—“And to-morrow,” spouted Sebastian, unheeding the ironic syllable, “to-morrow I buy her the most wonderful ermine in all the regions of snow, to wrap round her throat when I whirl her by night to this desolate shore. That’s poetry, isn’t it?—when I whirl her by night to this desolate shore!—Lord, man! her throat is softer and whiter than foam ... when she lifts her head to the moonlight—when she lifts her head to look at me—she’s such a little wee thing—then the curve of it makes me delirious ... as perfect as the curve of that wave—look! before it breaks. Her throat——”
“Would you mind,” broke in Stuart very politely, “not talking about throats?”
The lad glanced at him—then quickly away. “I’m sorry,” he jerked out.
“And as for what you are pleased to consider the partiality of the gods towards you,” continued Stuart, goaded to an inexplicable heat of anger; “let me tell you that you merely figure as their sport. I can’t conceive of a greater sign of disfavour than to be thus loaded with gifts. In time you will come to regard the love which has been yours so easily, as a matter of course, as something which has always been there. The wealth that you have gained without effort, will cause you presently to fold fat podgy hands over your smug waistcoat, too richly embroidered for good taste, and give thanks that you are not as other men——”
“You’re wrong there,” interrupted Sebastian, even his placidity giving way beneath this unforeseen attack; “I mean to do a lot of good with my money——”
“And what can be more unpardonably priggish than to do anybody good without doing yourself any harm thereby? It’s like Father Xmas; I never believed in the bountiful generosity of Father Xmas; his sacks were too swollen, and his coat too heavily trimmed—like the waistcoat of your future obesity. Oh, yes, you will be a good man, and a generous man, and a prig, and probably an alderman, and certainly Lord Mayor, and perhaps also High Admiral of Spain. And you’ll forget that Letty’s throat was white as foam, and curved like the curve of a wave,—because Letty will be yours, throat and all, whenever you want her. You’ll never know fun, hard perilous fun, because you’ll never seek peril; you’ll say that you have too many responsibilities, as a husband and a citizen and a philanthropist, to expose yourself unnecessarily. You’ll never be splendidly weary with battle, nor yet know the leanness of spirit which comes from desire unfulfilled, nor will you grow breathless with the exhilaration of a race against your own luck. The best things you are bound to miss forever, my fortunate young friend, because the gods have thought them beyond you—and have sent you instead prosperity, domestic happiness, the course of true love running indecently smooth. And therefore it is that I regard you as damned, body and soul, and you regard me as a lunatic——”
“Not at all, confound your insolence!” Sebastian had sprung to his feet during the tirade. From somnolence to loquacity, and thence to truculence, were easy transitions in his present mood; and not once did the absurdity strike him of this sudden quarrel with a total stranger, on the dim moon-washed sands of the Haven: “not a bit of it. I look upon you merely as one of those meddlesome people who have become embittered by poverty and frustration, and can’t see other people happy. The fox, you’ll remember, said the grapes were sour.”
“Your shot is wide of the mark; as it happens, I’ve only just succeeded in quenching my star, which was most obstreperously luminous. And for the Lord’s sake, spare me fable in argument——”
And thereupon, something queer happened ... Sebastian stepped forward, and seized Stuart in a wrestler’s grip, and attempted to throw him down. In and out of a clear patch of moonlight they swayed, in and out of the black shadow of the hulk, silently, like clockwork marionettes. Their build and strength were about equal, but Stuart was the cooler of the twain, and just held his own, wondering the while what was the exact remark of his that had so infuriated his young opponent. To and fro, in and out of the sharp white moonrays—till, by a slippery dexterous movement, Stuart succeeded in flinging aside Sebastian, who stumbled, and fell, and rose again, covered with a glittering powder of sand, and stood uncertain whether or not to renew the bout. And then it would seem that he saw the other’s features clearly, for the first time; for he exclaimed in quite a different tone from what he had yet used:
“Why, it’s Heron of Balliol, isn’t it?”