“Steve”—the old man spoke in a husky tremor, as if his emotions were about to master him—“Steve, my dear boy, how are you?”
Landray owned to a feeling of mystification, but since the stranger appeared on terms of such intimacy with him, he gave him his hand.
“'You don't know me; well, it was hardly to be expected you would.”
“Oh, yes, I do!” cried Stephen quickly, a light breaking in on him. “You are General Gibbs.” But he had pictured the general as erect, grizzled, of military aspect; hale and vigorous, with the righteous years he had lived. This grossly fat old man, was a distinct shock; the touch of his clammy hands, the pressure of his tremulous fingers, for Gibbs now held the hand he had given him in both his own, was almost repulsive.
“Surely, it ain't possible that you remember me, Steve?” cried Gibbs. “I reckon you knew Jake wouldn't send any one but me to meet you. Here, let me carry your satchel—no? Well, come this way then to the carriage. Your Uncle Jake wasn't feeling just himself to-night. Oh, nothing serious. Odd, though, ain't it—I'm a good ten years his senior, and I say it without pride, Steve, I've lived a faster life than he has, and I don't know what sickness is. My dear boy, I'm glad to see you, I've been the friend, the intimate associate, of two generations of Landrays, and you're to make the third; for we'll keep up the ancient custom, trust me for that. Are you quite comfortable?”
They were seated in the carriage now.
“Oh, quite,” said Stephen. His first impression of the general was distinctly and unqualifiedly unfavourable. Gibbs was speaking again.
“It's quite a coincidence that I should meet you, Steve; of course you don't remember it, but I brought you here after your poor father's death. He was my very dear friend, we were like brothers. We had been comrades-in-arms, and we were in business together almost up to the time of his death.” Gibbs was industriously swabbing his face with his handkerchief as he spoke. Stephen was silent. He did not know just how to take this old friend of his father's, the wealth of whose emotions embarrassed him, and he was greatly relieved when the carriage turned from the paved street into a gravelled drive, and he knew his journey's end was reached.
The house door opened, and Benson appeared on the threshold. Stephen sprang from the carriage and ran quickly up the steps. Gibbs followed more slowly, with the coachman and the luggage.
“Right up to his room, Andrew—the front room over the library,” Gibbs ordered. He turned to Benson. “I suppose Steve will want to go up-stairs too, Jake. Hadn't I better show him the way?”