Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, page 390
‘I came here the morning I left Grangehead, for ever, as I thought,’ said John, returning to his seat. ‘It was before dawn, and you couldn’t see much across the road; it was like looking into my future. And I made a great many good resolutions, nearly all of which I have broken.’
‘How very like you!’ she said.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘And what were they all about?’
‘A great many things. I was never to return to Grangehead for one.’
‘I’m glad you’ve broken that!’
‘I was always to be sober and say my prayers, for another.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve broken that, too.’
‘And then I was never to love anyone but you,’ he went on.
‘Oh, oh!’ she said, ‘and that was the first to go!’
‘I have never said so,’ he answered. ‘I never said I had broken them all.’ She stole a glance at him; he was looking straight before him on the ground.
‘I’ve dropped my worsted!’ she said. ‘How stupid! Will you pick it up? Thanks.’
John was a little huffed; he sat and brooded, while Mary talked easily of this or that, teething or measles, the doctor’s wife or the clergyman’s maiden sister.
‘The clergyman’s an ass,’ broke in John.
‘How do you know, when you never go to hear him?’
‘Didn’t he dine here? And the doctor, too? He’s another ass.’
‘Do you think we are all asses, then — we people in the country?’ she asked.
‘All but you, upon my word.’
‘And Malcolm?’
‘Malcolm? Oh, Malcolm’s a different thing. I was an ass myself, as long as I lived here; and I’ve carried the panniers ever since in consequence. It’s a poor thing to start in life with empty pockets and a broken heart! Ah, Mary! you don’t know what a business it is to leave all that you love in the world and go out among strangers. Do you remember’ — he had grown warm now— ‘do you remember the last evening we were here? It was such a beautiful evening! I thought you hated me, and it decided my life.’
She smiled. He had been banished from Grangehead for insulting the Colonel while drunk; that was what had decided his life.
‘You were a very silly fellow,’ she said. ‘Why was I to hate you? I never hated anybody, far less an old friend like you.’
‘You hadn’t written some verses for my birthday, as you promised. And — and you wouldn’t let me kiss you.’
‘I have no doubt I was quite right,’ she said, decisively. ‘May I trouble you to look after Charlie? He is on the wall again. And, oh! I think I will ask you to fetch a book; it will be so nice to be read to.’
She was alarmed and angry; even through her treble armour of innocence, pride, and selfishness she became aware that this man still loved her. It was insulting, it was cruel of him to refer to the time of their engagement. And in such a way, too! It was an indignity — it was almost a disgrace. She felt hot all over. ‘I wish,’ she exclaimed, fervently, ‘I wish he had never come back. How are we ever to get rid of him without a scene?’
As John was coming back with the book, he met her rustling down the alley in great pomp, with a child in each hand. She had changed her mind; she would go into the house and rest; and she dismissed him with a queenly inclination.
John was furious; he went away and walked. By a sort of instinct he took the same road as on a former occasion, and found himself at the county town. He dined at the inn, and spent the evening in a corner of the smoking-room, drinking and sneering to himself at the conversation of the other guests. On one occasion he interfered with a few pleasant words, which nearly brought about a fight. The quarrel was adjusted after a fashion, and somewhat as spilt wine is covered with a napkin; he refused to apologise, and the whole company turned their backs on him. He was vastly pleased at this, and redoubled his cynicism.
It was quite late when he got home; the servants had gone to bed, and Malcolm opened the door himself. John, with his hands in his trousers pockets, regarded him offensively, as he put up the chain and shot the bolts.
‘You are late,’ said Malcolm, quietly.
But John only made answer with an affected laugh, and went away upstairs without salutation.
Chapter XI The next morning it rained heavily. John was later than usual; and while he was sitting alone over breakfast, Malcolm came in and took a chair. He seemed embarrassed.
‘My dear John,’ he began, ‘if I say anything on the subject, you will believe it is entirely for your own good; but last night I could not help thinking—’
‘My dear Malcolm,’ interrupted John, ‘I had had a glass. Why, why beat about the bush?’
‘You admit it; I am glad of that. Now, do allow me to say one word. You should strive against this tendency. It has done you harm enough. Make an effort.’
John was irritated.
‘I live here on your charity, of course,’ he said; ‘and the position is enviable. But you can have no more idea of what there is in my heart than of what goes on in the farthest of the stars. You often enough admit that you do not understand me; try to act upon the idea. I drank too much last night. Do you know why? Because I like drinking? Because I was in high spirits, perhaps? Man, you know nothing of sorrow.’
‘You may be as sorrowful as you please,’ objected Malcolm. ‘I am grieved to hear of it. I trust it’s through no fault of mine; but surely, surely, that’s no reason for — well, for—’
‘For making a beast of myself?’ suggested John. ‘Enough of this,’ he added, rising from the table. ‘I understand your feeling in this matter. You cannot have a drunkard in the house; of course not. I am not going to promise amendment; I do not aspire so high. But you shall be rid of me today.’
‘You are speaking in anger, John; in irritation, at least. Do you remember our talk in the avenue on the night of your eighteenth birthday? You said then, what we had often agreed before, that we were to share our fortunes.’
‘Green-sickness — romantic boys,’ said John, with a wave of his hand.
‘You did not think so then, when you had all to expect; nor do I think so now that all is mine. Of course, I have a family; of course, our plans were a little Utopian. But believe me, John, you are doing me the greatest favour in your power by staying here. I respect myself more highly.’
‘Oh, if it comes to that—’ said John, with a laugh.
‘You’ll stay?’ asked Malcolm, holding out his hand.
‘As you will,’ replied John, taking it carelessly. ‘I own I like my ease; I like gardening and country butter, and the pride of independence I can do without. Besides,’ with a sudden change of manner, ‘who should have a better right than I?’ And with that he went away.
Malcolm shook his head. ‘He is not cordial,’ he thought. ‘There is something between us. I wish I had held my tongue; and yet I can’t have him staggering in here at all hours of the morning.’
John went upstairs to a long, low apartment, part lumber-room, part play-room. A considerable library had been brought by Mary Rolland from Hutton at the time of her father’s death, but it had never been unpacked until John arrived and offered his services. He went about it leisurely enough; he dallied and lingered over it as a good occupation for wet mornings; and if he ever was two hours on end over his task, for an hour and a half of that he would be sitting on the floor with some curious book.
The packing-cases were at one end of the room behind a screen; quite at the other end was the fireplace. In about half an hour Mary came in and took a seat by the hearth. John put his head round the end of the screen, wished her a good morning somewhat coldly, and disappeared again. She could hear him take the books out of the case, and lay them on the floor; now and then he cleared his throat. Outside, the rain fell plump and steady; the fire had been lit in honour of the wet day, and the flames prattled pleasantly and the cinders sometimes dropped into the ash-pit. Mary was idly conscious of all these noises: they served her instead of a train of reflection to enliven her work.
John had been silent for some time; he had plainly found something of interest and begun to read, when Mary was startled by a strange sound from behind the screen. It was something between a gasp and a groan. ‘What’s wrong with him now?’ she wondered; but complete silence followed, broken only by the rain and the fire. She became a little uneasy in spite of herself, and again heartily wished that John had never returned to Grangehead.
At last, and rather suddenly, John rose, came round the screen, and advanced towards her with a paper in his hand. But he was no longer the same man; he looked twenty years older — or was it twenty years younger?
‘Did you write that?’ he asked, hoarsely, as he handed her the paper.
It contained some girlish verses. They were headed, ‘To my dear John, on his eighteenth birthday, 12th May, 18 — ,’ and began, ‘Oh, my dear John, I am so fond of you.’ It was not the quality of the verse, however, that called the blood up to Mary Falconer’s cheek. Her matronly pride was touched; she resented John’s emotion like a slur.
‘Suppose I did,’ she answered, as she threw it straight into the fire; ‘what of that?’
‘Then you did love me?’ he went on.
‘You know very well we were engaged,’ she answered. ‘I hope I have always known my duty’ (this with a tremor); ‘as long as I was engaged to you, of course I had no thought of anyone else. I cannot conceive what you mean by these questions. It is most unfeeling — most rude.’
John gazed at her with a desolate look in his eyes. ‘If I had only known!’ he said; ‘if I had only, only known!’ And then he was silent for awhile. ‘But you love your husband now?’ he demanded, with sudden fierceness.
‘I shall ask you to leave the room, Mr Falconer,’ she said, quivering all over, and making a fine picture of indignation.
‘Thank God for that! thank God for that!’ he answered, with a sort of laugh. She was unable to move, or she would have quitted the room herself; he looked her all over from head to foot, then he looked into the fire; a little stream of blood began to trickle out of one nostril (he kept the old tendency), but he did not seem to observe the circumstance. At last he turned and went away without a word. At the top of the stairs she heard him slip and fall; he lay for perhaps half a minute; then he picked himself up, went heavily down the steps, and she heard the door close behind him, as he went out.
She recovered herself almost at once. ‘Scene or no scene,’ she determined, ‘he shall not be two days longer in this house.’ She had no pity for him; she was conscious of nothing but the offence and the awkwardness. So she determined to be rid of him anyhow; and she was perfectly right. She sought her husband at once.
Chapter XII Poor Malcolm! here was a position, with a vengeance. As he sat, with his uncle’s last letter open on his knee, and his wife’s words still ringing in his ears, I wonder whether he was not really the most unfortunate of the two. I am sure he thought so himself. What could have tempted John to behave in so absurd a manner? How was he to guess that he had come home drunk on purpose? What was the good of making a kettle of fish like this, instead of letting things go to the devil quietly in their own way? ‘Oh!’ he cried, finding his old impropriety of expression in the disturbance of the moment, ‘confound all your heroes!’
John had a very dismal walk in the rain, and came back from it with the settled intention of leaving Grangehead that evening. The situation could not be prolonged either with dignity or comfort. He asked the servant for Mr Falconer, and was directed to the library.
Malcolm caught sight of him as he entered, dropped his eyes guiltily upon the table, and made a great show of writing. John walked backwards and forwards behind him, like a caged beast; he, too, had prepared his speech, but there was a ball in his throat. He cleared his throat repeatedly, and at length said —
‘John!’
He was rather afraid it had been inaudible, and so he repeated it.
‘Eh?’ said John, stopping suddenly in his walk.
It was so fiercely spoken, that Malcolm was a little flustered.
‘I only wished a word with you,’ he answered apologetically.
‘Ah!’ said John.
Malcolm looked at the paper on which he had been scribbling his own name over and over again to keep up the feint of correspondence. He read all these repetitions from beginning to end, and seemed to feel refreshed. To the last signature he appended his address in a very careful style of penmanship. Then he cleared his throat as if he were going to begin, and fell to examining the nib of the pen upon his thumbnail.
‘Suppose you were to go on,’ suggested John.
‘Oh, I say, John,’ Malcolm dashed into it, with a gasp, ‘I’m very sorry, and — and all that, particularly after what took place this morning; but my wife thinks you had better go away after all — in fact, she insists upon it. Personally, I’m very much disappointed; but of course this kind of thing will happen, I suppose; and — and of course very disagreeable it is. In short—’
He wiped his brow. All his prepared eloquence had deserted him. He was hopelessly entangled, and felt like an imbecile. A curious flame caught his eye and fascinated him at once. He kept staring at it with all his might, telling himself he was thinking what to say next, and not doing so. As he thus sat stupefied, he became conscious, by some electric sympathy, that John was nearer him than he had been, and raised his head with a sudden movement. Their eyes met in the mirror. John’s face was deformed with hatred, and in an instant Malcolm’s was stricken into the scarcely less hideous image of fear. As they waited, watching each other in the mirror with contracted eyelids, John’s hate seemed to increase in proportion with Malcolm’s terror, until they looked like a couple of lost spirits.
Malcolm was the first to throw off the spell. With something like a cry he leaped up and turned about as if to defend himself. If he had sat still, nothing in all likelihood would have happened; but his own action courted an onslaught. Before he had half-faced round, he was forced back against the table; the table upset and, being a light thing, broke in twain between the legs; and the two men fell among its ruins into the hearth. Malcolm was underneath, and his head struck sharply against the iron grate.
When he came to himself, his shirt was loosed, his brow had been wet with ink in default of water, and he was propped upon John’s knee.
‘Do you feel better?’ asked John.
‘Why, what’s wrong? Why am I here? Where’s Mary?’
‘Oh, Mary’s all right!’ answered John, bitterly; ‘and you’re not much worse. You’ve broken your head, and serve you right! And now, if you please, we’ll say goodbye.’ He laid Malcolm’s head on the floor, and rose to his feet. At the door he turned, and added, in a kinder tone, ‘Good-bye, old man.’ And with that he was gone.
Malcolm had brown paper and vinegar applied to the back of his head, and was rather sulky all that evening. It rained without intermission, and the roads in that part of the country were hardly passable for travellers on foot.
DIOGENES
CHAPTER I. DIOGENES IN LONDON
Police Scene At this moment a hasty ejaculation in an ancient tongue escaped the lips of the cynic.
‘My lantern!’ he cried. ‘It is gone — after centuries, gone.’
‘Ha,’ observed the poet. ‘Chipe? you surprise me. The loss, however, might have been... More light, perhaps, than sweetness.’
‘Damn it, sir,’ exclaimed D., ‘the thing has been stolen!’
‘Precisely,’ returned Mr Arnold, ‘stolen; and by a circumstance, possibly fortuitous, but surely notable, opposite to Scotland Yard and the office of my friend Vincent. Follow me,’ he continued, leading the way, ‘it is but a step; there you will find all the benefits of system, sir — of system. For,’ and he tapped the sage upon the bosom, ‘for we have organised the police. One step in the right direction. You will, I believe, be delighted with my friend Vincent. Quite the Cosmopolite.’
Mr Arnold gave his card to an attendant, and the pair were speedily admitted to the seat of criminal investigation. At the end of the apartment, which was perfectly unpretentious, the great Criminal Investigator sat upon a dais, slightly raised, with his knees under a table. A remarkable array of speaking tubes, like the beer taps of a public house, moved.
‘This gentleman’s lantern has been stolen,’ said Mr Arnold.
‘Ha!’ said Vincent.
‘Plucked from his hand upon the street, immediately in front of Scotland Yard. I brought him immediately to you. The lantern is of small intrinsic value; but dear to the philosopher from old association.’
‘Number 3,566,783,’ wrote the investigator. ‘Ha, very, very gratifying.’
‘What is gratifying?’ inquired the sage.
‘The percentage,’ returned Vincent briefly.
‘So,’ said Diogenes.
‘And now, gentlemen, I do not see that I need detain you any longer. All has been done that man can do; the Criminal Investigation Department is on the jump; and I have only to thank you for this interesting item.’
‘And when may I hope to get my lantern?’ inquired the sage.
‘Your lantern?’ repeated Vincent, laying down his pen.
‘Your lantern!’ cried Mr Arnold. ‘Why, your lantern’s stolen!’
‘You have made a mistake, sir,’ continued Vincent, with dignity. ‘This is the Criminal Investigation Department.’
‘Ah!’ said Diogenes.
‘Here, sir,’ continued the chief of police, ‘we do not cope with crime: we investigate it.’
‘Crime,’ added Mr Arnold, ‘is irresistible. Organise crime. These were my words: fiat lux’.’
‘We are altogether French in our ideas,’ pursued Vincent, ‘entirely French: Francais comme une pomme de terre. To understand French ideas, my old buck, you must get up early in the morning.’
‘Lucidity, lenity, clarity, classicality,’ cried Mr Arnold in a rapture. ‘French is irresistible. Organ... No, I didn’t mean that.’
