Stanley Hall, whose curiosity was aroused by all that had passed, went down to take a walk on the pier by way of wearing it off in a philosophical manner. He succeeded easily in getting rid of this feeling, but he could not so easily get rid of the image of Katie Durant. He had suspected himself in love with her before he sailed for India; his suspicions were increased on his return to England, and when he saw the burst of deep feeling to which she had so recently given way, and heard the genuine expressions of remorse, and beheld her sweet face bedewed with tears of regret and pity, suspicion was swallowed up in certainty.
He resolved then and there to win her, if he could, and marry her! Here a touch of perplexity assailed him, but he fought it off nobly.
He was young, no doubt, and had no money, but what then?—he was strong, had good abilities, a father in a lucrative practice, with the prospect of assisting and ultimately succeeding him. That was enough, surely.
The lodging which he had taken for a few days was retaken that night for an indefinite period, and he resolved to lay siege to her heart in due form.
But that uncertainty which is proverbial in human affairs stepped within the circle of his life and overturned his plans. On returning to his rooms he found a telegram on the table. His father, it informed him, was dangerously ill. By the next train he started for home, and arrived to find that his father was dead.
A true narrative of any portion of this world’s doings must of necessity be as varied as the world itself, and equally abrupt in its transitions. From the lively supper-table Stanley Hall passed to the deathbed of his father. In like manner we must ask the reader to turn with us from the contemplation of Stanley’s deep sorrow to the observation of Queeker’s poetic despair.
Maddened between the desire to tell all he knew regarding the secret mission to Mr Durant, and the command laid on him by his employers to be silent, the miserable youth rushed frantically to his lodgings, without any definite intentions, but more than half inclined to sink on his knees before his desk, and look up to the moon, or stars, or; failing these, to the floating light for inspiration, and pen the direful dirge of something dreadful and desperate! He had even got the length of the first line, and had burst like a thunderbolt into his room muttering—
“Great blazing wonder of illimitable spheres,”
when he became suddenly aware of the fact that his chair was occupied by the conchological friend with whom he had spent the earlier part of that day, who was no other than the man with the keen grey eyes.
“What! still in the poetic vein?” he said, with a grave smile.