"About some act
That has no relish of salvation in't."
--_Hamlet._
"Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge."
--_Titus Andronicus._
"BEFORE you begin, Fabian, it is only fair to tell you that I will not
listen favorably to one word in his defense. Under the farsical term of
secretary, Slyme has been a disgrace and a torment to me for years; and
last night has finished everything."
"It was very unfortunate, no doubt," says Fabian, regretfully. "What a
curse the love of drink is!--a madness, a passion."
"I have told him he must go," says Sir Christopher, who is in a white
heat of rage, and is walking up and down the room with an indignant
frown upon his face. Just now, stopping short before Fabian, he drops
into a seat and says, testily, "_Unfortunate!_ _that_ is no word to use
about it. Why, look you how it stands; you invite people to your house
to dine, and on your way to your dining-room, with a lady on your arm,
you are accosted and insolently addressed by one of your household--your
secretary, forsooth--_so_ drunk that it was shameful! He reeled! I give
you my word, sir--he _reeled_! I thought Lady Chetwoode would have
fainted: she turned as pale as her gown, and but for her innate pluck
would have cried aloud. It was insufferable, Fabian. Waste no more words
over him, for go he shall."
"After all these years," says Fabian, thoughtfully, thrumming gently on
the table near him with his forefinger.
All night long the storm has raged with unexampled fury, and even yet
its anger is fierce and high as when first it hurled itself upon a
sleeping world. The raindrops are pattering madly against the
window-panes, through the barren branches of the elms the wind is
shrieking, now rising far above the heads of the tallest trees, now
descending to the very bosom of the earth, and, flying over it, drives
before its mighty breath all such helpless things as are defenceless and
at its mercy.
Perhaps the noise of this tempest outside drowns the keen sense of
hearing in those within, because neither Fabian nor Sir Christopher
stir, or appear at all conscious of the opening of a door at the upper
end of the library, where they are sitting. It is a small door hidden by
a portiere leading into another corridor that connects itself with the
servants' part of the house.
As this door is gently pushed open, a head protrudes itself cautiously
into the room, though, on account of the hanging curtains, it is quite
invisible to the other occupants of the apartment. A figure follows the
head, and stands irresolutely on the threshold, concealed from
observation, not only by the curtain, but by a Japanese screen that is
placed just behind Sir Christopher's head.
It is a crouching, forlorn, debased figure, out of which all manliness
and fearlessness have gone. A figure crowned by gray hair, yet gaining
no reverence thereby, but rather an additional touch of degradation.
There is, too, an air of despondency and alarm about this figure to-day
new to it. It looks already an outcast, a miserable waif, turned out to
buffet with the angry winds of fortune at the very close of his life's
journey. There is a wildness in his bloodshot eyes, and a nervous tremor
in his bony hand, as it clutches at the curtain for support, that
betrays the haunting terror that is desolating him.
"I don't care," says Sir Christopher, obdurately. "I have suffered too
much at his hands; I owe him nothing but discomfort. I tell you my mind
is made up, Fabian; he leaves me at once, and forever."
At this, the crouching figure in the doorway shivers, and shakes his
wretched old head, as though all things for him are at an end. The storm
seems to burst with redoubled fury, and flings itself against the panes,
as though calling upon him to come out and be their pastime and their
sport.
"My dear Sir Christopher," says Fabian, very quietly, yet with an air of
decision that can be heard above the fury of the storm, "it is
impossible you can turn the old man out _now_, at his age, to _again_
solicit Fortune's favor. It would be terrible."
At this calm, but powerful intervention of Fabian's, the old head in the
doorway (bowed with fear and anxiety) raises itself abruptly, as though
unable to believe the words that have just fallen upon his ears. He has
crept here to listen with a morbid longing to contemptuous words uttered
of him by the lips that have just spoken; and lo! these very lips have
been opened in his behalf, and naught but kindly words have issued from
them.
As the truth breaks in upon his dulled brain that Fabian has actually
been defending his--_his_ case, a ghastly pallor overspreads his face,
and it is with difficulty he suppresses a groan. He controls himself,
however, and listens eagerly for what may follow.
"Do you mean to tell me I am bound to keep a depraved drunkard beneath
my roof?" demands Sir Christopher, vehemently. "A fellow who insults my
guests, who--"
"The fact that he has contracted this miserable habit of which you speak
is only another reason why you should think _well_ before you discard
him now, in his old age," says Fabian, with increasing earnestness. "He
will starve--die in a garret or by the wayside, if you fling him off. He
is not in a fit state to seek another livelihood. Who would employ him?
And you he has served faithfully for years--twenty years, I think; and
of all the twenty only three or four have been untrustworthy. You should
think of that, Christopher. He was your right hand fur a long time,
and--and he has done neither you nor yours a real injury."
Here the unhappy figure in the doorway raises his hand and beats his
clenched fist in a half-frantic, though silent, manner against his
forehead.
"You are bound, I think," says Fabian, in the same calm way, "to look
after him, to bear with him a little."
"_You_ defend him!" exclaims Sir Christopher, irritably, "yet I believe
that in his soul he hates you--would do you a harm if he could. It is
his treatment of _you_ at times," says Sir Christopher, coming at last
to the real germ of the danger he is cherishing against Slyme,
"that--that-- Remember what he said only last week about you."
"Tut!" says Fabian, "I remember nothing. He was drunk, no doubt, and
said what he did not mean."
"I believe he did mean it. _In vino veritas._"
"Well, even so; if he does believe in the story that has blasted my
life, why"--with a sigh--"so do many others. I don't think the poor old
fellow would really work me any mischief, but I doubt I have been harsh
to him at times, have accused him somewhat roughly, I dare say, of his
unfortunate failing; and for that, it may be, he owes me a grudge.
Nothing more. His bark is worse than his bite. It is my opinion,
Christopher, that underneath his sullen exterior there lurks a great
deal of good."
The trembling figure in the doorway is growing more and more bowed. It
seems now as if it would gladly sink into the earth through very shame.
His hand has left the curtain and is now clinging to the lintel of the
door, as though anxious of more support than the soft velvet of the
portiere could afford.
"Well, as you seem bent on supporting a most unworthy object," says Sir
Christopher, "I shall pension Slyme, and send him adrift to drink
himself to death as soon as suits him."
"Why do that?" says Fabian, as quietly as ever, but with all the
determination that characterizes his every word and action. "This house
is large, and can hide him somewhere. Besides, he is accustomed to it,
and would probably feel lost elsewhere. He has been here for the third
of a lifetime--a long, _long_ time." (He sighs again. Is he bringing to
mind the terrible length of the days that have made up the sum of the
last five years of his life?) "Give him two rooms in the West wing, it
is seldom used, and give him to understand he must remain there; but do
not cast him out now that he is old and helpless."
At this last gentle mark of thoughtfulness on Fabian's part the figure
in the doorway loses all self-control. With a stifled cry he flings his
arms above his head, and staggers away down the corridor outside to his
own den.
"What was that?" asks Sir Christopher, quickly; the smothered cry had
reached his ears.
"What? I heard nothing," says Fabian, looking up.
"The storm, perhaps," says his uncle, absently. Then, after a pause,
"Why do you so strongly espouse this man's cause, Fabian?"
"Because from my soul I pity him. He has had many things of late to try
him. The death of his son a year ago, upon whom every thought of his
heart was centered, was a terrible blow, and then this wretched passion
for strong drink having first degraded, has, of course, finished by
embittering his nature. I do not blame him. He has known much
misfortune."
Sir Christopher, going up to him, places his hands upon the young man's
shoulder and gazes earnestly, with love unutterable, in his eyes. His
own are full of tears.
"No misfortune, however heavy, can embitter a _noble_ nature," he says,
gently. "One knows that when one knows _you_. For your sake,
Fabian--because you ask it--Slyme shall remain."
* * * * *
It grows towards evening, and still the rain descends in torrents. Small
rivers are running on the gravel-walks outside, the snow-drops and
crocuses are all dead or dying, crushed and broken by the cruel wind.
Down below in the bay the sea has risen, and with a roaring sound rushes
inland to dash itself against the rocks. Now and then a flash of
lightning illumines its turbulent breast and lets one see how the
"ambitious ocean" can "swell, and rage, and foam, to be exalted with the
threatening clouds." The sailors and boatmen generally, in the small
village, are going anxiously to and fro, as though fearful of what such
a night as this may produce.
Now a loud peal of thunder rattles overhead, rendering insignificant the
wild howling of the wind that only a moment since had almost been
deafening. And then the thunder dies away for a while, and the storm
shrieks again, and the windows rattle, and the gaunt trees groan and
sway, and the huge drops upon the window panes beating incessantly, make
once more a "mournful music for the mind."
They are all assembled in Dulce's boudoir, being under the impression,
perhaps, that while the present incivility of the elements continues,
it is cosier to be in a small room than a large one. It may be this, or
the fact that both Dulce and Portia have declined to come down stairs or
enter any other room, until dinner shall be announced, under any pretext
whatever. And so as the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mohammed has
come to the mountain.
Sir Christopher has just gone through an exaggerated _resume_ of old
Slyme's disgraceful conduct last night, when the door is opened, and
they all become aware that the hero of the story is standing before
them.
Yes, there stands Gregory Slyme, pale, breathless, and with one hand
already uplifted, as though to deprecate censure, and to stay the order
to "begone," that he plainly expects from every lip.
"Why, he is here again!" cries Sir Christopher, now incensed beyond
measure. "Even my niece's room is not safe from him."
He points angrily to the secretary, who cowers before his angry look,
yet shows no intention of retiring. With all his air of hopeless
sottishness, that clings to him like a spotted garment, there is still
something strange about the man that attracts the attention of Mark
Gore. He has been closely watching him ever since his entrance, and he
can see that the head usually buried in the chest is now uplifted, that
in the sunken eyes there is a new meaning, a fire freshly kindled, born
of acute mental disturbance; and indeed in his whole bearing there is a
settled _purpose_ very foreign to it.
"Hear me, hear me!" he entreats, with quivering accents, but passionate
haste. "Do not send me away _yet_, I _must_ speak now--now, or never!"
The final word sinks almost out of hearing. His hands fall to his sides.
Once again his head sinks to its old place upon his breast. Sir
Christopher, believing him to be again under the influence of drink,
opens his lips with the evident intention of ordering him from his
presence, when Sir Mark interposes.
"He has come to say something. Let him say it," he says, tapping Sir
Christopher's arm persuasively.
"Ay, let me," says Slyme, in a low tone, yet always with the remnant of
a wasted passion in it. "It has lain heavy on my heart for years. I
shall fling it from me now, if the effort to do it kills me."
Turning his bleared eyes right and left, he searches every face slowly
until he comes to Fabian. Here his examination comes to an end.
Fastening his eyes on Fabian, he lets them rest there, and never again
removes them during the entire interview. He almost seems to forget, or
to be unaware, that there is any other soul in the room, save the man at
whom he is gazing so steadfastly. It is to him alone he addresses
himself.
"I call you to witness," he says, now striking himself upon his breast,
"that whatever I have done has not gone unpunished. If my crime has been
vile, my sufferings have been terrible. I have endured torments. I want
no sympathy--none. I expect only detestation and revenge, but yet I
would have you remember that there was a time when I was a man, not the
soddened, brutish, contemptible _thing_ I have become. I would ask you
to call to mind all you have ever heard about remorse; its stings, its
agony, its despair, and I would have you know that I have felt it all;
yea, more, a thousand times more!"
All this time he has had his hand pressed against his chest in a rigid
fashion. His lips have grown livid, his face pale as any corpse.
"This is mere raving," exclaims Sir Christopher, excitedly; but again
Gore restrains him as he would have gone forward to order Slyme to
retire.
"To-day," goes on Slyme, always with his heavy eyes on Fabian, "I heard
you speak in my defence--_mine_! Sir, if you could only know how those
words of yours burned into my heart, how they have burned since, how
they are burning _now_," smiting himself, "you would be half avenged. I
listened to you till my brain could bear no more. You spoke kindly of
_me_, you had pity on my old age--upon _mine_, who had no pity on your
youth, who ruthlessly ruined your life, who--"
"Man, if you have anything to confess--to explain--_say it_!" breaks in
Sir Mark, vehemently, who is half mad with hope and expectancy.
Portia has risen from her low seat, and forgetful or regardless of
comment, is gazing with large, white eyes at the old man. Sir
Christopher has grasped Mark Gore's arm with almost painful force, and
is trembling so violently that Gore places his other arm gently round
him, and keeps it there as a support. All, more or less, are agitated.
Fabian alone makes no movement; with a face white to the very lips, he
stands with his back against the mantelpiece, facing Slyme, so
motionless that he might be a figure carved in marble.
Really deaf and blind to all except Fabian, the secretary takes no heed
of Sir Mark's violent outburst. He has paused, indeed, at the
interruption, some vague sense telling him he will not be heard while it
continues, but now it has subsided he goes on again, addressing himself
solely to Fabian, as though it had never occurred.
"It was for _him_ I did it, for _his_ sake," he says, monotonously. He
is losing his head a little now, and his mind is wandering back to
earlier days. "For my boy, my son--to save him. It was a sore
temptation; and he never knew, he never knew." A gleam of something like
comfort comes into his eyes as he says this.
"What _did_ you do?" demands Dicky Browne, in an agony of hope and
doubt. "Can't you say it at once and be done with it? Speak out,
man--_do_!"
"Curse me! _Kill_ me if you will!" cries Slyme, with sudden vehemence,
stretching out his hands to Fabian, and still deaf to any voice but his.
"You have been deceived, falsely accused, most treacherously dealt with.
It was I forged that check--not you!"
The miserable man, as he makes this confession, falls upon his knees and
covers his face with his hands.
A terrible cry bursts from Dulce; she springs to her feet, and would
have rushed to Fabian but that Roger, catching her in his arms, prevents
her. And indeed, it is no time to approach Fabian. He has wakened at
last into life out of his curious calm, and the transition from his
extreme quietude of a moment since to the state of ungovernable passion
in which he now finds himself is as swift as it is dangerous.
"_You!_" he says, staring at the abject figure kneeling before him, in a
tone so low as to be almost inaudible, yet with such an amount of
condensed fury in it as terrifies the listeners. "_You!_" He makes a
step forward as though he would verily fall upon his enemy and rend him
in pieces, and so annihilate him from the face of the earth; but before
he can touch him, a slight body throws itself between him and Slyme, and
two small, white hands are laid upon his breast. These little hands,
small and powerless as they are, yet have strength to force him
backwards.
"Think," says Portia, in a painful whisper. "Think! Fabian, you would
not harm that old man."
"My dear fellow, don't touch him," says Dicky Browne. "Don't. In your
present frame of mind a gentle push of yours would be his death."
"Death!" says old Slyme, in such a strange voice that instinctively they
all listen to him. "It has no terrors for me." He has raised his head
from his hands, and is now gazing again at Fabian, as though fascinated,
making a wretched and withal a piteous picture, as his thin white locks
stream behind him. "What have I to live for?" he cries, miserably. "The
boy I slaved for, sinned for, for whom I ruined you and my own soul, is
dead, cold in his grave. Have pity on me, therefore, and send me where I
may rejoin him."
Either the excitement of his confession, or the nervous dread of the
result of it, has proved too much for him; because just as the last word
passes his lips, he flings his arms wildly into the air, and, with a
muffled cry, falls prone, a senseless mass, upon the ground.
When they lift him, they find clutched in his hand a written statement
of all he has confessed so vaguely. They are very gentle in their
treatment of him, but when he has recovered consciousness and has been
carried by the servants to his own room, it must be acknowledged that
they all breathe more freely.
Sir Christopher is crying like a child, and so is Dicky Browne. The
tears are literally running in little rivulets all down Dicky's plump
cheeks, but he is not in the least ashamed of them--as indeed, why
should he be? As in between his sobs he insists on telling everybody he
is so glad--so awfully glad, his apparent grief, had they been in the
mood for it, would have struck them all as being extremely comic.
The effect of their tears upon the women has the most desirable result.
It first surprises, and then soothes them inexpressibly. It leaves
indeed a new field entirely open to them. Instead of being petted, they
can pet.
Julia instantly undertakes Dicky, who doesn't quite like it; Dulce
appropriates Sir Christopher, who likes it very much.
Fabian, now that his one burst of passion is at an end, is again
strangely silent. Mark Gore, laying his hand upon his shoulder, says
something to him in a low tone unheard by the rest, who are all talking
together and so making a solitude for these two.
"It is too late," says Fabian, replying to him slowly; "too late." There
is more of settled conviction than of bitterness in his tone, which
only renders it the more melancholy. "He was right. He has ruined my
life. Were I to live twice the allotted time given to man, I should
never forget these last five horrible years. They have killed me; that
is, the best of me. I tell you, deliverance has come _too late_!"
Even as his voice dies away another rises.
"Do not say that--_anything_ but that," entreats Portia, in deep
agitation. Once more this evening she lays her small, jeweled hand upon
his breast and looks into his eyes. "Fabian, there is renewed hope, a
fresh life before you; take courage. Remember--Oh, Mark, _speak_ to
him!"
She is trembling violently, and her breath is coming with suspicious
difficulty. Her lips are quivering, and pain, actual physical pain,
dimming the lustre of her violet eyes. The old ache is tugging angrily
at her heart strings now.
Still Fabian does not relent. As yet the very salve that has cured his
hurt has only made the hurt more unendurable by dragging it into public
notice. Now that he is free, emancipated from the shadow of this crime
that has encompassed him as a cloud for so long, its proportions seem to
grow and increase until they reach a monstrous size. To have been
wounded in the body, or deprived of all one's earthly goods at a stroke,
or bereaved of one's nearest and dearest, would all have been sore
trials no doubt. But, alas! to make him a fixed figure for scorn to
point his slow, unmoving finger at. What agony, with misfortune, could
cope with that?
And she, who had not trusted him when she _might_, will he care that she
should trust him now when she _must_?
Slowly he lifts the pale, slender hand, and very gently lets it fall by
her side. His meaning is not to be misunderstood; he will none of her.
Henceforth their paths shall lie as widely apart as they have lain (of
_her own_ choice) for the past few months.
"I repeat it," he says, quietly, letting his eyes rest for a moment upon
hers, "it is _too late_!"
And outside the wild winds, flying past with an even fiercer outbreak of
wrath, seem to echo those fatal words, "Too late!" The very rain, being
full of them, seeks to dash them against the window panes. A sudden roar
of thunder resounding overhead comes as a fit adjunct to the despair
embodied in them. All nature is awake, and the air seems full of its
death-knells.
Portia, sick at heart, moves silently away.