"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 the Dereham bridge on his way from the station. His day, as usual, had been spent in his dingy chambers in Lincoln's Inn; he had worked hard, and felt unusually weary, and the damp chilliness of the mists rising from the river made him shiver and button up his coat more closely.
A slight mizzling rain was now falling; the pavements were wet and greasy; the gas lights on the towing path seemed to waver and then flare up with windy flickers; the black hulls of the boats and barges moored to the shore loomed through the mist like vast monsters weltering in the mud; and the grey river flowing under the bridges washed silently against the piers in the darkness.
Mr. Chaytor's chambers in Lincoln's Inn were high up, and very small and inconvenient—"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 be sure, it was somewhat cold in winter, and at times the chimney was given to smoking, and in summer it certainly resembled the Black Hole in Calcutta; but these were trifles to be borne stoically, if not cheerfully.
In this den Thorold Chaytor did most of his literary work, and waited for briefs; nor did he wait wholly in vain.
Althea had spoken of him as a poor man, and this opinion was shared by many others. When old friends of the family, who had visited at the old Manor House, came down to the dull, shabby-looking house in High Street, where Thorold and his sister lived, they used to sigh and shrug their shoulders.
"It was grievous," they would say. "No wonder poor Joanna looked so old and careworn! And they only kept one servant, too;" and then they would talk, under their breath, of the wasteful extravagance at the old Manor House, and then of that racing establishment at Newmarket, to which the Chaytor fortunes had been sacrificed.
But if Thorold and Joanna practised rigid economy, and only kept one servant, 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, so teeming with thought and sparkles of wit, that he was already making his mark as a clever writer.
And in his own profession he was not doing so badly. Quite recently he had distinguished himself in some case. "Chaytor is a clear-headed lawyer; 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 work first."
Thorold loved his work. The hours spent in that grimy den were full of enjoyment to him; he was equally happy solving some legal problem or doing some of his journalistic work; his clear, strong brains delighted in labour.
He had one curious companion of his solitude—a small, yellow cat, who had only three legs, whom he had rescued from a violent death, and who refused to leave him.
Sisera was not an attractive animal, but his heart was in the right place; he adored his master, and when Thorold's step sounded on the stairs 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 to the door.
Sisera was as much a hermit as his master; he took his exercise among the chimney-pots, and never went downstairs, where unseen enemies lurked unnumbered for him. He had his pennyworth of milk, and his skewer of cats' meat, and a share of his master's frugal luncheon; and on Sundays the fat old housekeeper toiled up the stairs and deposited the rations for the day, grumbling as she did so.
But, although Thorold already earned a fair income, he lived as though he were poor, and both he and his sister were almost parsimonious in their habits; but not even Althea, who was their closest friend, did more than guess at the reason for all this thrift. Thorold had set himself an Herculean task—to pay his father's debts—and in this Joanna had willingly helped him; with all her faults and failings, she was a good woman, and her sense of honour was almost as strong as his.
Thorold was still at Oxford when his father died. His brother Tristram was three or four years older. He had been summoned in haste to the death-bed; but, to his relief, his father recognised him.
"It is a bad business, my boy," he said, faintly, as Thorold took his hand. "If I could only have my life again, I would do differently;" and a few minutes later, when they thought he was sleeping, he opened his eyes. "Never get into debt, Trist," he murmured. "It is hard for a man to die peacefully with a millstone round his neck." And Thorold was struck by the look of anguish that crossed his face.
"Father," he said, gently, for he was young and impressionable, and perhaps, in his wish to give comfort, he hardly knew what he was saying. "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 were his last words; but, even as he lay in his coffin, Thorold began to realise that the millstone was already round his own neck.
Those first few years that followed his father's death were very sad ones to Thorold. His mother's failing health, and Joanna's disappointment, embittered the peace of their home; and, worse than all, Tristram became a care to them. He had been brought up in expectation of a fortune; and, as far as work was concerned, his life at the university had been a failure.
"What does it matter whether I grind or not?" he would say. "I am having a good old time, and the governor will pay my debts." And when the evil days came, and George Chaytor's sons had to put their shoulders to the wheel 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 to keep it. Either he had been wanting in steadiness or application, or he had lost his temper and quarrelled with his employer. "He is not worth his salt!" one of them said angrily to Thorold.
In sheer desperation, Thorold went to an old cousin who had already shown him a great deal of kindness; and, with his help, Tristram was equipped and shipped off to New Zealand.
"Perhaps he will do better in a new world," Thorold said, when Joanna bewailed his departure rather bitterly. Tristram was her darling; she loved him far better than she did Thorold. Like many other prodigals, Tristram Chaytor was not without his endearing qualities. Women loved him, and he was good to them; but in character he was selfish and unstable as water, and very prone to fall into temptation. Already, as Thorold knew, he had become addicted to low pleasures. His friends were worthless and dissipated; but Joanna, who was mildly obstinate on occasion, 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 he foolishly married some pretty, penniless girl who took his fancy, and after 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 old days 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 rise vividly 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 all that!''
"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 not have puzzled himself: at that very moment, under the flickering, wind-blown gaslight, the brothers had passed each other without recognition, "like ships that pass in the night."
Thorold was trying to keep his umbrella steady, and took no notice of the passenger, who almost brushed his elbow—though he heard a small, childish voice say, "I don't like English rain, father." But the answer did not reach him.
"Aye, it is a bit saft, Bet—as the Scotch folk say. Creep under my Inverness cape, little one, and it will keep you dry." And then the little feet toiled on wearily and bravely in the darkness.
As Thorold let himself in with his latch-key, the parlour-door was opened hastily, and a woman's face peeped out anxiously. "Is that you, Thorold?" Then the man bit his lip with sudden irritation. Day after day, month after month, this was Joanna's never-varying formula—until "Is that you, Thorold?" seemed to be dinned into his brain like a monotonous sing-song.
"Who should it be" he longed to answer this evening. "What other fellow do you suppose would let himself in with my latch-key." But he controlled himself—Joanna had no sense of humour, and did not understand 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 supper ready? 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, "so you are there, old mother of all the cats; and you are coming up with me, eh?"
"Don't forget to rub your feet, Thorold. There were marks on the landing carpet 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, rounded prettiness that belongs to youth; but at six-and-thirty she was faded and 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 the lines of her face. Her brown hair was streaked with grey, and though her figure was still graceful and she dressed youthfully, strangers always thought she was at least forty-five.
Women are as old as they feel, people say, but in that case Joanna would have been seventy at least.
To her the drama of life had been wholly tragical. She had lost her father 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 looked upon 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 excellent wife and mother; but her present environment did not suit her. She grew thin and weedy, as Althea once phrased it. Joanna was not a clever woman; she was dense and emotional, and her mild obstinacy and tenacity were powerful factors in her daily life. She had long ago shelved her deeper griefs; but a never-ending crop of minor worries furnished her with topics of conversation.
Thorold was fond of his sister, but she was no companion to him. His calm, self-restrained nature was the very antipodes of Joanna's fretful and nervous temperament. Manlike, he failed to understand why the dust and sweepings of the day should be brought for his inspection. Joanna had not toiled long hours in hard, strenuous brain labour, in a grimy attic, with a three-legged Sisera curled up at her feet; her work had been light, compared to his.
Sometimes, when he felt lonely and weary, and the need for companionship was 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 attention would 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 had been eventful to him. If Althea had been his sister, he would have followed her into the sitting-room, wet as he was, and would have told her 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 old cousin who had come to his assistance with Tristram, died, and, with the exception 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 twelve hundred 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 one by turn. The racing debts had been settled years ago, in his father's lifetime, by the sale of the old Manor House and the lands adjoining; but he had lived recklessly, and his creditors were many. He owed large sums to a carriage-builder in Baker Street, and to his tailor, wine merchant, and other tradespeople. One of them, a small jobbing carpenter, who lived in the village, stared incredulously at the cheque in his hand and then fairly burst out crying.
"It is for joy, Mr. Thorold," cried the poor fellow, rubbing his coat-sleeve across his eyes, "for I never expected to see a penny of the squire's money, and we have had hard times lately. Business has been slack, and my missis has been poorly and run up a doctor's bill, and God bless you, sir, for your honest dealing with a poor man, for I shall be able to keep the shop together now." And for that afternoon at least Thorold felt a lightening of the millstone round his neck.
Joanna looked at him a little tearfully when he showed her the receipted bills. She was not too dense to understand the grandeur of the action. How few men would have considered themselves bound by a few impulsive words gasped out by a death-bed!
"You have used all Cousin Rupert's money in paying father's debts," she said; and there was a queer look in her eyes.
"No, dear," he returned, gently, "I have not spent it all. I am keeping twelve hundred pounds for a rainy day. I thought that would be only right. But, Joa, there are only two bills left, and most of the things owing 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 three or four hundred will clear off the whole account."
"Thorold," returned his sister, plaintively—and now she was actually crying—"you do not expect me to help with my money?"
"No, of course not. What an idea!" he replied, hastily; but all the same he felt vaguely surprised. All these years Joanna had stinted herself of comforts, had scraped and saved and pared down every unnecessary expense with ungrudging cheerfulness, and with all her grumblings and worries she had never said one word of blame on this score. And now she was hugging her small fortune almost jealously.
"I am very sorry, dear, but I cannot give you my money," she went on quickly. "It is my own money, you know. Dear Cousin Rupert left it to me. I have helped you as well as I could all these years, but I must keep this for my very own."
"Of course you shall keep it," returned her brother; for Joanna was growing 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 you would get more interest. Or you might buy some of those shares that Doreen 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 had drawn on her secret hoard. As far as he could see she had bought nothing fresh for the house, and certainly not for her dress, during the last eighteen months, and their bill of fare was not more luxurious.