ANOTHER REAPETH
‘Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt.’
DURING the course of a harum-scarum youth in the city of Dublin certain
persons had been known to predict that Mr. Frederick Conyngham had a
future before him. Mostly pleasant-spoken Irish persons these, who had
the racial habit of saying that which is likely to be welcome. Many of
them added, ‘the young divil,’ under their breath, in a pious hope of
thereby cleansing their souls from guilt.
‘I suppose I’m idle, and what is worse, I know I’m a fool,’ said
Conyngham himself to his tutor when that gentleman, with a toleration
which was undeserved, took him severely to task before sending him up for
the Bar examination. The tutor said nothing, but he suspected that this,
his wildest pupil, was no fool. Truth to tell, Frederick Conyngham had
devoted little thought to the matter of which he spoke, namely, himself,
and was perhaps none the worse for that. A young man who thinks too
often usually falls into the error of also thinking too much, of himself.
The examination was, however, safely passed, and in due course Frederick
was called to the Irish Bar, where a Queen’s Counsel, with an accent like
rich wine, told him that he was now a gintleman, and entitled so to call
himself.
All these events were left behind, and Conyngham, sitting alone in his
rooms in Norfolk Street, Strand, three days after the breaking of Sir
John Pleydell’s windows, was engaged in realising that the predicted
future was still in every sense before him, and in nowise nearer than it
had been in his mother’s lifetime.
This realisation of an unpleasant fact appeared in no way to disturb his
equanimity, for, as he knocked his pipe against the bars of the fire, he
murmured a popular air in a careless voice. The firelight showed his
face to be pleasant enough in a way that left the land of his birth
undoubted. Blue eyes, quick and kind; a square chin, closely curling
hair, and square shoulders bespoke an Irishman. Something, however, in
the cut of his lips—something close and firm—suggested an admixture of
Anglo-Saxon blood. The man looked as if he might have had an English
mother. It was perhaps this formation of the mouth that had led those
pleasant-spoken persons to name to his relatives their conviction that
Conyngham had a future before him. The best liars are those who base
their fancy upon fact. They knew that the ordinary thoroughbred Irishman
has usually a cheerful enough life before him, but not that which is
vaguely called a future. Fred Conyngham looked like a man who could hold
to his purpose, but at this moment he also had the unfortunate appearance
of not possessing one to hold to.
He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and held the hot briar bowl against
the ear of a sleeping fox terrier, which animal growled, without moving,
in a manner that suggested its possession of a sense of humour and a full
comprehension of the harmless practical joke.
A moment later the dog sat up and listened with an interest that
gradually increased until the door opened and Geoffrey Horner came into
the room.
‘Faith, it’s Horner!’ said Conyngham. ‘Where are you from?’
‘The North.’
‘Ah—sit down. What have you been doing up there—tub-thumping?’
Horner came forward and sat down in the chair indicated. He looked five
years older than when he had last been there. Conyngham glanced at his
friend, who was staring into the fire.
‘Edith all right?’ he asked carelessly.
‘Yes.’
‘And—the little chap?’
‘Yes.’
Conyngham glanced at his companion again. Horner’s eyes had the hard
look that comes from hopelessness; his lips were dry and white. He wore
the air of one whose stake in the game of life was heavy, who played that
game nervously. For this was an ambitious man with wife and child whom
he loved. Conyngham’s attitude towards Fate was in strong contrast. He
held his head up and faced the world without encumbrance, without a
settled ambition, without any sense of responsibility at all. The
sharp-eyed dog on the hearthrug looked from one to the other. A moment
before, the atmosphere of the room had been one of ease and comfortable
assurance—an atmosphere that some men, without any warrant or the
justification of personal success or distinction, seem to carry with them
through life. Since Horner had crossed the threshold the ceaseless hum
of the streets seemed to be nearer, the sound of it louder in the room;
the restlessness of that great strife stirred the air. The fox terrier
laid himself on the hearthrug again, but instead of sleeping watched his
two human companions.
Conyngham filled his pipe. He turned to the table where the matchbox
stood at his elbow, took it up, rattled it, and laid it down. He pressed
the tobacco hard with his thumb, and, turning to Horner, said sharply:
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know yet; ruin, I think.’
‘Nonsense, man!’ said Conyngham cheerily. ‘There is no such thing in
this world. At least, the jolliest fellows I know are bankrupts, or no
better. Look at me: never a brief; literary contributions returned with
thanks; balance at the bank, seventeen pounds ten shillings; balance in
hand, none; debts, the Lord only knows! Look at me! I’m happy enough.’
‘Yes, you’re a lonely devil.’
Conyngham looked at his friend with inquiry in his gay eyes.
‘Ah! perhaps so. I live alone, if that is what you mean. But as for
being lonely—no, hang it! I have plenty of friends, especially at
dividend time.’
‘You have nobody depending on you,’ said Horner with the irritability of
sorrow.
‘Because nobody is such a fool. On the other hand, I have nobody to care
a twopenny curse what becomes of me. Same thing, you see, in the end.
Come, man, cheer up. Tell me what is wrong. Seventeen pounds ten
shillings is not exactly wealth, but if you want it you know it is there,
eh?’
‘I do not want it, thanks,’ replied the other. ‘Seventeen hundred would
be no good to me.’
He paused, biting his under lip and staring with hard eyes into the fire.
‘Read that,’ he said at length, and handed Conyngham a cutting from a
daily newspaper.
The younger man read, without apparent interest, an account of the
Chester-le-Street meeting, and the subsequent attack on Sir John
Pleydell’s house.
‘Yes,’ he commented, ‘the usual thing. Brave words followed by a
cowardly deed. What in the name of fortune you were doing in that
_galère_ you yourself know best. If these are politics, Horner, I say
drop them. Politics are a stick, clean enough at the top, but you’ve got
hold of the wrong end. Young Pleydell was hurt, I see—“seriously, it is
feared.”’
‘Yes,’ said Horner significantly; and his companion, after a quick look
of surprise, read the slip of paper carefully a second time. Then he
looked up and met Horner’s eyes.
‘Gad!’ he exclaimed in a whisper.
Horner said nothing. The dog moved restlessly, and for a moment the
whole world—that sleepless world of the streets—seemed to hold its
breath.
‘And if he dies,’ said Conyngham at length.
‘Exactly so,’ answered the other with a laugh—of scaffold mirth.
Conyngham turned in his chair and sat with his elbows on his knees, his
face resting on his closed fists, staring at the worn old hearthrug.
Thus they remained for some minutes.
‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Horner at length.
‘Nothing—got nothing to think with. You know that, Geoffrey. Wish I
had—never wanted it as I do at this moment. I’m no good, you know that.
You must go to some one with brains—some clever devil.’
As he spoke he turned and took up the paper again, reading the paragraph
slowly and carefully. Horner looked at him with a breathless hunger in
his eyes. At some moments it is a crime to think, for we never know but
that thought may be transmitted without so much as a whisper.
‘“The miners were accompanied by a gentleman from London,”’ Conyngham
read aloud, ‘“a barrister, it is supposed, whose speech was a feature of
the Chester le-Street meeting. This gentleman’s name is quite unknown,
nor has his whereabouts yet been discovered. His sudden disappearance
lends likelihood to the report that this unknown agitator actually struck
the blow which injured Mr. Alfred Pleydell. Every exertion is being put
forth by the authorities to trace the man who is possibly a felon and
certainly a coward.”’
Conyngham laid aside the paper and again looked at Horner, who did not
meet his glance nor ask now of what he was thinking. Horner, indeed, had
his own thoughts, perhaps of the fireside—modest enough, but happy as
love and health could make it—upon which his own ambition had brought
down the ruins of a hundred castles in the air—thoughts he scarce could
face, no doubt, and yet had no power to drive away, of the young wife
whose world was that same fireside; of the child, perhaps, whose coming
had opened for a time the door of Paradise.
Conyngham broke in upon these meditations with a laugh.
‘I have it!’ he cried. ‘It’s as simple as the alphabet. This paper says
it was a barrister—a man from London—a malcontent, a felon, a coward.
Dammy, Geoff—that’s me!’
He leapt to his feet. ‘Get out of the way, Tim!’ he cried to the dog,
pushing the animal aside and standing on the hearthrug.
‘Listen to this,’ he went on. ‘This thing, like the others, will blow
over. It will be forgotten in a week. Another meeting will be held—say
in South Wales, more windows will be broken, another young man’s head
cracked, and Chester-le-Street (God-forsaken place, never heard of it!)
will be forgotten.’
Horner sat looking with hollow eyes at the young Irishman, his lips
twitching, his fingers interlocked—there is nothing makes so complete a
coward of a man as a woman’s love. Conyngham laughed as the notion
unfolded itself in his mind. He might, as he himself had said, be of no
great brain power, but he was at all events a man and a brave one. He
stood a full six foot, and looked down at his companion, who sat
whitefaced and shrinking.
‘It is quite easy,’ he said, ‘for me to disappear in such a manner as to
arouse suspicion. I have nothing to keep me here; my briefs—well, the
Solicitor-General can have ’em! I have no ties—nothing to keep me in any
part of the world. When young Pleydell is on his feet again, and a few
more windows have been broken, and nine days have elapsed, the wonder
will give place to another, and I can return to my—practice.’
‘I couldn’t let you do it.’
‘Oh yes, you could,’ said Conyngham with the quickness of his race to spy
out his neighbour’s vulnerable point. ‘For the sake of Edith and the
little devil.’
Horner sat silent, and after a moment Conyngham went on.
‘All we want to do is to divert suspicion from you now—to put them on a
false scent, for they must have one of some sort. When they find that
they cannot catch me they will forget all about it.’
Horner shuffled in his seat. This was nothing but detection of the
thoughts that had passed through his own mind.
‘It is easily enough done,’ went on the Irishman. ‘A paragraph here and
there in some of the newspapers; a few incriminating papers left in these
rooms, which are certain to be searched. I have a bad name—an Irish dog
goes about the world with a rope round his neck. If I am caught it will
not be for some time, and then I can get out of it somehow—an alibi or
something. I’ll get a brief at all events. By that time the scent will
be lost, and it will be all right. Come, Geoff, cheer up! A man of your
sort ought not to be thrown by a mischance like this.’
He stood with his legs apart, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a
gay laugh on his lips, and much discernment in his eyes.
‘Oh, d—n Edith!’ he added after a pause, seeing that his efforts met with
no response. ‘D—n that child! You used to have some pluck, Horner.’
Horner shook his head and made no answer, but his very silence was a
point gained. He no longer protested nor raised any objection to his
companion’s hare-brained scheme. The thing was feasible, and he knew it.
Conyngham went on to set forth his plans, which with characteristic
rapidity of thought he evolved as he spoke.
‘Above all,’ he said, ‘we must be prompt. I must disappear to-night, the
paragraphs must be in to-morrow’s papers. I think I’ll go to Spain. The
Carlists seem to be making things lively there. You know, Horner, I was
never meant for a wig and gown—there’s no doubt about that. I shall have
a splendid time of it out there—’
He stopped, meeting a queer look in Horner’s eyes, who sat leaning
forward and searching his face with jealous glance.
‘I was wondering,’ said the other, with a pale smile, ‘if you were ever
in love with Edith.’
‘No, my good soul, I was not,’ answered Conyngham, with perfect
carelessness, ‘though I knew her long before you did.’
He paused, and a quick thought flashed through his mind that some men are
seen at their worst in adversity. He was ready enough to find excuses
for Horner, for men are strange in the gift of their friendship, often
bestowing it where they know it is but ill deserved.
He rattled on with unbroken gaiety, unfolding plans which in their
perfection of detail suggested a previous experience in outrunning the
constable.
While they were still talking a mutual friend came in—a quick-spoken man
already beginning to be known as a journalist of ability. They talked on
indifferent topics for some time. Then the new-comer said jerkily:
‘Heard the news?’
‘No,’ answered Conyngham.
‘Alfred Pleydell—young fellow who resisted the Chartist rioters at
Durham—died yesterday morning.’ Frederick Conyngham had placed himself
in front of Horner, who was still seated in the low chair by the fire.
He found Horner’s toe with his heel.
‘Is that so?’ he said gravely. ‘Then I’m off.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the journalist with a quick look—the man had
the manner of a ferret.
‘Nothing, only I’m off, that’s all, old man. And I cannot ask you to
stay this evening, you understand, because I have to pack.’
He turned slowly on Horner, who had recovered himself, but still had his
hand over his face.
‘Got any money, Geoff?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I have twenty pounds if you want it,’ answered the other in a
hoarse voice.
‘I do want it—badly.’
The journalist had taken up his hat and stick. He moved slowly towards
the door, and, there pausing, saw Horner pass the bank-notes to
Conyngham.
‘You had better go too,’ said the Irishman. ‘You two are going in the
same direction, I know.’
Horner rose, and, half laughing, Conyngham pushed him towards the door.
‘See him home, Blake,’ he said. ‘Horner has the blues to-night.’