IT was late before Law got home. In the first place he read the Family Herald through to his interested and busy auditors. Their needles flew like lightning along the lengthy seams; trimmings were as nothing to them, and even a hem became interesting as he read. When he had pursued Lady Araminta to the end of this little portion of her history, showing how she refused that wicked Duke who was at the bottom of all her troubles, and whose expedients to get her into his power were so manifold, he began the next story—and so on till all was finished. It took some time to get through the delightful pennyworth. What good it did to the poor girls at their work! They were not patient, superior, noble-minded needlewomen, pensively bearing up against the privations of their lot, but very commonplace girls, grumbling at their privations frankly, yet sitting up half the night over wedding finery or funeral robes, without any very clear idea that it was a hardship, or indeed more than an inevitable feature of “the dressmaking.” It was under this simple matter-of-fact aspect that their vigil appeared to them now, and they did not feel it any very great grievance; but, such as it was, it was infinitely lightened by Law and the Family Herald. He was, to tell the truth, a little bit interested himself in the stories. He thought them very finely written. He liked the bits about Araminta’s true, but alas! poor and unfortunate lover. This lover was tall and strong, interesting and clever beyond description. He could do whatever he tried to do, and managed to live comfortably upon nothing at all. Law had a half notion that this elegant and perfect being was like himself. He would not have breathed it to anyone, but yet he thought so. And when one story was finished he began another. He did not mind whether it was the beginning, or the middle, or the end of the tale; all was the same to Law; he went stoutly on, and read the whole number through—poetry, answers to correspondents, and all. It was not very fine literature perhaps, or, rather, it was very superfine literature, with nobody below the rank of a baronet in the leading stories; but what it did for these poor dressmaking girls! They followed Lady Araminta through every turn of her wonderful fortunes, with eyes that glowed and shone over their needlework. They identified themselves with her, exclaiming, “That’s just what I’d have done!” and, “No, I wouldn’t have had him, not I, if he’d been fifty dukes!” with true enthusiasm. Their needles flew, and the work got on as by magic; their excitement showing itself in the speed with which they worked. The wedding things were done an hour sooner than they would otherwise have been done, under this stimulus, and it was little more than twelve o’clock when Polly, after folding up the last dress, in readiness to be sent home first thing in the morning, said, “Now, Mr. Lawrence, you’ve been a deal of use. If you like, you can see me home!”
“As if it was a treat for him to see her home!” Emma cried, who owned the special allegiance of Law; but the youth for his part had no objection. It was a beautiful night, and a little additional walk was nothing but a pleasure to him; and he was quite good-natured, ready to exert himself in any way that was not legitimate and necessary. Emma, indeed, did not smile upon this undertaking. She (who had been obliged to do as much before now without anyone to take care of her) did not see what Polly wanted with an escort in a quiet place like St. Michael’s. “You’ll meet nobody worse than the policeman,” she said.
“Policemen are bad enough, sometimes,” said Polly.
“Mind you don’t meet the Captain,” said Emma’s elder sister, “and get him into trouble with his papa.”
At this Polly laughed, tossing her head with its innumerable plaits and puffs. “I hope I can manage the Captain,” she said. And whoever had heard the style of Polly’s conversation as she walked up the sweep of the steep street by Law’s side, with the soft night air blowing in their faces, would have recognised at once the superiority of Polly to all the insinuations addressed to her. All was very quiet in the High Street of St. Michael’s: they met nobody worse than the policeman, as Emma had suggested; and everything was still and dark, except the stars shining far away overhead; for the shop-windows had long been closed, and the lamps glimmered few and far between.
“You mustn’t think anything of what these foolish things say about the Captain,” said Polly; “because I’m a bit more reasonable than the rest, he likes to have a chat with me now and again. He’s a very well-informed man is your papa; but you mustn’t think nothing of what they say——”
“Oh, I don’t!” said Law, with the serenest confidence; “I know the governor’s way.”
This, however, was not a reply which pleased Polly. “What do you mean by the governor’s way?” she cried sharply. “You are not half respectful enough, if you would like to hear my opinion. You shouldn’t talk of the Captain like that; he’s a fine man, and he’s one that many in this town thinks a deal of.”
“Is he really?” said Law, in genuine surprise; “I did not know that. I wonder what kind of people they are? Is it far off where you live, Polly? I haven’t got a latchkey, so I don’t want to be very late.”
“You never thought of being late so long as you were sitting by Emma; though what you can see in a little white-haired thing like that, like a white cat! You haven’t got a latchkey? I should think not at your age. Mr. Lawrence, take my advice, and never be so late out of bed unless there is a very good reason for it.”
“I like that!” cried Law, “when it was you that kept me there all the time.”
“I thought it would do you good,” said Polly. “I am almost sure you had not done a thing besides, or looked into a book for the whole day.”
“Oh! I should not mind standing an examination in the Family Herald,” Law said with a laugh. He had occupied the post of reader in the workroom before, and knew a great deal about Lady Araminta. There could not be any doubt that he was very good-natured, and ready to make himself of use.
“I should like to know,” said Polly—and though he could scarcely see her face, Law felt, with a mixture of amusement and indignation, by the sound of her voice, that Polly, too, meant to give him good advice—“I should like to know, Mr. Lawrence, what you intend to be? Are you going into the army, like the Captain? If I were a young gentleman, that’s what I should choose above everything.”
“I can’t afford the army, worse luck,” cried Law; “we haven’t got any money, and a fellow can’t live on his pay. And there’s those dash’d examinations to pass everywhere before you can get into anything; it’s enough to drive a man out of his senses. I sometimes think I shall emigrate—that’s the only thing you can do without an examination.”
“But you can’t do that without money—a little money at least,” said Polly. “If I were you, I should make a push and get in somewhere. I can’t think how you can stay at home doing nothing, a great strong young man like you.”
“Oh! as for being strong, that don’t do much for an exam.,” said Law. “The little fellows stand the best chance there.”
“I wouldn’t make jokes about it, if I were you. I wonder how you can go on living on the Captain, and such a burden on him—both you and your sister——”
“Hallo,” said Law in extreme surprise. The mention of Lottie bewildered him. He was not even angry for the moment—he was so profoundly astonished.
“Yes, indeed, you and your sister too. You don’t show any consideration for the Captain, and how can you expect that he’s always to be thinking of you? The Captain is a young man still, and he is a fine man, and if he were to marry again, as would be very natural at his age, where would you and Miss Despard be?”
“Let my sister alone, if you please,” said Law, with a momentary flash of anger; and then he relapsed into a laugh. “The governor should be much obliged to you, Polly, for taking his part.”
“Somebody ought to take his part,” said Polly. “I don’t suppose he’s much over fifty—what I call quite a young man still; and why should he deny himself and spend all he’s got on two grown-up young people that ought to be making their own living? A man like the Captain, he wants his ease and his little comforts and a wife to look after him—that’s what he wants. He ain’t an old man to give in to his family. If I were to put upon my folks like that, do you think I’d be walking up St. Michael’s Hill at this hour of the night, after slaving and stitching all day? Not a bit of it, Mr. Lawrence. If I were to do as you’re doing, I might sit at home and make myself comfortable; but I was always one for being independent, and as for the Captain, poor dear! he oughtn’t to be spending his money upon them that can do for themselves. It is himself he ought to be thinking of, to get all the pleasure he can as long as he’s able to enjoy it. And if he were to marry again, as there’s nothing more likely, where would you and Miss Lottie be? Oh, yes, I know your names quite well,” said Polly. “We often talk about you. These sort of names for short are a mistake. For instance me, my name’s Maria, that’s a very lady-like name; but what does it matter when everybody calls me Polly? but, if my name’s common, nobody can say of me that I don’t behave handsome to my parents,” Polly said with emphasis. As for Law, he had felt himself growing hot and cold all through this speech. It plunged him into an entirely new world of thought. He tried to laugh, but there was no laughter in his mind.
“It is very kind of you, Polly,” he said, with scorn in his voice, “to take the trouble to give me so much good advice.”
“Oh, I assure you it’s not for your sake, but the Captain’s,” said Polly. “I told him if ever I had a chance with either of you, you should hear a bit of my mind—and I saw my opportunity to-night—that’s why I asked you to come with me, Mr. Lawrence. Oh, it wasn’t for the pleasure of your society! I told the Captain I’d give you a bit of my mind. This is my home, so I’ll bid you good-night, and I hope you’ll lay to heart what I say.”
Law turned up the Abbey Hill when thus dismissed with much secret excitement in his mind. It was altogether a new idea to him that his father was as Polly said, quite a young man still, and that it was on himself, not on his grown-up children, that his money should be spent. Law had never looked upon the income of the family as belonging exclusively to his father. It was the family income, and it had seemed to him that he had just as good a right to have everything he wanted as his father had. As a matter of fact he did not get all he wanted, as Captain Despard managed to do; but that was because his father had the command of everything, not that he had a better right to it than Law. The idea that he had no right at all, as Polly seemed to think, and that his father might make the home untenable by marrying somebody, perhaps Polly herself, struck him as the most extraordinary of revelations. It was too extraordinary to be thought of calmly—his brain boiled and bubbled with the extraordinariness and novelty of the thought. The governor, who was only not an old fogey because he was so much less respectable, less orderly than old fogeys ought to be!—Law could not associate his father’s image with the idea of, even, comparative youth. But he could not dismiss the suggestion from his mind. He tried to laugh, but something seemed to hang over him like a threat, like a cloud of evil omen. He walked quickly up the slope to the Abbey gate, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling in his mind—trying to postpone at least the new idea which he could not get rid of. When, however, Law had got into the Precincts he saw a passenger not much less active and considerably more jaunty than himself on the way before him, walking with a slight occasional lurch, up the pavement to the Lodges. The lurch was quite slight, and might not have been noticed by an indifferent eye, but Law noted it with the jealous observation of one whose own credit was at stake. It was hard upon a fellow, he thought, that his father should be seen going home night after night with a lurch in his walk, and that his name should be recognised in all the lowest quarters of the town as that of “the Captain’s son.” Why should he suffer for such a cause? Other old men were respectable, were no shame to their sons, but on the contrary furnished a margin of honour and reputation upon which to draw when there was occasion; but this was not the case with Captain Despard. Other old men—but there suddenly flashed across Law’s mind as he instinctively placed his father in this class, a recollection of the words which had just been said to him—“He is what I call a young man still.” Pricked by this thought, he looked at the figure before him with eyes suddenly cleared from the mists of habit and tradition, and saw it in an altogether new light. Captain Despard was straight and active: he carried his head high, and his step, though to-night slightly irregular, was both firm and light. To see him walking in front humming and whistling by turns, perhaps with a certain bravado to show how steady he was, gave Law the most uncomfortable sensation. It was true what Polly had said. This was no old fogey, no heavy father; though up to this moment Law had looked upon the Captain in no other light. He felt a shiver come over him, a sudden realisation of all the possibilities. Who should say that the governor ought not to do what he liked best, whatever that might be? Law felt conscious that he himself, who was so much younger, did what he liked in indifference to everybody’s opinion, and he was under no affectionate delusion as to the superior virtue of his father. What if Polly were right? Polly perhaps had a better chance of knowing the Captain’s wishes than either his son or his daughter, to whom he was not likely to talk on such subjects. A chill came over the lad though the night was so warm. Life had always seemed sure enough to him, though it had its privations. He had to put up with that chronic want of pocket-money—and with frequent “rows” from his father, and passionate remonstrances from Lottie. These were the drawbacks of existence; but Law was aware that, except in very favourable circumstances indeed, as when you were born a duke, or at least born to the possession of five thousand a year or so, existence was very seldom without drawbacks; this, however, was very much worse than the want of pocket-money; the governor with a new wife, perhaps Polly! The situation was too horrible to be realised, but for the moment the idea seemed to pour a current of ice into Law’s veins.
He had no latchkey, but as soon as he saw his father he made up his mind to take advantage of Captain Despard’s entrance in a way which he had found practicable before this. Light and swift as he was, when the Captain had fumbled and opened the door, Law stole close behind him and entered with him in the darkness. “What’s that?” Captain Despard growled, feeling the movement of the air as his son passed. “I’ll swear there’s a ghost in this house,” he added, grumbling to himself. Law, however, was safely out of the way before his father managed to strike a light, and went, swaying from side to side, up the narrow staircase which creaked under him. The young fellow, standing back in the darkness, saw Captain Despard’s face illuminated by the light of the candle he carried, and gazed at it with eyes sharpened by anxiety. It was a handsome face—the contour still perfect, the hair crisp and curling, a heavy military moustache shadowing the well-formed lip. The Captain was flushed, his eyes were blinking, half-closed, and that unloveliest look that can be seen on a man’s face, the look of partial intoxication approaching the sleepy stage, took all spirit and sentiment from him. Yet Law could not but acknowledge that his father was a handsome man. He stood quite still, watching that progress upstairs, half because he was unwilling to be seen, half because he was anxious to see. Captain Despard was “a fine man,” as Polly had said. Law could see now, looking at him between the bars of the railing which guarded the little staircase, that there was nothing in common between him and the old white-haired Chevaliers, old men not strong enough to be warlike, but courteous and gentle as becomes old soldiers, who sunned themselves on the pavement before the Lodges. Captain Despard, middle-aged and self-assertive, was as different as possible from those old gentlemen with their honourable scars. He had none of their honours nor of the grace of old service; but he was strong in life and vigour, a kind of superiority which Law could appreciate. A grain of pride mingled in the exasperation with which he acknowledged this to himself—and yet he was not only exasperated but alarmed. He retired to bed very softly afterwards, creeping on tiptoe and in the dark up the stairs. There was still a gleam of light under Lottie’s door, but Law preferred not to direct his sister’s attention to the late hour of his own return by going straight to her room to relieve himself of his trouble. He did not want to be forced into confidences or to betray where he had himself been, and how he had heard the alarming prophecies which had so suddenly cleared his sight; and though the temptation was great he resisted it. Thus the lights were burning all at once in three of the little rooms in Captain Despard’s house, each illuminating a separate world of excitement, unsuspected by the others. The Captain’s share of the disturbance was less of the mind than the body. He had lost some money which he could not afford to lose, and was annoyed on this account; and he was excited, but more sleepy, on account of the potations which had accompanied his play. “By——, I’ll have it back to-morrow night—luck can’t be so against me one night after another.” This was the only burden of his simple and uncomplicated reflections. He thought nothing of his children one way or another. Both his children, however, though in different ways, were thinking of him. Lottie, though she dared not openly sit up for her father, remained up in her own room until he came in, and she had made sure that he did not want anything, and was not likely to set the house on fire. But Law’s reflections were more serious than those of the other two. It seemed to the idle lad as if suddenly a real burden had got on to his shoulders. He was thoroughly frightened out of the pleasant calm of nature—the sense that everything must go on as everything had gone since he could remember. In later days, indeed, things had gone better for Law—Lottie had managed now and then to scrape a shilling or two off the housekeeping to give him, and of late she had not bullied him quite so much as usual. The current had been flowing more evenly—everything had conspired to make the happy-go-lucky of his life more smooth than before. He woke up with all the more fright and surprise to the sudden danger now.