“Oh, do, do! how kind you are! and we’ll all come too,” cried the girl. But he did not wait for this undesirable result. What a relief it was to escape, to get beyond reach of all those inquisitive looks, to reach the shelter of the room which no one invaded. He hid himself behind the heavy curtains and the closed door, only in time to escape the invasion of the light-hearted company, whose voices and footsteps he could hear coming after him. He had purposely refrained from asking any questions about Archie, not willing to betray his uneasiness to the servants. His wife had remained long downstairs after him, but even with her, who knew everything, he was reluctant to ask any questions; and she had been asleep when he was roused by the movement in the house to the shining of a new day. He knew nothing—nothing from the time when, with angry despair, he had gone upstairs and wavered for a moment at Archie’s door. All he had wanted then was to pour out upon the boy the bitterness of his heart. But now the snatches of broken sleep which had come to him refreshing him against his will, and the enforced quiet of the night, and the new beginning of the day, had worked their natural effect. A longing came into his mind to dream it all over again, to see if perhaps there might be any fact to support the boy’s vehement and impassioned denial. No, no, he said to himself, there could be no proof—none! Some disgraceful secret must lie beneath. It was not in Archie’s nature (which was kind enough—the fool had a good heart and faithful enough to his friends) to have refused to help his old comrade without some reason. Perhaps, Rowland thought, this was to do that—the fool! he had no sense about money. It might have been for this purpose—a good purpose; a thing he had himself taunted him for not doing. The perspiration came out in great beads on his brow—a cold dew of pain. Could it be for this that he had made himself a criminal? or had he not done it at all? But that was impossible. Who else could have done it? It would be easy for him whose own handwriting resembled his father’s, whose appearance with so large a cheque would have occasioned no suspicion. It had been a little pleasure to Rowland, and warmed his heart with a sensation of the mysterious bond of nature, to find that, though he had nothing to do with his son’s education, Archie’s handwriting had resembled his. And now the recollection struck him like a sharp blow. And then the son—who could wonder that he came with so large a cheque? But no, it was not he that had cashed the cheque, for it had been wondered over, and young Farquhar—confound young Farquhar!—no doubt some shady puppy doing well, good as they always are these fellows to contrast with—— He had thrown himself into his chair, but now he got up again and walked about the room. That the bank people should be so anxious to cover young Farquhar at the cost of Archie—It was not that; he knew there was something wanted to complete the logic of that, but it came to the same thing. To transfix his own heart with ten thousand wounds, to ruin the boy—for what was it but ruin to the boy, whatever came of it, not a trick and frolic as the young fool pretended to think, but ruin, ruin, all the same—for the sake of young Farquhar, to save a little delay in his advancement! Good Lord! how disproportioned things were in this life!
He was standing by the fire, idly looking at the calendar on his mantelpiece, which marked the date 25th of October, a date he never forgot, when the door was cautiously opened and Saunders, the butler, came in, closing it again carefully after him. There was something in the man’s eyes which already told half his tale.
“Lo, this man’s face, like to a title leaf,
Foretells the nature of the tragic volume.”
Rowland did not probably know these lines or anything like them, but he watched Saunders’ approach with the same feeling. The butler came quite up to him and spoke in a low voice, as if he were afraid of being heard. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said; “I thought I had better let you know; Mr. Archibald, sir,—I’m thinking he has been called away suddenly.”
“What?” cried Rowland, holding by the marble of the chimney piece, and feeling as if a touch would bring him down.
“Mr. Archibald, sir—I’m thinking he must have had some sudden call. His room is lying in great disorder, and his bed has not been slept in this night.”
He held by the marble of the chimney-piece for a full minute before he came to himself; and then his lips hanging a little loose, his voice a little thick—“Do you mean that my son—is not in the house?”
“He’s had some sudden call,” said the man, with instinctive endeavours to lessen the shock. “He’s left no message. And there’s the gentlemen all intent upon the shooting, and the ladies to go with their luncheon——”
Rowland paused for another minute before he spoke. Then he said, “Mr. Archie had to start very early for Glasgow on business. It was only settled last night—something about that messenger, you remember, Saunders, that came into the middle of the ball and looked so frightened.” His voice became easier as it went on, and he laughed at this recollection. “As I could not go myself, I sent my son. He may be detained a day or two. Just go to Mr. Saumarez and ask him, with my compliments, if he would take Mr. Archie’s place. Is Roderick ready?”
“Oh, yes, sir; quite ready and waiting. It’s a thought late: all the gentlemen have been a little late this morning.”