My Dear Katie;--I know you will be very much pained when you read
this letter. You two have been my only confidantes, and you have
always kept me up, and encouraged me to hope that all would come
right. And after all that happened last week, Patty's marriage,
and your engagement,--the two things upon earth, with one
exception, that I most wished for,--I quite felt that my own turn
was coming. I can't tell why I had such a strong feeling about
it, but somehow all the most important changes in my life for the
last four years have been so interwoven with Patty and Harry
Winburn's history, that, now they were married, I was sure
something would happen to me as soon as I came to London. And I
was not wrong. Dear Katie, I can hardly bring myself to write it.
It is all over. I met her in the street to-day; she was riding
with her father and the man I told you about. They had to pull up
not to ride over me; so I had a good look at her, and there can
be no mistake about it. I have often tried to reason myself into
the belief that the evil day must come sooner or later, and to
prepare myself for it; but I might have spared myself, for it
could not have been worse than it is if I had never anticipated
it. My future is all a blank now. I can't stay in England; so I
have written home to ask them to let me go to New Zealand with
East, and I am sure they will consent, when they know all.
"I shall wait in town till I get the answer. Perhaps I may be
able to get off with East in a few weeks. The sooner the better;
but, of course, I shall not go without seeing you and dear old
Jack. You mustn't mind me calling him Jack. The only thing that
it gives me any pleasure to think about is your engagement. It is
so right; and one wants to see something going right, some one
getting their due, to keep alive one's belief in justice being
done somehow or another in the world. And I do see it, and
acknowledge it, when I think over his history and mine since we
first met. We have both got our due; and you have got yours,
Katie, for you have got the best fellow in England.
"Ah! if I only could think that she has got hers! If I could only
believe that the man she has chosen is worthy of her! I will try
hard to think better of him. There must be more good in him that
I have ever seen, or she would never have engaged herself to him.
But I can't bear to stop here, and see it all going on. The
sooner I am out of England the better. I send you a parcel with
this; it contains her notes, and some old flowers and other
matters which I haven't the heart to burn. You will be the best
judge what should be done with them. If you see your way to
managing it, I should like her to know that I had sent them all
to you, and that, whatever may happen to me hereafter, my love
for her has been the mainstay and the guiding-star of my life
ever since that happy time when you all came to stay with us in
my first long vacation. It found me eaten up with selfishness and
conceit, the puppet of my own lusts and vanities, and has left
me--well never mind what it has left me. At any rate, if I have
not gone from worse to worse, it is all owing to her; and she
ought to know it. It cannot be wrong to let her know what good
she has scattered unknowingly about her path. May God bless and
reward her for it, and you, too, dear cousin, for all your long
love and kindness to one who is very unworthy of, but very
thankful for them.
"Ever yours, affectionately,
"T. B."
The above letter, and that to his father, asking for leave to
emigrate, having been written and sent off, Tom was left, on the
afternoon of the day following his upset, making manful, if not
very successful, efforts to shake off the load of depression
which weighed on him, and to turn his thoughts resolutely forward
to a new life in a new country. East was away at the Docks. There
was no one moving in the Temple. The men who had business were
all at Westminster, or out of sight and hearing in the recesses
of their chambers. Those who had none were for the most part away
enjoying themselves, in one way or another amongst the mighty
whirl of the mighty human sea of London. There was nothing left
for him to do; he had written the only two letters he had to
write, and had only to sit still and wait for the answers,
killing the meantime as well as he could. Reading came hard to
him, but it was the best thing to do, perhaps; at any rate he was
trying it on, though his studies were constantly interrupted by
long fits of absence of mind, during which, though his body
remained in the temple, he was again in the well-kept garden of
Barton, or in the hazel wood under the lee of the Berkshire
hills.
He was roused out of one of these reveries, and brought back to
external life and Fig-tree Court, by a single knock at the outer
door, and a shout of the newsman's boy for the paper. So he got
up, found the paper, which he had forgotten to read, and, as he
went to the door, cast his eye on it, and saw that a great match
was going on at Lord's. This gave a new turn to his thoughts. He
stood looking down stairs after the boy, considering whether he
should not start at once for the match.
He would be sure to see a lot of acquaintances there at any rate.
But the idea of seeing and having to talk to mere acquaintances
was more distasteful than his present solitude. He was turning to
bury himself again in his hole, when he saw a white dog walk
quietly up seven or eight stairs at the bottom of the flight, and
then turn round, and look for some one to follow.
"How odd!" thought Tom, as he watched him; "as like as two peas.
It can't be. No. Why, yes it is." And then he whistled, and
called "Jack," and the dog looked up, and wagged his tail, as
much as to say, "All right, I'm coming directly; but I must wait
for my master." The next moment Drysdale appeared at the bottom
of the stairs, and looking up, said--
"Oh! that's you, is it? I'm all right then. So you knew the old
dog?"
"I should rather think so," said Tom. "I hope I never forget a
dog or horse I have once known."
In the short minute which Drysdale and Jack took to arrive at his
landing, Tom had time for a rush of old college memories, in
which the grave and gay, pleasant and bitter, were strangely
mingled. The light when he had been first brought to his senses
about Patty came up very vividly before him, and the
commemoration days, when he had last seen Drysdale. "How
strange!" he thought, "is my old life coming back again just now?
Here, on the very day after it is all over, comes back the man
with whom I was so intimate up to the day it began, and have
never seen since. What does it mean?"
There was a little touch of embarrassment in the manner of both
of them as they shook hands at the top of the stairs, and turned
into the chambers. Tom motioned to Jack to take his old place at
one end of the sofa, and began caressing him there, the dog
showing unmistakably, by gesture and whine, that delight at
renewing an old friendship for which his race are so nobly
distinguished. Drysdale threw himself down in an arm-chair and
watched them.
"So you knew the old dog, Brown?" he repeated.
"Knew him?--of course I did. Dear old Jack! How well he wears; he
is scarcely altered at all."
"Very little; only steadier. More than I can say for his master.
I'm very glad you knew Jack."
"Come, Drysdale; take the other end of the sofa or it won't look
like old times. There, now I can fancy myself back at St.
Ambrose's."
"By Jove, Brown, you're a real good fellow; I always said so,
even after that last letter. You pitched it rather strong in that
though. I was very near coming back from Norway to quarrel with
you."
"Well, I was very angry at being left in the lurch by you and
Blake."
"You got the coin all right, I suppose? You never acknowledged
it."
"Didn't I? Then I ought to have. Yes, I got it all right about
six months afterwards. I ought to have acknowledged it, and I
thought I had. I'm sorry I didn't. Now we're all quits, and won't
talk any more about that rascally bill."
"I suppose I may light up," said Drysdale, dropping into his old
lounging attitude on the sofa, and pulling out his cigar-case.
"Yes, of course. Will you have anything?"
"A cool drink wouldn't be amiss."
"They make a nice tankard with cider and a lump of ice at the
'Rainbow'. What do you say to that?"
"It sounds touching," said Drysdale. So Tom posted off to Fleet
Street to order the liquor, and came back followed by a waiter
with the tankard. Drysdale took a long pull and smacked his lips.
"That's a wrinkle," he said, handing the tankard to Tom. "I
suppose the lawyers teach all the publicans about here a trick or
two. Why, one can fancy one's self back in the old quad, looking
out on this court. If it weren't such an outlandish
out-of-the-way place, I think I should take some chambers here
myself. How did you get here?"
"Oh, they belong to a friend of mine who is away. But how did
_you_ get here?"
"Why, along the Strand, in a Hansom."
"I mean, how did you know I was here?"
"Grey told me."
"What! Grey, who was at St. Ambrose's with us?"
"Yes. You look puzzled."
"I didn't think you knew Grey."
"No more I do. But a stout old party I met last night--your
godfather, I should think he is--told me where he was, and said I
should get your address from him. So I looked him up this
morning, in that dog-hole in Westminster where he lives. He
didn't know Jack from Adam."
"But what in the world do you mean by my godfather?"
"I had better tell my story from the beginning, I see. Last night
I did what I don't often do, went out to a great drum. There was
an awful crush, of course, and you may guess what the heat was in
these dog-days, with gas-lights and wax-lights going, and a jam
of people in every corner. I was fool enough to get into the
rooms, so that my retreat was cut off; and I had to work right
through, and got at last into a back room, which was not so full.
The window was in a recess, and there was a balcony outside,
looking over a little bit of garden. I got into the balcony,
talking with a girl who was sensible enough to like the cool.
Presently I heard a voice I thought I knew inside. Then I heard
St. Ambrose, and then your name. Of course I listened; I couldn't
help myself. They were just inside the window, in the recess, not
five feet from us; so I heard pretty nearly ever word. Give us
the tankard; I'm as dry as an ash-heap with talking."
Tom, scarcely able to control his impatience, handed the tankard.
"But who was it?--you haven't told me," he said, as Drysdale put
it down at last empty.
"Why, that d--d St. Cloud. He was giving you a nice character, in
a sort of sneaking deprecatory way, as if he was sorry for it.
Amongst other little tales, he said you used to borrow money from
Jews--he knew it for a certainty because he had been asked
himself to join you and another man--meaning me, of course--in
such a transaction. You remember how he wouldn't acknowledge the
money I lent him at play, and the note he wrote me which upset
Blake so. I had never forgotten it. I knew I should get my chance
some day, and here it was. I don't know what the girl thought of
me, or how she got out of the balcony, but I stepped into the
recess just as he had finished his precious story, and landed
between him and a comfortable old boy, who was looking shocked.
He _must_ be your godfather, or something of the kind. I'll bet
you a pony you are down for something handsome in his will."
"What was his name? Did you find out?"
"Yes; Potter, or Porter, or something like it. I've got his card
somewhere. I just stared St. Cloud in the face, and you may
depend upon it he winched. Then I told the old boy that I had
heard their talk, and, as I was at St. Ambrose with you, I should
like to have five minutes with him when St. Cloud had done. He
seemed rather in a corner between us. However, I kept in sight
till St. Cloud was obliged to draw off; and, to cut my story
short, as the tankard is empty, I think I put you pretty straight
there. You said we were quits just now; after last night, perhaps
we are, for I told him the truth of the Benjamin story, and I
think he is squared. He seems a good sort of old boy. He's a
relation of yours, eh?"
"Only a distant connexion. Did anything more happen?"
"Yes; I saw that he was flurried and didn't know quite what to
think; so I asked him to let me call, and I would bring him some
one else to speak to your character. He gave me his card, and I'm
going to take Blake there today. Then I asked him where you were,
and he didn't know, but said he thought Grey could tell me."
"It is very kind of you, Drysdale to take so much trouble."
"Trouble! I'd go from here to Jericho to be even with our fine
friend. I never forget a bad turn. I met him afterwards in the
cloak-room, and went out of the door close after him, to give him
a chance if he wants to say anything. I only wish he would. But
why do you suppose he is lying about you?"
"I can't tell. I've never spoken to him since he left Oxford.
Never saw him till yesterday, riding with Mr. Porter. I suppose
that reminded them of me."
"Well, St. Cloud is bent on getting round him for some reason or
another, you may take your oath of that. Now my time's up; I
shall go and pick up Blake. I should think I had better not take
Jack to call in Eaton Square, though he'd give you a good
character if he could speak; wouldn't you Jack?"
Jack wagged his tail, and descended from the sofa.
"Does Blake live up here? What is he doing?"
"Burning the candle at both ends, and in the middle, as usual.
Yes, he's living near his club. He writes political articles,
devilish well I hear, too, and is reading for the bar; beside
which he is getting into society, and going out whenever he can,
and fretting his soul out that he isn't prime minister, or
something of the kind. He won't last long at the pace he's
going."
"I'm very sorry to hear it. But you'll come here again, Drysdale;
or let me come and see you? I shall be very anxious to hear what
has happened."
"Here's my pasteboard; I shall be in town for another fortnight.
Drop in when you like."
And so Drysdale and Jack went off, leaving Tom in a chaotic state
of mind. All his old hopes were roused again as he thought over
Drysdale's narrative. He could no longer sit still; so he rushed
out, and walked up and down the river-side walk, in the Temple
gardens, where a fine breeze blowing, at a pace which astonished
the gate-keepers and the nursery-maids and children, who were
taking the air in that favorite spot. Once or twice he returned
to chambers, and at last found East reposing after his excursion
to the Docks.
East's quick eye saw at once that something had happened; and he
had very soon heard the whole story; upon which he deliberated
for some minutes, and rejoiced Tom's heart by saying: "Ah! all up
with New Zealand, I see. I shall be introduced after all before
we start. Come along; I must stand you a dinner on the strength
of the good news, and we'll drink her health."
Tom called twice that evening at Drysdale's lodgings, but he was
out. The next morning he called again. Drysdale had gone to
Hampton Court races, and had left no message. He left a note for
him, but got no answer. It was trying work. Another day passed
without any word from Drysdale, who seemed never to be at home;
and no answer to either of his letters. On the third morning he
heard from his father. It was just the answer which he had
expected--as kind a letter as could be written. Mr. Brown had
suspected how matters stood at one time, but had given up the
idea in consequence of Tom's silence; which he regretted, as
possibly things might have happened otherwise, had he known the
state of the case. It was too late now, however; and the less
said the better about what might have been. As to New Zealand, he
should not oppose Tom's going, if, after some time, he continued
in his present mind. It was very natural for him just now to wish
to go. They would talk it over as soon as Tom came home, which
Mr. Brown begged him to do at once, or, at any rate, as soon as
he had seen his friend off. Home was the best place for him.
Tom sighed as he folded it up; the hopes of the last three days
seemed to be fading away again. He spent another restless day;
and by night had persuaded himself that Drysdale's mission had
been a complete failure, and that he did not write and kept out
of the way out of kindness for him.
"Why, Tom, old fellow, you look as down in the mouth as ever
to-night," East said, when Tom opened the door for him about
midnight, on his return from his club; "cheer up; you may depend
it's all to go right."
"But I haven't seen Drysdale again, and he hasn't written to
me."
"There's nothing in that. He was glad enough to do you a good
turn, I dare say, when it came in his way, but that sort of
fellow never can keep anything up. He has been too much used to
having his own way, and following his own fancies. Don't you lose
heart because he won't put himself out for you."
"Well, Harry, you are the best fellow, in the world. You would
put a backbone into anyone."
"Now, we'll just have a quiet cheroot, and then turn in; and see
if you don't have good news to-morrow. How hot it is! The Strand
to-night is as hot as the Punjaub, and the reek of it--phah! my
throat is full of it still."
East took off his coat, and was just throwing it on a chair, when
he stopped, and, feeling in his pocket, said--
"Let's see, here's a note for you. The porter gave it to me as I
knocked in."
Tom took it carelessly, but the next moment was tearing it open
with trembling fingers. "From my cousin," he said. East watched
him read, and saw the blood rush to his face, and the light come
into his eyes.
"Good news, Tom, I see. Bravo, old boy. You've had a long fight
for it, and deserve to win."
Tom got up, tossed the note across the table, and began walking
up and down the room; his heart was too full for speech.
"May I read?" said East, looking up. Tom nodded, and he read--
"DEAR TOM,--I am coming to town to spend a week with them in
Eaton Square. Call on me to-morrow at twelve, or, if you are
engaged then, between three and five. I have no time to add more
now, but long to see you.
Your loving cousin,
KATIE
"P.S.--I will give you your parcel back to-morrow, and then you
can _burn_ the contents yourself, or do what you like with them.
Uncle bids me say he shall be glad if you will come and dine
to-morrow, and any other day you can spare while I am here."
When he had read the note, East got up and shook hands heartily
with Tom, and then sat down again quietly to finish his cheroot,
watching with a humorous look his friend's march.
"And you think it is really all right now?" Tom asked, in one
form or another, after every few turns; and East replied in
various forms of chaffing assurance that there could not be much
further question on the point. At last, when he had finished his
cheroot, he got up, and, taking his candle, said, "Good night,
Tom; when that revolution comes, which you're always predicting,
remember, if you're not shot or hung, you'll always find a roost
for you and your wife in New Zealand."
"I don't feel so sure about the revolution now, Harry."
"Of course you don't. Mind, I bargain for the dinner in Eaton
Square. I always told you I should dine there before I started."
The next day Tom found that he was not engaged at twelve o'clock,
and was able to appear in Eaton Square. He was shown up into the
drawing-room, and found Katie alone there. The quiet and coolness
of the darkened room was most grateful to him after the glare of
the streets, as he sat down by her side.
"But Katie," he said, as soon as the first salutations and
congratulations had passed, "how did it all happen? I can't
believe my senses yet. I am afraid I may wake up any minute."
"Well, it was chiefly owing to two lucky coincidences; though no
doubt it would have all come right in time without them."
"Our meeting the other day in the street, I suppose, was one of
them?"
"Yes. Coming across you so suddenly, carrying the little girl,
reminded Mary of the day when she sprained her ankle, and you
carried her through Hazel Copse. Ah, you never told me _all_ of
that adventure, either of you."
"All that was necessary, Katie."
"Oh! I have pardoned you. Uncle saw then that she was very much
moved at something, and guessed well enough what it was. He is so
very kind, and so fond of Mary, he would do anything in the world
that she wished. She was quite unwell that evening; so he and
aunt had to go out alone; and they met Mr. St. Cloud at a party,
who was said to be engaged to her."
"It wasn't true, then?"
"No, never. He is a very designing man, though I believe he was
really in love with poor Mary. At any rate he has persecuted her
for more than a year. And, it is very wicked, but I am afraid he
spread all those reports himself."
"Of their engagement? Just like him!"
"Uncle is so good-natured, you know; and he took advantage of it,
and was always coming here, and riding with them. And he made
Uncle believe dreadful stories about you, which made him seem so
unkind. He was quite afraid to have you at the house."
"Yes, I saw that last year; and the second coincidence?"
"It happened that very night. Poor uncle was very much troubled
what to do; so, when he met Mr. St. Cloud, as I told you, he took
him aside to ask him again about you. Somehow, a gentleman who
was a friend of yours at Oxford overheard what was said, and came
forward and explained everything."
"Yes, he came and told me."
"Then you know more than I about it."
"And you think Mr. Porter is convinced that I am not quite such a
scamp after all?"
"Yes, indeed; and the boys are so delighted that they will see
you again. They are at home for the holidays, and so grown."
"And Mary?"
"She is very well. You will see her before long, I dare say."
"Is she at home?"
"She is out riding with uncle. Now I will go up and get your
parcel, which I had opened at home before I got aunt's note
asking me here. No wonder we could never find her boot."
Katie disappeared and at the same time Tom thought he heard the
sound of horses' feet. Yes, and they had stopped, too. It must be
Mary and her father. He could not see because of the blinds and
other devices for keeping the room cool. But the next moment
there were voices in the hall below, and then a light step on the
carpeted stair, which no ear but his could have heard. His heart
beat with heavy painful pulsations, and his head swam as the door
opened, and Mary in her riding-habit stood in the room.