"It is you who were playing?"
"Yes."
"On that?" eyeing the tin whistle with intense interest.
"Yes; on this."
"Will you play again for me?"
"I don't mind."
Ned placed the whistle to his lips, and played a simple Scotch air, improvising on the theme with rare skill; his organ of love of approbation was very large.
"Beautiful!" said Arthur Temple. "You have been taught in a good school."
In the slight laugh with which Ned Chester met this assertion was conveyed a suddenly-born reproach against society for having overlooked such superlative talent as he possessed.
"I was taught in no school." Adding proudly, "What I know, I picked up myself."
Arthur Temple corrected himself, "In the school of nature."
"May be."
"What are you?"
"A shepherd-at present."
"You have not been always a shepherd."
"Oh, no;" with an assumption of having seen considerably better times and of moving in a much better position.
"What makes you a shepherd, then?"
"A man must live."
"I beg your pardon," said Arthur, with a sensitive flush. "Are you in Mr. Fitzherbert's employment?"
Mr. Fitzherbert was the name of the squatter for whose home station he was bound, with letters of introduction.
"Yes," replied Ned Chester.
"I have come on a visit to him. Can you direct me to his place?"
"Over the hill yonder you will see a wagon track. It will take you straight to the house."
"Thank you." Arthur, about to depart, suddenly bethought himself. The musician was poor-was a shepherd from necessity. He took his purse from his pocket; a bank-note fluttered in his fingers. He held it towards Ned. Under ordinary circumstances Ned would have had no hesitation in accepting the gratuity, but as his eyes met the earnest eyes of Arthur Temple, a happy inspiration inspired him to refuse it; it was unaccountable, but it happened so. Ned turned his head from the temptation.
"I beg your pardon," said Arthur Temple, his face flushing again; "I had no intention of hurting your feelings. Good day."
"Good day."
Arthur Temple rode slowly off, with many a backward glance at the recumbent form of the musical shepherd-glances of which Ned Chester was perfectly cognisant, but of which he took no apparent notice. Before he was out of earshot, Arthur heard the tin whistle at work once more.
"A genius," thought he, "and a gentleman by instinct. I am sorry I offered him money."
The impression made upon him by the incident was powerful and durable, and he inwardly resolved to see the man again. This resolve being carried out, Ned Chester was not slow in turning to his own advantage the interest exhibited in him by Arthur Temple. His superior cunning enabled him very soon to obtain the particulars of the personal history of the young gentleman who he determined should become his patron. His patron Arthur Temple certainly did become; he engaged the vagabond man of the world as his valet at a liberal salary, and congratulated himself upon securing as his companion a person whose discovery and undoubted genius formed one of the most romantic episodes of his travels. It was fortunate for Ned that during his association with Arthur Temple in the colonies he met with no friend or acquaintance who might have exposed him to his young master. Nothing in his conduct betrayed him; he behaved in the most exemplary manner, and grew day by day in the goodwill of Arthur. He took pride in his personal appearance, and seizing with avidity the advantages such a connection opened out to him, dressed carefully and well, drank little, and was, to all outward appearance, a most respectable character. He became saving in his habits, also, and at the end of the nine months, which brought the visit of Arthur Temple to the colonies to an end, he was in possession of a sum of money larger than his salary; Ned had not fought with the world for nothing, and his experience was a key which fitted many locks. Arthur Temple was recalled home somewhat earlier than he anticipated.
"If you are well," his father wrote, "and if your health is sufficiently established to come home, do so at once, my dear lad. Your mother and myself long for your society. I never cease to think of you, and I want the world to see and appreciate you as I do, though it can never love you as you are loved by your father,
"Frederick Temple."
Arthur made immediate preparations for his departure; his nature was grateful and loving, and his duty also was here concerned. The news of the home journey troubled Ned Chester; according to the terms of his engagement, connection between him and Arthur ceased when the latter quitted Australia. Ned had saved sufficient money to pay for his passage home, but he would arrive there comparatively penniless, and in no position to obtain a livelihood. His efforts, therefore, were now directed to obtaining a permanent appointment with Arthur; and to his surprise, after much man[oe]uvring, he found that he could have succeeded much more easily by a straight than by a crooked method.
"Certainly," said Arthur; "I shall be glad not to part with you; but I thought you would have no wish to leave Australia."
"It has been my endeavour," said Ned, "for years past, but I have not had the means; and it has been my misfortune until now never to have met with a friend."
"My father," said Arthur, "will scarcely be prepared for my bringing home a valet, but he will not object to anything I do. Have you any family in England?"
"No, sir."
He endeavoured to impart a plaintive tone to this negative, to show how utterly hapless a being he was; but he failed; the joy of returning to England and of meeting the Duchess lighted up his features.
"But there is some one at home," said Arthur, with a smile, "whom you will be pleased to see."
Then Ned, with guarded enthusiasm, poured out his soul into the sympathetic ears of Arthur Temple, and spoke, but not by name, of the Duchess of Rosemary Lane, as one whom he had loved for years, and to see whom would complete the happiness of his life. He extolled her beauty, too, with sufficient fervour to carry conviction with it. He knew that these utterances made his position more secure, and imparted to his service a sentiment which was far from disagreeable to Arthur Temple.
This retrospect brings us to the ship, the Blue Jacket, sailing for England, with Arthur and Ned aboard. Arthur enjoys every hour of the voyage. All is fair before him. With youth, with good health, with a pure mind stirred by noble desires, with a father awaiting him holding a high and honourable position in the land, the book of the lad's life, the first pages only of which are opened, is filled with glowing pictures, and he looks forward with calm delight to his arrival home. Ned is less calm. The ship never goes fast enough, the days are longer than they ought to be; he burns with impatience to present himself to the idol of his dreams. Hour by hour the links that bind these men, so strangely brought into association, to other lives in the old land are drawn closer and closer. At length the good ship arrives in port. Arthur is pressed to his father's breast.
"Thank God!" says the father, "that you are home and in good health."
And he holds Arthur's hand with such warmth as he might have felt in his young days for the woman he loved.
Ned Chester looks around, draws a free full breath, and murmurs:
"At last!"
CHAPTER XXII
Mr. Temple celebrated the return of his son by a great dinner, at which a number of distinguished persons were present; later in the evening his mother held a reception. The evening before the party Arthur was sitting with his parents looking over the list of guests, and he could not help being struck with their quality. Nearly every man invited was a man of mark in the land-politicians, lawyers, a few whose chief merit was their wealth, and some few also of the foremost workers in the ranks of art and literature. Arthur was pleased at the opportunity of becoming personally acquainted with these shining lights.
"You will regard this as your first introduction into society," said Mr. Temple to his son. "I shall be glad to see you form friendships, which will bring you both pleasure and profit."
It was unfortunate that, despite his affection for his son, Mr. Temple could never avoid introducing into their conversations chance words and phrases which grated upon the sensitive mind of the younger man. The word "profit" was one of these. Arthur, however, made no comment upon this, and the rebellious expression which overcast his features for an instant was not observed by his father.
"You have much to speak of," continued Mr. Temple, "that will be new and interesting to many of our friends, and I need not say that as my son you will be heartily welcomed."
"That, of course, sir," said Arthur; "it will not be, I am afraid, for my own deservings."
"That cannot come, Arthur, until you are personally known, and then I trust it will be for your sake as well as for mine that friends will attach themselves to you. But indeed I have no doubt that such will be the case."
"You are more confident than I am, sir," said Arthur seriously. "I have my fears as to whether I shall feel at home in this new and polished atmosphere, after my experiences of the last two years."
"You have no need to fear, Arthur; I am satisfied with you. I think I shall not make you vain when I tell you that your manners are fitted for any circle."
Arthur's mother gazed fondly upon him as he replied, "It is an inheritance, sir, as are honour and truth, which I owe equally to you."
"I must confess that it was not with entire confidence I saw you depart for your travels, but you have returned improved, if anything. Contact with the world has already improved you, and has opened your mind to the value of the requirements of society."
"Whether it be so," said Arthur, with seriousness, "has yet to be proved. In the New World, with its rougher manners, I have seen much to admire-more, indeed, than in these more civilised surroundings. It is not whether they are fitted for me-it is whether I am fitted for them."
"There is plenty of romance to be found in these more sober scenes; it will come to you, Arthur, as it has come to others."
"In what shape, sir? And have you met with yours?"
Mr. Temple coloured slightly, and devoted himself more closely to his paper, which he was perusing in the intervals of the conversation. Mrs. Temple sighed and looked away. Arthur had inadvertently touched a chord which vibrated keenly in the breasts of his parents. He did not know, and had never heard, that his father had married for money and position, had married without love, but it was no less a fact. A fact of which his mother was not aware until after marriage. It was not a sudden discovery on her part; it was a gradual awakening, made more bitter by the womanly suspicion of another face, fairer perhaps than hers, and better loved in the past. In this she invested Mr. Temple with qualities which he did not possess, and fashioned a hero-not hers, but another woman's-out of very common clay. There had never been any bickerings between her and her husband; she had not distressed him with any outburst of jealously; and he gave her no cause for complaint that the world would have recognised and sympathised with. He was an exemplary husband, faithful and attentive, and was held up as a model by other wives. Mrs. Temple, before her marriage, had had her romance in her love for her husband; a romance carefully fed by him at that time, for he played the lover skillfully. But shortly after they became man and wife her dreams faded slowly and surely away. She saw that he had no heart for her, and it was most natural in her to be positive that, with his attractive person and the soft blandishments of speech of which she had had experience when he wooed her, he had bestowed his heart elsewhere. She kept her secret well, and he was ignorant of it. Had she led him to suspect that she believed herself to be betrayed, it would have caused him much amazement. In the early years of her married life she was not regardless of his movements, but she made no discovery to confirm her jealousy. She was in the habit of watching his expressions when he opened his letters, and of listening with agonised attention to the murmurings in his sleep; but she learnt nothing. Had there been anything to discover she would not have discovered it; she was no match for him in subtlety. Slowly she accepted her fate, with no outward repining, and they lived that calm passionless life which to some souls is worse than death, and which with some highly nervous organisations occasionally leads to violent terminations and tragic results.
"You were saying, Arthur," said Mr. Temple, with a direct evasion of Arthur's light question, "that you saw much to admire in the rough manners of the men among whom you travelled."
"Very much, sir. The proper assertion of a proper independence, for instance. The kingliness of manhood has no such exemplification in this city of unrest as it has in the free air of the New World, where men and women are not unhealthfully crowded together in small spaces. I see here, among the lower classes of society, no such free step, no such blithe spirits, as I have been accustomed to see among men in the same position at the other end of the world."
"There are grades even there, Arthur."
"Surely, sir; and human beings, wherever they cluster, must be dependent upon each other; but there, all grades express in their tone and bearing their obligation to each other, as equally from those above to those below, as from those below to those above. It is mutual, and there is no shame in it. Now, such dependence as I see here is ingrained in either real or assumed humiliation. Where it is real, it is pitiable and unnatural; where it is assumed, it is detestable. Either way it is bad and degrading."
"Admitting all this-which I do not-to what do you attribute this worse condition of affairs?"
"If you will pardon me," replied Arthur with modesty, "I have not gone as far as that. I have my thoughts, but I must see more before I should consider myself justified in accusing. I merely record what present themselves as clear pictures to my mind."
"When you see more, and are able from positive experience and observation to form just conclusions, you will admit that we must accept the world as we find it, and that the only wise course is to make use of it to our advantage."
"To turn its foibles to our advantage, sir?"
"Most certainly."
"Its shipwrecks and calamities-you know what I mean, sir-to turn even those to our advantage?"
"It is always a difficult thing to argue with an enthusiast, especially with an enthusiast whom one loves as I love you."
"I know you love me, sir," interrupted Arthur, warmly, "but I do not like the idea you have expressed. I think you would scarcely uphold it in its fulness."
"It is not difficult for a skilful disputant to turn his adversary's words against himself, and so to colour them as to make them bear a stronger and therefore different interpretation. Logic is an excellent weapon, Arthur, but it may be much abused."
"Admitted, sir. But it seems to me that it would be more noble and honourable to turn the experience we gained of the world to the world's advantage instead of to our own."
"The two aims may go together; but it is an absolute necessity that we should never lose sight of ourselves."
"And of our own aggrandisement?" interrupted Arthur.
"Yes, if you put it that way, though there are pleasanter ways of expressing it."
"More polished ways, sir?"
"Yes."
"But not more truthful."
"Probably not," said Mr. Temple, with no show of irritation, though he was secretly annoyed. "Remember that self-preservation is Nature's first law."
"Which does not mean," said Arthur, flying off at a tangent, as is the way with most impulsive natures, "that we should be continually stabbing our comrades in the race, or grudging to others honours worthily won-such as yours, sir-or withholding from others a true meed of admiration because our own merits-which, of course in our own estimation, are very great-have not been so generally recognised."
"These are common phrases, Arthur. Let me warn you to beware of platitudes. No platitudinarian ever rose in the world, or made for himself more than a mediocre reputation."
"That is flying away from the argument, sir," said Arthur vivaciously.
"Very well, then. I understand you to express that you should deem yourself as fortunate if you were unsuccessful in an ambition as if you had accomplished it."
"Not quite that, sir, but in some small way I can imagine circumstances in which I should deem defeat a victory."
"Do not imagine, Arthur-or, at all events, imagine as little as you can. Action is what the world calls for, is what the world demands of its leaders. And if you can act in such a way as not to oppose an established order of things, success is all the more sure."
"There is much to admire in souls which, animated by high desires, suffer from opposing an established order of things, and are consequently not prosperous."
"You have hit a nail, Arthur," said Mr. Temple, with emphasis; "'consequently not prosperous.'"
"Exactly so, sir; you take my meaning. I see in these unprosperous men much more to admire than in successful time-servers. And remember, sir," said Arthur, who frequently showed much pertinaciousness in argument, "that the very carrying out in its integrity of the axiom that preservation is Nature's first law would rob history of its most noble and heroic examples. I hope you do not mind my expressing myself thus plainly and, as I perceive, antagonistically to your views."
"Not at all. It is better that you should speak plainly to me what is in your mind than that you should needlessly betray yourself to strangers, who would not understand you." (Arthur was about to say here that he should not be deterred from expressing himself clearly in any society, but his father anticipated the declaration, and gave him no opportunity of expressing it.) "It does one good to be able to relieve himself in confidence of the vapours that oppress him. The air becomes clearer afterwards. Notwithstanding our seeming difference, I trust that our sympathies are in common-"
"I trust so, sir."
"We speak and judge from different standpoints; I from a long and varied experience of human nature, you from the threshold of life. When you are my age, you will think exactly as I do, and will be perhaps endeavouring, as I am endeavouring now, to check in your own children the enthusiasm which blinds one with excess of light, and which almost invariably leads to false and unpractical conclusions."
Arthur pondered over these words in silence, as he sat and glanced at a newspaper, as his father was doing. The calm judicial air which Mr. Temple assumed in these arguments enabled him generally to obtain an apparent victory, but it was seldom that either of the disputants was satisfied with the result. Purposely cultivating the intimacy between himself and Arthur, so that he might counteract the enthusiasm which he feared might step in the worldly way of his son, Mr. Temple was conscious that he effected but little good, and he could not but acknowledge to himself with inward trepidation that Arthur never failed to advocate the nobler side. This acknowledgment brought to his soul a sense of deep reproach-reproach which had he not loved his son, and based all his hopes upon him, might have caused an estrangement between them. For it was Arthur's words which awoke, not exactly his conscience, but his intellectual judgment, which compelled him to admit within the recesses of his own heart that he always played the meaner and the baser part in their arguments. Sometimes he asked himself if the lad was sincere; he subjected his own life as a young man to a critical analysis, to discover whether he had been led away in his estimate of men and things as he feared Arthur was being led away. It was characteristic of the man that at this period of his life-whatever he may have done in his more youthful days-he did not juggle with himself. In his solitary musings and communings with his inner nature he admitted the truth-but the glowing and delicate promptings never passed his lips, never found utterance. So now, on looking back, he saw at a single mental glance the wide barrier which divided his passions and his enthusiasms from those of his son. This barrier may be expressed in one word: selfishness. It was this sentiment that had ruled his life, that had made him blind to the consequences he might inflict upon others by his acts. Whether it were a voluntary or involuntary guiding, by this sentiment had he been led step by step up the ladder, casting no look at the despair which lay behind him. It was otherwise with Arthur; his father recognised that his son's promptings were generous and noble, and that there was no atom of selfishness in his judgment of this and that. And when he came to this point a smile played about his lips, and a world of meaning found expression in his unuttered thought: "Arthur has not yet begun to live."
The lad thought also; he did not pause to ask himself whether his convictions were right or wrong-to those he was fixed by an unerring instinct. But he tried, with little success, to bring his views into harmony with his father's worldly wisdom. The only consolation he derived was in the reflection that there was more than one fair road to a goal. As to throwing a doubt upon his father's rectitude and honour, no shadow of such a thought crossed his mind. He felt, as his father did, that there was a barrier between them, and he mentally resolved to endeavour to break it down. He glanced at his father's immovable face and tightly-closed lips, and saw that he was occupied by musings that distressed him. "It is I," thought Arthur, "who have given him pain. He is disappointed in me. Surely it is only because we cannot arrive at an understanding." How to commence to break down this barrier? The first means were in his hands-a newspaper, the epitome of life in all its large and small aspects, from the deposing of an emperor to the celebration of a new style in bonnets, from the horrible massacre of thousands of human beings in the East of Europe to the mild kicking of his wife by a costermonger in the East of London.
He commenced in a trembling voice-for the lad was the soul of ingenuousness, and could not play a part, however small, without betraying himself-by an introductory comment on a political question of the day. Mr. Temple instantly aroused himself, and replied, without observing Arthur's agitation. Gaining confidence, Arthur proceeded, and an animated conversation ensued. Their views were again antagonistic, but there was nothing personally painful in their dissent. With the skill of long experience Mr. Temple drew Arthur out upon the theme, and the lad became eloquent, as earnestness generally is-but this eloquence, combined with this earnestness, was of a standard so high, and the language and periods in which Arthur illustrated his points were at once so powerful and polished, that Mr. Temple thrilled with exultation, and he thought, "All is well." His face cleared, his manner was almost joyous, and when the subject was exhausted he said:
"Arthur, you have afforded me great delight. I cannot express my pride and pleasure. You are an orator."
Arthur blushed and stammered; the praise unnerved him, and brought him back to sober earth.
"Yes," continued Mr. Temple, "you are an orator, and you will fall into your proper groove in life- Nay, do not interrupt me; you will verify my prediction. When a great, a noble gift is given to a man, and he knows that it is his, and when opportunity is given to him as it will be given to you, it is impossible for him to neglect it. God has given you the gift of eloquence, and you will fail in your duty if you do not properly use it. You are far in advance of me; I am accounted a good speaker, but I confess to you that I never lose myself in my words; if I did, I should become incoherent. I know beforehand what I am about to say; your words are unstudied, and are conveyed with a fire which cannot but stir your listeners to enthusiasm. That your political views differ from mine hurts me but little." Arthur raised his face to his father's in quick, affectionate response. "I am a Conservative; if your views do not undergo change, you will become a Liberal; and in this you will but march with the times. The fields are equally honourable. You will become a champion, a leader of your party. My dear boy, my fondest hopes will be realised in you."
From politics they passed to other themes, drawn from the columns of the newspaper, and then silence reigned for a little while. Mrs. Temple had left the room, and Arthur was now engaged in a column which appeared to interest him more than politics, foreign complications or the state of the money market, all of which matters had formed subject of conversation.
Presently he spoke.
"It is a great pleasure to me to be able to speak openly to you, sir, and to feel that, though you do not always agree with me, I can say exactly what is in my mind."
"Unhappily, Arthur, this kind of confidence is too rarely cultivated. It needs no cultivation in us. It already exists."
As he spoke his arm stole about Arthur's shoulder, and fondly rested there.
"You have so directed my thoughts to myself and the career before me that as I read I find myself almost unconsciously examining the relative impressions produced upon me by current events."
"An intellectual sign, Arthur."
"Pray, sir, do not flatter me too much," said Arthur, seriously; "it produces in me a sensation which is not entirely agreeable."
"You must make allowance, Arthur, for a father's pride in his son."
"Forgive me for my remark; I forgot myself for a moment. I doubt whether I deserve the love you bestow upon me."
"You more than deserve it, my dear boy, by returning it."
"Which I do sir, heartily, sincerely. Well then, I was about to say that I find myself much more affected by the domestic and social incidents in the newspapers than by the larger historical records. For instance, neither the political crisis nor the war produces within me so strong an impression as the sad history comprised in this short paragraph."
Mr. Temple turned his head towards the paper, and glanced at the paragraph pointed out by Arthur, making no attempt to read it.
"Concerning any public person, Arthur?"
"No, sir. Concerning one whose name might never have been known but for her misfortunes."
" Her misfortunes! A woman, then?"
"A poor girl, found drowned in the river."
"Murdered?"
"She met her death by her own hands. On the river bank she had placed her child, a mere infant three or four months old. The poor girl-scarcely my age, and well-looking, the account says-must have drowned herself in the night when it was dark. First she stripped herself of her warm underclothing, and wrapped her baby in it to protect it from the cold, hoping, no doubt, that it would fall into humane hands soon after she walked to her doom. But the night passed, and the child was not discovered. By a strange fatality, within a few hours after the girl-mother was drowned, the waves washed her body on to the river's bank near to the form of her child, and when the sun shone, its light fell upon the dead mother and her living child lying side by side. There was nothing about her to prove her identity; even the initials on her clothes had been carefully removed. But a paper was found, on which was written, evidently by one of fair education: 'By my sinful act I remove myself and my shame from the eyes of a cruel world. I die in despair, unconsoled by the belief that retribution will fall upon the head of him who betrayed and deserted me.' On the head of him who betrayed her! Is it possible that such a man, after reading this record of his guilt-as perhaps he may be doing at this very moment-can enjoy a moment's happiness? Is it possible that he can sleep? Though by this dead girl's generosity his secret is safe, retribution will fall upon him-as surely as there is a heaven above us! If I discovered that ever in my life I had clasped the hand of such a man, I should be tempted to cut mine from its wrist to rid myself of the shameful contamination of his touch! What is the matter, sir? You are ill!"
"A sudden faintness, Arthur-nothing more. I have been working hard lately, and I need rest. Goodnight."
As Mr. Temple rose to leave the room, he turned from Arthur's anxious gaze a face that was like the face of a ghost.