Father and son sat together in the dining-room, smoking their
after-dinner cigars, and speaking very little, as their custom was when
together. With its snow-white table-cloth set off by the glass and cut
flowers and the rich purple of the old port in the decanter; with its
picture-hung walls, its massive mahogany sideboard gleaming with silver,
amid which displayed itself opulently a huge salver presented to Matthew
Lanyon, Esquire, by his fellow-townsmen on the completion of his third
year of mayoralty; with its great red-shaded lamp suspended over the
table, and its dark marble fireplace,--the room had an air of warmth and
generous comfort that spoke of a long continuance of worldly ease. In
his younger days Matthew Lanyon had roved about the world, picking up
much knowledge of men in new lands where life was rude, and a little
money wherewith to start a career when he returned to civilisation. His
return was speedier than either himself or his friends had anticipated.
The latter beheld him married to a sweet flower-like girl whom he had
met not long before in Australia; but more than this they did not learn.
He was not given to offering information as to his doings, and there
was that suggestion of haughtiness behind his frank young smile which
forbade questioning. He was there; his wife was there. The friends must
accept both on their merits. He had served his articles as a solicitor
before leaving England. He turned to his profession for maintenance and
bought a share in a cousin's practice in Ayresford. He was to have made
his fortune, gone away again with his young wife into the wide world,
and seen all the wonders that it held. But as in the case of many other
young dreams, it seemed otherwise to the gods. Wealth had come quickly,
and he had added gradually to his little home until it had become a
great house, and his cousin had died, and his wife had died, and in
Ayresford he had lived all the time, married and widowed, and now the
longing for change had gone, and in Ayresford he hoped that he himself
would die, in the home endeared to him by so many memories, in the bed
consecrated by the pale sweet shadow of her who even now seemed to lie
by his side.
Wealth had come, yet much of it had gone; how, no man knew but himself
and one other; he had toiled hard to win it, was toiling hard at sixty
to win it back. And how strenuously he toiled, again no man knew; least
of all his son.
The desultory talk had drooped. Suddenly Matthew Lanyon plunged his hand
in the breast pocket of his dress-coat and drew out an old-fashioned
miniature, which, after regarding it for a few moments, he handed to
Sylvester.
“I've been rummaging about to-day and found this. Perhaps you'd like to
have it.”
“My mother!” said Sylvester.
It was a portrait, on ivory, of a singularly sweet face, possessing the
tender, unearthly purity of one of Lorenzo di Credi's Madonnas,
executed when the original was very young, a few months, in fact, before
Sylvester was born.
“A very good likeness,” said Matthew.
“I shall be glad to keep it,” replied the son, putting it into his
pocket.
“I thought you would,” assented the elder.
“It will be a companion to my miniature of Constance,” said Sylvester.
And then silence came again; for memories crowded into the minds of each
that they knew not how to speak of. Yet each knew that the other was
thinking of his dead wife and wished that he could burst the strange
bonds of reserve that held him and speak out that which was in his
heart.
“It's a devil of a muddle, isn't it?” said Matthew at last.
“What?”
“The cosmos. And the more one tries to establish order, the worse
confounded becomes the confusion. The high gods seem to have given it up
as a bad job.”
“That reminds me,” said Sylvester, with a laugh. “I found Billings to-day
having a glorious drunk on champagne. For a man earning twenty-five
shillings a week, with a large family to support and a wife half dying
of pneumonia, I thought it rather strong.”
Matthew rose from his chair, his brows bent and his eyes kindling with
sudden anger.
“The damned hound! What did you do with him?”
“I took him outside so as not to disturb his wife and then I kicked him
until he was sober,” replied Sylvester, grimly. “I wonder who could have
sent the champagne.”
“Some silly fool,” said Matthew, nursing his wrath.
“Yet nearer to heaven than most of us,” said Sylvester, knocking the ash
off his cigar.
“Rubbish!” said Matthew. “Besides, silly fools don't go to heaven.
There's no place for 'em.”
“I don't think Billings will rob his wife again,” remarked Sylvester.
“Well, you can send him up to me in the morning.”
“I think he'd sooner have another kicking,” laughed Sylvester.
A picture rose before him of the reprobate cringing before his father,
wriggling at each sentence as at a whip lash, and going away with two
more bottles of wine that would burn his dirty hands like hot bricks.
He laughed, but Matthew thrust both hands in his pockets and stood with
feet apart on the hearth-rug.
“Did you ever hear of such a mean skunk?”
“You will never fathom the depth of human meanness, father, if you live
to be a hundred.”
“I thank you for the compliment, Syl,” replied the old man, drily, “but
I happen to think otherwise. May you never live to know it as I do.”
“Mr. Usher, sir,” said the servant, suddenly throwing open the door.
Matthew started, and glanced instinctively at his son. Sylvester, who
had been struck by an unusual note of emotion in his father's voice,
was looking at him curiously. So their eyes met in a mutual sensitive
glance, and Matthew flushed slightly beneath his tanned and care-lined
skin.
“Confound Usher!” muttered Sylvester, irritably.
An elderly man of about Matthew's age appeared, white-bearded,
gold-spectacled, wearing a tightly buttoned frock-coat. He was of heavy
build and had loose lips and dull watery eyes, the lids faintly rimmed
with blood-red. He came forward into the room with extended hand.
“My dear friend, how are you this evening?” he said with a curious
deliberation, as if he had duly sucked each word before he spat it
out. “And, Sylvester, my dear lad, how are you? I have been very unwell
to-day, and the weather has increased my sufferings. You notice that
there is a wheezing in my bronchial tubes. Yet I thought I must come to
see you this evening in spite of the weather. I said to Olivia, 'It is a
duty, and I must fulfil it.'”
“Pray sit down, Usher,” said Matthew, politely. “Let me pass you the
port.”
“A little port wine would be very good for me. I cannot afford port
wine, Matthew, like you, or I should drink it habitually. I should think
this was very expensive.”
He smacked his loose lips and held the glass up to the light.
“It is a sound wine,” said Matthew.
“If you would not put too high a price on it,” said the other, in his
monotonous voice, “perhaps I might buy some from you. What would you
charge?”
“In the market it would fetch about a hundred and eighty shillings a
dozen,” said Sylvester, savagely.
But his father raised a hand in courteous deprecation.
“I am not a wine-merchant, Usher, and am not in the habit of retailing
my cellar. But if you'd accept a dozen, I should be very pleased to
send it round to you.”
“I will accept it with great pleasure,” said Usher, blandly. “It would
hurt your feelings if I refused your generosity. Have you ever remarked
how generous your father is, Sylvester?”
The young man moved impatiently in his chair. He could never understand
the almost lifelong intimacy that existed between his father and this
old man, Usher, whom he held in cordial detestation. So he said nothing,
while the guest took a fresh sip of wine, and rolled it appreciatively
over his tongue.
“Your father and I were young men together in Australia, Sylvester,” he
remarked. “Youth is a glorious time, and its friendships last. I never
forget my old friends.”
“The sentiment does you credit, Usher,” said Matthew.
The servant entered with the London evening paper just sent from the
railway bookstall. Usher held out a large soft hand for it, and the
servant retired.
“I want to see what has happened in the Trevelyan divorce case,” he
said, unfolding the paper. “I have followed it closely.”
A _cause celebre_ was setting England whispering and sniggering, and
there were many like Usher who scanned the columns of the newspapers
that evening in pleased anticipation. But Sylvester expressed his
distaste.
“How can you read it? The air is reeking sufficiently with the nastiness
already.”
“I am interested,” replied Usher. “I think nothing human alien to me.
_Nil humani_, as we used to say at school. I remember my classics.
I have a very good memory. Here it is. The jury found Mrs. Trevelyan
guilty of adultery with the co-respondent. Damages £5000 and costs.
The judge pronounced a decree _nisi_; the husband to have custody of the
children. I pity the poor woman.”
“I don't,” said Sylvester, shortly. “Such women are better dead.”
“No doubt you are right,” returned Usher. “The sacred principles of
morality ought to be upheld at any cost. I have always upheld morality.
What do you think, Matthew?” The old man looked steadily at his finger
nails and replied in a dispassionate voice,--
“One never knows what lies behind.” Sylvester rose and shrugged his
shoulders.
“Wantonness and baseness lie behind. I have no patience with misplaced
sympathy in such cases. Here is this woman you are reading about,--she
betrayed her husband, deserted her children. She deserves no pity.”
Usher waggled his head indulgently.
“I am a Christian man,” he said, “and I have a tender heart. I have
always had a tender heart, Matthew.”
Sylvester laughed and threw the end of his cigar into the fire. He was
half ashamed of having been betrayed into a display of deep feeling
before one whom he considered a shallow egotist.
“Well, I haven't,” he said. “I'm going up to the drawing-room. Perhaps
you'll join me.”
He nodded to his father and left the room. Matthew edged his
chair further from the fire, and wiped his lips and brow with his
handkerchief.
“You are getting too warm,” said Usher.
“The room is hot. When you have finished your wine, we may as well
follow Sylvester.”
Usher poured out another glass.
“I am very comfortable,” he said. “I always am here. You must be proud
to have a son with such sentiments as Sylvester.”
Matthew rose abruptly from his seat, clenched his hands by his side, and
bit a quivering lip. Evidently he was mastering something.
“Drink your wine and come upstairs,” he said.
The other looked at him askance and hesitated. Then yielding, as it
were, to compulsion, he gulped down the contents of his glass and rose
with watery eyes.
“It was a sin to do that,” he said with a sigh. “You always were an
unreasonable fellow, Matthew. I only said I was glad that Sylvester
held such opinions. Most young men nowadays are shockingly lax in their
principles.” Matthew did not reply, but with cold, imperturbable face
opened the door for him to pass out. Usher hung back.
“I must speak to you about my son Roderick. Business before pleasure. It
has been my constant rule in life.”
“What has Roderick been doing now?” asked Matthew, closing the door
again.
“He is bringing my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave again,” replied
Usher. “My son and your son--what a difference, Matthew! 'Tis sharper
than--”
“Rubbish! What's the matter, man?”
“A serpents tooth, to have a thankless child. I dislike being
interrupted. Matthew, Roderick has gone to the Jews. The bills have
fallen due. They won't renew, and if they are not paid, they'll put him
in prison. I cannot have my son in prison.”
“Get him out, then,” replied Matthew. “I can't do more for him than
I do. I promised, years ago, that what Sylvester had, Roderick should
have, and, by Heaven! I've kept my promise. I can't do more. You can't
draw blood from a stone.”
“As if any one ever wanted to. Proverbs are foolish. I never make use of
proverbs. I think you must take up those bills.”
“And if I don't?”
Usher shrugged his shoulders and, sitting down again, refilled his
glass and held it up to the light. Matthew stood on the hearth-rug, his
hands behind him, and regarded him impassively.
“I gave you Roderick's quarterly allowance only a short while ago. What
has he done with it?”
“I do not know,” said Usher, impressively, turning his dull venerable
face towards him. “He has nearly ruined me already.”
“Have you brought his letters with you?”
“I burned his letters. It is imprudent to keep compromising letters. But
I have made out a statement of affairs.”
Usher took from his pocket a double sheet of foolscap, smoothed it out
and examined it deliberately, then handed it to Matthew. The latter
glanced through the statement. His lips quivered for a moment.
“This is practically fraud,” he said. “A magistrate might commit on it,
a jury find a verdict of guilty, and then--”
“His dear mother's memory,” said Usher, wagging his head solemnly.
Matthew involuntarily clenched the paper tight in his hand.
“Damn you!” he said. Then he repeated it. “Damn you!”
But Usher stretched out a deprecating hand and spoke in tones of gentle
reproach.
“You must be calm, my dear friend. I am always calm. I have never said
a word in all my life that I have had cause to regret. Not even this
morning, when Olivia with great carelessness destroyed a new book-plate.
And it was a very valuable book-plate. It belonged to Hugh, the first
Earl of Lawford, of Edward III.'s creation.”
“Are you aware that your own son is in danger of penal servitude?” asked
Matthew, sharply.
“Why, of course. Is not that my reason for coming to you? I put the
matter into your hands, as lawyer and friend and second father to my
erring boy, and I am content. Yes, I am content, for I have trust in
you. Shall we go up now and join the ladies?” Matthew bit the end off
another cigar and lighted it. Then, as if his guest had made the most
natural and relevant proposal in the world, he said with a courtesy not
devoid of grimness,--“My sister is not feeling very well this evening,
and the young folks might be happier alone together, so perhaps we'll
not go upstairs. And as this affair of Roderick's will give me some
thinking, you'll excuse me if I leave you shortly.”
“You are right,” replied Usher, rising ponderously. “The night air is
not good for me. I suffer much from my bronchial tubes. I must have some
one fitter than Olivia to nurse me. Servants are never grateful for
the bounties one heaps on them. If only Miss Defries would look upon
Roderick as favourably as she does upon Sylvester, how happily things
could be arranged.”
There was not a spark of cunning or rearward thought in his dim,
unspeculative eyes. Yet Matthew felt a sudden pang of suspicion at his
last words, and scanned his face intently. Was it the first hint of
some scheme long maturing in his dull yet tenacious brain, or the mere
surface fancy of the egotist? He could not tell, although he flattered
himself that he knew the man's soul as a priest his breviary,--every
line and phrase, every thumb-mark and dog's ear.
“I think the less said about Roderick for some time, the better,”
he remarked, ringing the bell. Then before the servant came, he said
suddenly,--
“But, by Heaven! this is the last time. Understand that. Once more, and
I break down the whole structure though it kill me--carry the war into
your quarters and tell Roderick all.”
Usher's face was shadowed by a faint smile.
“My dear friend, Roderick has known all his life. I could never leave my
son in ignorance. I gave him the best training.”
The servant appeared. Usher extended his hand, which the other touched
mechanically, and in another moment was gone, leaving Matthew staring
incredulously, conscious of utter dismay.
“Is he lying?” he asked himself, a short while later, as he paced the
library, whither he had betaken himself with the moneylending document.
“Can the boy be such a blackguard? He must be lying.” But how base the
lie was in reality, even he could not surmise.
The boy was a man of forty now, yet Matthew had watched and paid for
every step upward and downward in his career. He remembered him a
handsome and wayward child, a wild lad, a young man brilliant in
promise, yet unstable as water, excelling in naught. He had seen him
by turns poet, painter, journalist, social reformer, musical critic,
dramatist, always obtaining successes of estimation, always floating
iridescent and futile as froth on the waves of literary and artistic
London. What Roderick was doing now, he did not know. For some time
past he had heard little of him. Now he had come to light again somewhat
luridly. A foolish friend had backed bills under false representations.
The Jews were pressing, the friend recalcitrant. It was a criminal
matter. If he were guilty of this, why not of that knowledge of which
his father boasted so cynically? Matthew's face grew worn and hard. He
unlocked a safe, drew therefrom a small padlocked ledger, and sitting
down at his desk began to pore over its contents. Roderick must be saved
this time at any cost, for his mother's sake, as Usher had remarked. At
the reminiscence Matthew reiterated his execration.
After long, anxious thought, he made a rough calculation on a scrap of
paper, and leaning back in his chair regarded it until something dim,
like tears, came across his vision.
“My poor Syl,” he said, “I have to rob you--for your own happiness.”
And at that moment, just outside the door stood Sylvester and Ella
bidding each other good-night. The full glow of the hall lamp shone down
upon her radiant young face, as he held both her hands in his, and made
a glinting aureole of her hair. Suddenly he laughed awkwardly and kissed
her; with a half-mirthful, half-reproachful “Oh, you shouldn't!” she
snatched away her hands and ran up the stairs. He stood and watched the
last gleam of her skirts disappear and then entered his father's room.
Matthew closed his ledger and looked up with one of his rare smiles.
“Going, Syl?”
“Yes. I 've been sent for, as usual. It's all very well for me to work
at this ungodly hour. I'm a medical man, and I'm young. But I don't like
to see you at it. You 're overdoing it, father.”
“Nonsense!” replied Matthew, cheerily; “I'm as strong as a horse and
younger than you are. Besides, I was only amusing myself, like the king
in his counting-house, counting out my money.”
He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and stretched himself contentedly in his
chair.
“Usher kept me a long time,” he continued, “telling me one of his
interminable yarns--_a dormir debout_, as the French say.”
“I can't think how you stand him,” said Sylvester.
“Oh, you can stand a devil of a lot if you try,” said the old man,
laughing. “Have some whisky before you go?”
But Syl pleaded urgency, went out for hat and coat, and returned ready
for departure. His father accompanied him to the front door.
“By the way, Syl,” he said, “do you really think so hardly of the woman
who sins, or was it only that Usher made you contradictious?”
“I think a woman must be pure and chaste. If she falls, she falls for
ever. Why do you ask?”
“I only wanted to know if you were genuine.”
“It is the most sacred of my convictions,” said Sylvester, gravely.
The two men shook hands, and the door closed behind Sylvester. The
father listened to his quick footsteps crunching the gravel until the
sound died away. Then he turned and sighed.
“My poor lad, God help you,” he said.