Here he broke into a hoarse laugh. “Nothing to me! What’s a thousand pounds in comparison with——. You can relieve your friend, young Farquhar’s mind. Young Farquhar, is that his name? But he ought to be more careful. That’s a large sum to pay to bearer over the counter without any guarantee. But he did quite right—quite right—my name’s enough for many a thousand pounds.” He moved from where he was standing to ring the bell, but did not turn round. Then he went back to the lamp and pushed the shade lower down.
“I’ll keep the cheque,” he said, “to remind me not to do such a thing again. Saunders, will you take this gentleman into the dining-room, and see that he has some supper before he goes. I don’t know your name,” he added, turning upon the stranger and putting out his hand, “but I highly approve your energy in coming, and I’ll take care to say so to the directors.”
“My name is Fergusson—and I’m very glad of your approval, Mr. Rowland: and the night journey will be nothing, for I am going back with a light heart.”
“Yes, yes,” said Rowland, “on account of young Farquhar: but you should tell him to be careful. Take a good supper, and then you’re less likely to catch cold. You’ll excuse me entrusting you to my butler, for you see for yourself that to-night——”
“I am only grieved I troubled you,” said the bank clerk.
“No, no, nothing of the sort—and mind, Saunders, that Mr. Fergusson has a good glass of wine.”
He waited until they were gone, and then he dropped heavily into a chair. He had no doubt, none whatever—not for a moment. Who could have done it but one? He took out that fatal scrap of paper again, and laid it out before him on the table in the intense light. It was very like his signature. He would have himself been taken in, had that been possible. Some of the lines were laboured, while his were merely a dash; but it was very like—so like, he thought, that no new hand could have done it, no one uninstructed. He might himself have been taken in, had he not known, as the bank people did, that he never drew a cheque like that—a cheque with no protection—drawn to bearer, not crossed, nothing to ensure its safety. He smiled a little at the ridiculous thought that he could have been capable of doing that—then suddenly flung himself down upon the table, covering his face with his hands.
Oh, pain intolerable! oh anguish not to be shaken off! His boy—Mary’s son, who had her eyes—his heir, his successor, the only one to continue his name. Oh burning, gnawing, living pang, that went through and through him like a spear made not of steel, but of fire! He writhed upon it, as we all do in our time, feeling each sharp edge, as well as the fiery point that pins us helpless to the earth. What was Prometheus upon his rock, of whom the ancients raved—a trifler, a nothing, in comparison with the father, who had just been persuaded of the guilt of his only son.
And all the time the music was sounding outside the door, the sound of the light feet going and coming in rhythmic waves, the confused hum of voices and laughter. The boy who had put this spear into his father’s heart was there, enjoying it all. Rowland had been pleased to see that Archie was enjoying it. He had said to himself that the boy was no such cub after all; that perhaps that failure of his about his comrade might be explained; that he might have been dazzled by the possession of money, and too completely unused to it to understand the spending of it. He might have been afraid to give what was wanted, fearing that he would be blamed. There must be some reason. He had persuaded himself that this must be the case in the sensation of a certain pride in his children, which the sight of them among the others had produced.
And now, and now!—James Rowland had gone through the usual experiences of man—he had known sorrow, and he had known the pangs of repentance. He had not always been satisfied with himself, and he had been disappointed in others from time to time. But what were all these miseries to this?