by Edith Nesbit
‘I can’t tell you what our quarrel is about. My brother can do so if he likes; but it is impossible — please understand me thoroughly, Mr Gates, it is quite impossible that Roland and I can ever work together again.’
His tone was so decided, his face so firm, that Gates saw plainly that what he said he meant, and that this was no quarrel to be got over by ‘being slept upon.’
‘May I ask,’ he said, when he had risen and taken a turn or two up and down the room, ‘how you propose to get your living?’
‘I shall have a little, I believe, without the mill, and I am not an absolute fool; and, if the worst comes to the worst, I suppose my hands are of some use,’ holding them out, with a laugh.
‘And what will Roland do?’ said the lawyer, more to gain time than because he expected any answer.
‘You forget, sir,’ said Richard haughtily — and as he spoke the other noticed how much older he seemed to have grown in the last month—’you forget, sir, that my brother’s affairs no longer concern me in the least.’
‘Well, I can do nothing till I hear from him. That’ll be time enough, God knows.’
‘You know best, sir,’ said Richard. ‘I’ve done my duty in telling you; I shall write to the trustees to-night.’
‘Well,’ said Gates, with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘what must be must. I can only hope you’ll think better of it. Why, it’s perfect madness. Do let me try to arrange matters between you.’
‘You had better address yourself to Roland. Don’t make any mistake, Mr Gates. This is quite as much my brother’s quarrel as mine. Only three days ago he told me never to speak again to him on this side of the grave, and swore that the same roof should not continue to cover us both. I must be off now. I’m sorry to have troubled you at such an hour. Good-night.’
Gates let him out. As he closed the front door after watching him down to the gate, —
‘How in the world,’ he said, ‘did such a hard-headed man of business as old Dicky Ferrier ever manage to get two such hare-brained young fools as these boys? Why, it’s beastly unnatural,’ he added discontentedly. ‘But it’s the same old tale, I — suppose—”All along of Eliza.” A good business smashed up, and two young fellows going straight to the dogs, because of that damned girl’ — with a backward jerk of his head in the direction of Aspinshaw, as he returned into the cloud of smoke in which his two friends were dozing placidly.
Richard went quickly away under the arching interlaced boughs of the garden trees. When he reached the road he did not turn his face towards Thornsett Edge, but went up the hill that lay at the back of the house. Across the fields, where no track was visible, but where he could have found his way blindfold, through narrow lanes with stone walls, past more than one farmstead, now settled down into the restfulness of night, always upwards he went, until he reached the little church that crowned the hill and kept watch over the dead that crowded under its shadow.
The young man passed into the graveyard and made his way to a very white stone, that showed strikingly among the dun-coloured monuments about it.
Light fleecy clouds were being blown over the face of the waning moon, and alternations of weird shadows, and still weirder lights, fell on the tombstones and on the grey, weather beaten little church. Richard rested his hand on his father’s gravestone with a caressing touch. A great wave of regret and longing swept over him, and then a sort of relief at the thought that his father could not know how his dying wish would be unfulfilled. The old man’s words rang in his ears,—’It has been a long life; I should like to lie quiet at last.
‘Thank God,’ said Richard. People who don’t believe in God have a way of speaking as though they did in moments of emotion. ‘Thank God, he can’t be troubled about anything now. Dear old dad — he has that wish, at any rate. He lies quiet and beyond the reach of it all.’
He stooped and kissed the stone, almost as though it had been the face of him who lay beneath it.
CHAPTER XVII. AN UNEXPECTED ADHERENT.
THE train which brought Count Litvinoff from London was punctual to the minute, but the trap which was to take him to Thornsett Edge was not, and he was lounging discontentedly among his rugs and luggage at the melancholy little station of Firth Vale.
When Roland had left London, some weeks before, he had parted from Litvinoff with the understanding that he was to spend Christmas with him at Thornsett Edge. Young Ferrier had felt that the Count would be a thousand times better company than his own thoughts, and he preferred asking him to inviting any of his college friends, from whom Richard’s absence would provoke comment, and to whom it would have to be explained. For Richard had gone away, leaving no address save that of a solicitor in London, and he had written to the trustees, and steps were being taken for closing the mill. Roland would rather have been anywhere than near the property he was so soon to lose, but Gates urged him to stay at Thornsett till the New Year, and with Count Litvinoff as his guest he hoped to keep ghosts of old times at bay as successfully in his old home as he could hope to do anywhere else. And Litvinoff had accepted the invitation with fervour, for the Stanleys were back at Aspinshaw.
The day he had pitched on for his journey was a bitterly cold one in the middle of December, and the waiting-room at Firth Vale had no big fires, soft carpets, and luxurious lounges.
It had nothing but a bench, a table, a Bible, a Prayer-book, and a large stone jug of cold water. Litvinoff was got up quite after the English manner, in a light, long travelling ulster with a hood, and a tourist hat of the same stuff; but in spite of his precautions against weather he was very cold, and not a little cross at his prolonged waiting. He was just debating whether it would not be better to walk, and trust his traps to the mercy of chance, when the station shivered and shuddered as the ‘local’ came slowly and heavily in.
As it stopped, a stout woman, of about forty-five, with the usual number of blue bandboxes, bundles in handkerchiefs, and brown baskets disposed about her person, came hurrying down the stone steps, accompanied by a hard-featured, grizzled man some years older. Litvinoff watched their descent with a smile, but as they reached the bottom step his face grew suddenly serious. He turned sharply, and, passing into the little waiting-room, became deeply absorbed in the ‘Scripture roll’ which hung opposite the door, until the train had glided out of the station.
He saw without turning his head that only the woman had gone. The man remained on the platform, gazing after the retreating line of carriages till he started and turned round at Litvinoff’s voice.
‘I beg your pardon, but do you know a place about here called Thornsett Edge?’
‘Ah do,’ said the man, after a prolonged stare. ‘Its a matter o’ three miles off’
‘Can I get a trap here?’ In reply he learned that there was no trap nearer than the fly at the ‘Jolly Sailors,’ and that was half a mile the other side of Thornsett ‘Then I suppose I must walk. Can you tell me the way?’
‘Ah can show you,’ said the man. ‘Ah’m going up to the village; Ah live there.’
He spoke shortly; but Litvinoff had a reason for wishing to talk to the man, and so was content to ignore a curtness of manner which at any other time he would have been the first to resent.
In a few minutes the two were walking over the hard road side by side.
‘Do you happen to know Mr Ferrier?’
‘Ay; Ah work i’ their mill.’
‘I suppose they are great favourites hereabouts?’
‘They’re good lads enow,’ said the elder man; “better nor most o’ them.’
‘Better than most of whom?’
‘Most of the masters and gentlefolks and that like,’ said the man, rather sullenly.
‘You don’t seem to like gentlemen, my friend.’
‘Ah don’t like them well enough to believe either as they’re my friends or as Ah’m theirs,’ was the answer, given with a haughty resentment of Litvinoffs epithet, which that gentleman found amusing.
‘I’m a
fraid that’s true enough in most cases.’
The man looked a little surprised at having his sentiments met by this ready echo from such an unlikely quarter.
‘The toad don’t love the harrow,’ he said slowly; ‘but it ain’t often as you can get the harrow to see that.’
‘Are you quite sure the toad sees it? It seems to bear it quietly enough.’
‘What else can we do?’ asked the man fiercely.
‘That’s exactly what I’m giving my life to trying to find out,’ said Litvinoff, very quietly.
The workman stopped short, and looked at the gentleman from head to feet. His gaze was calmly returned.
He turned and went on with a half laugh:
‘Have you came down here to find that out, and is Mr Roland going to help you?’
‘I can’t answer for Mr Roland Ferrier, but as for myself — look here, my friend’ (with an emphasis on the word), ‘in trying to help the “toads,” as you call them, I was driven from my own country, and had to fly for my life, with a pack of soldier wolves at my back.’
‘Ay? How was that?’ The man was interested in spite of himself, and Litvinoff forthwith plunged into an account of the flight across the frontier on that most exciting night of all his life.
His listener had not heard many exciting stories — they are not rife in Firth Vale — and to this story the fact that it was told by the chief actor lent an unusual interest. The Count was a good story-teller, and the way in which he told his tale left room for no doubt of its truth. When the recital was ended the listener drew a long breath.
‘Ah’m glad you gave them the slip,’ he said; ‘the devils! Eh, but you’re a lucky man to have had such things in your life, and to have done something. You don’t know what it’s like to have your life all bearing and no doing. Why, sometimes when you see how things go wi’ some poor folks you’re most ready to curse the A’mighty as lets such things be.’
The tone of the words, and the words themselves, told Litvinoff that the man’s icy distrust of him had melted in the warmth of admiring sympathy.
‘Ah! here comes Mr Roland,’ he said a minute after, as a tall figure came in sight; ‘he’ll show you now. My nearest way’s over here,’ pointing to one of those uncertain erections of loose stones which do duty for walls in that part of the country. ‘Ah hope Ah shall see you again. If you have nothing better to do any time I shall be right glad to see you at our place. Any one at Thornsett ‘ll tell you where I live. My name’s Hatfield — John Hatfield.’
‘As I thought,’ said Litvinoff, as he advanced to meet Roland, and to receive his profuse regrets at the sudden casting of a shoe, which had prevented the mare from getting to the station with the dog-cart, which ought to have been in attendance. ‘But come along,’ he said; ‘it’s a jolly day for a walk, and I’ll send down for your things as soon as we get home. That was John Hatfield you were with. He’s rather a character.’
‘He seems to be one of us,’ said Litvinoff, as they walked on together.
‘How do you mean?’
‘He doesn’t appear to be particularly satisfied with the present system’
‘No; and he has good wages too, — nearly two pounds a week.’
‘Affluence,’ said Litvinoff.
‘Ah, well,’ said Roland, laughing—’it’s very good as things go — but he has some reason for hating his betters.’
‘Some reason besides the two pounds a week, do you mean?’
‘Yes; his daughter, an awfully pretty, nice girl, made a fool of herself — but I’ll tell you about that some other time. Shall we go this way? It is a little longer, but it leads round by Aspinshaw, and I want to call there to ask after Mrs Stanley; she has a cold. Old Stanley will be delighted to see you; he’s always talking about you. I don’t know how he stands your revolutionary ideas.’
Litvinoff laughed.
‘I never air them to him. I never talk revolution unless there is some chance of making a convert; but some things are too impossible, and Mr Stanley as a revolutionist is not to be conceived.’
‘Miss Stanley seems to be quite a convert, however, although she always had a leaning that way. But I don’t think the conversion is a star in your crown. She lays the credit of it to some man — I forget his name — whom she heard in town. I suppose you know him?’
‘Ah, yes; I remember Miss Stanley took me down splendidly one morning by saying that now she understood our views, thanks to this man Petrovitch. And I, who had been vainly flattering myself that I had made them intelligible to her!’
‘By George, yes!’ said Roland, secretly pleased. ‘That was rather a facer. But then she didn’t hear you at the Agora. Is this Petrovitch a gentleman?’
‘Upon my word, I don’t know. It seems he knows me, but somehow or other we never seem to meet. It is not impossible that I may have known him under some other name. I must ask Miss Stanley to describe him to me.’
‘Oh, she’ll do that with a great deal of pleasure,’ said Roland; ‘it’s her great topic at present. That’s Aspinshaw, over there to the right.’
It was a very pretty house, and somehow managed to escape, even at this dreary season, such dreariness as hung over Thornsett Edge, though it was built of the same grey stone, and had the same moorland background. There was a good deal of ivy about it, and the grounds were less regular and more full of evergreens and shrubs than the Ferriers’ garden.
As the two young men walked up the private road they heard from the rear of the house a confused barking of dogs, and above the noise a girl’s clear voice, raised in vain endeavour to still the joyful tumult.
‘La belle Clare,’ Litvinoff spoke softly, raising his hat as though he saw her, and quickening his pace a little.
‘Shall we go round this way?’ said Roland; ‘we don’t stand on ceremony with each other down here.’
‘By all means,’ said Litvinoff, and they turned into the stable-yard, passing down by the laurel hedge that alone divided it from the garden.
‘By God! what’s that?’ cried the Count, suddenly stopping; and then both men sprang through the hedge. No time to go round now, for there had been the sharp report of a gun, a woman’s shriek, and a heavy fall.
CHAPTER XVIII. A MIXED ASSEMBLY.
It was Sunday afternoon. The rather festive look of Petrovitch’s room, in which he now sat alone, was not, however, due to any desire to specialise the day.
He had simply made his home as cheerful as possible because he was about to entertain guests.
His table was spread with a snowy cloth, and with the preparations for a tea of a distinctly convivial character. There was jam, and more than one kind of cake; and the room was further brightened by bunches of chrysanthemums. Chairs were drawn round the fire in an inviting-looking circle. The least cheerful object in the room was the owner of it, who sat in his usual chair between the fire and the writing-table. He looked pale and weary, for the frosty weather had strongly renewed the pain in a wound in his breast — an old wound, and a wound that had just missed being a deadly one. Contrary to his usual custom, he was neither reading nor writing. The pipe he had been smoking had gone out, and his thoughts were far back in the past, among the memories which had re-awakened with that aching in his breast. His thoughts went further back than the date of that wound, — went back to the days before he had lost friends, home, and country. He saw again in fancy the brilliant gaiety of the winters in St Petersburg, he heard again the exquisite music of the concerts and the opera, — the balls where Majesty itself had deigned to be present, with anxious brow and uneasy, restless eyes. His memory dwelt longest on a certain torchlight fete on the Neva, when the ice had been a yard thick, and when the élite had been shut off from the common herd by walls made of blocks of solid ice, between which fir trees were planted; when coloured lamps and Chinese lanterns had thrown indescribable magic over the crowd of bright military uniforms and the exquisite toilettes of lovely women who had never in all their lives been troubled by a
ny thought of what their dresses cost. And even at this distance he could not think without half a pang of a certain fair-faced girl, with golden hair, who, in her sapphire velvet and swansdown, had been the star of that fête to his boyish eyes. And she had been kind to him on this the last evening he had spent near her before his new faiths and duties had separated him from her for ever. That was the first loss his creed had cost him. He wondered what would be the last — life itself perhaps. Then he fell to thinking how these beliefs of his had grown up. How the reading of a certain book — an English book — had done for his mind what a successful operation for cataract does for one nearly blind — had shown him the facts of life, no longer half hidden in a mist of falsity, but in all their naked truth and ugliness. How for a time he had closed his eyes again and had tried hard to live on in the life of luxury, beauty, love, and (now he knew) selfishness which had been his by ‘right of birth.’ He remembered the night when, belated miles from his home, and overtaken by a snowstorm, he had sought refuge in a peasant’s hut, how he had talked to his hosts, how one visit had led to many, and how what he had learned from these miserable serfs had forbidden him to forget or to set aside the teaching of the great author whose book had first set him thinking. He remembered that time, perhaps the happiest in his life, when he first began to write — when the ideas which had so long been seething in his brain had found literary expression. He remembered the joy with which he had corrected his first proof, the pride with which he read his first article in a magazine. So thoroughly back in the old time was he that he had stretched out his hand towards this very magazine, which stood bound on a bookshelf, when a heavy foot sounded on the stairs, and a moment after a knock at the door heralded the entrance of Mr Toomey, whom Petrovitch came forward to greet with an almost courtly welcome.
‘But your wife,’ he said; ‘can she not come? I trust all is well with her?’
‘All’s well with her, and thanking you for the question; but all’s not well with that young woman o’ yours.’