But the train was going at last, and he must take his seat in his first-class compartment. It was his second defeat, his second farewell to Art, bitterer, crueller by a thousand-fold than the first, when he had sailed home again penniless, broken in soul and body. Then, at least, home was a tender recollection. Now—! And he had been so near the goal of happiness, the cup had been at his very lips. Never to be happy—never, never! The sudden shriek of the engine sounded sardonic. The train moved on, bearing Matthew Strang from all the sweetness and savor of life. In the great ocean of existence wherein men struggle for happiness he had gone down—like his father.
But, like his father, he had gone down wrapped in his flag.
The stage of the world is not adapted for heroic attitudes, unless the curtain be dropped on the instant.
To pass, after a tedious day-long journey, from the vivid boulevards to the gray dreariness of a poor London suburb on a Sunday evening was already a chill to the artistic mind; to find that the wife into whose arms he had come to fall in dramatic contrition was not only out, but gone to church with Aunt Clara and little Clara, was to be further reminded of the essentially inartistic character of life in general, and of its especial narrowness in church-going districts.
But he stooped down to kiss little Davie, who, by reason of the servant’s “Sunday out,” had opened the door and explained these things to him. He saw that the child had a little wooden mannikin in his hand, and was sucking it.
“Don’t suck that, Davie,” he said.
“There ain’t no paint to spoil,” Davie urged, gravely. “It’s all gone.”
Matthew carried both the little men down-stairs on his shoulder. In the kitchen he found Billy moping by the fire—profiting by the absence of the servant to enjoy the only fire Rosina’s economy permitted at this season of the year—but sunk so deep in a black reverie that he did not raise his head at the unwonted footsteps.
A wave of protective love, almost paternal, flooded Matthew’s soul; he laid his hand on poor Billy’s head as in benediction. Nevermore would they be parted, nevermore.
“Billy,” he said, softly.