CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHAPTER XL.
CHAPTER XLI.
CHAPTER XLII.
CHAPTER XLIII.
CHAPTER XLIV.
CHAPTER XLV.
CHAPTER XLVI.
CHAPTER XLVII.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
CHAPTER XLIX.
CHAPTER L.
CHAPTER LI.
CHAPTER LII.
CHAPTER LIII.
CHAPTER LIV.
CHAPTER LV.
CHAPTER LVI.
CHAPTER LVII.
CHAPTER LVIII.
CHAPTER LIX.
CHAPTER LX.
CHAPTER LXI.
CHAPTER LXII.
CHAPTER LXIII.
CHAPTER LXIV.
CHAPTER LXV.
CHAPTER LXVI.
CHAPTER LXVII.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
CHAPTER LXIX.
CHAPTER LXX.
CHAPTER LXXI.
CHAPTER LXXII.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
CHAPTER LXXV.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
“Our natures languish incomplete;
Something obtuse in this our star
Shackles the spirit’s winged feet;
But a glory moves us from afar,
And we know that we are strong and fleet.”
Edmund Ollier.
“Once more I behold the face of her
Whose actions all had the character
Of an inexpressible charm, expressed;
Whose movements flowed from a centre of rest,
And whose rest was that of a swallow, rife
With the instinct of reposing life;
Whose mirth had a sadness all the while
It sparkled and laughed, and whose sadness lay
In the heaven of such a crystal smile
That you longed to travel the self-same way
To the brightness of sorrow. For round her breathed
A grace like that of the general air,
Which softens the sharp extremes of things,
And connects by its subtle, invisible stair
The lowest and the highest. She interwreathed
Her mortal obscureness with so much light
Of the world unrisen, that angel’s wings
Could hardly have given her greater right
To float in the winds of the Infinite.”
Edmund Ollier.
DAWN
CHAPTER I.
“You lie; you always were a liar, and you always will be a liar. You
told my father how I spent the money.”
“Well, and what if I did? I had to look after myself, I suppose. You
forget that I am only here on sufferance, whilst you are the son of the
house. It does not matter to you, but he would have turned me out of
doors,” whined George.
“Oh! curse your fine words; it’s you who forget, you swab. Ay, it’s you
who forget that you asked me to take the money to the gambling- tent,
and made me promise that you should have half of what we won, but that
I should play for both. What, are you beginning to remember now—is it
coming back to you after a whole month? I am going to quicken your
memory up presently, I can tell you; I have got a good deal to pay off,
I’m thinking. I know what you are at; you want to play cuckoo, to turn
‘Cousin Philip’ out that ‘Cousin George’ may fill the nest. You know
the old man’s soft points, and you keep working him up against me. You
think that you would like the old place when he’s gone—ay, and I
daresay that you will get it before you have done, but I mean to have
my penn’orth out of you now, at any rate,” and, brushing the tears of
anger that stood in his brown eyes away with the back of his hand, the
speaker proceeded to square up to George in a most determined way.
Now Philip, with his broad shoulders and his firm-knit frame, would,
even at eighteen, have been no mean antagonist for a full-grown man;
much more then did he look formidable to the lankly, overgrown
stripling crouching against the corner of the wall that prevented his
further retreat.
“Philip, you’re not going to strike me, are you, when you know you are
so much stronger?”
“Yes, I am, though; if I can’t match you with my tongue, at any rate I
will use my fists. Look out.”
“Oh, Philip, don’t! I’ll tell your father.”
“Tell him! why, of course you will, I know that; but you shall have
something to lie about this time,” and he advanced to the attack with a
grim determination not pleasant for his cousin to behold.
Finding that there was no escape, George turned upon him with so shrill
a curse that it even frightened from his leafy perch in the oak above
the tame turtle-dove, intensely preoccupied as he was in cooing to a
new-found mate. He did more than curse; he fought like a cornered rat,
and with as much chance as the rat with a trained fox-terrier. In a few
seconds his head was as snugly tucked away in the chancery of his
cousin’s arm as ever any property was in the court of that name, and,
to speak truth, it seemed quite possible that, when it emerged from its
retreat, it would, like the property, be much dilapidated and
extensively bled.
Let us not dwell upon the scene; for George it was a very painful one,
so painful that he never quite forgot it. His nose, too, was never so
straight again. It was soon over, though to one of the parties time
went with unnatural slowness.
“Well, I think you’ve had about enough for once,” soliloquized Philip,
as he critically surveyed the writhing mass on the ground before him;
and he looked a very handsome lad as he said it.
His curly black hair hung in waving confusion over his forehead, and
flung changing lights and shadows into the depths of his brown eyes,
whilst his massive and somewhat heavy features were touched into a more
active life by the light of that pleasing excitement which animates
nine men out of every ten of the Anglo-Saxon race when they are engaged
on killing or hurting some other living creature. The face, too, had a
certain dignity about it, a little of the dignity of justice; it was
the face of one who feels that if his action has been precipitate and
severe, it has at any rate been virtuous. The full but clear-cut lips
also had their own expression on them, half serious, half comical;
humour, contempt, and even pity were blended in it. Altogether Philip
Caresfoot’s appearance in the moment of boyish vengeance was pleasing
and not uninteresting.
Presently, however, something of the same change passed over his face
that we see in the sky when a cloud passes over the sun; the light
faded out of it. It was astonishing to note how dull and heavy—ay,
more, how bad it made him look all in a breath.
“There will be a pretty business about this,” he murmured, and then,
administering a sharp kick to the prostrate and groaning form on the
ground before him, he said, “Now, then, get up; I’m not going to touch
you again. Perhaps, though, you won’t be in quite such a hurry to tell
lies about me another time, though I suppose that one must always
expect a certain amount of lying from a half-bred beggar like you. Like
mother, like son, you know.”
This last sentence was accompanied by a bitter laugh, and produced a
decided effect on the grovelling George, who slowly raised himself upon
his hands, and, lifting his head, looked his cousin full in the face.
It was not the ghastly appearance of his mangled and blood-soaked
countenance that made Philip recoil so sharply from the sight of his
own handiwork—he had fought too often at school to be chicken-hearted
about a little bloodshed; and, besides, he knew that his cousin was
only knocked about, not really injured—but rather the intense and
almost devilish malignity of the expression that hovered on the blurred
features and in the half-closed eyes. But no attempt was made by George
to translate the look into words, and indeed Philip felt that it was
untranslatable. He also felt dimly that the hate and malice with which
he was regarded by the individual at his feet was of a more
concentrated and enduring character than most men have the power to
originate. In the lurid light of that one glance he was able, though he
was not very clever, to pierce the darkest recesses of his cousin’s
heart, and to see his inmost thought, no longer through a veil, but
face to face. And what he saw was sufficient to make the blood leave
his ruddy cheek, and to fix his eyes into an expression of fear.
Next second George dropped his head on to the ground again, and began
to moan in an ostentatious manner, possibly in order to attract some
one whose footsteps could be plainly heard proceeding slowly down a
shrubbery-path on the other side of the yard wall. At any rate, that
was the effect produced; for next moment, before Philip could think of
escape, had he wished to escape, a door in the wall was opened, and a
gentleman, pausing on the threshold, surveyed the whole scene, with the
assistance of a gold-mounted eye-glass, with some evident surprise and
little apparent satisfaction.
The old gentleman, for he was old, made so pretty a picture, framed as
he was in the arched doorway, and set off by a natural background of
varying shades of green, that his general appearance is worth sketching
as he stood. To begin with, he was dressed in the fashion of the
commencement of this century, and, as has been said, old, though it was
difficult to say how old. Indeed, so vigorous and comparatively
youthful was his bearing that he was generally taken to be considerably
under seventy, but, as a matter of fact, he was but a few years short
of eighty. He was extremely tall, over six feet, and stood upright as a
lifeguardsman; indeed, his height and stately carriage would alone have
made him a remarkable-looking man, had there been nothing else unusual
about him; but, as it happened, his features were as uncommon as his
person. They were clear-cut and cast in a noble mould. The nose was
large and aquiline, the chin, like his son Philip’s, square and
determined; but it was his eyes that gave a painful fascination to his
countenance. They were steely blue, and glittered under the pent-house
of his thick eyebrows, that, in striking contrast to the snow-white of
his hair, were black in hue, as tempered steel glitters in a curtained
room. It was those eyes, in conjunction with sundry little
peculiarities of temper, that had earned for the old man the title of
“Devil Caresfoot,” a sobriquet in which he took peculiar pride. So
pleased was he with it, indeed, that he caused it to be engraved in
solid oak letters an inch long upon the form of a life-sized and
life-like portrait of himself that hung over the staircase in the
house.
“I am determined,” he would say to his son, “to be known to my
posterity as I was known to my contemporaries. The picture represents
my person not inaccurately; from the nickname my descendants will be
able to gather what the knaves and fools with whom I lived thought of
my character. Ah! boy, I am wearing out; people will soon be staring at
that portrait and wondering if it was like me. In a very few years I
shall no longer be ‘devil,’ but ‘devilled,’” and he would chuckle at
his grim and ill-omened joke.
Philip felt his father’s eyes playing upon him, and shrunk from them.
His face had, at the mere thought of the consequences of his
chastisement of his cousin, lost the beauty and animation that had
clothed it a minute before; now it grew leaden and hard, the good died
away from it altogether, and, instead of a young god bright with
vengeance, there was nothing but a sullen youth with dull and
frightened eyes. To his son, as to most people who came under his
influence, “Devil” Caresfoot was a grave reality.
Presently the picture in the doorway opened its mouth and spoke in a
singularly measured, gentle voice.
“You will forgive me, Philip, for interrupting your _tête-à-tête_, but
may I ask what is the meaning of this?”
Philip returned no answer.
“Since your cousin is not in a communicative mood, George, perhaps you
will inform me why you are lying on your face and groaning in that
unpleasant and aggressive manner?”
George lifted his blood-stained face from the stones, and, looking at
his uncle, groaned louder than ever.
“May I ask you, Philip, if George has fallen down and hurt himself, or
if there has been an—an—altercation between you?”
Here George himself got up and, before Philip could make any reply,
addressed himself to his uncle.
“Sir,” he said, “I will answer for Philip; there _has_ been an
altercation, and he in the scuffle knocked me down, and I confess,”
here he put his hand up to his battered face, “that I am suffering a
good deal, but what I want to say is, that I beg you will not blame
Philip. He thought that I had wronged him, and, though I am quite
innocent, and could easily have cleared myself had he given me a
chance, I must admit that appearances are to a certain extent against
me——”
“He lies!” broke in Philip, sullenly.
“You will wonder, sir,” went on the blood-stained George, “how I
allowed myself to be drawn into such a brutal affair, and one so
discreditable to your house. I can only say that I am very sorry,”—
which indeed he was—“and that I should never have taken any notice of
his words—knowing that he would regret them on reflection—had he not in
an unguarded moment allowed himself to taunt me with my birth. Uncle,
you know the misfortune of my father’s marriage, and that she was not
his equal in birth, but you know too that she was my mother and I love
her memory though I never saw her, and I could not bear to hear her
spoken of like that, and I struck him. I hope that both you and he will
forgive me; I cannot say any more.”
“He lies again, he cannot speak the truth.”
“Philip, will you allow me to point out,” remarked his father in his
blandest voice, “that the continued repetition of the very ugly word
‘lie’ is neither narrative nor argument. Perhaps you will be so kind as
to tell me your side of the story; you know I always wish to be
perfectly impartial.”
“He lied to you this morning about the money. It’s true enough that I
gambled away the ten pounds at Roxham fair, instead of paying it into
the bank as you told me, but he persuaded me to it, and he was to have
shared the profits if we won. I was a blackguard, but he was a bigger
blackguard; why should I have all the blame and have that fellow
continually shoved down my throat as a saint? And so I thrashed him,
and that is all about it.”
“Sir, I am sorry to contradict Philip, but indeed he is in error; the
recollection of what took place has escaped him. I could, if necessary,
bring forward evidence—Mr. Bellamy——”
“There is no need, George, for you to continue,” and then, fixing his
glittering eye on Philip: “it is very melancholy for me, having only
one son, to know him to be such a brute, such a bearer of false
witness, such an impostor as you are. Do you know that I have just seen
Mr. Bellamy, the head clerk at the bank, and inquired if he knew
anything of what happened about that ten pounds, and do you know what
he told me?”
“No, I don’t, and I don’t want to.”
“But I really must beg your attention: he told me that the day
following the fair your cousin George came to the bank with ten pounds,
and told him how you had spent the ten pounds I gave you to pay in, and
that he brought the money, his own savings, to replace what you had
gambled away; and Bellamy added that, under all the circumstances, he
did not feel justified in placing it to my credit. What have you to say
to that?”
“What have I to say? I have to say that I don’t believe a word of it.
If George had meant to do me a good turn he would have paid the money
in and said nothing to Bellamy about it. Why won’t you trust me a
little more, father? I tell you that you are turning me into a
scoundrel. I am being twisted up into a net of lies till I am obliged
to lie myself to keep clear of ruin. I know what this sneak is at; he
wants to work you into cutting me out of the property which should be
mine by right. He knows your weaknesses——”
“My weaknesses, sir—my weaknesses!” thundered his father, striking his
gold-headed cane on to the stones; “what do you mean by that?”
“Hush, uncle, he meant nothing,” broke in George.
“Meant nothing! Then for an idle speech it is one that may cost him
dear. Look you here, Philip Caresfoot, I know very well that our family
has been quite as remarkable for its vices as its virtues, but for the
last two hundred and fifty years we have been gentlemen, and you are
not a gentleman; we have not been thieves, and you have proved yourself
a thief; we have spoken the truth, and you are, what you are so fond of
calling your cousin, who is worth two of you, a liar. Now listen.
However imperious I may have grown in my old age, I can still respect
the man who thwarts me even though I hate him; but I despise the man
who deceives me, as I despise you, my dear son Philip—and I tell you
this, and I beg you to lay it to heart, that if ever again I find that
you have deceived me, by Heaven I will disinherit you in favour of—_oh,
oh!_” and the old man fell back against the grey wall, pressing his
hands to his breast and with the cold perspiration starting on to his
pallid countenance.
Both the lads sprang forward, but before they reached him he had
recovered himself.
“It is nothing,” he said, in his ordinary gentle voice, “a trifling
indisposition. I wish you both good morning, and beg you to bear my
words in mind.”
When he was fairly gone, George came up to his cousin and laid his hand
upon his arm.
“Why do you insist upon quarrelling with me, Philip? it always ends
like this, you always get the worst of it.”
But Philip’s only reply was to shake him roughly off, and to vanish
through the door towards the lake. George regarded his departing form
with a peculiar smile, which was rendered even more peculiar by the
distortion of his swollen features.