CHAPTER XVII.
"LIKE SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT."
"The situation that has not its Duty, its Ideal, was never yet occupied by man. Yes, here in this miserable, despicable actual wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy Ideal. Work it out therefore. The Ideal is in thyself, the impediment too is in thyself."
CARLYLE.
"Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished."
LONGFELLOW.
One evening, about a week later, Thorold Chaytor walked quickly over theDereham bridge on his way from the station. His day, as usual, had beenspent in his dingy chambers in Lincoln's Inn; he had worked hard, andfelt unusually weary, and the damp chilliness of the mists rising fromthe river made him shiver and button up his coat more closely.
A slight mizzling rain was now falling; the pavements were wet andgreasy; the gas lights on the towing path seemed to waver and then flareup with windy flickers; the black hulls of the boats and barges mooredto the shore loomed through the mist like vast monsters weltering in themud; and the grey river flowing under the bridges washed silentlyagainst the piers in the darkness.
Mr. Chaytor's chambers in Lincoln's Inn were high up, and very small andinconvenient--"Chaytor's sky parlour," some of his friends called it,for in reality it consisted of only one room and a good-sized cupboard;but the view of chimney-pots from the window was certainly unique. To besure, it was somewhat cold in winter, and at times the chimney was givento smoking, and in summer it certainly resembled the Black Hole inCalcutta; but these were trifles to be borne stoically, if notcheerfully.
In this den Thorold Chaytor did most of his literary work, and waitedfor briefs; nor did he wait wholly in vain.
Althea had spoken of him as a poor man, and this opinion was shared bymany others. When old friends of the family, who had visited at the oldManor House, came down to the dull, shabby-looking house in High Street,where Thorold and his sister lived, they used to sigh and shrug theirshoulders.
"It was grievous," they would say. "No wonder poor Joanna looked so oldand careworn! And they only kept one servant, too;" and then they wouldtalk, under their breath, of the wasteful extravagance at the old ManorHouse, and then of that racing establishment at Newmarket, to which theChaytor fortunes had been sacrificed.
But if Thorold and Joanna practised rigid economy, and only kept oneservant, it was because they stinted themselves of their own free-will.
Thorold Chaytor was not really poor; his literary work was successful,and his papers on social questions were so brilliant and versatile, soteeming with thought and sparkles of wit, that he was already making hismark as a clever writer.
And in his own profession he was not doing so badly. Quite recently hehad distinguished himself in some case. "Chaytor is a clear-headedlawyer; he is sharp and has plenty of brains," his friends would say;"he will get on right enough, if he does not kill himself with workfirst."
Thorold loved his work. The hours spent in that grimy den were full ofenjoyment to him; he was equally happy solving some legal problem ordoing some of his journalistic work; his clear, strong brains delightedin labour.
He had one curious companion of his solitude--a small, yellow cat, whohad only three legs, whom he had rescued from a violent death, and whorefused to leave him.
Sisera was not an attractive animal, but his heart was in the rightplace; he adored his master, and when Thorold's step sounded on thestairs in the morning, Sisera would jump off the old coat on the shelf,where he was accustomed to pass the night, and limp with loud purrs tothe door.
Sisera was as much a hermit as his master; he took his exercise amongthe chimney-pots, and never went downstairs, where unseen enemies lurkedunnumbered for him. He had his pennyworth of milk, and his skewer ofcats' meat, and a share of his master's frugal luncheon; and on Sundaysthe fat old housekeeper toiled up the stairs and deposited the rationsfor the day, grumbling as she did so.
But, although Thorold already earned a fair income, he lived as thoughhe were poor, and both he and his sister were almost parsimonious intheir habits; but not even Althea, who was their closest friend, didmore than guess at the reason for all this thrift. Thorold had sethimself an Herculean task--to pay his father's debts--and in this Joannahad willingly helped him; with all her faults and failings, she was agood woman, and her sense of honour was almost as strong as his.
Thorold was still at Oxford when his father died. His brother Tristramwas three or four years older. He had been summoned in haste to thedeath-bed; but, to his relief, his father recognised him.
"It is a bad business, my boy," he said, faintly, as Thorold took hishand. "If I could only have my life again, I would do differently;" anda few minutes later, when they thought he was sleeping, he opened hiseyes. "Never get into debt, Trist," he murmured. "It is hard for a manto die peacefully with a millstone round his neck." And Thorold wasstruck by the look of anguish that crossed his face.
"Father," he said, gently, for he was young and impressionable, andperhaps, in his wish to give comfort, he hardly knew what he wassaying. "Father, you shall die in peace; and Trist and I will work hard,and pay your debts."
"Yes, yes," murmured Tristram, with a sob; "we will pay them, dad."
Then a wonderful smile came over the sick man's face.
"Good lads, good lads," he muttered. "God bless you both!" Those werehis last words; but, even as he lay in his coffin, Thorold began torealise that the millstone was already round his own neck.
Those first few years that followed his father's death were very sadones to Thorold. His mother's failing health, and Joanna'sdisappointment, embittered the peace of their home; and, worse than all,Tristram became a care to them. He had been brought up in expectation ofa fortune; and, as far as work was concerned, his life at the universityhad been a failure.
"What does it matter whether I grind or not?" he would say. "I am havinga good old time, and the governor will pay my debts." And when the evildays came, and George Chaytor's sons had to put their shoulders to thewheel and earn their bread, there seemed nothing that Tristram could do.
Again and again a berth had been found for him, but he had failed tokeep it. Either he had been wanting in steadiness or application, or hehad lost his temper and quarrelled with his employer. "He is not worthhis salt!" one of them said angrily to Thorold.
In sheer desperation, Thorold went to an old cousin who had alreadyshown him a great deal of kindness; and, with his help, Tristram wasequipped and shipped off to New Zealand.
"Perhaps he will do better in a new world," Thorold said, when Joannabewailed his departure rather bitterly. Tristram was her darling; sheloved him far better than she did Thorold. Like many other prodigals,Tristram Chaytor was not without his endearing qualities. Women lovedhim, and he was good to them; but in character he was selfish andunstable as water, and very prone to fall into temptation. Already, asThorold knew, he had become addicted to low pleasures. His friends wereworthless and dissipated; but Joanna, who was mildly obstinate onoccasion, turned a deaf ear to all Thorold's hints on this subject.
Tristram seemed to do better for a time in his new environment. Then hefoolishly married some pretty, penniless girl who took his fancy, andafter that they lost sight of him.
Thorold was thinking of him now as he walked over the wet bridge;although he was a ne'er-do-well, he was his only brother, and in the olddays they had been close chums and playfellows.
"Dear old Trist," he said to himself. "I wonder what he is doing now,and if Ella makes him a good wife." And then, in the darkness,Tristram's handsome face and tender, humourous smile seemed to risevividly before him. He could even hear his voice, clear and boyish,close to his ear--"Well played, old chappie--but it was a fluke for allthat!''
"What on earth makes me think of Trist to-night?" Thorold asked himself,in some perplexity--but if he had only guessed the truth, he need nothave puzzled himself: at t
hat very moment, under the flickering,wind-blown gaslight, the brothers had passed each other withoutrecognition, "like ships that pass in the night."
Thorold was trying to keep his umbrella steady, and took no notice ofthe passenger, who almost brushed his elbow--though he heard a small,childish voice say, "I don't like English rain, father." But the answerdid not reach him.
"Aye, it is a bit saft, Bet--as the Scotch folk say. Creep under myInverness cape, little one, and it will keep you dry." And then thelittle feet toiled on wearily and bravely in the darkness.
As Thorold let himself in with his latch-key, the parlour-door wasopened hastily, and a woman's face peeped out anxiously. "Is that you,Thorold?" Then the man bit his lip with sudden irritation. Day afterday, month after month, this was Joanna's never-varying formula--until"Is that you, Thorold?" seemed to be dinned into his brain like amonotonous sing-song.
"Who should it be" he longed to answer this evening. "What other fellowdo you suppose would let himself in with my latch-key." But hecontrolled himself--Joanna had no sense of humour, and did notunderstand sarcasm. "Yes, here I am, as large as life," he returned,cheerfully. "But don't touch me, dear, for I am a trifle wet. Is supperready? I will just change my coat, and be with you in a moment. Ah!Rabat-la-Koum," as a big, grey Persian cat rubbed against his legs, "soyou are there, old mother of all the cats; and you are coming up withme, eh?"
"Don't forget to rub your feet, Thorold. There were marks on the landingcarpet yesterday;" and then Joanna went back to pick up her knitting,feeling that she had properly welcomed her brother.
Joanna Chaytor had been a pretty girl, with that soft, roundedprettiness that belongs to youth; but at six-and-thirty she was fadedand old-maidish. Doreen and Althea, who were several years older,scarcely looked their age, but Joanna had worn badly.
Disappointment and sorrow, and the small, carking cares of daily life,had washed away the pretty bloom from her cheeks, and had sharpened thelines of her face. Her brown hair was streaked with grey, and though herfigure was still graceful and she dressed youthfully, strangers alwaysthought she was at least forty-five.
Women are as old as they feel, people say, but in that case Joanna wouldhave been seventy at least.
To her the drama of life had been wholly tragical. She had lost herfather and the mother she adored, and the beloved home of her childhood.The man to whom she had given her young affections and whom she lookedupon as her future husband, had basely deserted her in her adversity;and, as though this were not enough, her favourite brother was in exile,separated from her by the weary ocean.
If Joanna had married Leslie Parker, she would have made an excellentwife and mother; but her present environment did not suit her. She grewthin and weedy, as Althea once phrased it. Joanna was not a cleverwoman; she was dense and emotional, and her mild obstinacy and tenacitywere powerful factors in her daily life. She had long ago shelved herdeeper griefs; but a never-ending crop of minor worries furnished herwith topics of conversation.
Thorold was fond of his sister, but she was no companion to him. Hiscalm, self-restrained nature was the very antipodes of Joanna's fretfuland nervous temperament. Manlike, he failed to understand why the dustand sweepings of the day should be brought for his inspection. Joannahad not toiled long hours in hard, strenuous brain labour, in a grimyattic, with a three-legged Sisera curled up at her feet; her work hadbeen light, compared to his.
Sometimes, when he felt lonely and weary, and the need for companionshipwas unusually strong, he would try and interest her in his day's work;but it was always a failure. She would listen, and then her attentionwould fly off at a tangent, or he would see her trying to stifle a yawn.
There was something he wanted to tell her this evening; for the day hadbeen eventful to him. If Althea had been his sister, he would havefollowed her into the sitting-room, wet as he was, and would have toldher triumphantly that his foot was on the rung of the ladder at last,and that he had begun to climb in earnest. And he would have told her,too, that before long their father's debts would be all cleared off.
Thorold had not done this unaided. About eighteen months before, the oldcousin who had come to his assistance with Tristram, died, and, with theexception of five hundred pounds to Joanna, left all his savings,amounting to several thousands, to Thorold.
Thorold never consulted any one; he asked no advice; he paid in twelvehundred pounds at his banker's, that it might be ready for a rainy day,and then he went around to his father's creditors, paying off each oneby turn. The racing debts had been settled years ago, in his father'slifetime, by the sale of the old Manor House and the lands adjoining;but he had lived recklessly, and his creditors were many. He owed largesums to a carriage-builder in Baker Street, and to his tailor, winemerchant, and other tradespeople. One of them, a small jobbingcarpenter, who lived in the village, stared incredulously at the chequein his hand and then fairly burst out crying.
"It is for joy, Mr. Thorold," cried the poor fellow, rubbing hiscoat-sleeve across his eyes, "for I never expected to see a penny of thesquire's money, and we have had hard times lately. Business has beenslack, and my missis has been poorly and run up a doctor's bill, and Godbless you, sir, for your honest dealing with a poor man, for I shall beable to keep the shop together now." And for that afternoon at leastThorold felt a lightening of the millstone round his neck.
Joanna looked at him a little tearfully when he showed her the receiptedbills. She was not too dense to understand the grandeur of the action.How few men would have considered themselves bound by a few impulsivewords gasped out by a death-bed!
"You have used all Cousin Rupert's money in paying father's debts," shesaid; and there was a queer look in her eyes.
"No, dear," he returned, gently, "I have not spent it all. I am keepingtwelve hundred pounds for a rainy day. I thought that would be onlyright. But, Joa, there are only two bills left, and most of the thingsowing were for Tristram."
"Tristram!" in a startled voice. "Are you sure of that?"
"Yes--things that he wanted at Oxford and that father ordered; but threeor four hundred will clear off the whole account."
"Thorold," returned his sister, plaintively--and now she was actuallycrying--"you do not expect me to help with my money?"
"No, of course not. What an idea!" he replied, hastily; but all the samehe felt vaguely surprised. All these years Joanna had stinted herself ofcomforts, had scraped and saved and pared down every unnecessary expensewith ungrudging cheerfulness, and with all her grumblings and worriesshe had never said one word of blame on this score. And now she washugging her small fortune almost jealously.
"I am very sorry, dear, but I cannot give you my money," she went onquickly. "It is my own money, you know. Dear Cousin Rupert left it tome. I have helped you as well as I could all these years, but I mustkeep this for my very own."
"Of course you shall keep it," returned her brother; for Joanna wasgrowing quite excited. "I suppose you will put it into the London &County Bank."
"Yes, that will be best; and then I can get it out easily."
"The consols would be better, perhaps," he continued, musingly; "and youwould get more interest. Or you might buy some of those shares thatDoreen was mentioning."
"No, no. I prefer the London & County," returned Joanna, obstinately."Let me do what I like with my own money."
And Thorold said no more. But now and then he wondered if Joanna haddrawn on her secret hoard. As far as he could see she had bought nothingfresh for the house, and certainly not for her dress, during the lasteighteen months, and their bill of fare was not more luxurious.