There is a dividing ridge in the great northern wilderness of America,
whereon lies a lakelet of not more than twenty yards in diameter. It is
of crystal clearness and profound depth, and on the still evenings of
the Indian summer its surface forms a perfect mirror, which might serve
as a toilet-glass for a Redskin princess.
We have stood by the side of that lakelet and failed to note the
slightest symptom of motion in it, yet somewhere in its centre there was
going on a constant and mysterious division of watery particles, and
those of them which glided imperceptibly to the right flowed southward
to the Atlantic, while those that trembled to the left found a
resting-place by the frozen shores of Hudson's Bay.
As it is with the flow and final exit of those waters, so is it,
sometimes, if not always, with the spirit and destiny of man.
Miles Milton, our hero, at the age of nineteen, stood at the dividing
ridge of his life. If the oscillating spirit, trembling between right
and wrong, had decided to lean to the right, what might have been his
fate no one can tell. He paused on the balance a short time, then he
leaned over to the left, and what his fate was it is the purpose of this
volume to disclose. At the outset, we may remark that it was not
unmixed good. Neither was it unmitigated evil.
Miles had a strong body, a strong will, and a somewhat passionate
temper: a compound which is closely allied to dynamite!
His father, unfortunately, was composed of much the same materials. The
consequences were sometimes explosive. It might have profited the son
much had he studied the Scripture lesson, "Children, obey your parents
in the Lord." Not less might it have benefited the father to have
pondered the words, "Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath."
Young Milton had set his heart on going into the army. Old Milton had
resolved to thwart the desire of his son. The mother Milton, a meek and
loving soul, experienced some hard times between the two. Both loved
_her_ intensely, and each loved himself, not better perhaps, but too
much!
It is a sad task to have to recount the disputes between a father and a
son. We shrink from it and turn away. Suffice it to say that one day
Miles and his father had a Vesuvian meeting on the subject of the army.
The son became petulant and unreasonable; the father fierce and
tyrannical. The end was that they parted in anger.
"Go, sir," cried the father sternly; "when you are in a better frame of
mind you may return."
"Yes, father, I will go," cried the son, starting up, "and I will
_never_ return."
Poor youth! He was both right and wrong in this prophetic speech. He
did return home, but he did not return to his father.
With fevered pulse and throbbing heart he rushed into a plantation that
lay at the back of his father's house. He had no definite intention
save to relieve his feelings by violent action. Running at full speed,
he came suddenly to a disused quarry that was full of water. It had
long been a familiar haunt as a bathing-pool. Many a time in years past
had he leaped off its precipitous margin into the deep water, and
wantoned there in all the abandonment of exuberant youth. The leap was
about thirty feet, the depth of water probably greater. Constant
practice had rendered Miles so expert at diving and swimming that he had
come to feel as much at home in the water as a New-Zealander.
Casting off his garments, he took the accustomed plunge by way of
cooling his heart and brain. He came up from the depths refreshed, but
not restored to equanimity. While dressing, the sense of injustice
returned as strongly as before, and, with it, the hot indignation, so
that, on afterwards reaching the highway, he paused only for a few
moments. This was the critical point. Slowly but decidedly he leaned
to the left. He turned his back on his father's house, and caused the
stones to spurt from under his heels as he walked rapidly away.
If Miles Milton had thought of his mother at that time he might have
escaped many a day of bitter repentance, for she was as gentle as her
husband was harsh; but the angry youth either forgot her at the moment,
or, more probably, thrust the thought of her away.
Poor mother! if she had only known what a conflict between good and evil
was going on in the breast of her boy, how she would have agonised in
prayer for him! But she did not know. There was, however, One who did
know, who loved him better even than his mother, and who watched and
guarded him throughout all his chequered career.
It is not improbable that in spite of his resolves Miles would have
relented before night and returned home had not a very singular incident
intervened and closed the door behind him.
That day a notorious swindler had been tracked by a red-haired detective
to the manufacturing city, to which Miles first directed his steps. The
bills describing the swindler set forth that he was quite young, tall,
handsome, broad-shouldered, with black curling hair, and a budding
moustache; that he was dressed in grey tweeds, and had a prepossessing
manner. Now this chanced to be in some respects an exact description of
Miles Milton!
The budding moustache, to be sure, was barely discernible, still it was
sufficiently so for a detective to found on. His dress, too, was brown
tweed, not grey; but of course dresses can be changed; and as to his
manner, there could not be two opinions about that.
Now it chanced to be past one o'clock when Miles entered the town and
felt himself impelled by familiar sensations to pause in front of an
eating-house. It was a poor eating-house in a low district, but Miles
was not particular; still further, it was a temperance coffee-house, but
Miles cared nothing for strong drink. Strong health and spirits had
served his purpose admirably up to that date.
Inside the eating-house there sat several men of the artisan class, and
a few of the nondescript variety. Among the latter was the red-haired
detective. He was engaged with a solid beef-steak.
"Oho!" escaped softly from his lips, when his sharp eyes caught sight of
our hero. So softly did he utter the exclamation that it might have
been a mere remark of appreciation addressed to the steak, from which he
did not again raise his eyes for a considerable time.
The place was very full of people--so full that there seemed scarcely
room for another guest; but by some almost imperceptible motion the
red-haired man made a little space close to himself. The man next to
him, with a hook-nose, widened the space by similar action, and Miles,
perceiving that there was room, sat down.
"Bread and cheese," he said to the waiter.
"Bread an' cheese, sir? Yessir."
Miles was soon actively engaged in mechanically feeding, while his mind
was busy as to future plans.
Presently he became aware that the men on either side of him were
scanning his features and person with peculiar attention.
"Coldish weather," remarked the red-haired man, looking at him in a
friendly way.
"It is," replied Miles, civilly enough.
"Rather cold for bathin', ain't it, sir?" continued the detective
carelessly, picking his teeth with a quill.
"How did you know that I've been bathing?" demanded Miles in surprise.
"I didn't know it."
"How did you guess it then?"
"Vell, it ain't difficult to guess that a young feller 'as bin 'avin' a
swim w'en you see the 'air of 'is 'ead hall vet, an' 'is
pocket-'ankercher lookin' as if it 'ad done dooty for a towel, not to
mention 'is veskit 'avin' bin putt on in a 'urry, so as the buttons
ain't got into the right 'oles, you see!"
Miles laughed, and resumed his bread and cheese.
"You are observant, I perceive," he said.
"Not wery partiklarly so," returned Redhair; "but I do obsarve that your
boots tell of country roads. Was it a long way hout of town as you was
bathin' this forenoon, now?"
There was a free and easy familiarity about the man's tone which Miles
resented, but, not wishing to run the risk of a disagreement in such
company, he answered quietly--"Yes, a considerable distance; it was in
an old quarry where I often bathe, close to my father's house."
"Ha! jest so, about 'alf-way to the willage of Ramplin', w'ere you slep'
last night, if report speaks true, an' w'ere you left the _grey tweeds_,
unless, p'r'aps, you sunk 'em in the old quarry."
"Why, what on earth do you mean?" asked Miles, with a look of such
genuine surprise that Redhair was puzzled, and the man with the hooked
nose, who had been listening attentively, looked slightly confused.
"Read that, sir," said the detective, extracting a newspaper cutting
from his pocket and laying it on the table before Miles.
While he read, the two men watched him with interest, so did some of
those who sat near, for they began to perceive that something was "in
the wind."
The tell-tale blood sprang to the youth's brow as he read and perceived
the meaning of the man's remarks. At this Redhair and Hook-nose nodded
to each other significantly.
"You don't mean to say," exclaimed Miles, in a tone of grand indignation
which confirmed the men in their suspicion, "that you think this
description applies to _me_?"
"I wouldn't insinivate too much, sir, though I have got my suspicions,"
said Redhair blandly; "but of course that's easy settled, for if your
father's 'ouse is anyw'ere hereabouts, your father won't object to
identify his son."
"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Miles, rising angrily at this interruption to
his plans. The two men rose promptly at the same moment. "Of course my
father will prove that you have made a mistake, but--"
He hesitated in some confusion, for the idea of re-appearing before his
father so soon, and in such company, after so stoutly asserting that he
would _never_ more return, was humiliating. The detective observed the
hesitation and became jocose.
"If you'd rather not trouble your parent," said Redhair, "you've got no
call to do it. The station ain't far off, and the sooner we get there
the better for all parties."
A slight clink of metal at this point made Miles aware of the fact that
Hook-nose was drawing a pair of handcuffs from one of his pockets.
The full significance of his position suddenly burst upon him. The
thought of being led home a prisoner, or conveyed to the police-station
handcuffed, maddened him; and the idea of being thus unjustly checked at
the very outset of his independent career made him furious. For a few
moments he stood so perfectly still and quiet that the detectives were
thrown slightly off their guard. Then there was an explosion of some
sort within the breast of Miles Milton. It expended itself in a sudden
impulse, which sent Redhead flat on the table among the crockery, and
drove Hook-nose into the fireplace among the fire-irons. A fat little
man chanced to be standing in the door-way. The same impulse, modified,
shot that little man into the street like a cork out of a bottle, and
next moment Miles was flying along the pavement at racing speed,
horrified at what he had done, but utterly reckless as to what might
follow!
Hearing the shouts of pursuers behind him, and being incommoded by
passers-by in the crowded thoroughfare, Miles turned sharply into a
by-street, and would have easily made his escape--being uncommonly swift
of foot--had he not been observed by an active little man of supple
frame and presumptuous tendencies. Unlike the mass of mankind around
him--who stared and wondered--the active little man took in the
situation at a glance, joined in the pursuit, kept well up, thus forming
a sort of connecting-link between the fugitive and pursuers, and even
took upon himself to shout "Stop thief!" as he ran. Miles endeavoured
to throw him off by putting on, as schoolboys have it, "a spurt." But
the active little man also spurted and did not fall far behind. Then
Miles tried a second double, and got into a narrow street, which a
single glance showed him was a blind alley! Disappointment and anger
hereupon took possession of him, and he turned at bay with the
tiger-like resolve to run a-muck!
Fortunately for himself he observed a pot of whitewash standing near a
half-whitened wall, with a dirty canvas frock and a soiled billycock
lying beside it. The owner of the property had left it inopportunely,
for, quick as thought, Miles wriggled into the frock, flung on the
billycock, seized the pot, and walked in a leisurely way to the head of
the alley. He reached it just as the active little man turned into it,
at the rate of ten miles an hour. A yell of "Stop thief!" issued from
the man's presumptuous lips at the moment.
His injunction was obeyed to the letter, for the would-be thief of an
honest man's character on insufficient evidence was stopped by Miles's
bulky person so violently that the whitewash was scattered all about,
and part of it went into the active man's eyes.
To squash the large brush into the little man's face, and thus
effectually complete what his own recklessness had begun, was the work
of an instant. As he did it, Miles assumed the role of the injured
party, suiting his language to his condition.
"What d'ee mean by that, you houtrageous willain?" he cried savagely, to
the great amusement of the bystanders, who instantly formed a crowd
round them. "Look wot a mess you've bin an' made o' my clean frock!
Don't you see?"
The poor little man could not see. He could only cough and gasp and
wipe his face with his coat-tails.
"I'd give you in charge o' the pleece, I would, if it wasn't that you've
pretty well punished yourself a'ready," continued Miles. "Take 'im to a
pump some o' you, 'cause I ain't got time. Good-day, spider-legs, an'
don't go for to run into a hartist again, with a paint-pot in 'is 'and."
So saying, Miles pushed through the laughing crowd and sauntered away.
He turned into the first street he came to, and then went forward as
fast as was consistent with the idea of an artisan in a hurry. Being
utterly ignorant of the particular locality into which he had
penetrated--though well enough acquainted with the main thoroughfares of
the city--his only care was to put as many intricate streets and lanes
as possible between himself and the detectives. This was soon done, and
thereafter, turning into a darkish passage, he got rid of the paint-pot
and borrowed costume.
Fortunately he had thrust his own soft helmet-shaped cap into his breast
at the time he put on the billycock, and was thus enabled to issue from
the dark passage very much like his former self, with the exception of a
few spots of whitewash, which were soon removed.
Feeling now pretty safe, our hero walked a considerable distance through
the unknown parts of the city, before he ventured to inquire the way to
thoroughfares with which he was familiar. Once in these, he proceeded
at a smart pace to one of the railway stations, intending to leave town,
though as yet he had formed no definite plan of action. In truth, his
mind was much troubled and confused by the action of his conscience, for
when the thought of leaving home and entering the army as a private
soldier, against his father's wishes, crossed his mind, Conscience
faithfully shook his head; and when softer feelings prevailed, and the
question arose irresistibly, "Shall I return home?" the same faithful
friend whispered, "Yes."
In a state of indecision, Miles found himself borne along by a human
stream to the booking-office. Immediately in front of him were two
soldiers,--one a sergeant, and the other a private of the line.
Both were tall handsome men, straight as arrows, and with that air of
self-sufficient power which is as far removed from arrogance as it is
from cowardice, and is by no means an uncommon feature in men of the
British army.
Miles felt a strong, unaccountable attraction towards the young private.
He had not yet heard his voice nor encountered his eye; indeed, being
behind him, he had only seen his side-face, and as the expression on it
was that of stern gravity, the attractive power could not have lain in
that. It might have lain in the youthful look of the lad, for albeit a
goodly man in person, he was almost a boy in countenance, being
apparently not yet twenty years of age.
Miles was at last roused to the necessity for prompt and decisive action
by the voice of the sergeant saying in tones of authority--
"Portsmouth--third--two--single."
"That's the way to go it, lobster!" remarked a shabby man, next in the
line behind Miles.
The grave sergeant paid no more regard to this remark than if it had
been the squeak of a mouse.
"Now, then, sir, your carridge stops the way. 'Eave a'ead. Shall I
'elp you?" said the shabby man.
Thus admonished, Miles, scarce knowing what he said, repeated the
sergeant's words--
"Portsmouth--third--two--single."
"Vy, you ain't agoin' to pay for _me_, are you?" exclaimed the shabby
man in smiling surprise.
"Oh! beg pardon. I mean _one_," said Miles to the clerk, quickly.
The clerk retracted the second ticket with stolid indifference, and
Miles, hastening to the platform, sat down on a seat, deeply and
uncomfortably impressed with the fact that he possessed little or no
money! This unsatisfactory state of things had suddenly burst upon him
while in the act of paying for his ticket. He now made a careful
examination of his purse, and found its contents to be exactly seven
shillings and sixpence, besides a few coppers in his trousers-pocket.
Again indecision assailed him. Should he return? It was not too late.
"Yes," said Conscience, with emphasis. "No," said Shame. False pride
echoed the word, and Self-will re-echoed it. Still our hero hesitated,
and there is no saying what the upshot might have been if the bell had
not rung at the moment, and, "Now, then, take your seats!" put an end to
the controversy.
Another minute, and Miles Milton was seated opposite the two soldiers,
rushing towards our great southern seaport at the rate of forty miles an
hour.