THE RETURN OF THE GREAT VANCE
Morris returned from Waterloo in a frame of mind that baffles description. He was a modest man; he had never conceived an overweening notion of his own powers; he knew himself unfit to write a book, turn a table napkin-ring, entertain a Christmas party with legerdemain—grapple (in short) any of those conspicuous accomplishments that are usually classed under the head of genius. He knew—he admitted—his parts to be pedestrian, but he had considered them (until quite lately) fully equal to the demands of life. And to-day he owned himself defeated: life had the upper hand; if there had been any means of flight or place to flee to, if the world had been so ordered that a man could leave it like a place of entertainment, Morris would have instantly resigned all further claim on its rewards and pleasures, and, with inexpressible contentment, ceased to be. As it was, one aim shone before him: he could get home. Even as the sick dog crawls under the sofa, Morris could shut the door of John Street and be alone.
The dusk was falling when he drew near this place of refuge; and the first thing that met his eyes was the figure of a man upon the step, alternately plucking at the bell-handle and pounding on the panels. The man had no hat, his clothes were hideous with filth, he had the air of a hop-picker. Yet Morris knew him; it was John.
The first impulse of flight was succeeded, in the elder brother’s bosom, by the empty quiescence of despair. “What does it matter now?” he thought, and drawing forth his latch-key ascended the steps.
John turned about; his face was ghastly with weariness and dirt and fury; and as he recognised the head of his family, he drew in a long rasping breath, and his eyes glittered.
“Open that door,” he said, standing back.
“I am going to,” said Morris, and added mentally, “He looks like murder!”
The brothers passed into the hall, the door closed behind them; and suddenly John seized Morris by the shoulders and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. “You mangy little cad,” he said, “I’d serve you right to smash your skull!” And shook him again, so that his teeth rattled and his head smote upon the wall.
“Don’t be violent, Johnny,” said Morris. “It can’t do any good now.”