As time went on Society began to surmise that Philip Meadowes and his
father were not upon the best of terms. The elder man seldom came to
town, and when he did, never stayed at his own house, then tenanted by
Philip; and this of itself was eloquent of differences. But as against
this was the very fact of Philip’s tenancy of the house—an arrangement
which seemed to point to amiable relationship. The world wondered, but
could do no more.
The feud between Meadowes and Simon Prior had, owing to peculiar caution
on Prior’s part, never got abroad either; he preferred to be still
considered everywhere as Meadowes’ friend.
One night (it was the night of the 9th of January, as Philip had
afterwards reason enough to remember) fortune drew together in her net
at a certain gaming-house, not a thousand miles from Pall Mall, Richard
Meadowes, Philip, and Simon Prior. Phil and his father met quite easily;
their quarrel had not been so serious as to make this the least
difficult for them; but the rest of the men there watched the meeting
with great curiosity. If they had only known, they had better have
turned their scrutiny upon Meadowes’ meeting with Prior; the cordiality
with which these gentlemen met might perhaps, to the observant and
cynically-minded, have given a key to their relations. But there
probably was no cynic in the company; so Phil was the object of
interest.
‘My dear sir,’ said Phil, as he stood beside his father, laying his hand
on his shoulder, ‘you have surely come to town unexpectedly? And but
just in time to see me lose some money, or I am mistaken. Yesterday I
won it—to-night (to make odds even) I am come to lose to the same man.
Come, you shall watch our play, ’twill be fairish sport, I don’t doubt.’
They set them down—Phil and his opponent—and a circle gathered round
them to watch their play. Philip played out of the sheerest love of
excitement, like a schoolboy, laughing and jesting as he threw down his
money, the other man more gravely, pondering his cards. The play ran
high; Philip had staked and lost all the money he had with him, and yet
he played on. It grew late.
‘Come, sir,’ he said, and he leant across the table towards his father,
with his sunny smile, ‘I must play schoolboy again and have my father
pay my debts.’ Meadowes, bewitched like every one else, handed him over
all the gold pieces he carried, and thought himself well paid by Phil’s
smile.
‘Now I’ve cleared out my father,’ he said, ‘and myself, I’ll play you
for my lace ruffles, good ones they are; come on, sir,’ and he tore off
the ruffles carelessly enough, and flung them on the table.
‘Now you’ll have my coat, ’tis a new silk one—there it goes,’ he cried,
flinging off the fine garment in question, as he leant forward with
sparkling eyes to cut the cards.
‘Lost again! My diamond shoe-buckles now—there—you have them also?
Gad! I’ll be stripped before I’m done—well, the shoes themselves. Lost
them too!’ and with a shout of laughter Phil flung down his cards and
rose from the table.
‘I must get home without my shoes and without my coat!—I thank you; no,
sir, I’d like the sensation. We’ll taste the sweets of poverty on a
chill winter’s night for once—to walk home with empty pockets, without
a coat or shoes. By George, that’s something new!’
‘Phil, put on your coat; for all the world you act like a child,’
laughed his father. And Phil certainly looked babyish enough as he stood
there shoeless, in his ruffled cambric shirt, laughing and careless.
But Phil would not be persuaded. The coat was his no longer, said he,
nor the shoes.
‘Come, sir, if you are going my way,’ he said, bowing to his father, and
they stepped out into the passage together.
‘We may go so far in company,’ said Meadowes, as they passed out.
The other men who had been in the room waited to exchange comments on
the father and son, only Simon Prior, after a few minutes, found that it
was growing late, and he must make his way homewards.
He went through the passage and looked out into the inky darkness of the
moonless January night; the sky was of a bluish blackness, only a shade
less dense than the earth it canopied, and unpierced by any star. Prior
listened intently for a moment, but no footsteps echoed down the street.
Great London was asleep in these early morning hours, for it was nearing
three o’clock. Once and again as he walked along Prior stopped to
listen, then he bent down and slipped off his shoes, crammed one into
each of the huge pockets of his long-skirted coat, and with noiseless
flying footsteps sped down the street: the darkness received him.
Meantime Phil and his father were walking together in the direction of
St. James’ Square; Phil, gay as was his wont when excited, was pressing
Meadowes to come home with him.
‘You have scarce seen me for months, sir, and Carrie is a stranger to
you,’ he said.
‘I cannot come to-night, Phil, mayhap to-morrow,’ said Meadowes, as they
paused at the corner where their ways parted.
‘Carrie will think me lost; ’tis three of the clock at the least,’ said
Phil, and his father laughed.
‘You have not yet acquired that fine indifference which comes with
practice, Phil,’ he said. ‘You mention your wife with too palpable
interest.’
‘Maybe, maybe,’ laughed Phil, whose heart indeed beat quicker at the
sound of Carrie’s name. He held out his hand then and bade Meadowes
good-night.
‘Ah, Philip, Philip, if only you loved me!’ thought Meadowes, as he
turned and walked away down the dark street. Phil was going home to the
wife he adored, while he—how bleak a loveless life like his was, to be
sure! There was not a human being that would mourn his death—even Phil
would not think twice of it—more than that, ‘I believe he would welcome
it,’ he thought bitterly; ‘for all his frankness and his charm he cares
nothing for me: I sometimes think he doth veritably hate me.’
Sad thoughts these on a winter’s night. ‘Freeze, freeze, thou bitter
sky, _thou dost not bite so nigh_,’ he said, feeling the chill at his
heart. A moment later he heard a step behind him, a light, unshod step,
surely Phil returned. Could it be? Think if Phil were to come beside him
in the darkness, touch his arm, speak one kind word, say that now all
would be right between them! Surely even now the wilderness would
rejoice—would blossom as the rose—at the coming of love. Surely he
would leave his old crooked ways, live even yet a white, clean, straight
year or two before all was ended, return, if he might do no more, to the
attitude of heart that has at least a desire for good!
These, and half a hundred more, thoughts crowded through his fancy in
that silly moment of expectancy. But it was a moment so dear—like the
sudden thawing of a long frost—that he dared scarcely break it. His
voice was thick with feeling when he spoke.
‘Why are you returned, Phil?’ he asked. It was too dark to make out more
than the outline of the man’s head against the sky, but the sound of his
shoeless feet, as he walked alongside, convinced Meadowes that Phil was
there.
‘Why are you returned?’ he questioned again. There was no reply, then
the man, with a sudden, quick movement, drew his sword and turned upon
Meadowes, pinning him against the wall. He fell almost without a groan.
The man knelt with one knee pressed down on Meadowes’ chest, as if to
squeeze his shortening breaths out of him, and spoke loudly in his ear.
‘_I am Philip_,’ he said.
Meadowes heard even through his clouding senses the high bell-clear
voice. ‘Is it—— Merciful Lord! doth my Phil torment me for my sins?
. . . his voice. . . . Ah, surely not Phil,’ he thought.
‘_I am Philip_,’ repeated the man, rising hastily; he dared not tarry
even for the sweetness of revenge.
‘Philip, Philip!—Ah, undone, undone!’ murmured the dying man. He
writhed over on the pavement as the weight of his adversary’s knee was
lifted off him; pressed his hand against his side as the last agony
seized him, and the spirit, driven so roughly from its dwelling,
lingered for a second on the threshold and looked back. In that second
fifty years were reviewed like one day: childhood at sweet Fairmeadowes
among the fields, youth and manhood, war and love and treachery, and all
the busyness of life, passed before him in a flash. One remembrance
stood out with extraordinary clearness:—the memory of a prayer offered
long ago in one of the old City churches—a strange, seemingly
unanswered prayer. Here, late in time, was its bitter answer. And then
this memory passed also, and one only thought remained—Philip.
All this in a second’s time. In that second, as the murderer rose to his
feet, the glimmer of a lantern fell into the pressing darkness, and a
hand appeared out of the gloom, clutched, and held him.
Meadowes did not see the light. His eyes were closed, but the one
thought of Philip held possession of his brain.
‘_Run, Phil, run, lest this bring you to trouble_,’ he cried with his
latest breath; the two struggling men could not choose but hear. The
watchman let fall his lantern and they wrestled in the darkness, then
with one great wrench the other freed himself, and flung aside his
adversary, who fell heavily. It took him a moment to rise, and then he
stood stupidly for a brief space to listen in what direction the
murderer ran. But even the silent street scarcely echoed back the light
footsteps of the man wearing no shoes, as he scudded away into the
darkness.