“Yes, Mr. Craik,” the young man answered, still somewhat confused by the suddenness of the meeting.
“I am glad I have met you. It was kind of you to ask after me when I was down. I thank you. It showed a good heart.”
Tom Craik was sincere, and George looked in vain for the trace of a sneer on the parchment that covered the worn features, and listened without detecting the least modulation of irony in the tones of the cracked voice. He felt a sharp sting of remorse in his heart. What he had meant for something very like an insult had been misunderstood, had been kindly received, and now he was to be thanked for it.
“I hate you, and I asked because I wanted to be told that you were dead”—he could not say that, though the words were in his mind, and he could almost hear himself speaking them. A flush of shame rose to his face.
“It seemed natural to inquire,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. It had seemed very natural to him, as he remembered.
“Did it? Well, I am glad it did, then. It would not have seemed so to every young man in your position. Good day—good day to you. Come and see me if you care to.”
Again the thin gloved hand grasped his, and George was left alone on the pavement, listening to the sharp rap of the stick on the stones as the old man walked rapidly away. He stood still for a moment, and then went on down the Avenue. The dry regular rapping of that stick was peculiarly disagreeable and he seemed to hear it long after he was out of earshot.
He was very much annoyed. More than that, he was sincerely distressed. Could he have guessed what had been the practical result of his inquiries during the illness, he would assuredly have even then turned and overtaken Tom Craik, and would have explained with savage frankness that he was no friend, but a bitter enemy who would have rejoiced to hear that death had followed and overtaken its victim. But since he could not dream of what had happened, it appeared to him that any explanation would be an act of perfectly gratuitous brutality. It was not likely that he should meet the old man often, and there would certainly be no necessity for any further exchange of civilities. He suffered all the more in his pride because he must henceforth accept the credit of having seemed kindly disposed.
Then he remembered how, at his second meeting with Constance Fearing, she had earnestly advised him not to do what had led to the present situation. It would have been different had he known her as he knew her now, had he loved her as he undoubtedly loved her to-day. But as things had been then, he hardly blamed himself for having been roused to opposition by his strong dislike of advice.
“I have received the reward of my iniquities,” he said, as he sat down in his accustomed seat and looked at her delicate face.