Winter had come and gone; spring was nearing its end, and London still
suffered under the rigid regularity of easterly winds. Although in less
than a week summer would begin with the first of June, Mr. Sarrazin was
glad to find his office warmed by a fire, when he arrived to open the
letters of the day.
The correspondence in general related exclusively to proceedings
connected with the law. Two letters only presented an exception to the
general rule. The first was addressed in Mrs. Linley’s handwriting, and
bore the postmark of Hanover. Kitty’s mother had not only succeeded in
getting to the safe side of the lake--she and her child had crossed
the German Ocean as well. In one respect her letter was a remarkable
composition. Although it was written by a lady, it was short enough to
be read in less than a minute:
“MY DEAR MR. SARRAZIN--I have just time to write by this evening’s post.
Our excellent courier has satisfied himself that the danger of discovery
has passed away. The wretches have been so completely deceived that
they are already on their way back to England, to lie in wait for us
at Folkestone and Dover. To-morrow morning we leave this charming
place--oh, how unwillingly!--for Bremen, to catch the steamer to Hull.
You shall hear from me again on our arrival. Gratefully yours,
“CATHERINE LINLEY.”
Mr. Sarrazin put this letter into a private drawer and smiled as he
turned the key. “Has she made up her mind at last?” he asked himself.
“But for the courier, I shouldn’t feel sure of her even now.”
The second letter agreeably surprised him. It was announced that the
writer had just returned from the United States; it invited him
to dinner that evening; and it was signed “Randal Linley.” In Mr.
Sarrazin’s estimation, Randal had always occupied a higher place than
his brother. The lawyer had known Mrs. Linley before her marriage, and
had been inclined to think that she would have done wisely if she
had given her hand to the younger brother instead of the elder. His
acquaintance with Randal ripened rapidly into friendship. But his
relations with Herbert made no advance toward intimacy: there was a
gentlemanlike cordiality between them, and nothing more.
At seven o’clock the two friends sat at a snug little table, in the
private room of a hotel, with an infinite number of questions to ask
of each other, and with nothing to interrupt them but a dinner of such
extraordinary merit that it insisted on being noticed, from the first
course to the last.
Randal began. “Before we talk of anything else,” he said, “tell me about
Catherine and the child. Where are they?”
“On their way to England, after a residence in Germany.”
“And the old lady?”
“Mrs. Presty has been staying with friends in London.”
“What! have they parted company? Has there been a quarrel?”
“Nothing of the sort; a friendly separation, in the strictest sense of
the word. Oh, Randal, what are you about? Don’t put pepper into this
perfect soup. It’s as good as the _gras double_ at the Cafe Anglais in
Paris.”
“So it is; I wasn’t paying proper attention to it. But I am anxious
about Catherine. Why did she go abroad?”
“Haven’t you heard from her?”
“Not for six months or more. I innocently vexed her by writing a
little too hopefully about Herbert. Mrs. Presty answered my letter,
and recommended me not to write again. It isn’t like Catherine to bear
malice.”
“Don’t even think such a thing possible!” the lawyer answered,
earnestly. “Attribute her silence to the right cause. Terrible anxieties
have been weighing on her mind since you went to America.”
“Anxieties caused by my brother? Oh, I hope not!”
“Caused entirely by your brother--if I must tell the truth. Can’t you
guess how?”
“Is it the child? You don’t mean to tell me that Herbert has taken Kitty
away from her mother!”
“While I am her mother’s lawyer, my friend, your brother won’t do that.
Welcome back to England in the first glass of sherry; good wine, but a
little too dry for my taste. No, we won’t talk of domestic troubles
just yet. You shall hear all about it after dinner. What made you go to
America? You haven’t been delivering lectures, have you?”
“I have been enjoying myself among the most hospitable people in the
world.”
Mr. Sarrazin shook his head; he had a case of copyright in hand just
then. “A people to be pitied,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because their Government forgets what is due to the honor of the
nation.”
“How?”
“In this way. The honor of a nation which confers right of property
in works of art, produced by its own citizens, is surely concerned in
protecting from theft works of art produced by other citizens.”
“That’s not the fault of the people.”
“Certainly not. I have already said it’s the fault of the Government.
Let’s attend to the fish now.”
Randal took his friend’s advice. “Good sauce, isn’t it?” he said.
The epicure entered a protest. “Good?” he repeated. “My dear fellow,
it’s absolute perfection. I don’t like to cast a slur on English
cookery. But think of melted butter, and tell me if anybody but a
foreigner (I don’t like foreigners, but I give them their due) could
have produced this white wine sauce? So you really had no particular
motive in going to America?”
“On the contrary, I had a very particular motive. Just remember what
my life used to be when I was in Scotland--and look at my life now!
No Mount Morven; no model farm to look after; no pleasant Highland
neighbors; I can’t go to my brother while he is leading his present
life; I have hurt Catherine’s feelings; I have lost dear little Kitty;
I am not obliged to earn my living (more’s the pity); I don’t care
about politics; I have a pleasure in eating harmless creatures, but no
pleasure in shooting them. What is there left for me to do, but to try
change of scene, and go roaming around the world, a restless creature
without an object in life? Have I done something wrong again? It isn’t
the pepper this time--and yet you’re looking at me as if I was trying
your temper.”
The French side of Mr. Sarrazin’s nature had got the better of him once
more. He pointed indignantly to a supreme preparation of fowl on his
friend’s plate. “Do I actually see you picking out your truffles, and
putting them on one side?” he asked.
“Well,” Randal acknowledged, “I don’t care about truffles.”
Mr. Sarrazin rose, with his plate in his hand and his fork ready for
action. He walked round the table to his friend’s side, and reverently
transferred the neglected truffles to his own plate. “Randal, you will
live to repent this,” he said solemnly. “In the meantime, I am the
gainer.” Until he had finished the truffles, no word fell from his
lips. “I think I should have enjoyed them more,” he remarked, “if I had
concentrated my attention by closing my eyes; but you would have thought
I was going to sleep.” He recovered his English nationality, after this,
until the dessert had been placed on the table, and the waiter was
ready to leave the room. At that auspicious moment, he underwent another
relapse. He insisted on sending his compliments and thanks to the cook.
“At last,” said Randal, “we are by ourselves--and now I want to know why
Catherine went to Germany.”