William Jordan, Junior

by J. C. Snaith

The boy had no recollection afterwards of what occurred during the long period which intervened between this hour and that remote one in which he saw again his father’s face. How long the darkness lasted and what happened in it he could not tell. He prayed continuously until his flesh ached and his mind grew frail. Yet in the midst of that which seemed to be without a limit, in the midst of an anguish that seemed to have no end, it was borne in upon him that the daylight had come back again.

Thereafter he had a vague knowledge of cold water, other rooms, other voices, more light, and more air. At last he came to understand that he was in the midst of a large place which contained many street-persons who looked very solemn and wore no hats. Far away in front of him he seemed to discern a high desk, at which was seated an elderly street-person with grey hair, a shining bald head and impressive manners. Seated on either side of him were a number of women in gay and beautiful clothes. There was also a number of those odd beings whom he had come to recognize as police constables. And then quite suddenly he saw his father’s face.

The pale, noble and serene countenance was looking up at him. It was pervaded by that secret and beautiful smile which the boy had seen so many times upon it. With a little convulsive shudder of recognition the boy started to run to his father, but as he made to do so he awoke to the discovery that he was enclosed in a kind of cage.

“My father, my father!” the boy called out.

“Keep quiet,” said a police constable beside him in a rough whisper.

The elderly grey-haired man at the high desk lifted up his head in a startled manner, and looked about him.

“Remove that man from the court,” he said.

He thrust out a finger straight at the boy’s father. With his heart beating faint and small, the boy watched his father vanish out of his ken. He passed out through a side door in the custody of two immense police constables.

“My husband, Lord Pomeroy,” said a woman who sat next to the elderly man with the grey hair and the impressive manners, “my husband, Lord Pomeroy, is much displeased that my purse has been stolen, and he would be here personally to express his displeasure had he not been commanded to Windsor unexpectedly.”

These words, very loudly spoken, seemed to provoke a kind of joyful flutter in the breasts of all present. Even in the breast of the boy it provoked a flutter, yet not perhaps of a similar kind. It was the sound of the loud and harsh voice itself which to him was of sinister omen. As in an agony of remembrance he felt what this voice denoted, the blood ran as water in his veins.