried to soothe her. "Leave me--leave me," was all her
answer, and in his helplessness he turned to do so--to leave her bowed
down and weeping passionately--weeping as he had never seen woman weep
before--in the chair from which she had risen to welcome him--with that
foolish paper still lying crumpled at her feet.
It was so he saw her when he turned again at the door, for a last look
at his friend. The white fog pressed against the panes; a little mist
there was in the room, but the fire burnt very brightly, and against
the glow were those small ears pink with shame, those strong hands
racked with anguish, that fine head bowed low, that lissom figure bent
double in the beautiful abandon of a woman's grief. Young blood took
fire. He forgot everything but her. He could not and he would not leave
her so; in an instant his arms were about her, he was kissing her hair.
"I love you--I love you--I love you!" he whispered. "Let us think of
nothing else. If we are never to see each other again, thank God I have
told you that!"
She pushed him back in horror.
"But it is dreadful, if it is true," she said; and yet she held her
breath until he vowed it was.
"I have loved you for months," he said, "though I didn't know it at
first. I never meant to love you. I couldn't help myself--it makes me
love you all the more." And his arms were round her once more, in the
first earnest passion of his life, in the first sweet flood of that
passion.
"If you love me," she whispered, "will you ask no more questions of
me--or of anybody? They will not bring your father back. They may only
implicate--my ather--just as he is coming through his hard, hard
struggles. Can you not leave it in the hands of Providence--for my
sake? It is all I ask; and I think--if you do--it may all come
right--some day."
"With you?" he cried. "With you and me?"
"Who knows?" she answered. "You may not care for me so long; but when
there are no more mysteries--well, yes--perhaps."
"Shall I ever see you meanwhile?"
"Not until there are no more mysteries--or quarrels."
"Yet you will not let me try to clear them up."
"I want you to leave them in the hands of Providence--for my sake."
"It is hard!"
"But if you love me you will promise."
* * * * *
The cab was still waiting in the mist. Harry sprang into it, wild with
unhidden grief, as one fresh from a death-bed. His perplexity was
returning--his conscience was beginning to gnaw--yet one difficulty was
solved.
He had promised.
* * * * *
A hansom stood at the curb below the flats; the porter was taking down
the luggage; a lady and a gentleman were on the stairs.
"I hope, for every reason, that we shall find him in," the gentleman
was saying. "If not I must wait a little, for I feel that a few words
from me may be of value to him at this juncture, quite apart from the
little proposal I have to make."
"I would not count on his accepting it," the lady ventured to observe.
"My dear Mary----"
Uncle Spencer got no further. Harry's arms were round his mother's
neck. And in a few moments they were all three in the flat, where the
porter's wife had the fires lighted and everything comfortable in
response to a telegram from Mrs. Ringrose.
"But we must have the gas lit," cried the lady. "I want to look at you,
my dear, and I cannot in this fog."
"It'll keep, mother, it'll keep," said Harry, who had his own reasons
for not courting a close inspection.
"I quite agree with Henry," said Mr. Walthew. "To light the gas before
it is actually dark is an extravagance which _I_ cannot afford. I do
not permit it in my house, Mary." Harry promptly struck a match.
"Come, my boy, and let me have a look at you," said Mrs. Ringrose when
the blinds were drawn. She drew his face close to hers. "Let him say
what he likes," she whispered: "I have been with them all this time.
Never mind, my darling," she cried aloud; "it must have been a horrid
place, and I am thankful to have you back."
Mr. Walthew prepared to say what he liked, his pulpit the hearthrug,
and his theme the fiasco of the day before.
"I must say, Mary, that your sentiments are astounding. Naturally he
looks troubled. He has lost the post it took him four months to secure.
I confess, Henry, that I, for my part, was less surprised this morning
than when I heard you had obtained your late situation. With the very
serious limitations which I learnt from your own lips, however, you
could scarcely hope to hold your own in a scholastic avocation. I told
you so, in effect, at the time, if you remember. Was it the Greek or
the mathematics that caused your downfall?"
Harry had not said what it was in his letter. He now explained, with a
grim smile as he thought of _Mangnall's Questions_ and _Little Steps to
Great Events_. He described Scrafton's brutality in a few words, and in
fewer still the scene of the day before. His mother's indignation was
even louder than her applause. Uncle Spencer looked horrified at them
both.
"So it was insubordination!" cried he. "You took the side of the boys
against their master and your elder! Really, Henry, there is no more to
be said. Your mother's sympathy I consider most misplaced. I tell you
frankly that you need expect none from me."
"Did I say I expected any, Uncle Spencer?"
"That," said Mr. Walthew, "is a remark worthy of your friend Mr.
Lowndes, the most impudent fellow I ever met in my life."
"He is no longer a friend of mine," said Harry Ringrose.
"I am glad to hear it, Henry."
"Do you mean that you have quarrelled?" cried Mrs. Ringrose.
"For good, mother; you shall hear about it afterwards. I can't forgive
a liar, and no more must you. I have bowled Lowndes out in a thundering
lie--and told him what I thought of him--that's all."
Mrs. Ringrose looked troubled, but inquisitive for particulars. Her
brother did not smile, but for an instant his expression ceased to be
that of a professional mute.
"'Liar' and 'lie,'" said he, "are stronger language than I approve of,
Henry; but if anybody deserves such epithets I feel sure it is Mr.
Gordon Lowndes. The man impressed me as a falsehood-teller when he came
to my house, and I feel sure that the prospectus of this new Crofter
Company, which reached me this morning, is nothing but a tissue of
untruths from beginning to end. A thoroughly bad man, Henry, a lost and
irredeemable sinner, who might have dragged you with him to fire
eternal!"
"I did not find him thoroughly bad, Uncle Spencer," said his nephew
civilly. "On the contrary, I believe there is more good in him than in
most of us; but--you can't depend upon him, and there you are."
"Yet you would defend him!" exclaimed Mr. Walthew, with a sneer. "Well,
well, I have no time to argue with you, Henry; _my_ time is precious,
so may I ask how you propose to fill yours now? You have tried and
failed for the City; you have tried and failed for the Law; and now you
have tried schoolmastering, and failed still more conspicuously. What
do you think of trying next?"
"Something that I have been trying for some time without failing so
badly as at the other things."
"Literature!" cried Mrs. Ringrose.
"Literature, forsooth!" echoed the clergyman, before Harry had time to
repudiate the word. "I suppose, Mary, that you are alluding to the
productions you have shown me in the paper with the unspeakable name?
Well, Henry, if that's your literature, let's say no more about it;
only I am almost sorry you did not fail there, too. You cannot,
however, devote all or even much of your time to such buffoonery, and
it was to speak to you about some permanent occupation that I
accompanied your mother this afternoon. What should you say to the
Civil Service?"
"I couldn't possibly get into it, uncle."
"Into the higher branches you certainly could not, Henry. But a
second-class clerkship in one of the lower branches I think you might
obtain, with ordinary application and perseverance. I am only sorry it
did not occur to me before."
"What are the lower branches?" asked Harry, doubtfully.
"The Excise and the Customs are two."
"And the salary?"
"From eighty-five to two hundred pounds in the Excise, which is the
service I recommend. I have been making inquiries about it this
morning. A parishioner of mine is sending his son in for it. The lad is
to attend classes at Exeter Hall, under the auspices of the Young Men's
Christian Association, and I understand that mensuration is the only
really difficult subject. What I propose to do, Henry, is to present
you to-morrow with a ticket for the course of these classes which
commences next week."
"You are very kind, Uncle Spencer----"
Mr. Walthew waved his hand as though not totally unaware of it.
"But----"
"But what?" cried Uncle Spencer.
"I believe before very, very long I should make as much money with my
pen."
"You decline my offer?"
"I am exceedingly grateful for it."
"Yet you elect to go on writing rubbish for an extremely vulgar paper
for the rest of your days."
"Not for the rest of my days, I hope, Uncle Spencer. I mean it to be a
stepping-stone to better things."
"So you think you can earn eighty-five pounds a year by your pen!"
sneered the clergyman, buttoning up his overcoat.
"I mean to try," said Harry, provoked into a firmer tone.
"Is this your deliberate decision?"
"It is."
"Then I am sorry I wasted my time by coming so far to hold out a
helping hand to you. It is the last time, Henry. You may go your own
way after this. Only, when your pen brings you to the poorhouse, don't
come to me--that's all!"
Harry contrived to keep his temper without effort. Pinpricks do not
hurt a man with a mortal wound. As for Mrs. Ringrose, she had fled
before the proposal which she knew was coming, and of the result of
which she felt equally sure. But she came to her door to bid the
offended clergyman good-bye, and at last her boy and she were alone. He
flung his arms round her neck.
"I am never going to leave you again!" he cried passionately. "I am not
going to look for any more work. I am going to stop at home and write
for _T.T._ until I can teach myself to write something better. I am
going to work for you and for us both. I am going to do my work beside
you, and you're going to help me. We ought never to have separated.
Nothing shall ever separate us again!"
"Until you marry," murmured Mrs. Ringrose.
"I will never marry!" cried her boy.