AN UNCONVENTIONAL GUEST.
When Hubert Blake returned to Highgate after his hurried journey to
Scotland, it was evident to Sophy’s eyes that something had happened
to him. Before he went north he was bright and full of spirits. Now he
was listless, moody, and unsociable. If he had been his own master, he
would not have gone back to London at all. He would have set off at
once for another long, aimless tour. But he felt that something was due
to his uncle, and shortly after he left the Castle Farm, he made his
appearance without warning at Grove House.
‘Why didn’t you write and say you were coming?’ asked old Mr. Blake,
in his usual peevish tone.
‘Really, sir, I didn’t think of it. I didn’t suppose it mattered.’
‘One always likes to know when anything is going to happen,’ said the
old man, half offended at his nephew’s want of courtesy.
And Hubert, totally unconscious that he had given any offence,
sauntered out into the garden. Sophy was there, sitting on her
favourite garden-seat, and as Hubert came forward she rose to meet him,
with a smile on her face.
‘Well, Sophy,’ was his greeting, as he sat down beside her, ‘how have
you been getting on?’
‘Exactly as usual. And you?’
‘Oh, I? Well; I found that the matter I went to Scotland about had got
settled without my intervention, as things have a habit of doing if you
only let them alone. So I stayed a few days at the farm; and then I
came back. That’s all.’
‘You might have told us you were coming.’
‘So my uncle said to me. Perhaps it would have been more polite; but
what’s the use of making a fuss? My coming or going isn’t a thing of so
much importance.’
After that nothing was said for a minute or two; and Hubert, stooping
down, picked up a few pebbles, and began jerking them with his thumb
into the laurels.
‘Have you come back to town for the winter?’ asked Sophy at length.
‘I don’t know,’ said the other absently.
Sophy stole a glance at her companion.
‘I don’t think uncle will be able to make up his mind to go away at all
this autumn. I think it such a pity.’
To this Blake made no reply; he only went on pelting the bushes.
‘The Colmans called here yesterday,’ began Sophy once more. ‘They came
to tell us that Edmund Colman has taken a first-class.’
‘Most awful prig!’ murmured Hubert under his breath.
‘I am going to have three hundred snowdrop bulbs set in the
grass-borders in October,’ said Sophy, changing the subject. ‘Don’t you
think they will look very nice?’
‘I dare say.’
Sophy said no more; and Hubert got up to return to the house. As he
looked round before moving away, he was struck by the expression on
Sophy’s face, as she bent over her work, and he sat down again.
‘What’s the matter, Sophy? Have I offended you in any way?’
‘No.’
‘Is it because I didn’t write to say I was coming? Surely----’
‘Oh no; not at all.’
‘There is something. Don’t let us have a misunderstanding, for Heaven’s
sake. If I have hurt you, tell me frankly what it is.’
‘It is only this,’ said Sophy, gathering courage, ‘that our old
relations seem to have changed entirely. Before you went away you used
to be interested in our little doings. Now you don’t care at all. We
don’t seem to belong to the same family now. You tell us nothing about
yourself. You go away for two years, and----’
Sophy stopped suddenly.
‘Oh, dear me!’ Hubert groaned within himself; but when he spoke his
tone was kind and gentle.
‘The fact is, Sophy, I’m spoiled for want of something to do. It would
do me all the good in the world to be forced to earn my bread as a
day-labourer for twelve months. But I haven’t the pluck to do it.’
‘You have your profession,’ said Sophy.
‘I’m sick of it. Everything seems so dull and tasteless, as if nothing
were really worth anything. I’m tired of my life--tired of myself, I
suppose, that is. Do you never feel like that?’
Sophy sighed inaudibly, and made no reply.
‘I’ve a great mind to put twenty pounds in my pocket, go to New York,
and try to make a living there somehow. I suppose I’d fail: and I don’t
see that it would very much matter. Nothing does matter very much, does
it?’
‘Not if one lives for one’s self,’ said Sophy.
She feared she had said too much, but her companion did not seem to
notice it.
‘By the way,’ he said after a pause, ‘that young cousin you’ve heard me
speak of, Alec Lindsay, has just come up to town. I ought to be civil
to him. He’s not a bad sort of fellow--a little countrified, that’s
all. He gives one the feeling of there being a good deal in him, that
will come out some day. Do you mind my asking my uncle if I may invite
him to come here and dine some evening?’
‘Of course I don’t mind. I shall be very pleased to see him.’
‘I’m afraid you won’t find him amusing. He’s very simple and outspoken.
In fact, he is one of those fellows who don’t need to be outspoken.
His face always tells you what he is thinking of before he opens his
lips.’
At this point a servant came in and intimated that Mr. Blake was tired
of his own company, and Hubert and Sophy went into the house together.
Some days passed before Blake could procure Alec’s address by means of
a letter to the farm; and then he asked his Scotch cousin to dinner.
It was a new experience for Alec. Everything at Grove House seemed
daintier, more delicate, and more precise than what he had been
accustomed to. Never in his life had he seen so much money and trouble
lavished upon the petty details of existence; never had he seen the art
of comfortable living carried to such perfection.
When the little party adjourned to the drawing-room after dinner, this
impression was strengthened. The soft low seats, the thick carpet--for
Mr. Blake would not tolerate stained boards and Eastern mats--the
softly shaded and tinted lights, the delicate china, all helped to
produce the effect. The young Scotchman felt too big, too strong and
awkward, for these luxurious surroundings.
Sophy could scarcely tell what to make of her guest. She liked him; she
liked his frank, open face, and his unconventional, unaffected manners;
she liked his strong northern speech. But she hardly knew how to talk
to him. He had no idea of the art of saying little polite nothings for
the sake of keeping conversation going.
‘You have only come south lately?’ she asked, with a smile.
‘Only ten days ago.’
‘And how do you like London?’
‘What do you mean by London?’
Sophy was naturally at a loss for an answer, and Alec went on:
‘London means so many things. The houses are very mean-looking.’
‘But the people?’ asked Sophy, hiding her amusement under a
conventional smile. ‘How do you like them?’
‘They are very smart,’ answered Alec, speaking with great deliberation,
‘and quick in all they do, and selfish, and always in a hurry; and they
think that London is all the world.’
‘You have seen some of the sights, I suppose?’
‘Yes. I went to the National Gallery to see the pictures. Some of them
I couldn’t make anything of. But some of them were simply splendid. And
Westminster Abbey! I never saw anything like it!’
‘You admired the Abbey, then?’
‘It is--oh! I can’t find words to tell you what I thought of it! It
provoked me so, to see the stupid people going about with their faces
as calm as if they were going to dinner, or staring at one lump of a
monument after another. It seems as if it were alive, and knew how
beautiful it is. The columns seem never tired of springing up, and up,
and up, as if they would reach to heaven; and yet they are satisfied
when they join each other in a perfect arch. Who built it? Who imagined
it?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Lindsay,’ said Sophy, glancing to Hubert
for information. He had been watching Sophy, amused by her wonder at
the boy’s enthusiasm.
‘It was built by the Benedictines, I believe,’ said he.
‘I thought nothing could be finer than Glasgow Cathedral till I saw
Westminster,’ said Alec simply.
‘Have you a cathedral at Glasgow? I thought you were all Presbyterians
in Scotland,’ said Sophy.
‘Oh, a very fine one,’ said Hubert, answering for his cousin--‘small,
but a good specimen of its era. And the crypt is particularly good, the
finest in Britain, I believe.’ (This gratified Alec immensely.) ‘And
what did you think of St. Paul’s? You have seen St. Paul’s, I suppose?’
‘I liked the outside; at least, it seems very grand. And when I first
went under the dome I felt as if I had been on the top of a mountain.’
‘When you went to the top of the dome, the stone gallery, I suppose you
mean,’ said Sophy.
‘No; when I went under the dome.’
‘I understand you,’ said Hubert. ‘It gives you something of the same
sense of space and vastness.’
‘But there’s very little beauty about it,’ continued Alec. ‘It’s big,
and that is about all. It’s nothing to be compared with Westminster.’
‘Will you give us some music, Sophy?’ asked Hubert, moving towards the
piano.
Sophy could play well--she had plenty of time for practice--and she
chose one of Beethoven’s sonatas.
‘Do you like that?’ she asked at the end of the first movement, turning
to Alec.
He shook his head.
‘I dare say it’s very beautiful, but I don’t understand what it means
in the least. I don’t care for it.’
‘Frank, at least,’ murmured Sophy to herself, as she turned over
the leaves of her music-book. Then she began to play the ‘Moonlight
Sonata,’ and at the end of the second movement she stopped again. ‘Do
you like that any better?’ she asked.
Alec did not answer at once, and she rose from her seat, a little
piqued at what she thought his rudeness. But Blake saw that he was
trying to steady his voice before replying.
‘Would you be so kind, if you don’t mind the trouble,’ he said in a
very low tone, ‘as to play that piece over again, from the beginning?’
Sophy consented, of course, and as she finished she asked Alec if he
would care to hear anything else.
‘Not just now, please; anything else would sound coarse after that,
wouldn’t it?’
‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Sophy, with a smile.
‘How happy you must be, to be able to play all that whenever you like!’
exclaimed Alec.
‘Do you think so? It is a very easy passage,’ said Sophy, again a
little at a loss how to answer her unconventional guest.
‘Will you give us a song now?’ asked Hubert.
But unfortunately Sophy chose one or two drawing-room songs of no
musical character whatever; and as Alec thought them very poor, he was
so much occupied in trying to find something to say that would not
be absolutely rude, that he forgot to thank the performer; and Sophy
noticed the omission.
‘Well, what do you think of the young Scotchman, Sophy?’ asked Hubert
on his return to the drawing-room, after Alec had taken his leave.
Sophy raised her eyebrows, and dropped the corners of her mouth.
‘I hardly know,’ she replied. ‘He is very unconventional; not
commonplace certainly. I rather like him. He has fine, expressive
eyes. But he has no manners.’
‘That will come in time,’ said Hubert, stifling a yawn. ‘You can’t
expect fine manners from a farmhouse.’
Hubert was right. As the months went on Alec unconsciously learned to
adapt his manners to those of the Londoners. He lost, in part, the
roughness of his Scottish speech; and he insensibly acquired a more
polished and conventional style of address. He visited not infrequently
at Grove House, even when Blake was no longer to be found there; and
Sophy began to take quite a strong liking for him.
‘Take care, Sophy,’ said Hubert one day laughingly, as he noticed what
good friends the two had become; ‘take care, or Alec’s _beaux yeux_
will be too much for you.’
Sophy turned away; and Hubert thought she looked hurt, he didn’t know
why.
Alec had been at Messrs. Hatchett’s office for some months, when one
day, as he passed through the outer office, Beattie came downstairs
with a small sheaf of papers in his hand.
‘Where’s MacGowan?’ he asked sharply.
‘He’s not come down to-day yet, sir,’ answered one of the other clerks.
‘I believe he’s not very well.’
Beattie made no reply, but his face wore a very ugly look as he turned
and left the room.
‘’E’ll get the sack _this_ time, and no mistake,’ Alec overheard one of
the clerks say to another, as he went out.
He went on to Lincoln’s Inn, and on his way back to the office he
met MacGowan coming, apparently, away from the office, with a very
miserable expression of countenance. He looked, indeed, a pitiable
object, even more dilapidated than usual, while his pale face and
trembling hands showed that he had not yet recovered from the effects
of his last drinking-bout. Over his arm hung a tattered coat, in which
he had laboured at the desk for the last six years.
This garment he changed to his left arm on Alec’s approach, and held
out his right hand.
‘Fareweel, Maister Lindsay,’ said the poor fellow, with an air half
sad, half comical. ‘They’ve gien me the sack. That’s the result o’
bein’ conveevial. Weel. It’s a wide warl, an’ a chancey; but we’ll
maybe foregather[3] again some day. Ye’ve been a guid freen’ to me,
Maister Lindsay. As for that sma’ maitter o’ the five shillin’s ye lent
me--perhaps ye’ll allow me--tae----’
The sentence was artistically constructed. It was capable of being
turned into an offer of repayment or a request that the matter might
be allowed to stand over for a time, according as circumstances might
direct; and it was accompanied by the production of an extremely shabby
leathern purse, which evidently was but scantily furnished.
‘Oh, never mind, never mind,’ said Alec hastily. ‘Any time will do for
that--when you get rich. But has Mr. Hatchett really turned you away?’
‘Aye; or raither that stuck-up deevil, Wullie Beattie. But I’ll be even
wi’ him yet; him and his scunnersome[4] pride!’
‘Have you any prospect of finding another situation?’ asked Alec.
The other slowly but decisively shook his head.
‘What will you do, then?’
For answer MacGowan carefully emptied his purse into his left palm, and
took one or two coins out of the tiny heap.
‘I owe this to my landlady,’ he said, referring to the two sovereigns
in his right hand.
There were only three or four left.
‘And is that all you have between you and----’
MacGowan nodded.
‘Stay here a minute,’ said Alec, after a moment’s thought. ‘I’ll see if
I can make your peace for you. I can but try.’ And without waiting for
MacGowan’s thanks he went on with quick steps to the office.
‘So you have dismissed MacGowan,’ said Alec as soon as he reached the
managing clerk’s room.
‘Yes; lazy, drunken vagabond that he is!’ said Beattie spitefully.
‘I told him that I should not advise Mr. Hatchett to look over this
offence; so I suppose he took that as equivalent to a dismissal.’
‘But he will starve! He can’t find another place without a character
for steadiness; and he has only got three or four pounds in the world.’
‘What’s that to me?’
‘Beattie, I wish you would give the poor fellow another chance,’ said
Alec, after a pause. ‘You have only to say nothing of his absence,
and it will never be noticed; or if you do mention it, say a word in
excuse, and I’m sure Mr. Hatchett would never think of dismissing him.’
‘Probably not,’ said Beattie drily.
‘Then why won’t you do it?’
‘Because I don’t want a drunken impertinent fellow like that about the
place. And I don’t see why _you_ need trouble yourself about him;’ and
Beattie turned again to his papers with something like a sneer on his
face.
This was all that was needed to set Alec’s blood in a flame. He took
a step or two forward, his eyes in a blaze, his hands involuntarily
clenched at his side.
‘Then you prefer to be my enemy rather than my friend?’ he said,
between his teeth.
Beattie looked up in astonishment.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Only that I count no man my friend who refuses me so small a favour.’
And Alec looked as if he meant to have his way, whether it pleased Mr.
William Beattie or not.
Beattie was half inclined to laugh in the other’s face, and yet he was
impressed in spite of himself. In one moment he had mentally run over
the circumstances again. It was one of his maxims never to make an
enemy if he could help it. Was it worth while making an enemy of young
Lindsay? True, he saw no way in which Lindsay could injure him--things
were rather the other way. But he might be a rich and influential man
some day. He might have it in his power to refuse a request from _him_,
or to advance his interests. These things passed through the managing
clerk’s mind in less than a second.
‘Oh, if you put it in that way, Lindsay, to oblige you--I don’t mind
looking over it this time. But you’d better tell him this is his last
chance. And I wish you would let me have the draft of Sir Joseph
Wilson’s settlement to-night if you can.’
Alec, who was secretly a little ashamed of his own vehemence, muttered
a few words of thanks; and, going to his own room, scribbled on a
piece of paper, ‘Come back to your old seat, and say nothing about
it.--A. L.’ This he sent on to MacGowan by one of the clerks in the
outer office.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Beattie to himself, as Alec left him; ‘the
creature’s sure to break out again in a month or two, so it comes very
much to the same thing.’
As Alec left the office that night he found himself overtaken by
MacGowan.
‘Oh, Mr. Lindsay, sir!’ cried MacGowan, ‘I just canna thank ye ava’!’
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Alec; ‘but I may as well say this--I
shan’t be able to stand your friend another time; I shall not, indeed.
And I very much fear that if you misbehave again, Mr. Beattie will turn
you away for good and all.’
‘I dare say, but I’ll no gie him the chance. I’ll swear to you I’ll
keep sober, Mr. Lindsay. I’ll swear’t to you on my Bible oath. I ken
fine what gar’d him pack me awa’. The ither clerks ca’ed us “The Twa
Scotties,” him and me; and he didna like it.’
‘Well, I’m glad things have gone all right. Good-night,’ said Alec,
quickening his pace.
Before he had gone much farther he met Hubert Blake.
‘By the way,’ said Blake, when they had exchanged greetings, ‘do you
know whom I saw the other day in Regent Street--an old friend of
yours--that young lady who used to stay with your uncle--what was her
name?’
‘You mean Miss Mowbray,’ said Alec quietly.
He spoke in his ordinary tone, but he could not prevent the quick blush
mounting to his forehead.
After a few unimportant sentences Blake bade Alec good-night. A smile
was on his lips as he turned away.
‘Poor fellow!’ he said to himself, ‘so he has not forgotten her!’
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Meet.
[4] Disgusting.