A pair of dingy rooms in a dingy London street, communicating with each
other by means of a folding door, which is at present shut. A table,
decidedly unsteady on its pins and bedight in a chequered breakfast
cloth, whereon is a war-worn tea-pot--which article, by the way, knives
and forks, dish-covers and spoons seem to have been made specially to
match--cloudy delf, cruets not guiltless of defunct flies, an uninviting
loaf and a pat of butterine or oleo-margarine, or whatever is the London
lodging-house equivalent for butter, and, perchance, when that cover is
lifted, a brace of leathery fried eggs, undoubtedly not of to-day's or
yesterday's origin, will be disclosed to view. And this appetising
repast, and this glaringly-vulgar and soul-depressing abode must soon be
exchanged for something more nauseous, for something more vulgar and
soul-depressing still, for even this is somewhat beyond Roland's means--
beyond the miserable pittance he has managed to save from the wreck.
There had been an accumulation of interest on the capital in the fallen
Bank, which in a fortunate moment, somewhat earlier, he had been induced
to invest in a small speculation, and this, together with a little which
still remained out of his last year's dividend, just availed to save him
from immediate destitution.
He enters, and listlessly draws a chair to the table. There is a smell
of escaped gas in the room, which, mingling with a vaporous whiff from
the kitchen of unmistakable cabbage in process of boiling, nearly upsets
him. Quickly he throws open the window, admitting a rush of air from
the dark, misty street, that makes him shiver; but anything is better
than the abominable atmosphere of the house, and again he draws his
chair in and attempts to breakfast--attempts. Even Roy, who comes in
for most of his master's share, and who has an especial weakness for
bread and butter, feeds with a lack of enthusiasm which shows that he,
too, is not unaffected by the change of circumstances. And why not he
as well as his master? Here, no scamper over breezy downs, no life in
the strong, pure air of the salt sea, no sunshine and green fields, and
at other times no snug, cheerful rooms, where he may make himself
thoroughly at home. His walks are taken in gloomy streets, where he is
continually jostled and trodden on--his beautiful coat would seem to
have been given him expressly for the purpose of collecting pailsful of
metropolitan mud, and he himself is treated as the natural enemy of
mankind. Sticks and stones are slily hurled at him from alleys and
doorways; twice has a desperate attempt been made to steal him, only
failing the second time by great good luck, the fastening of the muzzle
into which his nose had been deftly betrayed, having given way, and he,
taking prompt advantage of the casualty, had nearly bitten off three of
the enemy's fingers, and made good his retreat. Park-keepers eye him
with no benevolent glance when he indulges in a scamper in those elysian
fields of public recreation, and, even there, other dogs resent his
intrusion, and would carry out the canine equivalent for "'eaving 'arf a
brick" far more than they do, were it not that Master Roy, good-tempered
as he naturally is, can make great and effective play with his eye-teeth
when roused--as more than one quarrelsome bull-terrier or black
retriever could testify in pain and sorrow for a fortnight after.
Roland Dorrien's reflections as he sits in this dismal hole, trying to
imagine that he is breakfasting, are of the very gloomiest. More than a
month has gone by since he learned the worst, and as yet he is without
plans for the future. Of his own free will and by his own act he has
cut himself adrift from all who might have befriended him in his
extremity. No, rather he prefers to sink or swim--probably the former--
alone. A few days after we last saw him, Venn received a few lines
notifying that he thought it better under the circumstances to take
himself out of everybody's way for a time--most likely he should go
abroad, but anyhow, had settled nothing; and Venn, on receipt thereof,
had repaired post haste to his friend's lodgings, only to find he had
kept his word. He had disappeared, literally, leaving no trace. And
the good-hearted stock-broker had been sorely apprehensive. Men had
been known to do queer things with far less excuse than Dorrien might
show, and his pulse would beat quicker more than once when he came upon
newspaper reports of any of those ghastly "finds" only too common in the
metropolis. And Dr Ingelow, too, who had run up to Town for the
purpose, had enquired so anxiously, and seemed so distressed, that he,
Venn, could give him absolutely no tidings. Dorrien was a queer fellow,
to go and cut all his friends in that way, but then, he was always given
to making the worst of things; however, it was to be hoped that some day
he would turn up again, and things might come right; and so honest Venn,
if he did not altogether dismiss the matter from his thoughts, soon
brought himself to regard it with no great anxiety, and plied his daily
avocations as if nothing had happened. "Every man for himself" is the
world's motto--and _vae victis_!
And now, within a few streets of him--yet as completely hidden as if on
a solitary rock in the Northern Hebrides--Roland sits, engaged in his
usual occupation--brooding. What is there left that makes this wretched
life worth dragging on any longer? Why should he not end it? Even if
he will prolong it, he must toil hard at some uncongenial drudgery till
the end of his days--harder than the broad-arrow-wearing wretch,
wheeling his barrow in the quarries of Portland. He must sink into a
mere machine,--lose sight of the fact that he had ever known better
things, as completely as if it had been a dream. He must be prepared to
place himself at the beck and call of others--of low, repellant cads, it
might be--in order to earn a scanty wage, to put up with the
bumptiousness, the insolence of some snob in authority, and be thankful
for the privilege of existing. No--never! Better perpetual sleep--
oblivion--annihilation. Then he would laugh bitterly to himself. Why,
even such a mill-horse lot was barred to him. He was quite useless.
His neglected, pitch-and-toss kind of "dragging-up" had been such as to
fit him for nothing, and here, in the fierce competition for the morsels
that enabled men just to keep body and soul together, where would he be?
Nowhere. He was not of the material to hold his own amongst the
raying, hungry crowd competing for a starvation pittance. At times a
plan would suggest itself as his thoughts turned towards the Western
wilds, where five years of his life had been spent. There, at any rate,
he might be free. There life might be just worth living. He was fond
of shooting--might he not adopt the life of a professional hunter,
supporting himself by the proceeds of his rifle? The rolling plains and
the vast silent forests, the serrated ridges of the distant sierras
crowned with their dazzling snowcaps, the blue sky and the free air of
heaven--surely this would be a good exchange for the gloom and filth and
indescribable desolation of the great, murky city! Twice he had been on
the point of sailing, and both times he had thought better of it--or
worse--at the last moment, and had stayed. An insane, yet
overmastering, impulse made him cling to the land which contained his
heart's shrine, and, although utterly without hope, yet he could not
bring himself to place the ocean between them--not yet.
And now this morning the dingy room, with its glaring, vulgar adornments
(!), fades from his gaze, as in imagination he is back at Wandsborough.
Every one of those hours, too lightly valued at the time, he has
mentally gone through again and again. Every tone of a certain voice--
every expression of a certain very sweet and bewitching face, from the
moment he first espied that latter in Wandsborough Church, is present in
his memory now as vividly as though he were actually living through the
bygone time all over again.
"Please, sir, Missus says can I clear away?"
The whole picture fades as suddenly as did its reality a few weeks ago,
as in a rich cockney twang the unkempt, down-at-heel slavey prefers the
above request.
He moves to the window. The outlook is about as inspiriting as that of
a London by-street usually is. A barrel organ, grinding out a popular
melody, as though it were a dirge, heaves in sight and sound; and a gang
of woeful and decrepit bipeds from a neighbouring Union is discharging
its burden upon the ratepayers by shovelling the mud and slush from the
middle of the street in mechanical and dejected fashion. He glances at
the clock, but there is relief rather than consternation in his mind as
he awakens to the lateness of the hour--relief, that he should already
have got through so much of the morning. How many mornings were to be
got through on this side of--what?
"Come, Roy. Out!"
The dog jumps up and works himself into something like his usual state
of excitement attendant upon the welcome summons, and they sally forth.
The street is one of those in the vicinity of Hyde Park, and thither
they turn their steps. At any rate it is open--and away tears Roy,
trying perhaps to imagine himself on the turfy slopes about Minchkil
Beacon as he scampers over the grass, scattering the few sooty
disconsolate sheep right and left. Entering near the Marble Arch,
Roland walks straight across, nor pauses till the bridge on the
Serpentine is reached. It is a dull grey day, and the air is steely and
cold. He stands on the bridge, lazily trying to imagine that he is
gazing upon a broad river with its green sloping banks shaded by
feathery elms, away in the heart of the sweet, peaceful country. The
leaves have hardly begun to fall, and save for the muffled din of
traffic, there is little to betoken the proximity of a mighty city.
Then he wanders on, and eventually reaches the Round Pond.
"That's a fine dog of yours, sir."
Quickly he looks up at the speaker, a man of about his own age, and who
wears the appearance of most well-to-do English gentlemen with nothing
remarkable about them, and assents. Then the other, who is evidently of
a communicative disposition, launches out into a dissertation upon dogs
in general and dogs in London in particular, and the drawbacks attendant
upon their comfort and well-being in the metropolis; and Roland, nothing
loth, finds himself conversing with something like zest. It is long
since he has exchanged an idea with anybody, and now he finds a certain
amount of diversion in this stranger's talk. Roy, too, seems to take to
him, for he wags his tail and suffers himself to be patted in a way that
is remarkable; for of late, like his master, though with different
reasons, he has taken to viewing all mankind with suspicion.
"And so he comes from America, does he?" says the stranger again. "Do
you know, I haven't seen a dog I fancied so for a long time, and I've
often seen you and him here before to-day. Now, I hope it's no
offence--and, if it is, I really beg pardon--but you wouldn't feel
disposed to part with him, I suppose?"
Part with him! Part with Roy--dear, true-hearted Roy, his second self,
the one faithful friend who shared his exile. The idea seemed to sting
him like a lash! Yet, why should it? He need only answer in the
negative, and there wae no harm done. But the question had seemed to
come significantly at this moment, for of late he had been haunted by a
growing conviction that the time for such a parting was not far distant.
"Oh, no offence, of course," he replied quietly, but there is a troubled
look in his eyes which the other sees and makes a mental note of. "But
I don't want to part with him."
"Of course. I can quite understand your not relishing the question,"
says the stranger good-humouredly. "I hate to be asked to sell a
favourite dog myself. But--at the risk of being importunate--if ever
you should want to sell him, would you mind giving me the first offer?
You shall name your own price. Fact is, I've taken an extraordinary
fancy to him. Here's an address that'll always find me."
Under the circumstances Roland thinks there is no harm in accepting the
card which the other tenders him, and which bears an address in
Kensington, and the name of his new acquaintance, he learns through the
same agency, is Frank Marsland. But he does not feel bound to
reciprocate the confidence, and after a little more conversation they
part: Roland, to dismiss the matter completely from his mind, as he
makes his way back to his rooms, and the stranger to wonder who the
deuce that good-looking fellow can be who seems to haunt the Round Pond
with that splendid dog, and who always looks, by Jove! as if he had
committed a murder or was about to commit one.