Masterman and Son Part 29

And at length he had his reward. There came one day to his office a large official envelope, containing cautious inquiries, whether, under certain circ.u.mstances, which were deftly indicated, he would be prepared to accept a knighthood. There was, of course, a grave reference to his public services, especially in his large gifts to patriotic causes, which had no doubt stimulated the generosity of the public, and had attracted the attention and grat.i.tude of the Government.

He sat still for a long time with his eyes fixed upon the letter. So it had come at last, the long-expected, the unavoidable, the supreme prize of his existence! No: not the supreme; this was but the beginning. He meant to have more, much more than this.

He resolved that he would say not a word about it, except by way of proud hint to his family. He would surprise them with it; and he pictured himself announcing the news. The final letter which conferred the dignity would come by the morning mail most probably; he would distinguish it at once by the large official envelope; but he would be in no haste to open it. He would do what children do with sweetmeats, keep the best to the last. And then, just when Helen kissed him as he left the house, and said "Good-bye, father!" he would turn round with a grave smile, and say, "Sir Archibold Masterman, if you please." And she would say, "What new joke is this, father?" And he would answer with a calm voice, as though he spoke of a matter of the least possible importance, "It's not a joke ... read that!" And his wife would stand behind Helen, trembling a little; and, far away in Canada, Arthur would get the news, and would be sorry he had not valued such a father....

It was a delightful vision, and he thrilled to it with the ardour of a boy.

He replied at once, expressing his appreciation and his grat.i.tude.

Then he fell to wondering how long it took to get the matter settled.

There were no doubt forms and preliminaries, and all that sort of thing, but surely a week would be long enough. A week pa.s.sed, a month--still no answer came. He tortured himself with fears of what might have happened. Had he expressed himself foolishly in his reply, shown himself too eager perhaps, or had his letter miscarried?

He would go to Brighton. This strain of waiting was intolerable. No, he would go to Paris. The man who was to collect the oak and marbles for his projected country house lived there, and it would divert his thoughts to meet him.

He went by the afternoon express from Charing Cross. As he entered his compartment, he noticed a neatly dressed inconspicuous man who appeared to be observing him closely. The man looked at him strangely, pa.s.sed by him and entered the same train. He saw him again upon the boat.

When he reached the Gare du Nord the same man pa.s.sed by him again, just as he was ordering a carriage, and disappeared into the crowd.

"Some pressman, I suppose. Well, he'll know me again," he said to himself, and thought no more about it.

The next day he met the dealer he had come to see. He proved to be a most interesting fellow, shrewd, adroit, and a master in the art of persuasion. One thing led to another, and a couple of days pa.s.sed in the inspection of the stock. Each night he came back quite tired out to the hotel. Each morning he began his quest for art treasures with renewed ardour. He had no other occupation. He had left no address at the office, and no mail reached him. It was a new and delightful method of taking a holiday, and he wondered he had not thought of it before.

As he left the dealer's one day for lunch, he saw the same neatly dressed inconspicuous man crossing the street just ahead of him. The man turned back, stopped at a shop-window, and, as he pa.s.sed, looked him squarely in the face. When he reached his hotel that night the same man was sitting quietly reading in the foyer. This time the man did not look at him.

On the fourth day he had completed his business with the dealer. The longed-for letter must have come by this time. He resolved to return to London by the nine o'clock train next morning.

In the evening, as he was packing his valise, there was a knock at the bedroom door. He opened it, and found the man standing outside.

"You are Mr. Masterman, I believe?"

"Yes, my name is Masterman."

"I want a word with you, if you please."

"You must be quick then. I'm busy--I leave to-morrow morning for London."

"I also leave to-morrow morning. We might travel together."

"What do you mean, sir? I don't know you, and I don't in the least desire your company."

"Very few people do," said the man, with a quiet smile. There was something in that smile indefinitely stealthy, hostile, menacing; it sent an icy thrill through the heart and curdled the marrow in the bones. "Mr. Masterman," the man went on, in a low, firm voice, "I'm sorry to cause you personal inconvenience. You will understand that I have a duty to perform. You must go with me, sir."

"Why, what ... what ... do you mean you arrest me?"

"That is my duty, sir. There are grave charges against you, which I for one shall be glad if you can disprove, for I've heard of lots of good you've done. Mr. Scales was arrested two days ago. I take it you'll come quietly."

"Scales arrested? For what, pray?"

"The charge is fraud. I am not at liberty to say more."

"Ah! And so----" But speech failed him. He appeared to be losing his grip upon reality as he had done on that Sunday evening when he saw The Fear.... There was a sound of organ music, rolling in soft surges, faint, solemn, sad--"Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day."

And a figure with dark wings that trailed the dust, and hooded head, very silent. The hood slowly lifted, and he saw the face at last--a face with a quiet smile, authoritative, inscrutable, indefinitely hostile. He had seen it at Charing Cross; it had followed him through the streets of Paris; he saw it now, a kind of white patch on the darkness, the hard whiteness of flame which nothing could quench.

Then the phantasm faded out, as it had done before. The horrible truth went crashing through his brain. He knew now why his letter had not been answered.... So they had heard things ... and never, never now would he be Sir Archibold Masterman. They had heard things ... and, while he waited for honour, they were plotting his dishonour. G.o.d! how they must have laughed! It was the supreme irony.

A wave of bitter laughter began to rise in his own heart; but something warned him, if he laughed just then, he would go mad.

He clutched at his leaping nerves as a man might clutch the reins of a runaway horse. All at once he attained complete sad composure. He was walking on a bleak high tableland among the stars, from which he looked down, and saw the world and all that was therein as a very little thing. Honour, dishonour, wealth, poverty--all were alike trifles, the blowing up and down of a little dust.... "_As a ship that pa.s.seth over the waves of the water, which, when it is gone by, the trace thereof cannot be found._"

He was quite calm now. He turned toward the man, who still stood with his inscrutable quiet smile, unavoidable as destiny, watching him narrowly.

"I will go with you," he said. "I give you my word, I will go quietly."

XX

THE RETURN

Through the soft summer seas the great ship moved into the mouth of the English Channel. The early dawn had revealed the faint mist-folded promontories of the Cornish coast well to westward. Red-sailed fishing-boats hung like a flight of birds upon the lucid floors of ocean; coasting steamers snorted past with an air of insular importance; here and there a white-sailed brig glimmered in the early sunlight; and, coming after the long loneliness of open seas, these signs of life impressed the mind like the stir and tumult of a city.

Plymouth would be reached by noon.

Letters, telegrams, and papers had already come aboard with the pilot--the first friendly overtures of a land slowly rising out of the thinning morning bank. Men and women, with laughing eyes and gladdened faces, stood in little groups reading their correspondence, exchanging jests, commenting upon sc.r.a.ps of news which they had gathered from the papers. It seemed the tide of war had turned at last. It was to a madly joyous land the great ship made its slow approach. Suddenly upon the deck the band clashed with the animating music of the National Anthem. The English stood uncovered as the first familiar bar vibrated on the quiet air; the Americans watched them with a half-sympathetic amus.e.m.e.nt; even the steerage pa.s.sengers, foreigners for the most part, without part or lot in British victories, smiled cheerfully. So joyous was the hour that private grief appeared a contradiction, an impertinence.

There was neither telegram nor letter for Arthur, and he had been unable to secure a paper. To him England extended no welcome.

During the long trans-continental journey, and the longer ocean voyage, he had beaten out all the conditions of his situation with an iteration that had finally exhausted the possibilities of vehement emotion. It is happily not within the power of the human organism to feel and suffer intensely except for short periods; agony begets lethargy. It is one of the mercies of pain that it thus dies of its own excess, that in its intensity it becomes coma. Arthur had reached the point of moral coma. The red-hot iron had ploughed through his soul, but it had also seared it into brief insensibility.

In his first extremity of consternation it had seemed a thing impossible to survive the horror that possessed him. The image of his father rose before him, sad-browed, accusing, spent with mortal struggle, pale with immortal defeat--it travelled with him like a face painted in the air. It evoked in him an anguish of commiseration, and even of remorse. He remembered every slighting thought that he had cherished, as men recollect wrongs done to the dead, magnifying errors into cruelties, faults into crimes. With a sudden burning of the blood he had realised how singular and strong is that bond of flesh which unites the parent to the child, how sacred and how incapable of all annulment. At the root of his own life lay a force stronger than justice, stronger than religion, a thing bare, irrational, primeval--the awful sanct.i.ty of kinship. And he knew in that moment that, for good or ill, his place was beside his father. There he must needs stand, even though it were at the gallows' foot. Whatever burden crushed those strong shoulders he must share, even though the load were shameful. From that obligation there was no discharge.

From New York he had cabled both to his father and to Bundy, but no reply had come from either. He had had to wait two days for the sailing of a ship, the first of which was a day of infinite misery, aimless wandering, languid revisitation of familiar scenes. On the second day he met Horner. He found the little artist re-established in his studio, and from him received a boisterous welcome.

"Have you seen my book?" he cried.

"What book?"

"Well, I like that. Didn't you write it for me? And don't you recollect we were to share profits? Look at those"--and he pushed toward him an immense bundle of press-cuttings.

From these it appeared that the book had achieved notoriety, if not fame.

"You didn't let me know where you went, and you've never written me, or I would have posted these things to you. Ripping, aren't they?"

"They appear excellent."

"And there's something else that's still better. Read that!"

It was a letter bearing the well-known office address of Mr. Wilbur M.

Legion, and enclosing a substantial cheque.

"It only came yesterday. I guess we'll cash it. Half of it is yours, you know, and if you're going to England it may come in handy."