The oil-lamp which hung in the hall was flickering uncertainly as Polson
and the General walked towards the foot of the staircase, leaving the
passage in darkness for a second or two at a time, and then flaring up
with an unwonted brilliance. The young man took a bedroom candle from a
table at the stairfoot, lit it, and motioned the General to precede
him. He, altogether military in gait, with his shoulders squared to the
utmost, marched upstairs as if he were heading an assault by escalade.
Polson followed, drooping.
‘This is your room, sir,’ the young man said when they came to the end
of the corridor on which they had entered. He threw open the door, and
revealed a cheerful scene. Tall wax candles flamed here and there, a
great fire burned with a steady glow on the hearth, and the rich dark
maroon curtains and hangings of the room gave it a secluded, sheltered,
and homely look which under other circumstances would have been wholly
comfortable by contrast with the elemental war outside. The General
walked into the apartment bolt upright, and Polson stood with the door
handle in his grasp, waiting to catch his eye for a single instant that
he might say good-night. The elder man wheeled suddenly.
‘Come in!’ he said. ‘Come in and close the door.’ Polson obeyed,
wondering what was about to happen. ‘I suspect,’ Boswell began, ‘that I
shall have cause to be sorry for myself and for somebody much dearer to
me than myself before this business is over. But I am sorry for you,
in the meantime, my lad, and I want to tell you that you will have to
revise your ideas a little.’
‘As to what, sir?’ asked Polson.
‘Unless I am very much mistaken,’ the elder went on, ‘the business which
has been sprung upon us to-night will take some time to settle, and will
make more noise in the world than either you or I will care to hear. You
can’t go into the army with this hanging over you.’
‘I had made up my mind about that already,’ said the youngster.
‘Well,’ the General returned, ‘it’s a bitter pill for you to swallow,
and, as I have said, I am sorry for you. It will not be easy for you to
be on terms of intimate friendship with a man who is compelled to fight
your father tooth and nail, and there is nothing else for it at this
moment but for you and me to say good-bye. Things may right themselves,
but I see no use in mincing matters, and I tell you the honest truth
when I say that I don’t believe it, and that for the moment I don’t even
hope for it. There are some men,’ he added, ‘who can’t afford to treat
themselves to violent emotions, and Mr. James Knock Jervoyce is one of
them. I hope your father may be able to clear himself of all complicity;
but _that_ man’s a rascal whatever happens.’
‘Good-bye, sir,’ said Polson.
‘Good-bye,’ the General answered. He held out his hand, but Polson did
not see that friendly gesture, and he walked from the room quite broken,
his chin fallen upon his breast, and his broad shoulders rounded with
despondency. He went straight to his own room, and there also, after the
generous fashion of the countryside, a cheerful fire was burning. It
had fallen to a settled ruby glow, and though it filled the room with
warmth, it afforded but little light. Polson sat down in the shadow, and
stared at the heart of the fire. Outside, the wind howled and wailed, as
if in alternate wild triumph and wild mourning; and the rain beat
upon the window panes in driving sheets. But he heard no sound and was
unconscious of his immediate surroundings. Only two hours ago he had
been sitting in sweet nearness to the girl he loved; and he had been
transcendently and tumultuously happy. How happy he had not known until
the blow came which had dashed the structure of his life to pieces. He
had always longed for a career in the army, and the rumours of war which
had flown so thickly for the past year and a half had served naturally
to set a keener edge to his desire. A commission had not seemed a
very likely thing to hope for at one time, for in the years before the
Crimean War the sons of the British bourgeoisie were not very welcome
in the British army. But as his father had climbed hand-over-hand to
wealth, and as one local honour after another had fallen upon him, the
prospect grew clearer. Now, John Jervase for three years had held the
Commission of the Peace, and had taken a part in politics which had made
him something of a figure in the district. He was above all the poor
man’s friend, and had become a great authority on working-man economics.
He had been foremost in the local movement for the establishment of the
Penny Bank, and had printed a pamphlet which somebody else had written
to his order, which had brought him into a favourable prominence. The
commission for which Polson yearned grew nearer and nearer in
prospect, and at last he had almost placed his hand upon it. Now it was
gone--gone, in all probability, beyond retrieval, and that alone would
have been enough for an average grief. Yet it was barely a tithe of the
sudden burden he had to bear. He had lost Irene, and any man who has
ever been seriously in love knows what that may mean to the heart
of three-and-twenty. And even this was not all, for he had lost his
father--lost irrevocably the bluff, outspoken, honourable man of whom,
in spite of the occasionally disturbing vulgarities of his manner, he
had all his life been proud. Confusedly and slowly the sense of all
these losses surged upon him. Now one was uppermost in his mind, and now
another; but they were always linked together in one leaden feeling of
heavy misery. He sat motionless for a full half-hour, staring at the
fire. At last a single dry sob, which shook him from head to foot,
escaped him. He rose with a bulldog shake of the head, threw back his
shoulders, and walked resolutely but slowly down the staircase. He would
have it out then and there, he declared to himself, and would come to an
understanding with his father. He would actually know the truth without
disguise, and, having learned it, would decide upon the conduct of his
future life. There was no thought of desertion in his mind, but there
was a great longing to be at action, to be striving with something for
a settled purpose; and no settled purpose was possible for him until
he and his father could stand heart to heart and face to face, with all
pretence between them broken down.
The hall lamp had flickered out, as it had threatened to do, and he
groped his way in darkness, though at another moment he would have
walked with the sure foot of custom blindfold about the house. Somehow,
the whole tide of his purpose seemed suddenly to ebb. He became
conscious of the night, and stood in the dark to listen to its wild
voices. There were other voices in the air, for he could hear his father
speaking in a deep, loud hum, and Jervoyce answering from time to time
in a treble like that of an hysteric woman. He felt his way to a hall
chair which had its place close to the parlour door, and sat down there
to wait until he should find his father alone. He could hear no words
from where he sat, but through all the plangent noises of the storm he
could discern anger and command in his father’s voice, and a querulous
appeal which had a note of rage in it in the voice of his father’s
companion. He paid but little heed, for his heart was growing numbed,
and no distinct thought any longer found a place in his mind. Sitting
there in the dark and the cold, he grew barely conscious of his own
pain. This is Nature’s mercy. When the wound is beyond bearing she draws
away the sufferer’s consciousness, and an extremity of agony brings its
own relief, if only for a little while. A dull ache of respite follows
the keener agonies alike of bodily and of mental pain. So he sat there,
dulled and numb and empty, and for the moment he cared for nothing.
A gleam of light and the sound of a coming footstep awoke him to a
knowledge of his surroundings. He did not wish to be found there
sitting miserably in the dark, and he arose, and stood uncertain in what
direction to move. The light grew clearer and nearer, and as it turned
the corner he saw that it was carried by Irene. He forgot his impulse
towards flight, and stood rooted, staring as if he beheld a vision. The
little figure came forward with uncertain footsteps, one hand holding
the candlestick overhead and the other groping for the wall. The feet
trod with a. harsh sound on one or two fragments of broken glass which
had escaped the housemaid’s broom. A yearning ache filled him as the
girl came nearer, for he saw that her eyes were blind with tears. There
was no distortion of the features, save that the small mouth quivered;
and the shining drops brimmed over heavily and silently. Not a sigh
escaped her, and she came on like a figure in a dream. He moved forward
involuntarily, and her name sprang to his lips.
‘Irene!’
She paused and pressed her disengaged hand upon her eyes to clear them
of that bitter rain. Then she looked up at him in silence, and the big
tears began to well over, shining like diamonds as they fell to the
bosom of her dress. It was to be his last sight of her in his own home.
He knew it, and his own heart was like cold iron in his breast. She
made a picture never to be forgotten; a picture to be recalled on stormy
nights at sea; in many a lonely hour of contemplation on alien shores;
in many hours of sickness and delirium, in summer heats among the
vineyards on the banks of Alma, in winter frosts in the trenches of
Sevastopol; in convalescent wanderings amid the dumb reminders of
English dead at Scutari; and later, too, in happy hours when the storms
of youth were over, and manhood’s heart had found safe anchorage, and
the dear head was touched with silver.
She stood there weeping, and he had no power to comfort her--no right to
comfort her.
‘Good-bye, Irene.’ He had the right at least to say that to the
sweetheart of his boyhood, and the chosen idol of his young manhood’s
heart. ‘I have seen your father, dear, and whatever there might have
been, it’s all over. Good-bye, and--God bless you, always. Always.
Always.’
‘I have seen him, too,’ she answered, and though the tears rained down
as fast as ever, there was no break in the sweet quiet voice. ‘Good-bye.
God bless you.’
This was all their farewell, save that when she turned away with that
uncertain groping of the hand he took it in his own and guided it to the
rail of the staircase. He watched her as she slowly mounted the stairs,
with the light of the candle falling on her hair, and turning its brown
masses to dark gold. All her figure was in shadow, and the dim gold head
seemed to float upward until it vanished at the turning of a corner, and
the feint light on the wall grew fainter. Then he heard the soft opening
of a door, and before it closed again, one sob reached his ears, and
stabbed the heart that had laid within him like cold iron; and he knew
that all her self-control had broken down. The door closed swiftly,
shutting out the last ray of light reflected from the wall, and he found
his way back to his chair, and sat there doggedly fighting with himself,
and praying for Heaven’s mercy on her, until his eyes tingled as if they
had been pricked by a needle. Whether he would have it so or no, the
tears came, and as he hid his face in his hands, they dripped between
his fingers to the floor. He was but three-and-twenty, and the first
passion of the pain of life was upon him.
The door at his side was opened stealthily, and his father spoke almost
at his ear, in a harsh whisper.
‘Hillo! The hall’s dark. They’ve all gone to bed, I suppose. Now don’t
let’s have any more chatter. Spain’s the land for you, my lad. You’ll
start first thing tomorrow. You lie low, and leave me to work things
for the pair of us if I can. If I see that the game’s going against us I
shall follow. Good God, what’s that?’
‘I am here, father,’ said Polson, rising. ‘I have been waiting to speak
to you.’ Jervase started violently at his unexpected voice, and half
recoiled into the room behind him.
‘You’re here?’ he said, advancing with clenched hands. ‘What are you
doing here? Eavesdropping?’
‘No, sir,’ said Polson more sternly than he had ever spoken in his life
till then. ‘That isn’t my line of country, and you know it. I want to
speak to you.’
‘Go to your room,’ said his father, hissing from between clenched teeth.
‘Go to your room, sir, and be damned to you.’
‘I have meant to speak to you,’ Polson answered, ‘since I had time to
think this night’s work over, and after what I heard just now, I mean it
more than ever.’
He entered the room and his father gave way before him. He had forgotten
the evident traces of his recent tears, and stood with his eyelashes
still glistening and his cheeks wet and scalded. But his brows were
drawn level and his jaw was thrust out beneath the tightened lips in a
way which brought out the family likeness with amazing force.
‘Well,’ said his father. ‘Say your say, and go.’
‘I shall say my say,’ the younger man responded. ‘Spain is not the
place. Castle Barfield is the place. The Beacon Hill is the place. This
house is the place.’
‘So you have been eavesdropping?’
‘You know I haven’t,’ Polson answered in cold disdain. ‘But I’m
not going to follow that red herring. I say Spain’s not the
place--unless----’
He choked and stammered and could go no further.
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless--oh, my God! how can I say it? Unless my father and his cousin
are a brace of rascals.’
‘That’s pretty language from an only son.’
‘Yes. It’s pretty language. Give me a chance to take it back, and change
it.’
‘Sit down,’ said Jervase, pointing to a chair. His son obeyed him, and
he took a seat at the opposite side of the table, leaning both his arms
forward ponderously. ‘Now, you and me have got to have this out, I see.’
‘Yes,’ the young man answered, repressing a sick shudder. ‘We must have
it out, father.’
‘Very well; I suppose you believe the yarn these chaps have pitched to
Stubbs?’
‘What am I to believe?’
‘Suppose it’s true, what do you think is going to happen?’
‘Shame and ruin to us all,’ said Polson.
‘As for shame--maybe yes--most likely no. As for ruin--that’s as I
please.’
‘Oh?’
‘That’s as I please, I tell you. If this here idiot hadn’t come bursting
in and yelping out his story as he did, we could have managed some sort
of a compromise quite easy. As it is, we’ve got our own partner again
us. You can guess what sort of a chance that’d give us in a court of
justice. Now you remember, Polson. This ain’t a civil perceeding.
The minute they get them chaps over from Canada and the States it’s a
criminal prosecution. D’ye want to see your own father in the dock? I
don’t, and so I tell you. He isn’t _going_ to stand there--you may
bet your life to that, and say I told you. If I can get this braying
jackass, this leaking sieve, this trembling, yowking lady’s lapdog out
o’ the way I can face things.’
‘You can say what you like about me, John,’ said Mr. Jervoyce.
‘Thank you for nothing,’ John answered. ‘That’s my privilege without
your leave or with it.’
‘It’s all true, is it?’ asked Polson, drearily.
‘Yes. It’s all true. But look here, Polson, when this fool’s out o’ the
way we can make a fight for credit. It’s him as deserves to suffer, and
it’s him as has got to suffer to begin with.’
‘Me!’ cried James. ‘Me that deserves to suffer? Who was it put the
thing into my mind? Who was it that came time and time and time again
to whisper into my ear, and tell me where I could find the
men--and--and--and everything? Why curse you----!’
‘Look here,’ said John Jervase. ‘You’re a sidesman and a trustee, and
the Lord alone knows what all. Be decent in your language.’
‘You made me your catspaw. You’ve left nothing to be traced to you if
you could help it. You’ve thrust me into the mire so that you could walk
over dry-shod.’
‘You’ve had your share of the spoil, haven’t you, you lean hypocrite?’
asked Jervase. ‘If you’ll only do as I bid you now I’ll pull you
through.’
He had turned to address his cousin, and now he showed him a disdainful
back, and came face to face with his son again.
‘What on earth are you doing there?’ he asked, after a minute’s
watching.
For Polson was divesting himself of his heavy gold watch and chain, and
rolling out gold and silver from his pockets, and pulling one or two
handsome rings from his fingers, and laying them all upon the tablecloth
before him with an extraordinary stolidity of manner.
‘What are you doing?’ his father asked again.
‘I’ve said good-bye to one or two things to-night,’ said Polson. ‘I’ve
got no right to a farthing’s worth of all that. I’ve got no right to
anything. It seems I’ve lived on stolen money all my life and gone
flaunting about in stolen feathers. Well, I didn’t know it. Perhaps I
ought to feel kinder towards you than I do, but I can’t help it.’
‘Why--why----’ Jervase almost babbled. ‘What’s it mean?’
‘It’s one more good-bye. That’s all.’
‘You’re not--you’re _not_ a-going to leave me, Polly? You’re not a-going
to throw your father over?’
‘I thought my father was an honest man. I thought I had a right to go
into the world amongst gentlemen and hold up my head amongst them,
and make a career amongst them. That was a mistake, you see. I’ve
been mistaken all along, and now I’ve found it out. Good-bye, father.
Goodbye, James.’
‘No, no, Polly. You mustn’t go. I can’t let you go.’
‘Father,’ the young man answered, sternly and sorrowfully, ‘I am going.
If I tried to swallow another mouthful in this house it would choke me.
If I tried to sleep here another night I might as well lie down on fire.
If I can’t eat meat I have a right to, I’ll go without. If I can’t lie
down under an honest roof, I can find the lee-side of a hedge.’
‘I’ve been a kind father to you, Polly, my lad; I’ve let you want for
nothing.’
‘You’ve let me want for an honest name. That’s all. Good-bye.’
‘But, Polly--Polly--my own lad, my only lad--you’re all I’ve got to live
for. What are you going to do?’
‘I shall take the Queen’s shilling, and try my luck in the Crimea.’
And before his father could answer him he was gone.