THERE was not very much conversation between the two young men as they went to Glasgow. Eddy, indeed, would talk for a few minutes from time to time in his usual way, but presently would fall into silence, from which he roused up feverishly with suppressed excitement in his eyes, to rattle on once more for a brief time, asking hasty and often absurd questions, and making fun of the answers which Archie in puzzled seriousness made. Humour had not much share in Archie’s constitution. He had been light-hearted enough in his earlier development, and joked like the rest in the rather noisy fun of the class to which he belonged; but his father’s return, and the revolution that had taken place in his existence, had taken all the fun out of Archie, and made life very serious to him. Eddy’s “chaff,” the light art of turning everything into ridicule, which, when there is no sympathetic ear to hear, falls so flat and sounds so dreary, perplexed his grave companion. Archie concluded charitably and not untruly that it was excitement that produced this varying behaviour, the dead silence and the chatter of speech. He believed that Eddy’s troubles about money and the relief he was himself about to bring to them were the cause. He himself thought that a hundred and fifty pounds was an immense sum, and that there was scarcely any embarrassment possible to a youth of his own age which could not be amply covered by that. Archie had known “fellows in debt” often enough, but a ten-pound note, or twenty at the outside, would have made their hearts dance. And he thought with a sense that he himself was acting the part of providence, that a complete and perfect deliverance must result in this case. He said to himself, that when Eddy had actually the money in his hands—which he intended to draw out himself and hand over in notes to his companion—his mind would be more calm.
The transaction at the bank was managed quite satisfactorily. Archie would not even permit Eddy to accompany him inside, but left him gazing vacantly into the shop-windows while he accomplished his business. Very little passed between them when it was completed. Archie thrust the little packet of notes into Eddy’s hand. “They’re small one’s,” he said, “I thought that was best.” And Eddy grasped Archie’s hand and gave him a look in which gratitude was blended with what Archie imagined to be joy—in his salvation so to speak: but which was in reality a delightful consciousness of the possession of money, and of the great joke involved in his benefactor’s conviction that he was doing a great thing. Eddy did not think so much of the hundred and fifty pounds. He concluded that it was the merest trifle to the millionaire’s son, who, of course, had only got to ask his father for more if he wanted it. Eddy put it into his pocket carelessly, though with much pleasure. It did not mean the payment of debt, which to him was but a mediocre satisfaction; it meant various things much more agreeable—the spending of money, which is an inexhaustible pleasure so long as the wherewithal lasts.
After this they went to see various of the sights of Glasgow, in which Eddy, it must be allowed, was not very much interested—the Cathedral, for one, which Archie looked upon as the most glorious building in the world, but which young Saumarez cared about as little for as he would have cared for any other cathedral under the sun. Eddy yawned as he walked about the aisles and investigated the crypt. He cared neither for the architecture nor the antiquity, nor for the painted glass, nor even for Rob Roy, which latter interest poor Archie considered infallible. Nor were the other sights more exciting to him. He suggested luncheon as far more interesting either than the Necropolis, the College, or the Broomielaw: and after the luncheon, which he did not consider highly satisfactory, asked with much languor and fatigue of expression, whether Rowland had not some one he wanted to call on instead of bothering about any more Glasgow sights?
Archie coloured high at this question, not on Eddy’s account, but with a curious feeling of shame, which was also a feeling of guilt. To be in Glasgow without going to see his aunt would be, he was aware, an unpardonable and heartless thing. It would wound her deeply if she knew, and even if she never knew, it would be no less a mean and abominable thing to do. Nevertheless the presence of Eddy had been enough to make him put this from his mind as an impossibility. “I was not thinking of calling anywhere,” he said.
“But you must have people that you want to see. Let’s go and see somebody,” Eddy said. “I like people. I’m not a fellow for seeing sights.”
“I might take you to see the football at the Westpark—if you are fond of football.”
“Oh I don’t mind it,” said Eddy; “let’s go and see the football. It is better than staring at things neither you nor I care about.”
“Oh, I care about that,” said Archie: and as he thought of the old field in which his old companions used to meet, a certain warmth from the old times came over his heart. He had been rather a fine performer at football in his day, and the Westpark men had meant to play the College that very season, he recollected. He had not appeared at the field since the season began. His place there knew him no more. Nevertheless, to see them at their practice would be something, and he might meet some of the fellows between whom and himself there was now such a gulf fixed. Saumarez would be startled no doubt by their noisy ways, and their broad Scotch: but what did it matter after all what Saumarez thought? They went accordingly to the Westpark where, with pleasure but alarm, he had conducted his father four months ago, when cricket was going on. Happy lads! they had but changed from cricket into football, while Archie—What changes, what changes his life had undergone!
They got to the field before the play had begun, and Archie was loudly welcomed by several of his old friends. “What’s come of ye, man, all this time!” “Eh, Archie! you’re a sight for sair een.” “Are ye back in Glaskie, or are ye just on a visit?” Archie shook hands with a whole band, and replied that he was only up for the day, but that he felt he must come and see them, and hear what was going on; and he had a friend with him—a friend from England. The young athletes clustered round, delighted to see any friend of Archie’s. They asked Eddy questions about the game “in the South.” “But I don’t know much about the South,” he said. “Harrow’s the farthest South I know.” Archie’s friends, though they were but Glasgow lads, knew enough to know that Harrow merited respectful treatment, and they led the stranger to the best place to see the game which was just beginning. The two young men stood and watched with great interest for some time, and then in this new springing of kindly associations, Archie felt it was impossible to go back without seeing his aunt. To come here and not to go to Aunt Jane, to run the risk of wounding her to the heart: for some one would be sure to tell her he had been seen at Westpark—he felt that it was impossible he should do this thing. He touched Eddy on the shoulder at the very crisis of the interest and whispered, “I’m going to run away for ten minutes to see an old friend. I’ll come back for you here.”
“Not a bit,” said Eddy, promptly. “I’ll go with you. My interest is not overwhelming in the match. I’d much rather go——”
“Oh, it is not a place you will care for,” said Archie, much embarrassed.
“Never mind: I’ll come with you,” said his companion, and what could Archie say? He made a hurried explanation to one of the performers that he was compelled to go, and the two left the field. Even then Archie made another attempt to throw off this too close companion.
“It’s a pity,” he said, “to take you away. I’m not going to see anybody that’s interesting. It is an old body, an old—relation; nothing that will please you.”
“You don’t do me justice,” said Eddy. “I tell you people are what I care for; and you know my taste for ladies. Old ladies are my favourite study—when there are no young ones in the way.”
“There are no young ones,” said Archie, in despair; “and I don’t want to take you away.”
“Oh, I like it,” said Eddy, and thrust his hand through the other’s arm.
There was, therefore, nothing to be done but to accept the leading of fate. How strange and wonderful now were all these familiar ways that led to the Sauchiehall Road! Already the work of time and change had operated upon them. They were narrow, and mean, and grey, not comfortable and friendly as they had once looked. The houses small and poor, the streets confined and filthy, the whole complexion of the place altered. He had not known what a homely, poor part of the town it was: he saw it now as if it were a new place with which he was making acquaintance for the first time.
And when he came in sight of the house in Sauchiehall Road, the familiar house with its front door, so dignified a feature, and the big elderberry tree filling up the little space before the door! The blinds were drawn carefully half over the window, except in the little parlour downstairs, where everything was open, the little muslin curtain over the lower part of the window tucked up that Mrs. Brown might see—who was sitting there at her knitting, carefully looking out upon the street, for something new. What a changed life it was for Mrs. Brown; no young people running out and in, no merry companions, no little vanities to minister to, no little quarrels and frettings, but a dead load of solitary comfort, good things which she ate alone, and new dresses which nobody saw. She gave “a skreigh,” as she herself would have said, as she saw Archie coming up the path, and flew herself to open the door for him. “Eh, my bonnie man!” cried Mrs. Brown. She did not fling herself on his neck and kiss him, for that was not according to her reserved Scotch ways, but she held both his hands, and swayed him slightly by them, gazing into his face with eyes full of ecstacy and tears. “Eh, Archie, but it’s a pleasure to see ye. Eh, my bonnie man!”
“I am glad to see you again, Aunty Jane,” said Archie. “I was in Glasgow for the day, and I’ve come to see you; and I’ve got a friend with me—a friend from England.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Brown, perceiving Eddy’s not very distinguished figure behind. She made him something between a curtesy and a bow. “I am sure,” she said, “any friend of Archie’s is welcome to me, sir. Come in and take a seat. I’m glad to see ye—But oh, Archie, my man! the sight of my own laddie is just light to my een. And how is a’ wi’ you, my bonnie boy?—and Mey? And are ye getting on well at Rosmore? And is your father well? and the leddy? I have so many questions to ask I dinna know when to stop. Eh, Archie, how I have missed you—life itself is not the same—and Mey! I just sit dowie all the day, and care for nothing, looking out at my window as if I might see ye pass, and sitting by the fireside and listening as if I might hear ye coming down the stair. Eh, but life’s a different thing when there’s naething but an old wife sitting her lane by her fire side——”
And here Mrs. Brown broke down and cried; but looking up smiling, in the midst of her tears, bade them to tell her if they had got their dinner, or what she could give them. “I will have mince-collops ready in a moment,” she said.
“I told Rowland so,” said Eddy, “that he should have come and asked you for some dinner instead of going to that queer place in—what do you call the street? but he thought it would be giving you too much trouble. That’s the worst of that modest sort of dreadfully proud fellow. He can’t be got to see that you would like to take the trouble—for him.”
“Eh, laddie,” cried Mrs. Brown, her face lighting up through the half-dried tears; “are ye a warlock, or how do ye ken? That’s just heaven’s truth; and though he’s blate, he’s awfu’ proud: and ye must be a lad of uncommon sense to ken.”
“Yes,” said Eddy, modestly, “I’ve always been noted for my sense; but I am not at all proud, and I think if you were to make some of your nice tea for us—I am quite sure that you make delightful tea.”
“Hear to him!” said Mrs. Brown, delighted. “Ye shall have your tea, my young gentleman, and a pleasure it will be to serve ye. I will just ask Bell if the kettle is boiling; and Archie, ye can show your friend the pictures of Mey and you when you were bairns, and the views your father sent home from India, and anything you can find to amuse him. I’ll no be a minute.” She left the two young men alone together while she hurried to the kitchen to see after the tea.
“Let me see the picture of your sister and you, not the views from India, Rowland,” said Eddy.
“Saumarez,” cried Archie, clearing his throat; “I told you this was a—relation. She brought us up, and she was very kind to us. I can’t have her laughed at, you know.”
“Laughed at?” cried Eddy; “how you misunderstand! I found out all that in the twinkling of an eye. And as for being disrespectful to your aunt, it is not I that will ever be disrespectful; besides which, I delight in an old lady like that—was the kettle boiling, Mrs. Brown?”
“’Deed it was,” said Mrs. Brown, “and Bell will bring the tea ben in a minute or two, as soon as it has had time to mask. I never let it stand long after I have maskit the tea. And how are ye getting on Archie, my bonnie lad, at Rosmore? Are ye getting more familiar! are ye liking it better? And Mey? Ye are such poor letter writers, I must take my chance of hearing all I can when you’re at hand. Four months, Archie, and neither the one nor the ither of you has been near. That’s no what you ought to have done. You that were just like bairns of my ain.”
“It is not my fault, aunty. We have not been in Glasgow since we left. There has been always something to do. Either my father has wanted me, or May has been busy, or something has been in the way. We have had people visiting in the house.” Archie looked instinctively at Eddy to help him out.
“We have been there for a long time,” said Eddy. “People very hard to keep amused, always making claims upon them. Of course we had not the pleasure of knowing you, dear Mrs. Brown; and we have been the greatest bother——”
“Oh, dinna say so,” cried Aunt Jane; “sure am I they were very glad of the bother, and real pleased to have ye there. And so am I delighted that Archie should have such a friend as you. No, I’m not so unreasonable. I was giving a bit jeer at them to see what they would say for themselves, and what excuse they would give. But I was wanting no excuse. I’m just overjoyed that they have such friends. And if they werena coming about me every day, well I kent the reason. I would rather see them doing their duty in their father’s house, and taking their proper place, than fiddling and fyking about me.”
“We’ve been neglectful, Aunt Jane,” said Archie, “but we’ll do better after this.” The sense that he had been good to one, in one direction, made his heart all the softer in every way. “It’s all been so new, and there is so much to learn; but it will never happen again.”
“Na, na, ye must not take me in earnest like that,” said Jane. “I gie a girn, but—I’ve no evil meaning. And here’s the tea. Just draw in your chair and come near the table, Mr. ——, but I didn’t rightly catch your name.”
“Most people call me Eddy,” said the young man with a laugh.
“And a very good name too. You’ll be from the south? though I have kent many Adies in our ain country. But ye have a grand way of speaking, and I hope Archie ye’ll take an example. I’m no fond of knapping English, but it’s a’ the fashion, and mair does it than has ony right.”
“I will just speak as I was born to speak,” said Archie, with a taste of his native obstinacy.
“Weel, weel, it’s no for me to interfere. But ye havena said a word aboot Mey? She might have come with ye, to look in upon her auld aunt. But it was aye oot of sight oot of mind with Mey. Ye are mair faithful, Archie. Have you heard of the great changes in the Road? (Mrs. Brown said Rod). Lizzie White, that was once out and in of the house every day, she is married upon Mr. Wright, a watchmaker in Buchanan Street—just a very excellent match. Oh yes, ye must mind very well, for I used to think that if ye wasna both so young—. And then the Cowcaddens, that made just a great show, with cabs at their door every day, and pairties and dancing and I dinna ken all what—has failed, poor man, and the house roupit, and them living in some poor close somewhere, just as miserable as they can be, which shows what prideful wasting and high living must come to. And oh, Archie, there is another thing I just want to speak to you about. You mind Colin Jamieson that was at the College, and meaning to be a minister—poor lad! he’s fallen into a dwining and an ill way, and they say he maun go to Egypt or some of thae places. And his folk are poor folk, and he just smiles and says ‘they might as well tell me to gang to the moon.’ Archie, I had the pen in my hand yesterday to write you a letter. Eh, laddie, ye aye had an open hand. If ye would maybe spare out of your abundance a little siller to help this poor lad! He would never ask it, but from an auld comrade that was so well off, there could be nae reason for refusing. Archie, if your heart were to speak.”
There was a dead pause, and it seemed to poor Archie that heaven was against him. He who would have been so ready, so anxious to offer anything he had—and he had nothing! He could not speak; and that this demand should have been made before Eddy made it more dreadful still. But Eddy did not take it in that point of view. He was not called upon to say anything. He sat calmly eating the cake with which Mrs. Brown had supplied him. Eddy was not embarrassed at all; he was much interested in a half-comic way to know how Rowland would get out of it. To a fellow like that it would be hard to refuse, and Eddy felt that it was a very good thing he had got all the money, or else to a certainty the fool would have given it to this other man, who probably would do much better to stay at home. He ate his cake, therefore, and drank his tea with an amused and interested mind, looking on with a perfectly tranquil perception of all that was involved.
“Aunt Jane,” said Archie, stammering and blushing, “I am more sorry than words can say—but I have not got the money. I would give it—or my heart’s blood if I could—to an old friend like Colin. But I haven’t it. I haven’t it! If it would do at the New Year—”
“He will likely be in his grave by the New Year,” said Mrs. Brown, “if he canna get away.” Jane had drawn herself within herself, so to speak. She rose a head taller as she sat, over her tea-tray, her portly person seemed to draw in, the beaming expression departed from her face. To be refused! and by her own boy! and before a stranger! and with a lee! for how could he be without money. He that had got a twenty pound note as she herself knew, only four months before, just a fortune for a callant like Archie? besides more no doubt where that came from, Jims Rowland being just too liberal. It was to Mrs. Brown as if all the waves of the Clyde had dashed into her face. For a moment she could make no reply.
“Archie,” she said at last solemnly, “I’m no fond of much troke about money between friends. It’s very likely to lead to ill-blood. But I thought for Colin, that ye once were so fond of, if I might speak—you have maybe,” she said with keen irony, “forgotten who he was. I’ve often seen that folk have but short memories that rise in the world. He’s the lad who got you into your grand club. Ye may not think much of it now, but ‘twas a grand thing for ye then. It was him ye used to consult about your debating and all that, and that was sae good at the footba’, and that learnt ye—”
“Do you think I have forgotten, auntie? I have forgotten nothing,” cried Archie, starting up from the table. “It’s just despair,” he said, under his breath. “I havena got it. I havena got it!” He began to pace about the room as his father did with his hands thrust into the depths of his empty pockets, and his shoulders up to his ears. As for Eddy, he turned aside a little and took up the paper Mrs. Brown had been reading, by way of relieving them of the embarrassment of his presence as much as possible during this family dispute.
“Well!” said Mrs. Brown, “it is the first time I have askit anything of ye, and it will be the last time, Archie Rowland. Let’s say no more about it. I thought it was just a thing ye would have made no hesitation about, but been mair ready to give than me to ask.”
“And so I would,” he cried, “and so I would!” with a sort of groan out of his very heart.
“We will just say no more about it,” said Mrs. Brown, with dignity. “Sit down and take your tea.”
“I am wanting no tea,” said Archie.
“Ye will sit down and bide quiet at any rate, and not disturb other folk. Mr. Adie, I am very glad that ye like your tea; it’s aye a good sign in a young man if he likes his tea. It shows he’s no thinking of ither beverages that are mair to the taste of so many unfortunate lads in this world. Ye’ll maybe be from London, which is a muckle place, I have always heard, and full o’ temptation. Eh, laddies, but ye should be awfu’ careful not to put yourselves in temptation. A very little thing will do it. Ye will maybe think,” said Mrs. Brown, making a desperate attempt to fathom the cause of Archie’s behaviour, and explain its enormity, “that to take an interest in racing horses or even in playin’ cards or dice or the like of that, is no just a cardinal crime. But oh, it leads to a’ the rest! Ye will maybe think nothing of losing a shilling or twa, or even a pound or twa upon a game. That’s bad enough, oh it’s bad enough! It may keep ye from doing a good turn to a neighbour in time of need, it may make ye powerless for good, just as it makes ye an instrument for evil; but that’s not all. It leads from bad to worse. It’s like the daughter o’ the horse-leech, it’s aye crying ‘Give, give.’ It’s like a whummel down a hill, the longer ye go the faster ye go. Oh, laddies! when I think how young ye are, and a’ the dangers in your way, and what soft hearts some of ye had, and how soon they harden when ye think of nothing but yoursel—”
“Aunty,” said Archie, “we have got the train to catch, and the boat to catch, and we will have to go.”
“I will not detain ye, Archie,” said Mrs. Brown, with the air of a duchess, “so long as ye give Mr. Adie the time to finish his tea. Good morning to you, sir, and I am very glad to have seen ye in my poor bit place. Ye will maybe give my love to my niece, Mey. And good-bye to ye, Archie. I hope that everything good will be aye in your path, and that ye may never want a kind friend nor one to succour ye in time of need.”
To tell the feelings with which Archie heard the door of his childhood shut upon him with a decisive clash as if for ever, is more than I have words or power to do. He was shamed, abandoned, given up—and without any fault of his. Eddy was extremely entertaining all the way home. He had of course too much good taste and good breeding to refer in any way to the family quarrel of which he had been so unlucky as to be the witness. To ignore it altogether and do his best to divert his companion’s mind, and make him forget, was of course the thing which in the circumstances a man of good feeling would do.