THE SON OF HIS FATHER.
VOL. III.
THE SON OF HIS FATHER
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT
AUTHOR OF
“IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS,” “AGNES,”
“THE LAIRD OF NORLAW,”
ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1887.
_All rights reserved._
CONTENTS
OF
THE THIRD VOLUME.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE GREAT SCHEME 1
II. MR. SANDFORD’S SECRETARY 18
III. JOHN ON HIS TRIAL 34
IV. DEFEATED AND WRONGED 51
V. THE CULPRIT 67
VI. A CRISIS 80
VII. MRS. SANDFORD’S VIEW 96
VIII. THE CONVICT 113
IX. THE FIRST SHOCK 129
X. MOTHER AND SON 147
XI. SUSIE AND HER LOVERS 165
XII. JOHN’S LETTER 183
XIII. THE DARKNESS THAT COULD BE FELT 203
XIV. THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION 220
XV. THE FATHER AND CHILDREN 242
XVI. THE GREAT SCHEME 260
XVII. ELLY’S PLEDGE 277
XVIII. A SUSPENDED SOLUTION 295
THE SON OF HIS FATHER.
CHAPTER I.
THE GREAT SCHEME.
John’s imagination, though it was so full of other matters, was affected
more than he could understand by his strange visitor. He felt himself
going back a hundred times in the course of the evening to this man, and
those curious sophistries which he produced, always with that half smile
in his eyes, as if he himself saw the absurdity in them, and as if
morals and reason were something outside of himself to be treated with
entire impartiality.
John wondered how far he believed or disbelieved what he had been
saying, and whether these dispassionate discussions of what was
formally right or wrong took away from a conscience, which could not be
very delicate or sensitive, anything of the burden. They set him
thinking too, following the career of such a being, trying to
understand. Drink--was not in the decalogue, as his visitor had said:
and John had seen enough even in his short life to know with what
facility, with what innocence of evil meaning, the first step may be
taken in that most general, most destructive of all vices--the one which
leads to so many other developments, and which involves, as that
philosopher had allowed, consequences more terrible, and penalties more
prompt and inevitable than any other. John was very strenuous against
it, almost bitter, having seen, as everyone has seen, its disastrous
effects upon both body and soul. And yet, perhaps it was true what the
other had said. Perhaps there were sins which brought no immediate evil
consequences, which yet were blacker in the sight of heaven.
He felt himself wondering, with an indulgent feeling which was strange
to him, how it was that a man who had nothing in him of the criminal
air, a man full of thoughtfulness and humorous observation, and a
knowledge of the workings of the mind, should have fallen into crime,
and should have sunk into those depths and abysses of misery where he
had no friend but Joe. A man must have reduced all the motives of human
life to their elements, he must have banished all consideration of the
outward and visible, all thoughts of the alleviations, the consolations,
the comforts and stays of existence before he could have sunk
contentedly to the bottom, and cynically, stoically, smilingly,
despairingly, made himself believe that his brutal ‘mate’ was as good as
any other, being all that remained to him.
And what, John asked himself, could remain for a convict whose world for
so many years had been limited to the interior of a prison, and who in
the course of working out his sentence had lost everything? What
remained? One would suppose the poor wretch’s family, somebody who
belonged to him, some wife or sister, or daughter. And then came his
story: It is Corban--a gift. John felt his own heart bleed at the mere
thought of this hopeless, succourless, yet uncomplaining misery. A man
who could manage still to smile in the face of all that, to maintain
still the attitude of a thinker, of an observer looking on at his own
entire destitution with impartial eyes, with that calm and full
understanding and humorous despair--the young man shuddered in the midst
of his own success and prosperity, and love and hope. Could there be a
more complete and absolute contrast? It was so great that his heart
seemed to stand still as he contemplated it--a distance as of heaven
from hell.
The evening was spent in very close work; for he found that a great many
details had to be filled in and made clear before the plan, worked out
in his own brain, could be made presentable to the experienced and
critical eyes to which he meant to submit it. And he was at his
writing-table again early in the morning, arranging his papers so as to
make the copying easy, with much question in his own mind whether his
new _protegé_ would really come, whether he would prove capable of such
work. John thought that in all likelihood the man would not come, and
was giving up with a regret which seemed even to himself quite uncalled
for--regret as for a pet project which he gave up most unwillingly--the
plan of active charity which he had so hastily adopted--when his visitor
of the previous day suddenly appeared. He came alone, trim and
well-brushed, but with a shaking hand, and eyes which were red and
muddy, and made his excuses with a deprecating smile.
‘I’m late,’ he said, ‘you must make allowance for bad habits. And I’ve
had to get up as other people pleased for so long that I can’t help
indulging a little now; but I work quickly and I’ll soon make it up.’
‘There is no hurry,’ said John: which was not exactly true, nor what he
would have said to anyone else. And they worked together for the greater
part of the day, not talking much, though John’s secretary now and then
paused, leaned back upon his chair, raised his eyes to the ceiling, and
seemed on the eve of resuming the philosophisings of last night. But
John was too busy to take any notice, and his companion presently would
fall to work again.
He had no special knowledge of John’s subject, but he had a great deal
of intelligence, and asked reasonable questions and led John into
explanations which were very useful to him, showing him how to recommend
and elucidate his plan. They had their chop together in the middle of
the day, and John found his companion more and more agreeable. There was
something natural, familiar, in the relations into which they fell. John
was a young man not too easy, as his fellow-workers knew, to ‘get on
with.’ He was very exacting in the matter of attention to work. He was
apt to conceive a contempt for the people who did not care for what they
were employed on--and the young men who did just what they were
compelled to do and no more, found no favour in his eyes. But even those
periods of idling which occurred in the work of this grey-haired
secretary did not produce that effect upon his young employer.
A gentleness of feeling, little habitual to him, stole over John. He did
not feel critical--he felt friendly, oh, so compassionate, afraid even
to think anything that could add a pang to this man, so forlorn and
miserable, denuded of all things. The less he made of his own
wretchedness the more profoundly did John feel it. He kept thinking, as
he gave him his instructions, of all that this clear intelligence must
have suffered shut up in the strait routine of a prison. He could not
copy a page or make a calculation without some little running-over of
remark, something that brought a smile, that betrayed the lively play of
a mind unsubdued by the most tremendous burdens, by all the heavy and
horrible experiences of such a life. How could he have borne that, day
by day and year by year? A sort of awe, and almost reverence of the
tragedy that this humorous, light-hearted being must have lived through,
rose in John’s musing soul.
It was not until they were finishing their little meal together that the
absence of one very natural and usual explanation between them struck
the young man.
‘By-the-by,’ John said, suddenly--he was making corrections in one of
the papers and did not raise his head--‘By-the-by, it seems very absurd.
I don’t even know your name.’
There was a moment’s silence, and then John looked up. He found his
companion’s eyes fixed upon him with his usual half smile of
observation, and dubious humorous uncertainty. When John met his eye he
changed his position a little with a momentary laugh.
‘I have been so long out of the habit of thinking a name necessary,’ he
said. ‘My name is----’ He paused again, and once more looked at John,
in whose face there was no suspicious anxiety, but only a friendly
alertness of interest. Something mischievous and mirthful lighted up in
the stranger’s eyes: ‘My name is--March,’ he said.
‘And mine is Sandford,’ replied John.
The mischievous light went out of the other’s look. His face grew
serious; he nodded his head two or three times with gravity.
‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It is a name that I have had a great deal to do
with in my life; but I don’t suppose you ever heard of me.’
John shook his head. He cleared away with his own hand the last remnants
of the luncheon, over which enough time had been expended.
‘Now we’ll get to work again if you are ready,’ he said.
He knew nothing of any March. He was not aware that he had ever heard
the name. And then they set to work again together pleasantly,
cheerfully; John finding something inspiriting in the companionship for
all the rest of the afternoon.
Next day the young man presented himself at the office, though his leave
was not yet exhausted. But he did not go naturally to his own desk, to
look if there were letters or special orders for him. He marched
straight to the door within which the younger partner, the son of the
Mr. Barrett who had received him into the office, and whom John had
always found severe, had his throne. The younger Mr. Barrett was far
more favourable to the young man than his father had ever been, and
never spoke to him of the hospital, or the duty which lay upon him to
repay his mother for her kindness, which was what the elder invariably
did. It is not a subject which is agreeable even to the most dutiful of
children. Repay your mother for all that she has done for you! Who could
bear that odious advice? John was not angelic enough to be pleased by
it. And when he had the choice it was to Mr. William Barrett that he
betook himself. He found that personage in a very cheerful condition,
and delighted to see him.
‘You are the very man I want. You must go off at once to those works at
Hampstead. They’ve got into a mess, and no one can clear it up better
than you. I was just wishing for you. But your leave is not out: how is
it you’ve come back before your time?’
Then John explained that he had been privately working for a long time
at a scheme of which his mind was very full. And he gave on the spot an
account of it which made the junior partner open his eyes.
‘If you’ve done that, my boy, you’ve made your fortune, and ours too,’
he said, listening with great attention to John’s exposition.
‘That’s what I hope, sir,’ the young man said, with all the confidence
of youth.
Mr. William Barrett listened half-bantering, half-believing. To think of
so young a man having hit upon an expedient which had baffled so many
older brains, seemed to him half-incredible, and he laughed and rubbed
his hands even while he seriously inclined to hear all the details of
the scheme.
‘It all depends upon whether it’s practicable,’ he said. ‘Do you know
the lie of the country? Have you calculated the cost even of what will
be required as a basis of operations?’
‘I have calculated everything,’ said John, with that enthusiastic
conviction which is so contagious. Mr. Barrett looked in his face with a
laugh, half-sceptical, half-sympathetic.
‘I like young men to think well of their own schemes,’ he said; ‘and I
like them to plan big works even if they should never come to anything.
Show me your papers----’
‘I am having them copied out. I am making the statement as clear as
possible. I will bring them as soon as they are ready.’
‘Oh, they are not ready, then!’ Mr. Barrett cooled perceptibly. ‘You
should not have said anything about it until they were in a state to be
inspected--copying was not necessary--the rough notes are what I should
have liked to see. You had better go off to Hampstead at once, and when
you have finished that job you can bring me your plan, if it is ready
then. There may be something in it--one can never tell.’
John felt that this was a very summary dismissal after the gleam of
favour with which he had been regarded. He felt as if the plan which
had been so much in the forefront of his imagination had been cast all
at once into the background, which discouraged him for the moment: all
the more that his own judgment agreed with what his chief said, and he
felt now that it would have been better to place the scribbles of his
rising invention before the experienced eyes which could see at a glance
what was practicable in them, instead of the fair copy written out in a
strange hand, which his impulse in favour of poor March had alone moved
him to make. However, he set out at once for Hampstead, according to his
orders, and there forgot his discouragement, and even, for a time, his
great scheme, in the counter excitement of bringing order out of chaos.
There is a certain satisfaction in finding that a piece of business has
been horribly mismanaged, when one feels that one can put it all right.
For some days John was fully occupied with this work, with scarcely time
even to think of anything else. He got home at night late and very tired
with his day’s work, feeling able for little more than to give a glance
at what March had been doing and to feel the comfort and satisfaction
of having an amanuensis who arranged his papers so carefully and copied
so neatly, in a handwriting, which, John remarked with surprise, was
very like though better than his own. Everything was carefully arranged
in the most orderly manner, the scraps of calculation in their proper
succession, and the work going on, though slowly. It was indeed going on
very slowly, and John never found his secretary at work when he
returned: but he reflected that in all likelihood that philosopher, left
to himself, took things easily; and there was no hurry: and he was too
tired in the evenings when he came back from his work to give his full
attention to anything else.
The Hampstead work occupied him for about a fortnight. On the morning
after its completion he got up with a new start of energy, and with a
revival of interest and enthusiasm betook himself to his great scheme.
To his surprise, however, he found the little collection of
calculations, sketches, and estimates, in the very same condition in
which he had placed them in March’s hand, all very neatly arranged and
in proper order, but without a trace of the fair copy for which he had
given instructions. John was exceedingly startled, and did not know what
to think. Had it not been done at all? had the patience of the
unfortunate amanuensis or his self-control given way, and the work been
thrown up? But then John had seen a considerable part of it completed.
He had even, as has been said, looked over a portion of it, and remarked
that March’s handwriting was like his own. What could this mean? An
alarm which he felt to be absurd, at least excessive, most likely
altogether uncalled-for, took possession of him. He called his landlady
and asked her if Mr. March had said anything, if he had left any
message, if he had been at work the day before? John’s landlady was the
impersonation of respectability: she did not lose her temper or break
forth into abuse. But her air was that of an offended woman, and she
immediately replied that she had been about to speak to him on the
subject, that she could not have such persons in her house.
‘Persons?’ John said, with surprise, and then Mrs. Short, keeping her
composure with difficulty, informed him that she had nothing to say
against ‘the old gentleman,’ who she allowed was pleasant-spoken, and
looked respectable, though she much feared he liked a drop: but that the
other was the one as she could not abide.
John learned with some annoyance that Joe had come daily while he was
absent, and had made his way into the room where March sat at work--but
that for the last two days neither of them had appeared at all.
‘And very glad I was: for I couldn’t have stood it another day, not
another day, Mr. Sandford, much as I think on you, sir. A fellow like
that slouching in as if the place belonged to him: and who could tell
what he mightn’t bring--disease, or vermin, or dirt: dirt sure enough,
for Jane did nothing but sweep up after him. Glad was I when they both
went away.’
‘The day before yesterday?’ said John, ‘and no message, not a word to
explain.’
‘The old gentleman came in the morning. He had the papers out as usual,
and was a-going to begin: and then the other one came for him, and they
both went away.’
All John’s questions could elicit nothing more than this. He said to
himself that March must have taken something to finish at home; that
perhaps he might have fallen into one of those paroxysms of drinking
with which John was acquainted among his men. He was angry with himself
for the apprehensions that stole into his mind. If this man had not been
what he was--a convict, a man without a character, John said to himself,
it never would have occurred to him to fear. Joe, indeed, was not to be
trusted with spoons or even great-coats or anything portable; but what
could Joe know about the value of his papers? It was ridiculous to think
of any theft. No doubt the easiest explanation was the true one--that
March had taken the papers to complete at home. With this he tried to
content himself, and, with the idea that after all he was but doing what
he ought to have done at once, gathered up his own rough notes and
calculations, and set out for the office. There seemed a slight
excitement there at his appearance, or so he thought. The vague
uneasiness in his own mind no doubt gave a certain aspect of curiosity
and commotion to the clerks in the outer office, who looked up at him
as he came in.
‘Mr. Barrett, I think, was looking for you, Sandford. You will find them
both in Mr. William’s room,’ said the principal of the outer office.
John walked in, not without a growing sense of trouble to come; he did
not know what it might be, but he felt it in the air. Some thunder-bolt
or other was about to fall upon his unaccustomed head.