Young Blood

by E. W. Hornung

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  THE END OF THE BEGINNING.

  Harry drifted through the fog, the sport of misery and rage. He was abeaten man, and slow as another to own it to himself. Now he swore thathe and he alone would unravel the mystery of his father's fate; now thesense of his own impotence appalled him; but at last the bitter fact ofhis defeat came home to him in all its nakedness.

  Yes, he had been beaten by a readier and a keener wit, and the mostplausible tongue a villain ever wagged. He had been at the mercy ofthat specious charlatan, that unscrupulous blackleg, that scoundrelself-confessed. He knew it now. Lowndes had put him in the wrong. Hewas no match for a man like that. Nevertheless, he was in the right,and one day it would be proved--and one day Lowndes would get hisdeserts.

  And yet--and yet--there were words and looks and tones that had soundedgenuine enough. The man was not wholly false or bad. His good side, hisstaunch side, had shown itself again and again, in good and staunchactions performed without ostentation, and in motive transparentlypure. That side existed in him still, and Harry felt that he had spokenas though it did not. He was sorry for many things he had said. Hewished he had said other things instead or as well. He wished he hadnot flung those shares into the fire, though they proved that Lowndeshad expected him, and they must have been intended for a sop. Still hewas sorry he had thrown them on the fire; and he wished he could unsaythat boast about his being a gentleman because he had not listened;other considerations apart, it struck him now almost as a contradictionin terms.

  So to existing tortures he must needs add that of savageself-criticism. It was the morbid wont of Harry Ringrose, the penaltyof a temperament. In a little, however, sheer perplexity gripped hismind again, and wrenched it from himself. The old unanswered questionswere upon him once more.

  What had there been between Lowndes and Scrafton and his own poorfather? Were these men in league with the fugitive? Had they plannedthe wrong which had ruined and disgraced his family? Lowndes had longago confessed that the raising of the L20,000 was his idea, that theactual acquisition of the L10,000 was his deed. The chances were thathis scheme had gone further and cut deeper, and that at least a part ofthe plunder was for himself. Then what had he done with his share--andwhat had Scrafton done with his?

  How else could Scrafton come in?

  Harry thought of that ghoulish face, of those cruel hands, and theblood ran cold in every vessel. If ever he had seen a man capable ofany crime, a man without bowels, as Lowndes was without principle, thatman was Jeremiah Scrafton. What if between them they had murdered theironmaster for those ten thousand pounds? What if they had driven himout of his mind and clapped him into an asylum, or into some vile denof Scrafton's? Ever quicker to imagine than to reason, the young fellowtasted all the horror of his theories before he realised theirabsurdity: where, again, were the proceeds of the crime? Lowndes wasonly now emerging from the very depths of poverty, while as forScrafton, he was either an extremely poor man, or a stage miser come tolife. Besides, there was the letter from Dieppe.

  So he went from one blind alley of the brain to another; and of all thefaces that passed him in the fog, there was none he knew--he had nofriend to turn to in his sore dilemma. And he was trudging westward,going back to face his mother and to live with her in the little flat,with this miserable mystery unsolved, with these haunting suspicionsunconfirmed, and therefore to be locked indefinitely in his own bosom.Vultures for his vitals, and yet he must face them, and alone.

  No one to tell--no friend to consult. The words were a dirge in hisheart. Suddenly they changed their tune and became a question. Hestopped dead in the street. It was the Strand. He had just passed thegulf of fog which hid Waterloo Bridge.

  He stood some minutes, ostensibly studying the engravings in the shopat the Adam Street corner, and looking again and again at his watch asthough anxious to know the time, but too absent to bear it in mind. Itwas five minutes to one when he looked first; by five minutes past thatshop-window and the Strand itself knew Harry Ringrose no more. He wasdeep in the yellow gulf, which was dimly bridged by the lights of thebridge.

  The train took an hour to feel its way to Richmond: it was worse thanthe hour spent in the waiting-room of the Crofter Fisheries, Limited.

  At Richmond the fog was white. To make an end of it, Harry took a cab,and kept the man waiting while he asked if Miss Lowndes was in. A smartparlour-maid told him that she was; otherwise there was no change.

  Fanny rose hastily from a low chair in front of a blazing fire; herface was flushed but smiling, and she held up a paper in one hand whileshe gave Harry the other.

  He took it mechanically. He had not meant to take it at all. It was thewretched _Tiddler_, of all papers, which disarmed him.

  "I was just thinking about you," said his friend. "I was trying to findout which is yours this week."

  "Yes?"

  There was no life in his voice. His heart had leapt with pleasure, onlyto begin aching in a new place.

  "We take it in every week on your account," said Fanny Lowndes.

  "You mean that you do," said Harry, pointedly.

  She coloured afresh.

  "No; it is my father who brings it home from the City."

  "Then he never will again!"

  For some seconds their eyes were locked.

  "Mr. Ringrose, what do you mean? Your tone is so strange. Has anythinghappened?"

  "Not to your father. He and I have quarrelled--that's all."

  "When?"

  "This morning."

  "And you have come to tell me about that!"

  "I didn't mean to do so. I came to speak to one of the only two friendsI have in the world besides my mother. I came to speak to youwhile--while you would speak to me. And now I've gone and spoilt itall!"

  "Of course you haven't," said the girl, with her kind smile. "Sit downand tell me all about it. I think all the more of you for saying theworst thing first." Yet she looked alarmed, and her tone was only lessagitated than his.

  "It is not the worst," groaned Harry Ringrose, "and I can't sit down tosay the sort of thing I've come to say. Oh, but I was a coward to cometo you at all! It was because I had no one else to turn to; and youhave always been my friend; but it was a cowardly thing to do! I willgo away again without saying a word."

  She had sunk down upon her low chair, and was leaning forward so thathe could not see her face, but only the red gold of her hair in theruddy firelight.

  "No; now you must go on," she said, without raising her face.

  "It is about your father--and mine."

  "I expected that."

  "I asked him some plain questions which he could not--or wouldnot--answer. In desperation--in distraction--I have come to put thosequestions to you!"

  "It is useless," was the low reply. "I cannot answer them--either."

  "Wait until you hear what they are. They are very simple. What wasthere between Scrafton and your father and mine? What had your fatherand Scrafton to do with my father's flight? That's all I ask--that'sall I want to know."

  "I cannot tell you what you want to know."

  "Cannot," he said gently, "or dare not?"

  "Cannot!" she cried, and was on her feet with the word, her burningface flung back and her grey eyes flashing indignation.

  Harry bowed.

  "That is enough for me," he said, "and I apologise for those lastwords--but you would understand them if you had heard all that passedthis morning."

  "I do not want to know what passed. My father's affairs are notnecessarily mine. I cannot tell you what you want to know because--I donot know myself."

  "You have made that clear to me," said Harry, staring out of the windowand through the fog. He could see the gate with the ridiculous namestill painted upon it. It stood wide open as he had left it in hishaste. He thought of the first time he had seen it and entered by it;he thought of the second time, which had also been the last; and all atonce he thought of a question asked upon the other side of the gate,and n
ever answered, nor repeated, nor yet remembered, from that day tothis.

  He turned to his companion.

  "You once told me that you knew my father?"

  "Yes, I knew him."

  "You have seen him here in this house?"

  "Yes."

  "I am going to ask you what I asked you once before. You did not answerthen. I entreat you to do so now. When was the last time you saw myfather in this house?"

  The girl drew back in dismay; not a syllable came from her parted lips.

  "Was it since I asked you the question last?" cried Harry, hisimagination at its wildest work in a moment.

  "No."

  "Was it after he was supposed to have disappeared?"

  "No."

  "Was it after he left my mother up north?"

  Miss Lowndes turned away, but there was a mirror over the mantelpiece,and in it he could see her scarlet anguish. Harry set his teeth. Hemust know the truth--the truth came first.

  "So he was here on his way through town. I understood it was my motherwho saw him last. I have to thank you--I do so from my heart--forsetting me so far upon the right track. Oh, I know what it must be toyou to have such things forced from you! I hate to press you like this.No, Miss Lowndes, duty or no duty, you have only to say the word, and Iwill leave you alone." He could not bear the sight of her quiveringshoulders, of the pretty pink ear that was all her hands now let himsee of her face. Unconsciously, however, he had made his strongestappeal in his latest words; his magnanimity fired that of the girl, hisconsideration touched her to the quick, and she turned to him withnoble impulse in her frank, wet eyes.

  "I will tell you of the last time I saw your father," she cried, "onone condition. You are to question me no more when I have finished."

  Harry took her hand.

  "I promise," he said, and released it instantly. It was no time tothink of her. He must think only of his purpose--his duty--his sacredobligation as a son.

  "It was on Easter Eve," said his friend steadily. "I was up in myroom--it was just dinner-time--and I saw him come in at the gate." Shecould not conceal a shudder. "He looked terrible--terrible--so sad andso old! My father must have seen him too. I heard their voices, but Idid not hear what they said; my father lowered his voice, and I thoughtI heard him telling Mr. Ringrose to do the same. It was all I did hear.My father came upstairs and said a business friend had comeunexpectedly, and would I mind not coming down? So my dinner was sentup to me, and afterwards in the dark I saw them go together to thegate; and at the very gate they met that dreadful man--that man whoseface alone is enough to haunt one. Oh, you know him better than any ofus! You are a master in the same school."

  "Not now," said Harry. "I left yesterday on that man's account. Didn'the come here yesterday to tell your father?"

  "Not here. He may have been to the new offices. I saw last night therehad been some unpleasantness. Unpleasantness! If you knew what we havesuffered from that monster! One reason why we got in such difficultieswas because he was always coming----" She checked herself suddenly,with a gesture of disgust and of some underlying emotion.

  "And is that all?" asked Harry gently. "Am I to know nothing beyondthat meeting at the gate?"

  "No, I will tell you the very last I saw of your father--and I willtell you what I think. The very last I saw of him was when they allthree went out together after talking for a few minutes in thedining-room below mine. I did not hear a word. What I think is--may Godforgive me, whether I am right or wrong--that the flight was arrangedin those few minutes."

  "You think your father knew all about it?"

  "I cannot help thinking that."

  "When did he come back?"

  The girl turned white.

  "Your promise!" she gasped. "You promised to ask no more questions!"

  "I see," said Harry, grimly. "Your father crossed the Channel withmine. This is news indeed!"

  "It is not!" cried Miss Lowndes. "I don't admit it. I don't know it. Idon't believe it. He told me he had been up in Scotland; he was alwaysgoing up to Scotland then. Oh, why do you try to wring more from methan I know? I have told you all I know for a fact. Why do you breakyour promise?"

  "I didn't mean to," he answered brokenly. "And yet--it was my duty--tomy poor father."

  "Your father is gone," she cried. "Spare mine--and me."

  "Do you mean that he is--dead?"

  She looked at him an instant with startled eyes, as though his had readthe secret suspicion of her heart; then with a wild sob, "I do notknow, I do not know," she cried piteously. With that she burst intotears. He tried to soothe her. "Leave me--leave me," was all heranswer, and in his helplessness he turned to do so--to leave her boweddown and weeping passionately--weeping as he had never seen woman weepbefore--in the chair from which she had risen to welcome him--with thatfoolish paper still lying crumpled at her feet.

  It was so he saw her when he turned again at the door, for a last lookat his friend. The white fog pressed against the panes; a little mistthere was in the room, but the fire burnt very brightly, and againstthe glow were those small ears pink with shame, those strong handsracked with anguish, that fine head bowed low, that lissom figure bentdouble in the beautiful abandon of a woman's grief. Young blood tookfire. He forgot everything but her. He could not and he would not leaveher so; in an instant his arms were about her, he was kissing her hair.

  "I love you--I love you--I love you!" he whispered. "Let us think ofnothing else. If we are never to see each other again, thank God I havetold you that!"

  She pushed him back in horror.

  "But it is dreadful, if it is true," she said; and yet she held herbreath until he vowed it was.

  "I have loved you for months," he said, "though I didn't know it atfirst. I never meant to love you. I couldn't help myself--it makes melove you all the more." And his arms were round her once more, in thefirst earnest passion of his life, in the first sweet flood of thatpassion.

  "If you love me," she whispered, "will you ask no more questions ofme--or of anybody? They will not bring your father back. They may onlyimplicate--my ather--just as he is coming through his hard, hardstruggles. Can you not leave it in the hands of Providence--for mysake? It is all I ask; and I think--if you do--it may all comeright--some day."

  "With you?" he cried. "With you and me?"

  "Who knows?" she answered. "You may not care for me so long; but whenthere are no more mysteries--well, yes--perhaps."

  "Shall I ever see you meanwhile?"

  "Not until there are no more mysteries--or quarrels."

  "Yet you will not let me try to clear them up."

  "I want you to leave them in the hands of Providence--for my sake."

  "It is hard!"

  "But if you love me you will promise."

  * * * * *

  The cab was still waiting in the mist. Harry sprang into it, wild withunhidden grief, as one fresh from a death-bed. His perplexity wasreturning--his conscience was beginning to gnaw--yet one difficulty wassolved.

  He had promised.

  * * * * *

  A hansom stood at the curb below the flats; the porter was taking downthe luggage; a lady and a gentleman were on the stairs.

  "I hope, for every reason, that we shall find him in," the gentlemanwas saying. "If not I must wait a little, for I feel that a few wordsfrom me may be of value to him at this juncture, quite apart from thelittle proposal I have to make."

  "I would not count on his accepting it," the lady ventured to observe.

  "My dear Mary----"

  Uncle Spencer got no further. Harry's arms were round his mother'sneck. And in a few moments they were all three in the flat, where theporter's wife had the fires lighted and everything comfortable inresponse to a telegram from Mrs. Ringrose.

  "But we must have the gas lit," cried the lady. "I want to look at you,my dear, and I cannot in this fog."

  "It'll keep, mother, it'll keep," s
aid Harry, who had his own reasonsfor not courting a close inspection.

  "I quite agree with Henry," said Mr. Walthew. "To light the gas beforeit is actually dark is an extravagance which _I_ cannot afford. I donot permit it in my house, Mary." Harry promptly struck a match.

  "Come, my boy, and let me have a look at you," said Mrs. Ringrose whenthe blinds were drawn. She drew his face close to hers. "Let him saywhat he likes," she whispered: "I have been with them all this time.Never mind, my darling," she cried aloud; "it must have been a horridplace, and I am thankful to have you back."

  Mr. Walthew prepared to say what he liked, his pulpit the hearthrug,and his theme the fiasco of the day before.

  "I must say, Mary, that your sentiments are astounding. Naturally helooks troubled. He has lost the post it took him four months to secure.I confess, Henry, that I, for my part, was less surprised this morningthan when I heard you had obtained your late situation. With the veryserious limitations which I learnt from your own lips, however, youcould scarcely hope to hold your own in a scholastic avocation. I toldyou so, in effect, at the time, if you remember. Was it the Greek orthe mathematics that caused your downfall?"

  Harry had not said what it was in his letter. He now explained, with agrim smile as he thought of _Mangnall's Questions_ and _Little Steps toGreat Events_. He described Scrafton's brutality in a few words, and infewer still the scene of the day before. His mother's indignation waseven louder than her applause. Uncle Spencer looked horrified at themboth.

  "So it was insubordination!" cried he. "You took the side of the boysagainst their master and your elder! Really, Henry, there is no more tobe said. Your mother's sympathy I consider most misplaced. I tell youfrankly that you need expect none from me."

  "Did I say I expected any, Uncle Spencer?"

  "That," said Mr. Walthew, "is a remark worthy of your friend Mr.Lowndes, the most impudent fellow I ever met in my life."

  "He is no longer a friend of mine," said Harry Ringrose.

  "I am glad to hear it, Henry."

  "Do you mean that you have quarrelled?" cried Mrs. Ringrose.

  "For good, mother; you shall hear about it afterwards. I can't forgivea liar, and no more must you. I have bowled Lowndes out in a thunderinglie--and told him what I thought of him--that's all."

  Mrs. Ringrose looked troubled, but inquisitive for particulars. Herbrother did not smile, but for an instant his expression ceased to bethat of a professional mute.

  "'Liar' and 'lie,'" said he, "are stronger language than I approve of,Henry; but if anybody deserves such epithets I feel sure it is Mr.Gordon Lowndes. The man impressed me as a falsehood-teller when he cameto my house, and I feel sure that the prospectus of this new CrofterCompany, which reached me this morning, is nothing but a tissue ofuntruths from beginning to end. A thoroughly bad man, Henry, a lost andirredeemable sinner, who might have dragged you with him to fireeternal!"

  "I did not find him thoroughly bad, Uncle Spencer," said his nephewcivilly. "On the contrary, I believe there is more good in him than inmost of us; but--you can't depend upon him, and there you are."

  "Yet you would defend him!" exclaimed Mr. Walthew, with a sneer. "Well,well, I have no time to argue with you, Henry; _my_ time is precious,so may I ask how you propose to fill yours now? You have tried andfailed for the City; you have tried and failed for the Law; and now youhave tried schoolmastering, and failed still more conspicuously. Whatdo you think of trying next?"

  "Something that I have been trying for some time without failing sobadly as at the other things."

  "Literature!" cried Mrs. Ringrose.

  "Literature, forsooth!" echoed the clergyman, before Harry had time torepudiate the word. "I suppose, Mary, that you are alluding to theproductions you have shown me in the paper with the unspeakable name?Well, Henry, if that's your literature, let's say no more about it;only I am almost sorry you did not fail there, too. You cannot,however, devote all or even much of your time to such buffoonery, andit was to speak to you about some permanent occupation that Iaccompanied your mother this afternoon. What should you say to theCivil Service?"

  "I couldn't possibly get into it, uncle."

  "Into the higher branches you certainly could not, Henry. But asecond-class clerkship in one of the lower branches I think you mightobtain, with ordinary application and perseverance. I am only sorry itdid not occur to me before."

  "What are the lower branches?" asked Harry, doubtfully.

  "The Excise and the Customs are two."

  "And the salary?"

  "From eighty-five to two hundred pounds in the Excise, which is theservice I recommend. I have been making inquiries about it thismorning. A parishioner of mine is sending his son in for it. The lad isto attend classes at Exeter Hall, under the auspices of the Young Men'sChristian Association, and I understand that mensuration is the onlyreally difficult subject. What I propose to do, Henry, is to presentyou to-morrow with a ticket for the course of these classes whichcommences next week."

  "You are very kind, Uncle Spencer----"

  Mr. Walthew waved his hand as though not totally unaware of it.

  "But----"

  "But what?" cried Uncle Spencer.

  "I believe before very, very long I should make as much money with mypen."

  "You decline my offer?"

  "I am exceedingly grateful for it."

  "Yet you elect to go on writing rubbish for an extremely vulgar paperfor the rest of your days."

  "Not for the rest of my days, I hope, Uncle Spencer. I mean it to be astepping-stone to better things."

  "So you think you can earn eighty-five pounds a year by your pen!"sneered the clergyman, buttoning up his overcoat.

  "I mean to try," said Harry, provoked into a firmer tone.

  "Is this your deliberate decision?"

  "It is."

  "Then I am sorry I wasted my time by coming so far to hold out ahelping hand to you. It is the last time, Henry. You may go your ownway after this. Only, when your pen brings you to the poorhouse, don'tcome to me--that's all!"

  Harry contrived to keep his temper without effort. Pinpricks do nothurt a man with a mortal wound. As for Mrs. Ringrose, she had fledbefore the proposal which she knew was coming, and of the result ofwhich she felt equally sure. But she came to her door to bid theoffended clergyman good-bye, and at last her boy and she were alone. Heflung his arms round her neck.

  "I am never going to leave you again!" he cried passionately. "I am notgoing to look for any more work. I am going to stop at home and writefor _T.T._ until I can teach myself to write something better. I amgoing to work for you and for us both. I am going to do my work besideyou, and you're going to help me. We ought never to have separated.Nothing shall ever separate us again!"

  "Until you marry," murmured Mrs. Ringrose.

  "I will never marry!" cried her boy.