The
HENRY-SETON-MERRIMAN
i
1
Copyright, iSgg,
BY
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
Revised and Authorized Edition
Prefac(
" The Phantom Future " is an early and im-
mature attempt which has at some trouble and
expense been withdrawn from circulation in
England. Seeing that under existing copyright
law the book is unprotected in the United States
from the unauthorized enterprise of certain pub-
lishers, the author finds himself practically forced
to issue an edition of this and other early works.
He does this in full consciousness of a hundred
defects which the most careful revision cannot
eliminate. The book has been corrected by the
author, who now submits it to the geneiosity ol
the critic and the good sense of the reader with
the assurance that had he been in a position to
choose he would not have sought this indulgence.
Henry Seton Merriman.
Contents
CHAPTER
I.
Myra's Bar ....
II.
, Syra's Admirers .
III.
The Future ....
IV.
GOLDHEATH ....
V.
Old Shipmates
VI.
Playmates ....
VII.
Crozier's Lie .
VIII.
Resurrection Pie
IX.
The Academy of Cheerfulness
X.
The School of Melancholy
XI.
Quicksand ....
XII.
HOLDSWORTH MoVES .
XIII.
The Doctor's Malady .
XIV.
Burnt Fingers
XV.
A Creature of Impulse .
XVI.
Intruders ....
XVII.
Syra's Secret
XVllI.
Fortune Smiles .
XIX.
A Shadow Forecast
XX.
Diplomacy ....
XXI.
The Plot ....
VI
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
XXII.
Flowers
.
239
XXIII.
Danger ....
•
248
XXIV.
The Reckoning Up
.
260
XXV.
Forewarned
.
267
XXVI.
For the Ship's S^ke .
.
281
XXVII.
Impulse ....
.
296
XXVIII.
The Bushel Raised
.
••
311
XXIX.
The Fire ....
.
323
XXX.
The Valley of the Shadow
m
XXXI.
"Be Ye Therefore Very
COUR-
ageous "...
.
.
346
XXXII.
Goldheath Again
.
360
The Phantom Future
CHAPTER I
myra's bar
"Yes, Mr. Crozier, I think it is very good.
Tell me, will it make a difference in his life.^"
The girl who spoke closed the book she had
been glancing through, and laid it upon the
marble counter among the sherry-decanters,
black china match-boxes, and ash-trays. She
was only a barmaid, and the brilliant gas shining
down from a sun-light in the ceiling overhead
betrayed the fact that her face was not quite in-
nocent of artificial aid. The lower lip was
pressed upward when in repose, forcing the up-
per slightly out of place. The expression im-
parted thus to the daintiest mouth imaginable
was not disagreeable, but it was somewhat sad,
if studied closely, for it seemed to imply that ex-
istence was an effort.
The man to whom her question was addressed
did not answer at once. He took a long sip of
whiskey-and-water, and by a turn of his tongue
shifted his cigar from the left to the right-hand
corner of his mouth. He was a heavy-shoul-
I
2 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
dered man, with a large head and small blue
eyes set close together. When he thought
deeply his eyes appeared to contract and sink
deeper beneath the forehead. This expression
came over his face now, although his gaze was
fixed on nothing more interesting than the lino-
leum which covered the floor.
"I don't know," he said, thoughtfully; and
being seated on a high stool he swung his right
leg backward and forward. "It is hard to say
what the result will be. He is such a harum-
scarum sort of fellow that one never knows
what he will do next. Seems to be sick of med-
icine, does he not.?"
The girl had risen from her seat behind the
bar, displaying a perfect figure, shown to full
advantage by a well-made black dress. She
moved along to the end of the curving counter
and turned the gas that burnt beneath a huge sil-
ver coflfee-urn slightly higher.
"They will be coming in, in a few minutes,"
she murmured to herself, glancing upward at
the clock suspended on the wall opposite. Then
she answered Crozier's question carelessly and
indifferently, after the manner of a person who
has been talking on uninteresting topics all day.
"Yes; he seems tired of it. I do not think
that he ever was very enthusiastic about it
though! "
Her voice was somewhat deep and she spoke
very neatly, clipping her words occasionally in a
MYRA'S BAR 3
manner which suggested that she had, at one
time, learnt elocution.
"Sickening profession," grumbled the man.
He emitted a cloud of smoke from his lips with-
out removing the cigar, and looking up presently,
saw that it floated directly into the girl's face
and around her elaborately dressed fair hair.
" I beg your pardon," he said hastily, and
with his broad hand he waved the smoke aside
gravely.
"Oh, never mind," she laughed, "I do not
mind smoke. I have been accustomed to it for
some years now. There are very often ten of
you smoking in this little room in the evening."
She spoke in a quick, heartless way, with a
conventional smile upon her lips.
"Makes no diiference," he said gravely.
For a moment an odd expression flitted
through the girl's eyes, or to be more strictly
correct, an expression came where none had
been before, for her eyes were singularly cold
and lifeless. She was occupied with the duties
appertaining to her office — polishing decanters,
arranging symmetrically inverted wine-glasses
and tumblers upon the marble counter, and see-
ing that a plentiful supply of each brand of
whiskey was ready, for Myra's Bar boasted of
seventeen different distillations in Scotch whis-
keys alone.
She glanced toward the heavy-featured man
who was the sole occupant of the little room of
4 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
which she was the presiding divinity and — al-
most spoi<e. Her lips were parted for an in-
stant, and then they closed again with the odd
upward pressure.
Of all the frequenters of this small curtained
room at the back of Myra's Bar this was the only
man who took her seriously, who gave her credit
for being something more than a beautiful ma-
chine whose duty it was to smile at doubtful
jokes, ignore double meanings, and pass from
morning till night glasses of a hundred different
intoxicating liquors across a marble counter into
unsteady hands. There were other gentlemen
among these thirsty souls, men with true and
gentle hearts perhaps, with deep-hidden hopes
and aspirations; but they reserved the graver
sides of their lives for other moments. They
dropped into Myra's on their way to their en-
graving-shops, after hospital hours, or before the
stage-doors were opened; and they came to dis-
cuss the newest play, the latest book, or the best
picture. They never drank very much, but they
talked a great deal, and laughed more. Myra's
Bar was no place for gravity.
Crozier took up the book again, and slowly
turning over the pages, looked at the illustrations
critically. To the letterpress he gave no heed.
Perhaps the poems were familiar to him, or more
likely still, he did not care for such stuff, al-
though there was a well-read look about his face.
The drawings were exquisite, soft, delicate, and
MYRA'S BAR 5
full of subtle meaning. The hand that guided
the pencil might almost have held the pen. it
was a well-known collection, but never had such
an edition appeared before, never had the poet's
thoughts met with such a sympathetic exponent.
Crozier rarely talked of himself. That subject
was laid aside by his action of taking up the
book.
"Yes, Syra," he said, in a business-like tone,
^' there is good work here — better work than
sawing bones and making pills."
"And drinking gin-and-bitters," added the
girl, with a faint suggestion of severity in her
tone. Her back was turned toward him, and a
very graceful back it was. She was wiping the
dust from the shelves, which rose in a tier up to
the ceiling, all glittering with full and brilliantly-
labelled bottles. Crozier looked up with slightly
raised eyebrows.
"Perhaps," he said, cynically; and he pushed
his empty glass across toward her.
She turned and gave him some whiskey from
a small glass barrel, measuring the quantity rap-
idly and dexterously with a silver vessel shaped
like a tiny tumbler.
He opened his light top-coat in order to take a
cigar from an inner pocket, and in doing so dis-
played that he was in dress clothes. The man-
ner in which he wore them seemed to imply that
he was in the habit of donning such apparel
every night.
6 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
" Have you been singing to-night ? " asked the
girl carelessly.
"No; I have been to the opening of the new
comic opera," he rephed, with a cleverly sup-
pressed yawn; " Minette, they call it. But ^
came away early; I could not stand it. Very
poor music, very badly sung. Syra, mark my
words, these comic operas, redolent of . . ,
of . . ."he hesitated, and looked at her quiz-
zically, "of gin-and-bitters, let us say — reeking
with Strand slang, overwhelmed with vulgar
'business,' and disfigured by stupid 'gag' — are
dancing over the grave of music, deceased, and
reproduced in painted wax-work like Madame
Tussaud's defunct heroes."
Beneath his cloak of cynicism the man really
felt what he was saying. Had Syra been a
reader of newspapers, she would have found a
strangely ambiguous criticism in several of the
" dailies " next morning, which one and all left a
very vague impression of the merits of Minette,
and in no way coincided with the opinion just
expressed. But Syra was not thinking of the
opera at all.
"Was Mr. Valliant with you.?" she asked in-
differently.
"No," was the prompt reply. "I have not
seen him since this morning. No doubt he will
be coming in soon."
" I wish he would not come in so often."
"Syra," said Crozier, reproachfully, "that is
MYRAS BAR 7
not a business-like remark. I have endeavoured
for some years . . . years, no! let us say
months — to make you look at things and men in
a business-like manner, 1 am disappointed! "
The girl laughed, but did not look toward him.
" One cannot always be business-like," she re-
plied, in her neat way.
"Why not? Everything goes; youth, illu-
sions, pleasure, and even music. Only work
stays with us. Therefore let us be business-like.
Besides, your remark was rude. Mr. Valliant is
my friend."
"One would hardly think so."
"Indeed," said Crozier, with great serenity.
"Am I to understand that you are of opinion
that Samuel Crozier's friendship is a doubtful
iicquisition ?"
She laughed again in a terribly mechanical
•way, and shrugged her shoulders.
"As you like."
"Then please pass me the water."
She handed him the carafe, and turned away
^gain, standing with her two hands — a little
reddened by const:.nt contact with beer and
other liquors — resting upon the marble counter.
It was thus that she stood when the little bar-
room was full; at attention, surrounded by her
.innumerable bottles, with all her decanters at
hand, in front of the cash-drawer.
He filled up his glass with grave deliberation,
.and a hand that was as steady as a rock.
8 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"There is something," he said, as he raised
the glass, "in the atmosphere of this secluded
retreat to-night which is new to me. Smoke 1
see; chops, kidneys, and other delicate odours
of the grill I detect, wafted in from the neigh-
bouring supper-room, where the portly Myra
dispenses hospitality at a fixed and moderate
charge. But it is none of these. Neither is it
the subtle scent of strong waters. It is impalpa-
ble, indefinite. Syra, is it Virtue?"
Beneath her lowered lids she glanced sideways
toward him, and her lips curled slightly in a smile
which was almost sickly and quite unpleasant.
She was accustomed to Crozier's grave jocu-
larity, and rose to the occasion at once.
"If it is," she said merrily, " be very careful
how you inhale it."
He smiled at the sally, and rose from his seat
to cross the room toward the fireplace where a
few cinders lingered unheeded. It was late in
February, and a fire was hardly necessary in the
small curtained room where the gas burnt all day.
With a turn of his finger he threw the ash from
his cigar cleverly into the cinders. Then he
turned and walked toward her.
"There is something wrong to-night," he said.
"What is it? Have you had some one in here
from Exeter Hall, or has a mistaken person been
leaving tracts ?"
There was a subtle difference in his tone, so
slight and so delicate, that no one who did not.
MYRA'S BAR 9
know his manner very well would have suspected
that he was quite serious. The girl, however,
whose human studies must have been very inter-
esting and strangely contradictory, knew at once
that he expected a grave reply.
"Is it right," she asked quickly, "that a man
who can draw like that," and she laid her hand
upon the book, "should spend his time drinking
and smoking here?"
Again he looked at her in a gravely quizzical
manner.
" Is it right," he asked solemnly, "that a man
who can sing like Sam Crozier should make music
for the common herd of St. James's Hall ? Is not
his place in another sphere with a golden harp of
his own ? Is it right that Miss Faucit, the fair
and gracious, otherwise known as Syra, should
dispense liquid nourishment to Tom, Dick, and
Harry, receiving in return badly turned compli-
ments ? Is anything right, Syra — life, trouble,
woe, and joy ?"
"Oh! Don't play the fool!" exclaimed the
girl impatiently.
"My dear Syra, I am as grave as a judge. The
world would be a dull place if there were no
fools, or no wise men with a turn for playing the
fool."
" I wish," said the girl, without looking toward
him, "that you would keep Mr. Valliant away
from here, and from all these loafers whom he is
pleased to call his friends."
10 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"I?" he exclaimed in wonder. "What have
J to do with it?"
" You are the only man who has any influence
with him, the only one among them all who
knows anything of his private life, who is ac-
quainted with his people."
Crozier raised his glass to his lips, and took a
slow, meditative sip. His face was very grave
when he set it down again, and his deep-set eyes
were overshadowed.
"Why this interest in Valliant?" he asked
pointedly.
She met his deep, searching glance with calm
assurance. Then suddenly she laughed in his
face and shook her head merrily.
"How funny!" she exclaimed. "Did you
really think. . . ."
"No," he interrupted, "I thought nothing.
Thinking does not lie in my line of country. I
merely asked a question."
" And I will answer it. This interest in Mr.
Valliant comes from the fact that he is too good
for such a life as he is drifting into. You and
he are different — different from the rest of them.
You may not dress so well, you may not be so
rich, but — but you know what I mean,"
" I suppose I do," he replied, swinging his leg
and glancing up at the clock. " But I don't think
you can accuse me of leading him astray. He
came up to town to pass his exams and go
through the hospital. Is it my fault that he
MYRA'S BAR ii
should have fallen into the fastest set ? It was
bound to be the case; the cleverest men as a rule
are the fastest, and Valliant is the sort of fellow
to be at the front wherever he may be. He is
not a rear-rank man."
" But you can hold him back."
" Perhaps," said the man, with an odd, con-
scious look upon his powerful face. "Perhaps
I do hold him back. Perhaps, Syra. I know
him better than you. Has it never struck you
that he is the sort of man who can never be in-
fluenced by strong measures — a man who is as
difficult to lead or hold back as a woman ? He
cannot bear the curb and spur."
He rose and walked toward the heavy curtains
which, falling together across a broad doorway,
separated the inner from the outer apartment.
There were a few men in the larger room where
Myra held sway; second-rate actors whose even-
ing duties were over, and journalistic loafers.
They were all talking in loud tones of matters
dramatic, and there was an attendant clink of
glasses. The odour that came through the cur-
tains was only that of the little room intensified
and more heavily laden with the smell of cook-
ing.
Syra stood beside the coffee-urn absently fin-
gering a pair of sugar-tongs, and when Crozier
returned she did not desist or look up.
" You were rude just now," he said in his ha-
bitual semi-bantering way, "I will return it. Do
12 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
you think for a moment, Syra, that I come here
because I have fallen a victim to your charms ?
Does 11 seem a likely thing that I should prefer
this little room with its sn.oky, smelly atmos-
phere to a comfortable armchair and an evening
paper across the road at the Club ?"
The girl threw the sugar-tongs carelessly on to
the marble counter, where they fell with a loud
clang, and glanced up at the clock.
"Then," she said curtly, "you are watching
him."
" I am doing what I can."
"Why not warn his — his people.?"
He laughed and contemplated the end of his
cigar complacently.
"I have not trodden the stony paths of exis-
tence for thirty years, young woman, without
learning to mind my own business."
"Which means that 1 will do well to mind
mine, 1 suppose.?"
" Which means exactly what it says. What I
intend to be understood I usually say in a man-
ner which allows of no misunderstanding. It is
very good of you to think of the matter at all.
Be careful! Here they come!"
CHAPTER II
syra's admirers
" Myra's " was situated not in the Strand itself,
but in a narrow street running upward and north-
ward. An old lease, a central position, and a
faithful clientele had combined to ruin Myra's
trim figure and make her active life a happy one.
Among her regular patrons were a few journal-
ists, a few actors, and a few engravers, but her
kedge-anchor was Saint Antony's. The students
at that Samaritan establishment never swerved
from their devotion to the little chop-house.
Syras came and Syras went, but Saint Antony's
remained forever. Rotund and jovial Myra was
part of their education, and in her motherly way
she performed a vast deal of good among the
boys learning in the cheeriest possible manner
the saddest profession a man can undertake.
Myra could cook a chop in the most dainty
way, and with a broad warm smile she had
grilled many a succulent kidney for pale-faced
students whose appetites had suffered from a
grim morning's work in the accident ward.
More than one anxious mother to whom distant
London was a den of thieves and haunt of sirens,
owed an unsuspected debt to this portly dame.
More than one medical student had been saved
13
14 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
from going just a little too far by a laughing
word of caution, delivered with uplifted fork and
face all glowing from proximity to the splutter-
ing grill.
It may be thought that the inner room with
its goddess was rather a blot upon the fair
reputation of "Myra's," but in excuse there is
much to be said. Profits are large, and Myra
argued comfortably that if her supporters did
not drink there they would drink somewhere
else. She was a remarkably quick reader of
human faces, and the young persons selected to
assume charge of the inner bar and take the
inevitable name of Syra were invariably such as
the stout proprietress ambiguously called ''good
girls."
It will perhaps be politic to confess at once
that Saint Antony's was not a steady hospital.
The disciples of the revered Saint were not
young men from whose ranks many promising
Sunday-school teachers could have been selected,
but (like many of us) they were less black than
it was their good or evil fortune to be painted.
Very few of them went irretrievably to the dogs.
Hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder they
danced merrily enough down the slope, but be-
fore the impetus was allowed to gain mastery
over their legs, some one or other (it was never
quite known who) would give a check and set
a firm foot; then shoulder pressed closer to
shoulder and hand clasped hand more firmly.
SYRA'S ADMIRERS 13
These cheery followers of y^sculapius now
trooped through Myra's apartment with many
an evening greeting for the lady herself. The
curtain of the inner room was drawn hastily
aside and a voice called out — " Syra, my own,
accept thy slave's devotion."
The man who spoke entered the room first.
When he perceived Crozier the smile that lighted
up his sharp, merry face wavered for a minute,
" Ah, Sam," he said.
He was of medium height, of slight and
graceful build, with small, frail hands and feet.
His pallor, which was remarkable, had no dis-
agreeable association of ill-health with it, for his
complexion was singularly clean and cream-like.
It was the steady, unchangeable whiteness of a
refined Italian, which remains unaltered morning,
noon, and night; through health and sickness,
through joy and grief. Seen in repose the
features were good; a small straight nose, red
lips, and a dainty chin thrust forward; but re-
pose was rare. The lips were always curling in
laughter, the eyes were always dancing with
merriment; and yet he never laughed aloud —
there was no voice in his mirth. He was clean
shaven, and there was no blue shade about his
lip or chin to suggest that a luxuriant growth
of mustache or beard called for a very sharp
razor.
In an instant his quick dark eyes lighted upon
the book which lay among the decanters near to
i6 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Syra's hand, and he turned to the comrades who
had followed close upon his heels.
"Friends, Romans, sawbones," he exclaimed
oratorically, "the cat has escaped. I am at
liberty to tell you that my ship has come home.
Breathe into Syra's shell-like ear what your
health requires and refer her to me. To-night I
bury the scalpel and start growing an artistic
head of hair! "
They were accustomed to surprises of this de-
scription, these decorous revellers. Among them
were men who had already written books and
painted pictures; others there were with manu-
scripts and canvases secretly treasured. Tom
Valliant had made a hit. All the better for Tom
Valliant! Drink to his success at /2/5 expense,
without thought of envy.
While the noisy group clustered round Syra
and peered over each other's shoulders at the
book, calling out their requirements as they did
so, Valliant drifted nearer to Crozier, who was
still sitting on a high stool beside the marble
counter swinging one leg idly.
"Well, Sam," he said almost gravely, beneath
the cover of many voices; "what do you think
of it?"
Already he was looking the other way, laugh-
ing in his soft, noiseless way at some sally, and
his eyes were still dancing with merriment when
he turned again for Crozier's reply.
"It is good," said the singer kindly, "very
SYRA'S ADMIRERS 17
good; and the drawings have not been spoilt by
the engraving. There is a long life in the future
for that book."
Valliant seemed scarcely to have heard. He
was waving his hand above his head to attract
Syra's attention. She was very busy, and her
pink fingers flitted from one decanter to another
with marvellous and noiseless celerity. At
length she looked up, and Valliant called out,
" Oh, faithless one, think of me! "
She knew only too well what he wanted, and
the little silver measure came into use. Her
movements were so quick that there seemed
hardly time for her to have measured at all.
When the glass was handed to Valliant he
raised it and looked at the quantity critically,
with, however, the ready smile in his eyes. Then
he turned with mock indignation to the man
nearest to him, a tall and solemn medical student.
"1 really believe," he exclaimed, "that Syra
gives me short measure on purpose."
He took another glass that happened to be
within reach and held the two side by side above
his head.
"Look here, you fellows," he cried; "com-
pare these two, and tell me when and how and
where I have done aught to deserve such treat-
ment from Syra! "
The men laughed aloud and groaned in unison,
depreciatively, Crozier alone was grave, but his
gravity was never forbidding, nor cold; there
i8 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
was a sympathetic warmth about it which was
almost as good as a smile. He glanced toward
the girl, and from his position at the end of the
counter he could see her where she had laugh-
ingly taken refuge behind the coffee-urn. His
deep-set eyes met a distinct and unmistakable
glance of appeal, which was more remarkable
from the usual dulness of the girl's expression.
Moreover she was scarlet. Syra was blushing a
deep, painful blush beneath her powder, such as
had not swept upward to her cheeks for many a
year.
Then Crozier suddenly joined in the general
laughter, and raised his mellow voice with a
quiet consciousness of power, a well-founded
knowledge of the fact that he would be heard
and heeded.
"It is," he said, "because you fellows hurry
her so. One would think that you had not seen
a tumbler or a wine-glass for months. If you
want full measure you should come in quietly a&
I do before the theatres are out. I really think,.
Syra, you ought to fill that up.'
The girl took the glass and obeyed him with-
out, however, glancing in his direction.
"Mr. Crozier," she said lightly to Valliant,.
"was accusing me just now of being unbusi-
ness-like. As soon as I display the true spirit of
commerce, you pounce upon me."
"Never mind what he says, Syra," replied
Valliant, raising the glass to his lips.
SYRA'S ADMIRERS 19
He took a long draught and set it down half
empty. Near to it was the glass of the solemn
medical student, who happened to be looking
the other way. It contained much more, and
with great gravity Valliant changed the glasses,
keeping the fuller one for himself.
"Never mind, Syra," he continued, "1 bear no
malice. I love my Syra with an S because she
swindles. As a proof of my forgiveness accept
these lilies which have adorned this manly breast
all the evening."
With a careless laugh he turned away, while
the girl placed the flowers in her belt. He began
gaily discussing a new play with one of the actors
in it. No one was allowed to be grave, to treat
anything seriously, when Tom Valliant was near.
Crozier was still seated at the end of the bar,
still swinging his strong leg idly. His arm was
resting on the counter and his finger and thumb
restlessly polished his glass up and down. He
was watching Syra meditatively, his lips slightly
parted, his eyes contracted in his usual indiffer-
ently speculative manner.
"Poor Syra!" he was thinking; "1 wonder
how long she has been playing that trick upon
him."
Presently some new arrivals made their appear-
ance, and the little room became uncomfortably
crowded. Among them were a few actors of
clean-washed appearance and red-rimmed eyes,
but perhaps the most conspicuous was a tall,
20 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
pale-faced youth immaculately dressed, clean-
shaven, and aristocratic. He was a medical stu-
dent, the son of a well-known west-country
physician. A new disciple of St. Antony's, and
the best-dressed man in the room. Perhaps he
was too well dressed. His clothes had not the
appearance of sitting easily, and there was an
awkward, self-conscious suggestion of discom-
fort in his gestures. Walter Varden was a gentle-
man, but he had the misfortune to be a fool.
Now, among ladies a fool often gets on very well
if he has the good sense to stop short of famil-
iarity in his friendships; but men soon discover
the depth or shallowness of each other's intel-
lects. St. Antony's voted Walter Varden a fool,
and they were quite right; but he was accorded
an ungrudging welcome at Myra's, and his fool-
ishness was good-naturedly ignored. He was not
in reality a bad fellow, and it was convenient for
the lesser wits to have a butt always at hand
upon which to practice. Also he had plenty of
money, and was an easy victim to borrowers.
His manner of addressing Syra and the heavy
style in which he attempted to establish a flirta-
tion grated upon the nerves of some of the older
men. He now came in, and with a vacuous nod
for any one whose policy it might be to wish
him good-evening, leant awkwardly across the
counter close to Crozier.
"Syra," he said, mysteriously, with a beckon-
ing finger upraised.
SYRA'S ADMIRERS 21
In a few moments she came toward him with-
out hurrying. The men who happened to be near
turned to hear what he might have to communi-
cate. There was a tacit understanding among
the admirers of Syra that no monopoly was to be
allowed, and this newcomer seemed inclined to
ignore the wholesome rule.
''Syra," said Varden, in a patronizingly lowered
voice, "I have two tickets for a ball at the West-
minster town-hall to-morrow night; I'll take you.
There will not be a soul I know there, and we
will have a lark."
She laughed in her easy mechanical way, and
turned aside to attend to some one else.
"No, thanks," she said.
"Why not ?" he asked, in a louder tone, quite
content to impress his listeners with the fact that
he was a " devil of a fellow."
She shook her head smilingly, but made no
answer.
"No, I say. Tell me why," argued the lady-
killer.
"/will tell you why," said Crozier, suddenly,
and his quiet voice caused a momentary silence.
Saint Antony's knew that Varden was going to
be taken down a peg. " I will tell you why! "
"Ouh!" said the youth, doubtfully.
Crozier -looked up at him with perfect gravity,
without removing the cigar from the corner of
his mouth.
"Yes. She will not go because I won't let
22 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
her. Syra never goes to balls except with me
and her aunt, who is kind enough to chaperon
us."
There were a few moments of strained silence,
and then an actor gravely broke the spell, leaving
Varden quite puzzled as to whether he had been
snubbed or made to appear a fool.
" That is Crozier! " said the actor in the back-
ground. He was a small man and could not see
over his companions' heads. "That is Crozier,
1 am sure. A song, a song — come along, old
fellow!"
"Yes, a song! Give us a song!" called out
various voices.
Then the actor who had first spoken raised his
voice again.
"Crozier has a new song," he cried. "En-
cored seven times at St. James's Hall last night.
We'll have that or nothing, if he does not sing
that we will chuck him out of Syra's presence. '
The heavy-featured man smiled slowly unt..
his eyes were hardly visible, and then — sitting on
a high stool with one muscular arm resting on
the marble counter — he raised a voice that never
had been given him to ruin in a smoky tap-room.
But it was not ruined yet, full, deep, and mellow,
strong when needed, soft and pathetic by nature,
he used it with confidence and great skill, for he
had studied in Naples and Rome.
The song he sang was hardly appropriate for
the occasion, but with professional wisdom he
SYRA'S ADMIRERS 2}
left that matter to his audience. They had asked
for the new ballad, and he gave it. Perhaps
there was beneath this strong fellow's cloak of
genial cynicism a little pride, a small wish to
maRe the best of his great gift though it was only
in a little bar-parlour in a quiet street where the
passers-by would take him for some drunken
reveller. Impresarios and managers said that
Crozier took almost a delight in refusing good
offers. His voice was in great demand; it was
at its full strength, and equal to any amount
of work. Probably there were men in that very
room who had gladly accepted engagements
laughingly and heedlessly refused by him. There
were critics present also, men who wrote and
composed and lived in a workaday atmosphere
of music. Without accompaniment, in a chok-
ing atmosphere, the good-natured singer sang
to them; good-natured, not because he was too
weak to refuse, as most good-natured people are,
but because he could well afford to give. No
man raised glass to lip, no match was struck,
and all smoked noiselessly, while Syra stood
quite still with her hands upon the counter in
front of the cash-drawer listening to the words —
" Greybeard crept through a village street,
His head was bowed, his weary feet
Were bruised and torn.
A staff in his right hand he bare,
The wind played with his silver hair —
His coat was worn.
24 THE PHANTOM FUTURH
Onward he passed through golden corn.
Weary with toil from early morn
He cast him down.
A youth and maiden came along,
Grave she; but he, with noisy song
Learnt in the town.
« What seek you in this sunny field ? '
Greybeard, to whom he thus appealed.
Slow raised his head —
* A Phantom Future I pursue ! '
****■)<■
'Methinks we seek the same as you,'
The maiden said."
When the applause had died away, the occu-
pants of the little room were disturbed by the
advent of Myra, who drew aside the heavy cur-
tains and stood smiling in the doorway.
" 1 am sorry, gentlemen," she said, with good-
humoured severity, "but time is up."
As they all trooped out a few minutes later,
Crozier slipped his hand through Valliant's arm
with an undeniable though gentle touch.
"Come to my rooms," he said, "and have a
smoke. I want to talk to you about that book."
CHAPTER III
THE FUTURE
Crozier's rooms were in the Temple. His
quiet, unobtrusive windows looked into other
quiet unobtrusive windows. In the centre of the
small quadrangle a single lime-tree existed. It
never grew in bulk or stature, neither did it die.
Every spring it unclasped its gummy buds and
threw a delicate green reflection upon the dusty
windows. Early in the autumn it shed its leaves
and closed negotiations for the winter Lime Court
would have been a sorry abode without its leafy
godfather. The men who lived there would
have sorely missed their connecting link, their
mutual pride, and topic of conversation. It was
by the merest incident that their affection for the
tree was one day discovered. It happened that a
legal cat of weighty person mounted its branches
one spring morning for the purpose of taking a
siesta in the warmth of the sun. About break-
fast-time the outrage was discovered, and from
every window came protestation in sacrificial
form. One man devoted half a muffin to the
cause of protection, another had the satisfaction
of dealing a heavy blow upon the cat's left ear
with a dainty slipper worked for him by fair and
affectionate fingers. Crozier himself did terrible
2.5 -
26 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
execution with a volley of loaf-sugar followed
closely by the bread-knife.
The rooms were melancholy and exceedingly
comfortable, with thick red curtains, a number of
low armchairs, and a subtle homely odour of
tobacco smoke in the atmosphere.
Valliant entered the sitting-room first and
turned up the gas with the air of a man who is
quite at home and amidst familiar surroundings.
A few letters lay upon the table, and nodding his
head toward them he turned and walked toward
the fire.
''Billets-doux !" he said, lightly; "you had
better read them while my back is turned, so that
I may be spared the sight of a blush upon that
cheek! "
He turned his back toward the room and stood
with one foot upon the fender gazing into the
fire, while he sought slowly in his pockets for
pipe and pouch. The fire^ dancing and flicker-
ing, showed his face to be quite grave, almost
melancholy.
" More likely to be bills," muttered Crozier, as
he stood with his hands thrust into his pockets,
gazing speculatively and lazily at the envelopes.
"Then do not open them, that these ears may
be spared the shock of an expletive."
Crozier sat down slowly and comfortably in a
deep soft armchair. He left the letters lying on
the table, and raised his close-set and earnest
eyes toward his companion.
THE FUTURE 27
"Well," he inquired, " wliat is the next
move ?"
Valliant turned and looked down at him with
a bright smile.
"The next move is to fill my pipe," he an-
swered, "and then suggest that you should lend
me a match."
This brought forth no smile. A solemn humour
had come over the singer. He was determined
to make Valliant talk sensibly of his affairs.
"Are you going to give up medicine?" he
asked pleasantly.
The younger man lighted his pipe.
"There is some vast idea surging about in your
brain, Sam. Let us have it. You will feel all the
better for it, my boy ! "
He sat down in a deep chair, and stretched his
slight legs out with a jerk. Crozier took the pipe
from his lips and spoke slowly, with a grave-
masterfulness that betrayed his wish to act well,
by his young friend.
"That book," he said, "will be all over the
country in a few weeks. You must follow it up.
A man with a talent like that has no right to neg-
lect it. His duty toward himself and the public
is to make the most of it, cultivate it, and im-
prove it. . . . What are you grinning at .^"^
"Stone-throwing is a risky pastime," explained
Valliant, with a light laugh.
"It does not matter when all the panes are.
broken," replied the singer.
28 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
For an instant Valliant looked grave. He
-•changed his position slightly, and pressed thd
burning tobacco into his pipe with the end of a
cedar-wood pencil.
" Are they broken, Sam .?" he asked seriously.
"1 don't know," replied Crozier, Vv/ith a smile.
'• It feels a little draughty at times. But that is
not the point. It seems to me that the time has
ncome for you to look seriously to the future. One
iiundred and twenty pounds a year is not a bad
income for a medical student, but it is not much
for a man of twenty-five. If you are going to
stick to the bone-sawing business it is time you
began to work, and make a name at the hospital.
If not, you ought to throw aside the whole affair
at once, and take to art as a profession! "
"A profession," . . . echoed Valliant. "A
profession is a thing that a man spends the best
years of his life in learning, and by the time he
is sick of the whole business he begins to make a
small income by it."
" You are speaking of men who are driven into
a profession when they are too young to know
Avhat they are about."
" Seems to me I am being driven at the present
moment."
"Not by me," said Crozier, gravely, "but by
the force of circumstances."
Valliant moved uneasily, and smoked in silence
iind hastily for some moments. Once or twice
his quick gay eyes rested on his companion's face.
THE FUTURE 29
This man of thirty had quietly assumed a place im
his existence during the last four years. Before
that he had not known him, and the remembrance
of his first impression was still a tangible thought.
To the youthful man of twenty-one this grave
singer had at first appeared to be much more tham
five years his senior. But Crozier had never lost
sight of him, never made one backward step ir6
the steady progress of friendship. The disparity
in years never disappeared, but it came to be a
tacitly recognized thing, and one that conveyed no
sense of discomfort or estrangement with it. It was
part of their friendship. Crozier neglected, perhaps
purposely, one great aid to mutual sympathy.
He rarely spoke of himself, and never compared
Valliant's escapades, of which he heard sooner or
later, with similar experiences passed through by
himself in earlier years. And yet Valliant never
doubted that his grave friend had many strange
passages in life of which he could have told.
There was about his strong immobile face a quiet
suggestion of experience. The man had evidently
passed through the mill, and the result was by
no means a failure. He was a little hardened, a
little sceptical; perhaps a trifle aimless, but the
true metal was close-knit and bright beneath the
outward coat of indifference.
At length Valliant spoke, with a faint under-
note of humour in the sound of his momentarily
grave voice.
"That old gentleman," he said, "of whom
30 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
you sang this evening — with the worn coat and
the silver hair — was probably a professional
man."
Crozier made no reply for some minutes, and
+he only sound that broke the silence of Lime
Court was the distant note of a cat stridently la-
menting its lot. Presently a second feline voice
Joined in harmoniously.
"The waits! " suggested Valliant in a whisper,
^vith an irrepressible twinkle in his eye.
His companion smiled, and roused himself sud-
denly from his reverie.
" If you won't take to art as a profession," he
said briskly, " take to it as an amusement. You
'will do better amusing yourself with art than
busying yourself with medicine."
" 1 hate making plans. Life is but a fleeting
shadow, Samuel."
"So do I, for myself. There is a sort of mel-
ancholy satisfaction, however, about making them
for other people, because one is perfectly sure that
they never will be carried out. If you are not
going to make plans, what do you propose doing ?
Allow other folks to make them for you, or
drift ? "
"Drift."
Again Crozier thought deeply, while the smoke
rose slowly in reflective clouds from his lips to
the dusky ceiling.
"I have done a good deal of that in my time,"
lie murmured. " It is not satisfactory work. My
THE FUTURE 31
idea is, that you ought to go down to Goldheath
to-morrow with the book under your arm. Show
it to your uncle, Mrs. Valliant, and — and your
cousin, and hear what they have to say on the
subject."
"Where is that copy you had this evening .^'^
asked Valliant, with a peculiar ring in his voice.,
while he glanced round the room.
" 1 gave it to Syra, She asked for it."
Again a silence, broken only by the distant;
cats, fell upon the room.
"The waits again! " suggested Valliant,
This time Crozier laughed suddenly, and withi
unnecessary loudness. The smoke no longer rose
from his lips for the pipe had gone out.
"1 might send them the book," continued the
younger man.
" \Vhy not go down ? "
Valliant's quick glance rested for an instant ors
his friend's face.
"Goldheath is a lovely place," he said with ai
smile, "but the wind blows across that moor like
a knife. Besides, it is a trifle dull at this time of
year."
The singer relighted his pipe and leant far
back in his chair, thus concealing his face. His.
legs were crossed, and one foot swung in a
thoughtless and indifferent way.
" It would be of no use sending the book un-
less you went yourself. There must be a lot to
tell about it, and of course thev will want to hear
^2 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
everything," he said in a steady, business-like
tone.
It almost seemed as if the mere mention of
Goldheath had caused a change to come over
the humour of both men. There was in the
manner of their conversation a subtle and almost
intangible sense of embarrassment.
" Oh, there is not much to tell," said Valliant,
speaking rapidly. "In fact . . . Elma . . .
has seen a good many of the sketches before I
had any idea of selling them, you know, I did
most of them at Goldheath, and finished them
here. The house appears several times and
. . . and Elma."
"Yes, 1 know."
Crozier's voice was drowsy. One would al-
most have said that he was half-asleep, but his
foot swung still.
"You recognized it.^"
"Yes, 1 recognized them."
"Them.^"
"The house and . . . your cousin," ex-
plained Crozier.
Then they smoked pensively until the singei
left his chair and went to the fireplace, where he
pressed the burning embers down with his foot.
"I think they would feel it rather strange if
you simply sent the book by post. It is a long
time since you were there."
Valliant was wavering. Beneath his airy man-
ner there was a strong will, but he knew that
THE FUTURE 33
Crozier would ultimately achieve his purpose.
He invariably did so when he took the trouble
to be determined — to exert his strong fixity of
purpose.
"If I go," he said, "you must come too, and
sing them that song before I produce the book."
"Which song ?"
"That one about the old gentleman."
" Why should 1 sing that ? " asked Crozier, dis-
playing very slight interest.
Valliant rose suddenly and sought his hat and
stick. He stood in front of his friend, ready to
go, with his pipe slightly elevated and his small
chin thrust forward. He leant upon his stick
and looked down at Crozier with a gay smile.
"Because they will be wanting me to waste
the living present in the pursuit of the wildest
goose a man can chase."
The singer rose and look his companion's out-
stretched hand.
" What is that ? " he asked, without meeting
his friend's eyes.
"A phantom future," laughed Valliant.
Crozier followed him to the door. He went
out into the little entrance-hall where their foot-
steps echoed weirdly. He held open the street-
door and Valliant passed down the worn steps
into the darkness of Lime Court.
"Tom! " cried Crozier suddenly,
"Yes." The reply came back softly and the
singer knew that his friend was grave for once.
34 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
When he spoke, however, there was in his tone
the old sound of grave badinage.
" Were you ever a cricketer ? "
" 1 used to bowl wides at one time."
"When 1 was a kid," continued Crozier, "I
used to keep wicket. I thought I did it very
well. At first I was in the habit of not raising
my hand until the batsman missed the ball; the
consequence was that I got a good many in the
eye and quite a number in the chest. Then I
learnt to make a grab at every ball as if the bats-
man were not there at all. Seems to me that a
little wicket-keeping is good training. It is best
to grab at everything and pretend to ignore the
possible obstacles."
Valliant stood with his hands thrust deeply
into the pockets of his light coat, his stick under
his arm and his hat slightly tilted backward. He
looked quizzically up at his friend who stood in
the doorway.
"Is that all ? " he asked.
"That is all."
"Thanks. 1 will make a note of it on my
cuff."
He performed a pas-seul upon the pavement
and presently walked off.
"Good-night, Samuel," he called out over his
shoulder.
" Good-night," said the mellow voice from the
doorstep.
CHAPTER IV
GOLDHEATH
Where Sussex merges into Surrey there lies a
vast sweeping moorland, where heather and
gorse and whin hold united sway. All the
chemical fertilizers yet invented, were they
combined and shaken up in one malodorous
sack, could not spoil this golden land. The
august body which calls itself the Royal Agri-
cultural Society could make nothing out of it. A
steeple-chase, a coursing meeting, or a ramble,
but never a turnip, has been associated with
Goldheath.
Over the low broken hill, two miles away,
there is indeed a railway-station on the main
line between Portsmouth and London; but the
quick trains never stop there, and the local traffic
is limited. Once a week the station-master is
kept out of bed until eleven o'clock at night to
await the arrival of a goods train which drops
one or two trucks carrving chemical manure, and
biscuits, cheese, ploughshares, and haberdashery.
Goldheath has the good fortune to lie well
away from the coach-road. The lanes are nar-
row and ill-kept, consequently the ubiquitous
bicyclist is rarely met. The little village lying
on the westward slope of a long sweeping hill
35
36 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
gazes meditatively down upon the broad nnoor,
of which the farthest Hmit is lost upon the blue
slope of a distant range.
To the south the moorland is bordered by a
pine forest, beyond which are meadows, and in
the distance arable land. At the edge of this
forest lies Goldheath Court, a long low house
composed of a series of gables. It is built of red
brick, which age has softened and beautified as
it softens and beautifies all things of which the
angles are too sharp and cutting; including men
and women. The northern facade looks across a
large though scantily furnished orchard, toward
the moor, which is divided (as well as the orchard)
by a narrow gravelled road drawn in a deadly
straight line from the last house in the village to
the front-door of Goldheath Court. This same
broad door is the only outlet from the northern
side, while to the east and south every ground-
floor window is, so to speak, a door.
All round the house there is a narrow pave-
ment of green and moss-grown stone extending
for some three feet outward. Before the library
window to the east, and the two drawing-room
windows to the south, this stone pavement is
worn white by friction, and there are small
rounded indentations (where the rain collects)
showing that the inhabitants of Goldheath Court
are in the habit of passing freely in and out of
the windows.
The eastward end of the house looks into what
GOLDHEATH 37
is, or was a few years ago, called the Walled
Garden. From the northeastern angle to the
southeastern a high brick wall extended in a circle,
broken only by a trellised door upon the north,
and another upon the south, of which the inner
posts were fixed against the house itself. To
pass through one of those trellised doors is to
step back one hundred and fifty years into the
past. Within that circle a quaint old-day peace-
fulness and melancholy reign supreme. Against
the dull red wall are climbing now, gnarled and
crooked pear-trees, of which the branches have
been pressed by feet once lithe and tiny, now
mouldering beneath the sand of Goldheath
churchyard. Here grow quaint old-fashioned
flowers, simple briar-roses and sturdy tufts of
lavender. But the pride of the Walled Garden
is the huge cedar in the centre, near the fountain,
which played spasmodically thirty years ago
when old Valliant brought home his wife.
Around the cedar grows a strange and wondrous
assortment of conifers and leafy evergreens.
Weymouth pines and spruce overshadow arbutus
and laurel, while a tall straight larch drops its
brown needles upon the repelling arms of a
monkey-puzzle, disfiguring it sorely. Even in
February — Nature's dullest season — the library
window looks upon a pleasant verdure.
Within the northern curve of the wall is en-
sconced the old violet-bed, now carefully pro-
tected by straw, and here, crouching carelessly
38 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
upon the gravel-walk, a little maiden sat one
sunny morning. With her chilled pink fingers
she was routing about among the straw for the
short-stalked, deep-coloured flowers; for the
white violets were not budding yet.
Presently she rose and shook her skirts free of
dead leaf and dust, and also a little dry and
powdery snow which had collected beneath the
box border. She was of medium height, with
slight square shoulders as straight as an arrow.
A girlish form that might have been the growth
of seventeen or eighteen years, clad in woolly
blue serge, with a black leatlier belt. Elma
Valliant was almost twenty-one, but her youth-
ful figure and eyes were those of a schoolgirl.
Behind such eyes as hers, woman's brain can
think wondrous thoughts and never betray them.
Daring and demure, innocent and wicked by
turns, they changed colour strangely by artificial
light. By day they were light in colour of a
blue hovering into gray. At night the pupil
dilated greatly, and her eyes were deep, and
dark. Very eloquent they might be some day,
but now they only spoke of lighter things; pass-
ing sorrow and ready laughter. Her hair had
been flaxen at one time, but it was slowly dark-
ening, while sudden gleams of gold lurked in the
stray curls near her ears, or lo-w down her neck.
She was generally in a hurry, and her hair suf-
fered most becomingly from this characteristic.
While she was walking slowly round the
GOLDHEATH 39
circular path toward the hbrary window which
stood open, she arranged deftly in a small bunch
the violets she had just picked. In passing the
trellised door she glanced through the open wood-
work and saw the old postman slowly making
his way up the straight avenue of Weymouth
pines, which stood gauntly among the leafless
fruit-trees of the orchard.
Then she opened the garden-door and ran down
the avenue to meet the ancient letter-carrier,
whose rheumatism suddenly acquired acute
severity at the sight of her. Every step of her
light foot saved him two.
"Good-morning, Anson," she panted.
"Good-morning, Miss Elmy. Here's a bright
morning to be sure. A lot o' letters this morn-
ing I do think, and one from Master Tom."
The rosy tint upon her cheeks lost nothing:
perhaps it deepened slightly.
" A letter from Tom. Oh, 1 am so glad," she
exclaimed.
"To be sure," replied the postman, as with
quavering hands clad in ancient leathern gloves,
he assorted his homoeopathic stock of corre-
spondence.
"Thank you," she said, taking the letters and
her father's newspaper with its printed wrapper.
"Yes, Anson, you are right; this is from Master
Tom! "
The old man lingered, gazing at her flushed
face beneath his shaggy eyebrows, very kindly.
40 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"I suppose he'll be coming down to see us,
Miss. He's not been near us for many months
now."
" No doubt ! " she replied. ' ' He seldom writes
unless he is coming. He is very bad at writing,
you know, and gives you very little work, An-
son."
"I wish, Miss Elmy," said the old man gravely,
" he'd give me a bit more; I do, indeed."
He was not looking at her now, but was busy
with his large canvas letter-bag. Without look-
ing up he continued,
"I wonder now if Mr. Crozier's coming with
him this time."
"I do not know, 1 am sure, Anson," replied
the girl, reading the printed address upon the
newspaper wrapper.
The old man turned a little and looked across
the moorland, now bleak and brown with patches
of dry powdery snow here and there, toward
the village.
"The old church doesn't seem the same," he
said reflectively, "without a Crozier to preach
the word to us o' Sundays. Master Sam ought'er
been there, Miss, to be sure he ought."
The girl laughed. A moment before she had
been on the point of turning to go. Now she
stood and looked across the moor.
" 1 do not think Mr. Crozier would have made
a good parson, Anson," she said lightly.
"Perhaps not, perhaps not. Miss Elmy.
GOLDHEATH 41
Though to be sure, none can tell what's inside a
man till the husk has been scraped a bit. But
he's a main good fellow, a main good fellow,
Miss Elmy."
"Yes, Anson," she said indifferently as she
turned to go. "Good-morning."
"Good-morning, Miss Elmy," replied the old
man.
The girl walked slowly up the narrow avenue
toward the peaceful old house. There were two
or three other letters, but that from Tom Valliant
received her undivided attention.
"I wonder," she murmured, "if he is coming
on Saturday! This is Wednesday — three whole
days before then!"
She suddenly drew up the soft woollen shawl
which had fallen a little from her shoulders, and
began running toward the trellised gate into the
walled garden. In the library she found her
father, who was carefully airing the local morn-
ing paper before the fire.
"There is a letter from Tom," she cried out
gleefully, as she fastened the window.
" Ah, 1 am glad of it."
With these words the heavily-built man turned
toward his daughter with a smile of sincere
pleasure upon his broad and honest English face.
He pressed his right hand into the small of his
back — if the word "small " be allowed to pass —
and grunted; then he crossed the room slowly
and kissed his daughter; straightening himself
42 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
afterward with another grunt. Elma was appar-
ently accustomed to these sounds of anguish, for
the smile never left her face. Squire Valliant
had the habit of grunting until eleven o'clock in
the morning; after that he forgot his lumbago,
which was laid aside until bedtime. At ten
o'clock at night he invariably recollected to place
his hand once more in the centre of his back
and groan, the precise moment of this occurrence
being usually when he began to mount the broad
stairs, candle in hand.
He nowsought vigourously in the region of his
throat for the string of an eye-glass which had as
usual been tucked into his waistcoat with the
•end of his black tie. Having fixed the glass in
his eye, he took the letters from his daughter's
hand.
"Yes," he said, holding one up to the light;
^'that is from Tom, undoubtedly; that is from
Tom. Your scapegrace of a cousin has remem-
bered his relations at last. Eh, little woman, eh ?
ha, ha! "
He chuckled and presently threw the letter
down upon the breakfast-table.
"But," he said simply, "it is addressed to
your mother, so we must leave it till she comes
down.'''
Elma was engaged in spreading out the Lon-
don newspaper. It was one of her daily duties
to smooth it out and cut the pages for her father's
convenience in reading, if Squire Valliant was
GOLDHEATH 43
deprived of his morning's paper he remembered
his lumbago, and grunted all day.
"I wonder," said the girl absently, "if they
are coming at the end of the week."
"Who.^" inquired her father carelessly, while
he lifted the cover off the dish set before him.
"Tom, I mean," she replied rather hurriedly;
"I wonder if he is coming at the end of the
week."
The squire made no reply just then. He was
a slow thinker, this honest country gentleman.
Born and bred amidst these low open hills he
had acquired a certain love of openness, and
never sought for motives in the thoughts or
words of others, as townsmen love to do. Elma's
little slip had been a slip and nothing else,' and so
he thought no more about it, but turned his at-
tention to the domestic arrangements for the end
of the week.
" Is there anything arranged for Saturday — any
one coming, I mean ? " he asked.
The girl seated herself beside the fire, crouch-
ing low upon the fender, and holding her hands
to the warmth.
"I believe," she replied, "that mother asked
Willy Holdsworth to lunch if it proves too hard
for hunting. He expects a friend, a Mr. Varden,.
and does not know how to amuse him."
" Hunting!" muttered the squire, and then he
laughed, and was pulled up suddenly by a vio-
lent fit of coughing, of which, however, he made
44 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
the most, holding his back and making a great
to-do with his lips. "Hunting!" he gasped;
"' Holdsworth's hunting is a regular farce. He
rides like a sailor."
The girl looked quickly across the table. Her
eyes rested for a moment upon her father's face.
The old gentleman sought vigourously for a
pocket-handkerchief in the tail of his gray tweed
coat and wiped his mustache noisily with a
flourish.
" He does many things like a sailor," said Elma
carelessly.
"No harm in that; I've known some good
men in my time who were sailors."
She looked into the fire for some moments be-
fore answering. There was wonder in her eyes,
and she rubbed one hand slowly over the back
of the other which lay upon her lap.
" Yes," she acquiesced, "but . . ."
"But what.?"
" I wonder where he learnt to do things like a
sailor."
The squire smiled a little grimly, and pushing
Iiis chair back from the table crossed his legs.
Then he glanced at his huge, old-fashioned
■watch. Mrs. Valliant was already five minutes
late for breakfast, and everything was getting
cold, for the air was sharp; but there seemed to
be no question of beginning the meal without
her.
"Better not inquire," he said, " better not in-
GOLDHEATH 45
quire, I think. When a man disappears for eight
years and comes back with his hair very neat,
and a devil-may-care self-possession about him,
it is best not to ask where he has been. He is
very steady now, and he is very good to the old
people. The past must be allowed to go un-
questioned, but . . . but he can't ride.
Can't ride a bit! "
There was in the old man's tone a suspicion of
forced charity, as if he were trying to make the
best of a poor bargain, which his daughter did
not fail to detect. She was a little country
maiden, not greatly experienced, not too wise
perhaps; and the mysterious portion of her old
playmate's life interested her. It is a lamentable
fact that a man, if he is known to have been or
to be a rake, arouses an interest in the hearts of
most women by reason of his reputation, and it
was something of this spirit that caused Elma
Valliant's thoughts to turn repeatedly toward
William Holdsworth.
At this moment, however, the girl heard her
mother's step in the long corridor, and rose from
her crouching position without undue haste, but
in time to be standing up before Mrs. Valliant
entered the room.
Mrs. Valliant was rather a colourless little
woman; a worthy representative of a generation
which was in reality more heartless and colder
than the present, although it is not the fashion to
believe so. She had married late in life, after
46 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
having ruled for some years a spinster household
of her own, and thus had contracted views and
habits of thought which clung to her still. Nev-
ertheless she was in her way a good woman.
Thoroughly conscientious, truly dutiful and
strictly just, but heartless. Heartless in her love,
heartless in her hatred. Smiling rarely, weeping
never.
The household arrangements were conducted
with a rigid regard for precedent and custom
which was characteristic of the mistress. The
heartless little woman was in fact an excellent
housekeeper, loving punctuality at all times ex-
cept breakfast, for she was a bad riser, exercising
a ruthless economy, and taking care to provide
such dishes as pleased her husband's taste with a
punctilious disregard for her own opinion upon
the matter.
Elma was the scapegrace of the family. She
was invariably down in time for breakfast; but
thepe was no merit in that, for her mother was
usually late, and at other meals she was often in
•default. It will be remembered that she rose
somewhat hurriedly from her graceful but ''un-
finished" posture on the fender before her
mother entered the room.
Mrs. Valliant attended to her duties in connec-
tion with breakfast before looking at her letters.
Then she opened Tom's envelope first and pro-
ceeded to read the contents with a vague smile.
Tom Valliant was, perhaps, the only human be-
GOLDHEATH 47
ing in her circle of friends and relations who was
not wholesomely afraid of the mistress of Gold-
heath.
Presently she laid the letter down beside her
plate and said —
"Tom asks if he may come on Saturday — he
and Samuel Crozier."
The squire nodded his head.
"Ah!" he said, in a tone which committed
him neither to approval nor otherwise until his
wife's opinion had been received.
"William Holdsworth and his friend Mr..
Varden are coming to lunch," said Mrs. Valliant.
" It will be rather heavy for the servants, but we
must manage as best we can."
Very few arrangements were completed with-
out some reference to the servants by Mrs. Val-
liant. She regulated her life with a view of suit-
ing their convenience, whilst their opinion was.
invariably quoted and considered. She was,
nevertheless, a strict mistress, and rarely kept
her domestics for any length of time.
CHAPTER V
OLD SHIPMATES
On the Saturday morning, before the dissipated
denizens of Lime Court were astir, the silence of
that sacred nook was broken by a sharp, Ught
footstep. Tom Valliant, although a high-spirited
man among his companions, was by no means
given to a display of hilarity when alone. He
never whistled merry airs for his own edification,
and never sang gently as Crozier was in the habit
of doing when in his bedroom.
However, on this bright February morning the
medical student felt unusually gay. A slight
frost had cleared the air and exhilarated tired na-
ture. Nature in this case was represented, how-
ever, by nothing more important than the lime-
tree, which was hard and dry and shrivelled.
On being admitted by a dusty servant with a
forlorn cap, he ran lightly upstairs. The fire was
burning in Crozier's sitting-room, but there were
no signs of breakfast yet. Valliant passed un-
hesitatingly through into the bedroom which
communicated by a curtained door. Here he
found Crozier on his knees before an open Glad-
stone bag, humming an operatic air to himself.
" Packing! " he exclaimed, cheerfully. " Allow
me to assist you."
OLD SHIPMATES 49
With this purpose in view he took a seat
upon the bed, and with a quick swing of his
right arm sent a pillow flying into the open
bag, scattering what was already there. Crozier
returned the missile gravely, and Valliant, ward-
ing it off with his foot, sent it through the
open door into the sitting-room, where it lay
upon the carpet unheeded.
Then the medical student lighted a cigarette
and watched his companion in silence. The
singer continued his occupation with indolent
gravity.
"Our new tweed suit is very effective," said
Valliant, presently, poising his head sideways,
and gazing critically toward his companion.
Crozier ceased humming for a moment, and
pulled down his waistcoat with a smile of satis-
faction.
"I was told that it is a most successful turn-
out—by the man who made it," he said, with
gentle irony. Then he opened a drawer and
took therefrom a dress-suit carefully folded.
"We have, in addition, a new dress-suit,"
said Valliant, with an amused smile.
"It is not new," said Crozier, quite gravely.
''I always keep two going."
"Why?"
The singer did not answer at once. He closed
the bag and strapped it up vigourously.
"One for the shady side, the other for the
sunny."
50 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Valliant rose and walked slowly to the window.
There he stood with his hands in his pockets
contemplating the lime-tree, while a thin spiral
column of smoke rose from the end of his cigar-
ette.
"Which allegory meaneth what?" he said>
indifferently and lightly.
"One for Myras and another for Goldheath —
one for Syra and another for . . . your
cousin," explained the singer, "just ring that
bell," he continued, "and I will order breakfast."
Valliant moved slightly, but not toward the
bell, which was almost within reach, and then
he stood swaying from side to side, lifting first
one foot and then the other.
"Let us go across to Myra's for breakfast,"
he said, almost sharply, as he glanced backward
over his shoulder.
Crozier passed behind him and rang the bell
himself, before he answered with a- persistence
which would have surprised a close observer had
such been there to see. It was so unlike him,
so directly contrary to his indolent ways -of
speech and action.
"1 have not the least intention of going over
to Myra's. It is much more comfortable here.
I asked you to breakfast; you accepted, and you
must take the consequences. 1 have better mar-
malade than Myra, and the forks do not come
'all hot' from a wooden tub behind the counter."
Valliant laughed in his silent way and said
OLD SHIPMATES 51
nothing. At this moment a voice in the sitting-
room called out,
"Yess'r!"
"Breakfast, please, Mrs. Sanders."
"Yess'r! "
Crozier was still occupied in a methodical,
slow way with his toilet. When the door of
the sitting-room had been closed somewhat
hastily behind the housekeeper, he said, without
looking toward his companion,
"The talented Mrs. Sanders is a wonderful
woman. You observe that there is now no sign
of breakfast. In four minutes it will be ready
upon the table. She has her faults, however.
Even that wonderful woman has her faults."
He drew on his coat and looked critically
round the room before continuing pensively,
' ' Creaky boots, " he murmured ; ' ' creaky boots.
It is not a venial sin, but it serves to show that
she is only human after all. . , . And — and
1 have reason to believe that she brings most of
the breakfast-things upstairs in her pockets.
"Now I'm ready. Come along and witness Mrs.
Sanders' miracle."
Valliant followed his companion into the other
room and threw the end of his cigarette into the
fire. Then he turned, and in his usual bantering
way said,
"Were your dulcet tones delighting the heart
of the British public last night ? "
"■ Yes, I was singing at a smoking concert."
52 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"You are a fool, Samuel, to do that sort of
thing."
"Why?"
"Well, I suppose you gave your services for
nothing. Of course it was a benefit."
"Yes."
"You shouldn't do it, mon vieux. Keep your
market price up. People do not set a high
value on what cost them nothing. You ought to
be making more money than you are making
now with a voice like yours."
"The pot is casting aspersions upon the com-
plexion of the kettle," said Crozier, as he took up
the morning paper from the breakfast-table. " \
am very happy as 1 am, my friend," he continued,
with lazy good nature. "Mrs. Sanders cooks
kidneys perfectly. Lime Court, if not rural, is at
least quiet and peaceful. My soul hankers not
after wealth."
"Did you sing the song about the old sports-
man?"
"The old sportsman . . .?" echoed Crozier,
in surprise, as he looked over the paper toward
his companion. "Which old sportsman?"
"The venerable wild-goose chaser," explained
Valliant. "The new song you sang the other
night at Myra's."
"Oh yes. 1 sang it by way of an encore.""
Then he continued reading the morning news^
and did not seem to hear his companion's mut-
tered remark made a few minutes later.
OLD SHIPMATES 53
**I like that song," Valliant said vaguely and
even seriously. " Have you put it in your Glad-
stone?" he added later in a louder voice.
"1 think so, but at all events I know^ it," was
the careless reply.
" You had much better take it and — and then
Elma can play the accompaniment. She likes
doing so, 1 believe."
Over the newspaper a pair of deep-set earnest
eyes were fixed upon Valliant's face. The pos-
sessor of the eyes slowly moistened his lips.
The paper was quite motionless, the strong,
heavy-featured man then turned away and laid
it aside.
"Accompanying is never a pleasure," he said
indifferently.
There was a short silence, during which the
singer brought two chairs forward to the table.
Then Valliant spoke again.
"She once told me that she liked accompany-
ing you," he said placidly.
" I think it is in my bag," muttered the singer
in a tone which implied that he had no intention
of verifying his supposition.
At that moment Mrs. Sanders bustled into the
room, bearing an enormous tray. As predicted
by Crozier, breakfast was served in a few min-
utes, and the two men sat down. Crozier did
the honours in a quick deft way, pouring out the
coffee and moving the cups and plates with a
certain noiseless ease. Had Elma Valliant been
54 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
there she would perhaps have detected a subtle
resemblance between his way of moving and
that of William Holdsworth, who, she thought,
did things like a sailor. It almost seemed as if
these two men had passed through the same
school.
"By the way," said the singer, when Mrs.
Sanders had left the room, "you never told me
what Mrs. Valliant said in reply to your note. \
don't know whether I am invited or not."
Valliant fumbled in his pockets.
"I have a letter for you somewhere," he re-
plied. " 1 wonder where it is."
"From Mrs. Valliant," inquired the singer,
quietly.
His companion looked across the table sharply,
without however abandoning his search.
" Yes, from the old lady herself."
"Then I suppose it is all right ?"
"Oh, yes. It is all right and . . . yes
. . . here is the letter."
The note was short, but kindly enough in its
stiff wording. Merely an invitation to go down
to Goldheath with Tom at the end of the week
and stay as long as was convenient, hospitably
expressed, but with no heartiness. People with
greenish gray eyes, around the iris of which
there is a distinct light-coloured rim, are never
hearty. There is no impulsiveness, no warmth
of self-sacrificing love in the soul that is hidden
behind such eyes as these-
OLD SHIPMATES 5^
Tom Valliant took up the letter which his com-
panion had thrown across to him, and read it
with a smile in his quick, restless eyes.
"1 have seen my respected aunt," he said
cheerily, "under many different circumstances,
but 1 have never yet seen her sans starch."
Crozier made no reply to this remark, and
presently rose from the table to ring the bell and
request that a hansom cab should be called.
They drove to Waterloo Station through the
keen frosty air — a pair of cheery, heartwhole
men.
The journey was slow and somewhat unevent-
ful. At the station they found the Goldheath
dog-cart under the care of a smart young groom,
who relinquished the reins to Tom with alacrity.
"They're skating this morning, Mr. Tom,"
said the young fellow, as he jumped up behind,
"On the Canal.?"
"Yes, sir. On the Old Canal, and beautiful
ice it is. Miss Elmy sent me round by the par-
sonage to ask Miss Gibb to go to the Court and
take her skates. And I believe there's some gen-
tlemen comin' over as well."
"What gentlemen.?" inquired Tom rather
sharply, as he cleverly guided the horse round a
nasty corner.
"There's young Mr. Holdsworth, sir — him as
has been away so long; an' he's going to bring a
friend, I believe."
Tom made some remark to his companion on
56 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
the front seat, and the groom settled himself
squarely, with folded arms and a stony counte-
nance.
When they drove up to the door of Goldheath
Court the squire was upon the step awaiting
their arrival.
"How do, my dear boys, how der do?" he
exclaimed heartily. "They have all just gone
down to the pond — Elma, that is, and Lily Gibb,
and those two men. My wife . . . well
. . . let me see, she's about somewhere —
speaking to the servants, no doubt."
The two men returned the old fellow's hearty
grip, and then proceeded to unpack their skates
before the fire in the carpeted hall. In a few
minutes they all passed out of a glass door at
the opposite side of the house, not into the
walled garden, but on to a large lawn where the
thin snow lay untouched by footsteps. There
were more cedars here, large solemn trees with
mournful slice-like branches touched with white.
They skirted the lawn and came presently to a
railing. This they climbed, and in a few min-
utes stood at the edge of a long narrow strip of
water. This had once been part of a canal run-
ning right through Surrey and Sussex, but the
Railway Company, fearing opposition, had
bought up the water-way, with the view of
allowing it to fall into disrepair. Here and there
short stretches had been preserved for irrigation
or ornament.
OLD SHIPMATES . 57
Elma Valliant, who was standing on the ice
with her skates already strapped on, came to meet
them at once, followed more leisurely by a young
lady on skates and two men on foot. After the
greetings were over a general introduction fol-
lowed, and the men raised their hats vaguely.
Tom and Crozier immediately shook hands
with Varden, expressing some surprise at seeing
him there. Then Crozier looked quietly at
Holdsworth, to whom he had been introduced,
generally, a moment before. Holdsworth did
not, however, appear to notice this glance.
The two girls then glided away, leaving the
four men to put on their skates.
It happened that Holdsworth and Crozier were
next to each other, and they both saw that their
skates were identical, of a peculiar Canadian
pattern rarely seen in England. The former
remarked upon this at once, and Crozier with
a low laugh replied that he had noticed the fact.
The girls came back in a few minutes and found
that Tom and Varden had fixed their Acmes and
were ready. All four then shot away hand in
hand in long sweeps on the outside edge.
The two men seated on the bank v/ere still
talking about their skates.
"They take longer to put on, but they never
slip when once screv/ed up as Acmes do," Elma
heard Crozier say as she took Tom's hand.
"There are none like them," replied Holds-
worth.
58 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"I have not skated this year," said Crozier,
bending over his foot.
"Nor 1," was the reply.
Then the skaters moved away and Elma heard
no more. Something in the manner of these two
men interested her. There was in both faces the
same slow observant look, and in their strong
persons there was a distinct resemblance of car-
riage, notably of the shoulders and head. Beside
them Walter Varden looked lamentably boneless
and weak, although he was taller and more care-
fully dressed.
When they were left alone Crozier raised his
head slightly as if to make sure that they were
out of earshot. Then he ceased screwing the
nut at his heel, and stamped his foot tentatively
on the ice.
He turned suddenly toward his companion and
his blue eyes seemed to contract.
"What the devil are you doing here.?" he
asked in a softly deliberate way.
Holdsworth seemed in no manner surprised.
He continued fixing his skate, but glanced fur-
tively toward his companion's hands, which were
lying strong and quiescent upon either knee.
Then he answered in a low voice —
"That is my business."
Crozier did not change countenance. He rose
to his feet and stood upon the ice in front of his
companion, looking down at him with no hard-
ness in his earnest eyes.
OLD SHIPMATES ■;9
"That style will not do with me," he said,
" you know me better than that."
"Hang it, sir, . . ."began Holdsworth^
then he stopped suddenly. The last word had
slipped from his tongue inadvertently, and he
looked up with an awkward embarrassed laugh.
"The old habit sticks closely," he murmured,
deprecatingly.
Crozier's smile was also tinged with embar-
rassment, but it was perhaps characteristic of the
man that he was in no way softened.
"Did you know I was coming to-day.?" he
asked gravely.
"Yes!"
" And you had the cheek to come too ? "
"Call it pluck," suggested Holdsworth, auda-
ciously. He dragged at his fluffy fair mustache
and glanced at Crozier with daring blue eyes as
he spoke.
" Suppose," began Crozier, meditatively, "sup-
pose I had recognized you publicly and called you
by . . . by the name you sailed under."
'You are not the sort of man to make a mis-
take of that description," said the other coolly,
and with no intention of flattery.
"It never does to trust too much to luck.
It might have been very av/kward," insisted
Crozier.
" I didn't trust to luck, I trusted to you."
"Then don't do it again." This was uttered
shortly and with a steady tone of determinatioi>
6o THE PHANTOM FUTURE
which Crozier assumed at times, and which
clashed with his indolent way of taking the
world. He glided away backward, but HoIds~
worth was now on his feet and skated after him.
"Oh," he said in a voice half-sneering and
half-pleading, " it is so easy to hit a fellow when
he is down, so confoundedly easy to prevent him
getting up again."
" Are you trying to get up again ?" asked the
singer.
"1 cannot expect the attempt to be well re-
ceived at your hands," was the sullen reply.
They were now skating down the length of
the pond toward the rest of the party, each in
his individual and characteristic way — Crozier
backward with a marked ease and assurance of
movement. Holdsworth keeping close to him,
advancing upon the outside edge with a greater
display of action and even some flourish, but not
so firmly set upon the ice.
Crozier glanced over his shoulder before reply-
ing. They were still some way from the rest of
the party.
"That is bosh," he said quietly, "and you
know it.'
Perhaps there was a slight softening of tone,
or it may have been that a sudden recollection
arose before Holdsworth's mind. At all events
his manner suddenly changed.
"Ah, Crozier," he exclaimed eagerly, "you
are the only man who has gone out of his way
OLD SHIPMATES 6i
to help me. Don't turn against me now. I
have tried, man; I've tried hard. Don't push
me down-hill now. Give me another chance. I
cannot be wholly bad. I was a good sailor —
remember that. Whatever 1 was, I made a good
sailor."
"Yes," replied the singer absently, "you were
a good sailor, a better one than 1 was myself,
most likely . . ."
Suddenly he stopped, his eyes acquired at that
instant a hard, almost metallic look. His strong
face was fixed and rigid. The other saw it and
grew ashy pale.
" By God," he whispered, "your time is not
up. 1 have a good memory for dates! "
"Look out," gasped Holdsworth. "Here is
Valliant!"
^ CHAPTER VI
PLAYMATES
At this moment Tom Valliant skated up to
them.
"Do come," he cried out, "and see Varden s
figure eight. It is certainly the very finest thing
of the kind that I have ever seen. He does the
first loop splendidly, and then sits down."
The tu'o men laughed, and followed him at
once. Walter Varden, who was the worst skater
present, was attempting to conceal the fact under
a flow of technical terms and phrases, A sort of
competition was presently set on foot and all the
party stood in a group. In this, Holdsworth un-
doubtedly came out the best man. There was a
certain dash and recklessness in his performance,
Avhich, if of doubtful value in life, is useful upon
skates. While this was still going on Tom Val-
liant moved to his cousin's side, and under cover
of a loud laugh, in which every one joined except
Varden, he took her hand and drew her away.
"Come round the pond with me," he said, "I
have something to tell you."
There may perhaps have been a shadow of
hesitation in her smile, but she obeyed him in-
stantly, and with crossed hands they shot away.
"I suppose, Elma," he said carelessly, "that
62
PLAYMATES 6^
Crozier has not spoken to you about me, or my
affairs."
"No," she repHed shortly.
"I did not expect that he had." continued her
cousin. "The praiseworthy manner in which the
grave Samuel minds his own affairs is almost
worthy of a better cause."
" He has not spoken at all except to say ' how
do you do! ' " murmured she, indifferently.
Elma and Tom were almost of the same height,,
for he was not a tall man. He glanced sideways
at her with those quick merry eyes of his, and
drew her toward him a little, so that his grip
was firmer round her fingers, for the ice was
hard and difficult.
"And yet with all his aversion to meddling
with other people's affairs he is the cause of our
being here now."
" Indeed," she said, laughingly. " Did he think
you required a change of air, or did you, as his
medical adviser, prescribe the same for him."
"Neither, ma coiisiiie. He was pleased to pro-
claim it necessary under circumstances which
have arisen that I should come down to Gold-
heath, confess the circumstances, and seek the
advice of my honoured relatives."
She looked at him suddenly with a wondering
smile.
"What are the circumstances.^" she asked.
"Though my advice can hardly be of much
value."
64 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
He turned quickly, as if about to contradict
the last statement, but appeared to change his
mind.
"The circumstances," he began, with mock
pomposity, "are briefly these. Nearly a year
ago Sam gave a bachelor's party; perhaps you
remember it. There were a lot of clever fellows
there, and not least among these was your de-
voted admirer — the deponent. One fellow played
the mandolin, another played something else, and
I, as usual, played the fool. During the evening
Sam sang several songs, and among them he sang
the ' Bridge.' I don't know which bridge or
what bridge, but he declared that he was there
at midnight as the clock was striking the hour.
When he had finished singing, one of the men
there, a well-known publisher, said that he be-
lieved that there was a fortune to be made by
illustrating Longfellow's Poems, and that it ought
to be a comparatively easy task. Presently the
subject was changed, and was not again referred
to before the men left. When they had all gone,
somewhere about three in the morning, Sam and
I sat down to have a last solemn pipe. After we
had been meditating upon the political condition
of our fatherland for some time, he took his pipe
from his mouth, and looked at me in his most
gravely melancholy manner. You know the way
he looks at one when he is going to be rather
funny."
"Yes," said Elma softly, "I know."
PLAYMATES 65
"I suppose you will start to-morrow morning,"
he said quietly. " 1 asked him what he was driv-
ing at, and he explained that 1 would be a fool
not to have a shot at illustrating Longfellow. I
had a shot, Lima. I tried for it . . . and
. . . and I've won."
He broke off into a short laugh, and looked
away past her, across the low meadow toward
the dark belt of pine trees.
"1 am very glad," she said softly, and in her
voice there was a thrill of heartfelt sincerity. She
was quite grave, and his jesting reply must have
struck harshly upon her ears.
"Sam says it is luck," he laughed, "whereas I
am of the opinion that it is genius."
" And what are you going to do ?" she asked.
"I suppose you will give up St. Antony's!"
If she failed to appear excited over Tom's good
fortune it was because she had not seen the book,
because she did not know how great and assured
its success was considered by experts; and if he
was disappointed in the manner in which she re-
ceived the news he had only to blame his own
off-hand way of imparting it. It was often a
difficult matter to define exactly where gravity
merged into jest with Tom Valliant, and being a
sensitive man he had received many a little rank-
ling stab from no other reason than that he had
been misunderstood.
"My dear Elma," he now said, with a smile,
"that is precisely why I am here. It is because
66 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
I do not know myself, or do not care, that I seek
your advice and that of your stern parents."
" Have you told them ?" she asked.
"No," he answered, with a sudden access of
gravity. "No; I wanted to tell you . . .
first of all."
She was pleased to ignore his gravity.
"Because of the superior value of my advice.?"
she asked.
"Of course," he answered laughingly. The
group at the end of the pond had broken up,
and at this moment Crozier passed near to them.
Tom stopped him.
" Sam! " he cried. "Samuel! "
The singer swung round and faced them. Val-
liant half extended his hand as if to invite him to
join them, but Crozier did not appear to notice it,
although Elma's quick eyes detected the move-
ment at once.
"I have been telling Elma about that book,"
said Valliant.
"Ah!" He turned toward the girl at once
with his slow smile.
" You must congratulate him," he added; "he
has made a great hit! "
Then he skated away. The manoeuvre was
not well executed. His intention of leaving them
alone was too obvious, and they both experienced
a little momentary shock of antagonism toward
him. Considering that he had been distinctly in-
vited to join them, the movement was a mistake.
PLAYMATES 67
Tom was annoyed, and changed the subject
ahnost immediately, with a murmur to the effect
that Elma would see the book later. Presently
he left her, and his place was taken without de-
lay by Holdsworth, whose style of skating suited
Elma's admirably.
Her new companion made himself very agree-
able, exercising freely a pleasant gift of talking
happily upon tritling subjects. But Elma was
absent-minded. She answered briefly though
kindly enough, and her laugh had that peculiar
ring in it which betrays a lack of interest. Pres-
ently, however, she accorded a greater attention
to him, and even encouraged his sallies by bright
responses of her own. She had seen that Val-
liant and Crozier were now skating together with
the usual kindly exchange of chaff, which dis-
pelled a half-conceived fear that there was some
cloud upon the horizon of their friendship.
She was very desirous of speaking with Crozier
before Tom produced the book which promised
so well, but no opportunity occurred before the
luncheon-bell was heard. She even began to
think that the singer was purposely avoiding her,
which is a dangerous thought to harbour, for it
gathers evidence, like a cunning attorney, where
none exists.
After luncheon they all returned to the pond,
and it was then that Crozier had a severe fall.
There had been much tumbling about, but no one
had been hurt. Crozier's fall, however, was
68 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
something nastier, as he was going a great pace
at the time, and came down heavily upon his
shoulder. Moreover it was not his own fault,
which perhaps made matters worse. Walter
Varden was executing a very elaborate figure, and
fell just in time to upset Crozier as he came rap-
idly backward on the outside edge. Both men
sat on the ice and laughingly apologized. Pres-
ently they rose and continued skating, but the
singer soon went toward a small garden-seat
which had been brought to the edge of the
water.
"I am going to smoke," he said with grave
jocularity to Tom, "and recover my shattered
senses."
From that little garden-seat he watched them
all — watched Holdsworth skating with Elma, and
watched Tom Valliant watching Holdsworth.
At the same time he smoked meditatively with
many a speculative glance at the burning end of
his cigar. Occasionally his deep-set eyes sol-
emnly followed the movements of Waher Varden
and Miss Gibb, not that these personages were
interesting, but because they formed a necessary
part of the picture.
He was in no manner surprised when Elma left
Holdsworth and came toward him.
" I am a little tired," she explained, as she took
her place at his side upon the seat, and then she
sat with rather heightened colour, breathing rap-
idly from her late exertions.
PLAYMATES 69
"It is about this time in the afternoon," said
Crozier, "that pensiveness comes upon us."
Then he recollected his cigar, and glanced over
his shoulder to see where he could throw it.
" If you throw it away I shall go," said Elma.
He inclined his head by way of thanking her,
and continued smoking.
"Zum befehl," he murmured, turning toward
her. ' ' What riddle are you about to propound ? "
" Firstly," she replied, with a little smile, "I
want to know if you hurt yourself just now."
"Not at all, thank you; it was only a shake.
I am getting rather old to roll about, and . . .
and as I observed before, a certain pensiveness
comes over man and beast at this time in the
afternoon."
In completion of his meaning he slightly raised
his cigar and glanced at it.
" Quite sure ? " she asked, with her pretty head
poised sideways.
" Quite," he answered carelessly, almost rudely,
in face of her evident sympathy. " Has Tom told
you all about the book?" he added at once, with
the obvious intention of changing the subject.
"I think so," she replied, looking across the ice
toward her cousin; "but I have no doubt that
you can tell me more."
"Yes!"
"Tom's account of it was — to say the least —
sketchy. Most of his statements are sketchy, [
think. Is it really going to be a success, Mr.
70 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Crozier ? I mean enough of a success to justify
his giving up medicine and taking to art."
' ' 1 think so, " he said quietly, with no hesitation,
no mock modesty.
" And," she added with a business-like turn of
the head, " will the sale be large ?"
He smiled involuntarily at her evident delight
in her own show of commercial shrewdness.
"Yes," he said, "1 think it will be large. In
fact by the arrangement which has been made
with the publisher it should bring him in a small
income for some years. The publisher has been
very generous."
"I did not know that Tom was such a good
man of business."
She had turned a little and was looking directly
ai him.
"No," he answered rather consciously. "He
is very far-sighted, 1 think, though he is pleased
to conceal the fact."
"Who made the arrangement?" she asked,
with a momentary gleam beneath her lashes.
"The arrangement . . . oh . . . er—
I made the arrangement."
He drew in his feet and stooped to examine the
fastenings of his skates with a critical eye.
"You are very good to Tom," she said with
sudden gravity; " an invaluable friend."
"The obligation is no more on one side than on
the other," he replied. " 'We halve our griefs,
and double our joys.' "
PLAYMATES 71
She recognized the ring of a quotation in the
low tones of his voice, and asked —
"Who said that?"
"Somebody defined friendship in that way
, . . Lord Bacon, I believe."
For some moments they sat in silence, listening
to the long continuous ring of the ice beneath the
bright blades. It was a still evening such as often
•comes in February. The pine-trees all round
them, like voiceless sentinels, seemed to watch
and wait. All the western sky was ruddy with
a dismal cold glow not yet speaking of spring.
But the two sitting there did not seem to feel
the cold, and they watched the skaters with super-
ficial interest. At last she moved a little,
"I wish 1 could remember things like that,"
she said; " I am afraid I forget everything tha* J
read or hear."
" Um — " he murmured, and smoked harder.
"You seem to have read a great deal," she
continued.
He had thrown away his cigar and was leaning
forward with his elbows resting on his knees,
and his strong, brown hands clasped restfully.
He turned toward her without actually looking
into her face.
"You see," he explained in a practical way,
"sailors have plenty of time on their hands in fine
weather, and — and I suppose, taking it all in all,
there is more fine weather to be met with than
had. When 1 was a sailor I read a good deal."
72 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
She did not answer at once. It almost seemed
as if she had caught a little of his indolent pen-
siveness and indifference.
" I always understood," she said in a slow
way, which dispensed with the necessity of a
direct answer, "that sailors never quite settle
down on land."
"No . . . no, perhaps you are right."
"You are still fond of the sea.?" she said.
"Yes. Some day, when I am a rich man
(through the exertions of some one else of
course), I shall keep a yacht."
He looked thoughtfully over the still trees to-
ward the southern heavens, where huge clouds
hung lazily with softly-rounded edges and a
wondrous look of "distance" about them. She
concluded that he was thinking of his beloved
sea, but in that she was wrong. The past oc-
cupied no place in his mind.
" And yet," she said tentatively with a woman's
quick sympathy, "you left it by your own free
will."
He shook his head slowly and sat back in the
seat.
"Not quite," he replied \yith a smile. "It was a
case of mistaken duty — of giving way to an over-
sensitive conscience. I do not err in that way
now. When my father died my mother com-
pletely broke down. I was on the China station
then, and I thought it my duty to come home,
even if I had to give up the sea in order to do it»
PLAYMATES 75
When I reached England she had been buried
three weeks."
He spoke quite unemotionally, and there was
almost a speculative feeling in his voice as if he
were relating an incident in the life of some one
else, wondering over the possible effect in a
semi-interested way.
At this moment William Holdsworth passed
before them.
"Tired?" he said, with respectful familiarity
to Elma, and glided away with a meaning smile
before she had time to reply.
"I sometimes think," she said presently, in a
lower voice, "that Willy Holdsworth should have
been a sailor. There is something about the way
in which he holds himself, and the movements of
his hands that reminds me of ... of you,
and of other naval men."
Without turning his head he glanced at her
face. She was watching Holdsworth with a little
interested smile.
"What is he?" he asked, indifferently.
"Nothing, at present," was the reply. "He
came home from abroad, somewhere, three
months ago. Since that he has lived with his
parents. Their house is about five miles away.
They are very very old, and I have been told that
he is a devoted son, now."
Sam Crozier made no answer to this, and soon
he rose, holding out his hand.
"Come," he said, "let us skate. You will
74 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
catch cold if you sit here too long in the twi-
light."
Presently he handed her over to the care of Tom
Valliant, and continued to sweep about \i\ long
sure curves by himself. He seemed to love soli-
tude for its own sake. Certain it is that he pre-
ferred his own society to that of Holdsworth,
Varden, or even the lively Miss Gibb. Now that
he had brought Tom and Elma together, he was
quite content to spend the last hour of their day's
■pleasure alone — whirling, skimming, gliding from
side to side, from end to end of the long sheet of
ice.
His strong, gentle face was restful as it always
was, his deep-set eyes contemplative. In short,
the man was strong, with that great, deep, en-
during strength which is independent of human
sympathies. Few men of this stamp pass
through their allotted years without doing some
good, lightening some burdens, and holding up
some stumblers. They are seldom beloved by
the many, for the many know them not; but the
lives around them if not brighter, are surer in
their brightness and braver in their shadows for
the unconscious influence wielded by strength
over great and small.
CHAPTER VII
crozier's lie
Mrs. Valliant had scruples about asking
Crozier to sing more than one or two songs.
She felt, perhaps, that it was a species of charity
for which she was suing; attempting to get for
nothing, as it were, a commodity for which
money was demanded. But Elma was not held
back by such doubts as these, estimable and ad-
mirable as they certainly were. After dinner that
evening she seated herself airily at the piano, and
swung round upon the revolving music-stool to-
ward Crozier with her hands clasped upon her
lap.
"Now," she said, imperiously, "how many
songs have you brought ? "
"Two or three," was the reply.
"My dear Elma," murmured Mrs. Valliant, re-
proachfully, " how can you be so high-handed.?
Just when Tomkins was bringing in the coffee
too. What will the servants think of you ? "
Tom winked at Crozier over his coffee-cup and
promptly went to his cousin's assistance.
"Ah, Aunt Minnie, you see Elma knows how
to treat Sam. If she asked him prettily to oblige
us with a song, he would hum and ha, and wait
7'
76 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
to be pressed. I know the man. That is the
way to overcome him. Push him, don't try to
draw him with silken cords."
He laughed, his quick infectious laugh, and
stepped forward to take Mrs. Valliant's empty
coffee-cup. Then he crossed the room and took
possession of a low chair near the piano. There
he leant back and gave himself over to the en-
joyment of the music. His quick sensitive na-
ture was easily touched by outward influences,
and Crozier's singing was always an unalloyed
pleasure to him.
From his position at the side of the piano he
was closer to Elma than Crozier, who stood be-
hind her, and her dress throv/n carelessly aside
fell over his extended feet. He leant back and
unconsciously watched his cousin, noting the
play of her deft fingers, and the little frown that
came over her face at the difficult passages.
Once or twice when the song was well known
to her, she forgot her anxiety about the accompan-
iment, and followed dreamily with her lightly
mobile head the rise and fall of the splendid voice.
All this Tom Valliant noticed as he lay softly
smiling, and there was something else that im-
pressed itself upon his memory. This was, that
Sam Crozier never looked down at the girl who
was playing for him. His eyes kept strictly to
the music-book, although he stood so far back
that he could not possibly have read the words.
When she turned round to him to ask some
CROZIERS LIE 77
question with reference to tiie accompaniment,
or to demand his aid in the selection of the next
song, he looked past her toward the book in a
business-like, almost professional way, which
was not quite natural.
After singing for some time he asked her to
play, and she did so on condition, laughingly
made, that it was only in order to allow him a
rest. When she began he had been standing be-
hind her, and at last she finished with a decisive
little flourish, and swung round. But it was
only to find that he had noiselessly crossed the
room, and was sitting beside her father and
mother near the fire. Somehow she had ex-
pected him to remain standing near to the piano,
and the incident struck her at the moment and
remained in her memory.
"Thank you," said Crozier, looking up for a
moment from a book which lay open before
him.
Then she turned toward her cousin who was
sitting near her, leaning forward in order to
thank her.
"Tom," she said, in a voice which, without
being purposely lowered, must have been inau-
dible at the far end of the room, " can you not
stay over Monday ?"
He leant farther forward, and for a moment
his eyes were quite grave.
"I ?" he inquired, touching his breast with one
finger.
78 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
With her lips she formed the single word
"Do!"
"I?" he whispered again, "or both?" And
with his eyes he indicated Crozier.
She shrugged her shoulders, and played a few
chords carelessly.
"As you like," she replied, "and as he likes."
Tom Valliant leant back in his low seat again
and crossed his legs. His cousin began playing
again, a light German air, much in vogue just at
that time, and he rubbed his slim hands slowly
one over the other, as he looked vaguely across
the room toward Crozier. Presently he roused
himself.
" Oh, nightingale," he exclaimed, dramatically,
"come and warble. We have not had the new
song yet."
The singer obeyed, and sang two songs. Then
he said that they had had enough, and closed the
book in his lazily decisive way.
"I have been trying," said Elma, in a low
voice, as she turned half aside toward Crozier,
"to persuade Tom to stay over Monday. The
frost is going to hold good and the skating will
be worth staying for."
" Both of us, of course ?" put in Tom, with a
short laugh.
Crozier took no notice of this. He was ar-
ranging the music on the piano, and he looked
down at her with his blue eyes, softened by a
smile.
CROZIER'S LIE 79
"Do not persuade," he said. "Make him do
it."
"Can I ? " she inquired.
"Of course you can," replied he, looking
toward Tom, who, however, did not meet his
glance. " There is absolutely nothing to take
him to town, and the matter of his brilliant fu-
ture can be discussed in the family circle till it
is worn threadbare."
Valliant drew in his feet, and rose suddenly
with the evident intention of crossing the room
toward the fireplace.
"Phantom future, my boy, phantom future,"
he exclaimed in tragic tones. "Not brilliant
future. If you stay, 1 will; not otherwise."
" I do not believe that he wants to stay," said
Elma.
Valliant moved away, but Crozier raised his
arm and detained him.
" My d^ar Tom," he said, "I cannot stay. I
wish I could, but I have an engagement on Mon-
day night."
"Break it," suggested Elma.
Crozier shook his head.
Valliant looked down at his cousin gravely.
She was sitting before them on the music-stool
in her favourite half-girlish attitude, with her
hands folded upon her lap. She swung from
side to side in a jerky way, making the stool re-
volve.
"Sam never breaks an engagement," he said.
8o THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"The worst of it is," put in Crozier, "that
there is no sentimental consolation to be got out
of it on this occasion. It is not a charity concert,
so I cannot claim sympathy. As there is money
to be considered in the question, Miss Valliant,
you will understand that I must go."
" Well," she replied gaily, " Tom must stay at
all events." She rose and passed across the
room with her cousin.
Crozier, who did not follow them, at once no-
ticed that she expressed no regret that he should
be obliged to go, and yet some expression of this
sort was the least that he might have expected.
He closed the piano and stood for some moments
contemplating the little group round the fire-
place. Tom was talking gaily in his usual chaff-
ing style, and the singer saw that his friend's
dark eyes followed his cousin's every movement
and every glance with a persistence that was al-
most furtive at times.
"A week," meditated the watcher as he
brushed aside his brown mustache with a quick
backward movement of the finger. "A week
together would do it . . . but . . . but
why does he keep constantly harping on that old
joke about the phantom future ? I wish I had
never sung the song."
Then he crossed the room and joined in the
discussion which was going on relative to the
book of "Poetical Works," illustrated by Tom
Valliant.
CROZIER'S LIE 81
Later in the evening, as the young people
stood together in the long broad passage that ran
the whole length of the house, lighting their bed-
room candles, Elma again returned to the ques-
tion.
"Tom," she said, with a little nod, "you are
going to stay over Monday."
He shrugged his shoulders and laughed as he
swung lightly round on his heel to face her.
"1 should like to," he said, "and 1 suppose I
will because Sam says I must. I generally do
what he wants me to, sooner or later; iiest-ce-
pas, Samuel."
Crozier smiled. He was busy straightening
the wick of his candle with a match, and the
flame flickered, casting its searching light up-
ward upon his powerful head and face, which
would have been unpleasantly resolute had it
not been for the lazy pensiveness of the deep-set
eyes.
" Invariably," he answered, " when your own
wish tallies with mine."
"And you," said Elma, turning to him, "will
come back on Tuesday morning for some more
skating, as mother suggested."
"Thank you," he said, gravely, "if I can
manage it."
She moved away a little and glanced quickly
into his face. He was still interested in the wick
of the candle.
"I have," said Tom, lightly touching his shirt-
82 THE PHANTOJf FUTURE
■{.,
front, "an aching conviction just here, that he
will not turn up on Tuesday morning."
Elma laughed and looked at Crozier. She had
moved away as if to go to her room, but she
stood still again a few yards from them.
"I have my doubts," she said.
" Miss Valliant," said the singer with quizzical
reproach, "you tacitly admitted just now that I
was not the sort of man to break his engage-
ments. Remember that the man who keeps an
engagement for money may be expected to keep
one for pleasure. If 1 were you I should not
count upon my failing to turn up on Tuesday."
"1 shall take care not to do so," she said,
laughingly, as she went upstairs.
Nevertheless, she knew as well as if he had
told her that Samuel Crozier had no intention
then of coming back to Goldheath, She also
knew that with a man of his stamp intentions
once conceived are usually carried out. Some of
us may consider it a mistake, this unswerving
adherence to a pre-conceived plan. Doubtless it
leads to sorrow, but what does not ultimately
trend downward to that same goal } If a mis-
take be made is it not better to stand by it — to
steer the straightest course possible under the
circumstances, and press bravely forward through
the broken water to the smooth depths which
(we are asked to believe) exist beyond }
Tom Valliant accompanied his friend to his
bedroom, but he did not stay long. Crozier
CROZIER'S LIE 83
was tired and unresponsive, he sank into a low
chair before the fire and stretched out his legs
with a groan of comfort, answering Tom's re-
marks by monosyllables. At last the younger
man left the room with a cheery "good-night."
Then the singer rose from his seat and stood
with his hands in his pockets and his feet slightly
apart on the hearth-rug. He was not a clever
man, this musician, not very brilliant, not too in-
tellectual; but he was steadfast. In the course
of a wandering life he had seen many things that
had puzzled him, strange unsatisfactory men and
incomprehensible women. He had moved in
many grades of society. Among men — from the
gun-room to Myra's. Among musicians — from
Chatham Music Hall to St. James's. Among
women — from Syra, and lower than Syra, to his
aristocratic mother. In all circles and under all
circumstances he had experienced no difficulty in
steering his own course, guided by that subtle
sense of refinement which is the true instinct of
gentlemanliness. Through everything he liad
(as he jocosely informed Syra one night) endeav-
oured to remember that he was a gentleman,
and in view of that remembrance he had this
evening considered it expedient to act and prac-
tically tell a lie in a lady's drawing-room to a
lady's face, looking into her eyes with his, inno-
cently and calmly. He knew he had done it
well. He had even led up to the invitation to
return to Goldheath before accepting it with as
84 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
much eagerness as he ever displayed in anything.
Ehna had expressed her complete satisfaction
with the arrangement, her father had added a
few hearty words of welcome, and Tom had
been merrily appeased. Crozier, however, never
had the intention of returning, and now he was
puzzling himself as to how Tom and Elma had
found this out. Concerning the former, he did
not trouble himself much. Tom Valliant had an
irresponsible way of saying, at haphazard,
things he did not mean, and his friends soon
learnt to set small store by such remarks. His
statements — as Elma observed — were often
sketchy. But with Elma herself it was a differ-
ent matter. There were many reasons why the
singer did not wish her to think that he was de-
sirous of avoiding a longer visit to Goldheath, so
many that he did not attempt to define them.
And he knew — he had read in her eyes as she
looked back over her shoulder with one foot on
the stairs — that she was fully aware of his inten-
tion.
He stood for some time before the fire, and ar-
rived no nearer to a solution; then he began to
think of going to bed. It was strange how
wakeful he now appeared to be. From the but-
tonhole of his dress-coat he proceeded to unpin
a flower in the mechanical manner with which
some men wind their watch at the mere mention
of bed. It was a single spray of lily of the valley
which Elma had given him before dinner, pre-
CROZIER'S LIE 85
senting one to her cousin at the same time. He
raised it to his face and critically inhaled the
odour.
"Dead!" he muttered, and deliberately threw
it into the fire, where it writhed and crackled,
then he turned away peaceably, humming an
operatic air.
CHAPTER VIII
RESURRECTION PIE
The next afternoon brought with it Holds-
worth and Varden, who arrived about three
o'clock with their skates, having walked the dis-
tance. It happened that they came rather mal-
apropos. Some snow had fallen in the night,
and in view of his wife's consideration of her
servants' feelings the squire had deemed it pru-
dent to refrain from proposing that the pond be
swept.
It was settled that there was to be no skating,
a walk being substituted, and a few moments
later the two men arrived.
"Oh hang!" said Tom aloud, when he saw
them pass the window.
" Confound that fellow Holds worth! " thought
Crozier.
The two new arrivals expressed themselves
delighted at the notion of a walk. They were
not at all tired, and would as soon walk as skate.
On leaving the house, Holdsworth made a gal-
lant attempt to get to Elma's side, but failed.
Tom Valliant was before him, and Crozier's
quiet eyes were fixed on his face with a signifi-
cant persistence, which said only too plainly that
86
RESURRECTION PIE 87
if he succeeded he would not be left in undis-
puted possession. The quiet gaze of those eyes
haunted Holdsworth as he walked on by the side
of Squire Valliant. He knew that the singer had
something to say to him, something unpleasant
and probably true; he felt that sooner or later
ill the afternoon he would get him alone, and
say it in that gentle undeniable way which was
so hard to meet, and he recognized when too
late that he had made a mistake in coming to
Goldheath again.
Nevertheless, William Holdsworth laughed and
chatted gaily with the genial old squire. He was
a courageous fellow in his reckless, jaunty way,
and he knew it, which made him over-confident.
Crozier had something to say to the returned
ne'er-do-weel, and he succeeded, in his deliberate
way, in walking with him alone at last, although
it was not until they had turned homeward again.
He came to the point at once.
"Holdsworth," he said, "this sort of thing
won't do! "
"What sort of thing ? "
"I should recommend you not to come to
Goldheath quite so often."
Holdsworth's quick eyes flashed round toward
his companion. He touched the turf lightly with
his stick several times.
"This is not the quarter-deck," he remarked
insolently.
" No,'" murmured the singer gently. He threw
88 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
a significance into the monosyllable, which made
his companion bite his lip in vexation,
" Why should I not come to Goldheath ?" was
the sullen rejoinder,
"Because," said Crozier, "you are doing no
good here,"
"What business is it of yours ? "
"None."
Holdsworth felt that he was getting no further
on. It would be worse than folly to lose his
temper with Crozier, who was never ruffled,
and he felt that he was verging on a display of
heat.
"The men used to say," he muttered, "that
you were a gentleman. Is it a gentlemanly thing
to bully a man when he is down ? "
"Look here," said Crozier, with an uncomfort-
able ring of anger in his voice. " Look here,
Holdsworth, if you think that I am going to
stand by with my hands in my pockets, and
watch you make love to Miss Valliant, you are
greatly mistaken."
They walked on in silence for some distance.
Holdsworth edged away from his companion a
yard or so as if to think in solitude. Then he
went closer to him so that their arms touched,
" I have never quite understood," he said softly,
" why you should have troubled with me at all.
You were the only man on board who had a
good word for me, the only fellow I have met in the
whole of my useless career who held out a hand
RESURRECTION PIE 89
to help me, I suppose it's no good telling you that
1 did try. 1 tried, sir, to keep straight, not for
my own sake, but for yours, to show you that I
was not quite a blackguard. But it was useless;
1 went wrong again. Either I'm the unluckiest
chap that has ever lived, or I'm a blackguard, I
used to think, Crozier, that I icas one, with no
hope of ever being anything else. Then one day
1 came home. I found it was not so hard to
keep straight after all. The old folks were very
good to me — very glad to see me. That was the
beginning. Then I went to Goldheath one day
and saw Elma . . . that was the end."
They had come to- a stile, over which Crozier
vaulted, but his companion made no attempt to
follow him, and they stood leaning on the top-
most bar, one on each side.
"You never were the fellow to leave a thing
half done," pleaded Holdsworth. "You have
given me more chances than any man on earth,
give me this one more. Let me try. I think she
cares for me."
Crozier actually smiled — the last remark was
so absurdly characteristic of the man. The
singer had pulled a little branch of black-thorn
from the hedge, and was biting it pensively.
"You forget," he said ironically, "that I knew
you out there."
Holdsworth looked at him.
"You mean . . . that other girl," he
whispered.
90 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"I mean that other girl," afiFirmed the singer.
There was a peculiar embarrassment about his
manner of speaking which Holdsworth did not
understand until later.
"She is dead," said Holdsworth, in a softer
tone.
Crozier lifted his head suddenly as a man lifts
his head upon hearing a distant, uncertain sound,
which he cannot explain. Still holding the little
twig of blackthorn between his short strong
teeth, he turned and looked into his companion's
eyes.
" That is a lie! " he said, almost exultingly,
Holdsworth promptly made himself safe.
■"To the best of my knowledge she is dead."
"She is alive," said Crozier, moving a little,
and crossing his feet in order to lean more com-
fortably against the stile.
" Where is she ?"
"I am too kindly disposed toward her to tell
you that," said the singer.
"By God, Crozier, you're a hard man!" ex-
claimed Holdsworth.
Before replying the other turned and looked
speculatively at him.
"Perhaps I am," he said in a softer manner.
" Perhaps I am, but you have done it. You have
shaken my faith in human nature more than any-
thing or any person 1 have met."
Holdsworth turned away and looked across
the level meadows where the snow lay whitely.
RESURRECTION PIE gn
His companion stood in a square, immovable
way, witii his shoulders against the polished bar
of the stile. He brushed aside his mustache with
that peculiar backward movement of the fingers
which was the only quick thing about him ; com-
ing at times in strange contrast as a suggestion
of powers quiescent.
" I suppose," said Holdsworth, "that it is hard
for you to realize the position of a fellow who^
has fought against bad luck from the very be-
ginning. Hitherto I have had nothing to save
me, nothing to urge me on to better things..
With you it is different."
"What have I ?" interrupted the singer.
" You.? Why, you have your voice."
"Yes," returned Crozier slowly, without any
suggestion of vanity, speaking as if the posses-
sion were something that he had found at the
roadside. " Yes, that is true. I have my voice."
"And now," continued the other, " now that
I have a real chance, surely you will let me try
and hold it."
"You forget . . . the other girl! "
" I believe she is dead."
" I know for a positive fact that she is alive."
" Then," exclaimed Holdsworth, "tell me her
address."
"What good would it do her? What good
would it do you ?"
"Well," began Holdsworth, with the hesita-
tion of a man who is not telling the strict truths
92 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"of course I owe her some reparation. I could
at least see that she is not suffering from want."
" Oh, that is all right," said Crozier unguard-
edly.
Holdsworth looked at him sharply.
" Indeed," he said, slowly clasping his hand
round his weak chin, half-hidden by a fair beard
of apparently recent growth, "you seem to know
.a good deal about it."
The singer made no reply. He moved his legs
slightly, and taking a case from his pocket, se-
Jected a cigarette from it which he lighted, while
his companion watched every movement with a
puzzled expression.
" How is it all right .^" he continued. "Does
she make her own living or, or . . . is it
charity?"
Crozier shrugged his shoulders and glanced at
his companion's face through a cloud of smoke.
" 1 suppose you would call it charity."
"Charity," muttered the other jealously,
" whose charity ?''
The singer smoked in silence, looking straight
in front of him with contracted eyebrows. He
■would not answer the question, but Holdsworth
knew now.
"I don't understand you, Crozier," he said un-
steadily. Then suddenly jealousy, that strange
unhealthy jealousy which inconstant men suffer
on hearing or suspecting that another has taken
up what they have left, came into his heart.
RESURKECTION PIE 9^
"Charity," he insinuated, "charity from a
young man to a devilish pretty girl. People-
might misconstrue it."
"That is my business!"
Crozier moved away, and his companion!
vauhed over the stile and followed him.
"Crozier," he hissed, "give me her address. '
"Why?"
" Hang it, man, I care for her still."
Crozier walked on rapidly. He heaved a
weary sigh.
"You have a large heart," he said with biting
sarcasm.
"1 thought she was dead," pleaded the other.
" 1 did, indeed."
"And so turned to the living ?"
" I suppose so."
Crozier laughed unpleasantly and made no
further comment.
"1 believe," said Holdsworth presently, "that
you love Elma Valliant yourself."
The singer turned and looked at him gravelv.
His cigarette was almost finished. He drew one
long inhalation and threw the burning end into
the snow, where it fizzled faintly. Then he
emitted the smoke pensively in a thin spiral
column.
"You are at perfect liberty," he said quietly^
and without any suggestion of embarrassment,
"to believe anything you like. It will not affect
me. For the sake of convenience we will sav
94 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
that I want Elma Valliant for myself, and con-
sequently if I catch you endeavouring to take the
Avind out of my sails I will make things uncom-
monly hot And now let us drop the subject."
They walked home in silence. It was not that
there was only the choice of speaking of the past
or keeping silence. They could have conversed
pleasantly enough upon indifferent topics if they
tiad so wished, or if it had been necessary owing
to the presence of others; but both were occu-
pied with their own thoughts, and they knew
•each other well enough to find silence devoid of
embarrassment.
Samuel Crozier was by no means a domineer-
ing man. He found nothing but displeasure and
disgust in the position in which he was placed.
Some men there are who take delight in the
mere sense of a commanding position; to possess
power over their fellows, to dictate the coming
and going of others, is in itself a distinct satis-
faction. These men were undoubtedly bullies at
school. But the ex-sailor was not of this class,
and even while accusing him of it, Holdsworth
knew that he was no bully. Nevertheless there
was in the man the instinct of exacting obedience
which, like the art of making music or writing
books, crops up in unexpected quarters where it
is frequently allowed to run to waste. Frail
women often have it while some big men cannot
acquire it even when conscious of the failing.
Perhaps this instinct had been fostered greatly
RESURRECTION PIE 95,
by the fact that Crozier had, when quite a boy,
found himself in a position of command over
men old enough to be his father — perhaps it was
merely a part of his nature. Be that how it
may, he never doubted that Holdsworth must
obey him, although their wills had clashed before,
when the gold lace on his own sleeve gave him ai
practically unlimited power over the unruly blue-
jacket, which he hesitated to take advantage of..
He had not lost sight of the fact that this man;
was under the ban of naval law. His term of
service was not complete, and he was liable at
any time to be arrested and punished by ai
lengthened service before the mast. This knowl-
edge, however, Crozier never thought of using.
He argued (wrongly perhaps) that he was no^
longer in Her Majesty's service, and that it was
not his business to inform on runaways.
Holdsworth, although coldly silent, was not
sullen. He was too light-hearted, too sanguine,
and too reckless to indulge in a display of temper
lasting for any space of time. His sins of the-
past troubled him very little. Of the unfortu-
nate woman whose existence had been summarily
recalled to his memory that afternoon, he thought
lightly enough. With the self-deception which
comes so easily to men of his stamp, he argued
that she had had herself to blame. She had
drawn him on, exercised her all-powerful wiles
and coquetries for the benefit of such a notably
unfaithful lover as a sailor. Clearly her down-
96 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
fall was at her own door. With such and similar
sophistries he dismissed the subject. Some day
he would insist on repaying Crozier the money
which he had spent in mistaken philanthropy.
In the meantime he was in love with Elma
Valliant — and she — well — she most assuredly
cared for him. She was no longer a mere chit of
a girl despite her youthful ways. There were a
few young men in the neighbourhood, but none
of them good enough for Elma, none of them to
be compared with himself — William Holdsworth.
When they reached home the others had been
in some time, and Elma was assisting her mother
to dispense tea. It was about this time that
Walter Varden arrived at the humiliating con-
clusion that his personal importance was not
being recognized with the sense of admiration
and respect which was its due. He found that
his opinion was rarely asked, and when vouch-
safed it was sometimes ignored. Tom Valliant
and his friend were undoubtedly the honoured
guests. Tom's sallies were laughed at, Crozier's
opinion was asked. Mr. Varden therefore be-
thought himself of the expedient of showing
these country people that he was a man about
town, a regular '"'dog," with a wicked side to
his character. With this end in view he looked
Mephistophelian, and asked Crozier in an audible
aside —
" How was the fair Syra when you last saw
her, eh ?"
RESURRECTION PIE 97
An unfortunate silence followed. Mrs. Valliant
pricked her ears, and inwardly thanked a wise
Providence that the butler was not in the
room.
Crozier stirred his tea and looked critically at
Varden from the top of his sleek, mal-formed
head to his gaitered feet. Then he answered
him with deliberation —
" I believe she was enjoying her usual rude
health."
Then to Elma's infinite relief, Tom Valliant
came forward with his ready merriment.
"Now don't — don't/" he exclaimed, holding
up a warning tea-spoon. "Please draw a veil
over city vices. Syra, as it happens, is only a
young person who attends to the inward require-
ments of St. Antony's; but still, let us draw a
curtain over your wild career. Remember,
Varden, that I am young; spare this youthful
cheek; and if you — you dog — have led Sam
away on the downward slope, do not breathe
such darksome hints to me! "
The situation w*as saved. Crozier created a
masterly diversion with a plate of bread-and-
butter, and Varden wondered vaguely whether
he had made a fool of himself. It was a pity,
however that Holdsworth happened to be pres-
ent.
CHAPTER IX
THE ACADEMY OF CHEERFULNESS
Will any enterprising person join with heart
and hand and purse in setting up an Academy
where the cultivation of cheerfulness shall receive
sole and special care ?
In the Academy of Cheerfulness, the genuine
article shall be cultivated. At the head of it we
will place an elderly unmarried lady — to be
frank, an old maid — who has seen sorrow and
waded in it since her girlhood. For patrons and
directors we shall have a middle-aged doctor
who has stood in a hundred sick-rooms by the
bedside where Death was hovering, alone un-
moved amidst the tearful watchers, and the
vicar who has knelt at the other side of that same
bed. To these we shall leave the choice of pro-
fessors, who must, however, 'be mostly gathered
from the ranks of the unwed.
Had such an institution been in existence when
Tom Valliant was a St. Antony's man it would
have found in him an apt and ready pupil.
Without it, however, he was studying more or
less successfully by himself.
Elma wanted to talk to Samuel Crozier about
this matter, and in walking home from church
THE ACADEMY OF CHEERFULNESS 99
on Sunday evening the opportunity presented it-
self. Tom was in front with his uncle and aunt,
and the squire's hearty apoplectic laugh came
back to them through the still night air at in-
tervals. It was probably freezing very hard, but
iis the air was quite still, the cold was not un-
pleasant, an-d no one evinced a desire to walk
quickly, •
"I am sure Tom will send papa into a fit some
day," said Elma, after a little pause, during which
an extra loud laugh had reached their ears.
" Yes; he is a cheerful soul," answered Crozier,
gravely, for he knew that her humour just then
was grave. The clear bright moonlight resting
softly on the sleeping land was enough to make
her a little pensive and quiet.
" Is he always like that ? " she asked.
He looked down at her, his deep eyes con-
tracted and almost searching.
"When he remembers," he answered, divin-
ing her thoughts.
She smiled a little, but did not look up, and
they walked on without speaking for a few mo-
ments.
"And you," she said, in a lighter tone, "are
you like that too when you are alone with him ? "
"No," he answered, with a low laugh, "no;
there is a lamentable monotony about me."
She did not smile. Her lips were slightly
parted, and he saw the gleam of her short white
teeth, but they were not parted in mirth.
loo THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"What -a strange friendship!" she murmured.
" What a strange friendship it is! "
He set back his head and looked up to the
heavens with the eye of an amateur astrono-
mer.
"It is convenient," he said, "and very com-
monphice, I can assure you."
"Are youjnuch together.^" she asked.
"Oh yes. We see each other every day, and
usually have at least one meal together."
"At Syra's.^" she asked, carelessly.
"At Myra's," he corrected. "Syra is only
Myra's assistant."
"Myra," she said, "is the motherly old lady
who sees that the students do not get into mis-
chief, is she not .^"
"Yes."
"And Syra.^" she inquired shortly.
"Syra is young and charming," he answered.
" All the students fall in love with her in turn."
"Is she pretty and . . . and lady-like.?"
asked Elma, drawing her fur boa closer round
her throat.
"Yes," he answered, in the same careless, per-
functory way. " Yes, she is both. She is rather
interesting also."
" Indeed! "
By that single word she managed to shelve
the subject most completely, and a sudden si-
lence came over them. Then he returned to the
question of Toms cheerfulness.
THE ACADEMY OF CHEERFULNESS loi
"Why do you ask whether Tom is always
cheerful?" he inquired.
She looked up toward him. He was looking
straight in front of him, and did not appear to be
aware of her scrutiny. The moon was nearly
full, and its soft light detracted a little from the
habitual sternness of his expression. The face
she saw there was merely that of a strong,
thoughtful man, with perhaps a somewhat un-
usual curve of lip and chin, imparting a pleasant
sense of steadfastness.
" It sometimes seems to me," she said, frankly,
"that it is not quite natural. And yet thei'e is
surely no reason why he should assume it —
there can be nothing on his mind, I mean, noth-
ing that he wishes to hide from us."
He showed no surprise. In fact when he an-
swered her his manner clearly betrayed that such
thoughts had passed through his own mind also.
His voice was gentler than usual, with a sugges-
tion of mutual confidence in it, of which he was
probably unaware.
"It may be the effect," he said, "of having
concealed the affair of that book. Concealment
leaves its mark upon men. 1 know a man who
is now a celebrated writer, but his own name is
quite unknown. When he was young he lived
a double life. In his family he was merely the
second son — a Government clerk, with no great
prospect of advancement. Under his assumed
name he was one of the most prominent literary
I02 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
men of the day. Of course it was a mistake;
but he began with the idea of suppressing his
identity with the promising writer until he was
sure of his success, and then it was difficult to
tell the secret. It is all out now, for it happened
years ago, but there is somthing unnatural and
almost furtive about him still."
"Yes," she answered, softly, "it may be
that."
She was not thinking of the novelist whose
thirst for personal fame had never been satisfied.
The argument was ingenious. It might apply to
Tom Valliant, but she thought that it did not, if
indeed she was giving attention to the argument
at all. Probably she was thinking of the arguer,
a way women have. Perhaps she was treating
the little story merely as a glimpse of this man's
past life — this indifferent idler who only displayed
energy when the effort was wrung from him —
who deliberately chose to waste one of the great-
est gifts vouchsafed to men. And she wondered
indefinitely whether there was a motive in it all,
whether there was some sad story hidden be-
hind the glance of those grave eyes. Perhaps
she pitied him a little, pitied his loneliness — that
strange loneliness of a man living in London
chambers — and regretted his apparent aimless-
ness. It was only by littie glimpses that he raised
the curtain over his past existence, and Tom knew
no more than she did. If directly questioned, the
singer said that he had no past. He protested
THH ACADEMY OF CHEERFULNESS lo?
that his history was like the history of a ship's
bell — the record of certain voyages made, certain
climates endured, and certain dangers passed
through. To the bell such details served to lend
n fictitious interest, but the story was not part of
its individuality, failing to affect its tone, neither
increasing nor detracting from its value.
"1 wish," said Crozier, again returning to the
subject, "that Tom would really give up medi-
cine decisively and take to art."
"Do you think," she said indifferently, after a
short pause, " that he would really make a name ?"
"He is more likely to do so as an artist than as
a doctor; but he does not seem inclined to set
his mind steadily upon one thing. He used not
to be like that. It is a recent development in his
character."
"I have noticed it also." said Elma; "and vet
he is not what might be called superficial, like
that Mr. Varden."
"No; he is not superficial."
"1 wonder what it is," she murmured fore-
bodingly.
He glanced down at her, brushed aside his
mustache, thrust his hands into his coat-pockets,
and looked straight in front of him.
" I think I know what it is."
" Please tell me," she begged.
" Evil influence," he answered.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, as if she had expected
it.
104 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
He laughed rather awkwardly.
"Not the influence you mean," he explained
hastily. "It is that of the men he associates
with in town. We are apparently an idle lot;
we get up late, and we lounge the day away,
but it is not really idleness. The explanation lies
in the fact that we are mostly night-birds — ^jour-
nalists, actors, singers, and writers — our work
begins when most people begin their leisure.
Tom is a day-worker, and it is a bad thing for
him to associate with night-workers. Do you
understand ? When we are playing he should
be at work, and the temptation is very strong to
come and play with us. If he were to study art
he would get into another set. They may be
vain, affected, and shallow, but the life he will
lead among them is a purer, healthier, more nat-
ural life than that he leads with us. 1 am speiik-
ing physically as well as morally. From the lat-
ter point of view he is strong enough, but in
body he is a little shaky, 1 think."
He spoke to her as if she were not a frivolous,
light-hearted girl at all, without apologizing for
his gravity, without attempting to suppress de-
tails, or make light of serious facts. And strange
to say she liked being treated thus; she preferred
his gravity to the wit of other men.
"And you think," she said, "that it will be
wise for him to leave St. Antony's if it is only in
order to get away from your influence.''"
He looked at her in a puzzled way, failing to
THE ACADEMY OF CHEERFULNESS los
understand whether the pronoun was intended
in the singular or plural sense.
"Yes," he answered nevertheless, "1 do."
"You think," she continued judicially, "that
this influence is doing him harm .?"
"Yes," he answered, wondering.
"Then," she said, very gravely, "I think you
are quite wrong, 1 think you are doing a delib-
erate injustice to Tom and . . . and to your-
self, Mr. Crozier. Your influence over him can
be for nothing but good, and you must be pur-
posely blinding yourself to the fact if you do not
recognize it as I do."
He drew in a deep, unsteady breath through
his parted lips, and she heard it distinctly as they
walked along the sandy road. Then he laughed
suddenly in a deprecating, apologetic way and
said —
"It is very good of you to say so, but I am
afraid you are too charitable. Valliant requires
something very different from my society. He
wants stimulating and encouraging — urging on
instead of holding back. Some one younger and
brighter, more imaginative perhaps, and . . .
and less experienced."
"In fact," she exclaimed with a laugh, "some
one who is not so desperately old and cynical
and sceptical as Samuel Crozier, Esquire."
"That is so," he assented meekly.
They were now very near to Goldheath Court,
and the front-door stood invitingly open, while
io6 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
•a flood of warm light shone out upon the snow-
clad earth and fairy-like trees, where the white
frost nestled and gleamed.
"Well," she said, almost coldly, he thought,
"it has been the erroneous custom of us all at
Goldheath to be thankful that Tom had you near
him as a friend and adviser. Perhaps it would
not be politic to dispel that illusion now — or to
attempt to dispel it."
Then she passed in front of him beneath the
broad hospitable porch, and he followed silently
with a singularly lifeless look in his close-set eyes.
CHAPTER X
THE SCHOOL OF MELANCHOLY
It does not' seem a necessity that melancholy
should follow on the footsteps of solitude. But
the state of loneliness has attendant mental con-
ditions which might easily be mistaken for mel-
ancholy, or degenerate into it. The great mental
difference between men and women is merely a
matter of comparative solitude. The most manly
women are only daughters who have led com-
paratively lonely lives, slept in a room by them-
selves, formed their characters with their own
hands and without the influence of contemporary
girls and women. The most womanly women
are those who have had many brothers and sis-
ters, who have known a nursery life, who have
shared their sleeping-room with sister or sisters,
who have always had a recipient at hand for
thoughts that come at night when they are
sleepy, and those that come in the morning when
they are sleepier. They may not be so clever
— these womanly ones; so well read, so deeply
learned, so weighty in conversation; but " Heaven
bless them!"
There is more solitude in the lives of most men
than is generally realized, and one of the most
107
io8 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
solitary beings on earth is the man who lives in
chambers in London. In the very centre— at the
hub of the wheel of life — he is alone. He goes
to bed at night without saying even the words
"Good-night," because there is no one to say
them to. There may indeed be a photograph on
the mantelpiece, but it is not our business to in-
quire whether he salutes that or no. In the
morning he rises, and passes from his bedroom
to his sitting-room to start a new day, to take
one more step upward or downward, without
exchanging a salutation of any description, with-
out the cheering sound of a human voice, though
it be only raised to wish a perfunctory good-
morning. Now all this must assuredly leave its
mark upon men. It fosters habitudes of silence
and reserve; in some cases it leads to brooding
and discontent.
Most men pass some portion of their lives alone
thus, and carry the effect of it on with them.
Many a fine sense of humour has thus died an
unnatural death.
On the Monday following the events just
chronicled, Samuel Crozier returned to London,
and recommenced his solitary life. The clean
pavement of Lime Court knew again his firm
tread. The man who dwelt above him heard
once more that low murmurous voice in the
morning when he was dressing. The piano was
opened again; and again Mrs. Sanders had to
put up with gentle irony. The good lady had
THE SCHOOL OF MELANCHOLY 109
been suffering from "indigestion, crool," which
Crozier attributed to the fact that his whiskey-
decanter had been locked away for three days.
Tranquilly he returned to his old unsatisfactory
.ways. There were many letters awaiting his at-
tention, and these he answered in a business-like
manner, shortly and tersely, before dressing ta
dine at his club, and go on to the concert-room
where he was to sing afterward.
He was in good voice that night, and as usual
scored a decided success. His reception was
such as would have turned the head of a less
self-contained man. He, however, merely bowed
his thanks, and looked with a quiet emotionless
smile upon the sea of upturned faces, before
turning to give his accompanyist the signal to
begin. Then he stood in his square sailor-like
way, and sang his song without affectation,,
without emotion; and, as he called a hansom af-
terward, and drove off to a club with a brother-
musician, he was supremely unconscious that the
full notes of his splendid voice had found some-
thing to say to more than one heart that night.
On his late breakfast-table the next morning
there were several letters, and as he took the top
one up and threw it aside he suddenly stopped,
humming a popular tune — stopped abruptly in
the middle of a bar. The superscription on the
envelope was in a somewhat large hand, but
firm and clear, while the words showed no tend-
ency to run down hill at the end.
no THE PHANTOM FUTURE
" From Elma! " he muttered, with unconscious
familiarity. And then he wali<ed to the window
with the letter in his hand, while Mrs. Sanders'
culinary productions grew cold and tough.
Before he opened the envelope he was hum-
ming again — a hymn this time. Although the
letter occupied three sides of a sheet of paper,
the perusal of it was a matter of a few seconds
only. Then he refolded it, and placing it in the
envelope, stood at the window looking absently
down into Lime Court, where a milkman was
exchanging amourous chaff with a housekeeper's
•daughter. Then he unfolded the letter and read
it a second time.
"Dear Sam,
"Though a fairer hand than mine guides
this halted pen, its effusions emanate from my
brain alone. Put on your hat, and go round to
St. Antony's, then hurry on to Myra's with the
dread tidings that Thomas Valliant is laid low.
Breathe into the ear of the concerned that he has
broken the small bone of his leg (which is strictly
true), ask them to shed a tear, and to keep their
peckers up, as the poet hath it. The spirit of
emulation was aroused in this breast yesterday
by the superior skating of Mr. Holdsworth, and
these legs getting mixed up there was a crash
and a small crack. The crash was my head
which held, the crack was the small bone as
aforesaid which went, it is a neat enough break.
THE SCHOOL OF MELANCHOLY iir
and has just been nicely fixed up by a local prac-
titioner, who actually knows more about it thart
the patient. Ah! my boy, who wouldn't have
a broken leg ? A comfortable sofa, a roaring.
fire, an untidy library, and . . ."
Here the letter broke off suddenly, and below
was written in another handwriting —
"Secretary struck work.
" Yours,
"Tom Valliant.'^
Elma, however, had managed to scribble a
postscript on her own account.
" He has been and is still in horrible pain, but
keeps up his spirits — a little too high, perhaps,
to be quite natural. You know how plucky he
is.— E. V."
"Yes," said Crozier aloud, "I know how
plucky he is. It is not so very difficult to be
plucky, however, when one is winning the day.''
He folded the letter, and turned to his lonely
breakfast-table. Then he raised the cover of a
dish critically, and sniffed the subtle odour of
grilled kidney.
" 1 know," he added meditatively, being in af-
terthought, " how lucky he is also."
Then he sat down and drew the morning pa-
per toward him, humming an operatic air as he
poured out the coffee. Toward the end of a re-
markably good meal he suddenly pushed his cup
112 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
away and leant back in his deep chair. It was a
favourite attitude of his, this, combining comfort
and the suggestion of another cup of coffee with
his cigarette; and he usually brushed aside his
mustache with a hasty movement before
stretching out his leg for greater facility in find-
ing his match-box. He turned his head side-
ways and gazed peacefully out of the dirty
window at the chimney-pots of number 5 a,
Lime Court opposite. The result of his medita-
tions was of a damnatory nature.
"Hang Holdsworth!" he said. Then he
lighted his cigarette and threw the extinguished
match over his shoulder on the off chance of its
falling into the fireplace behind him. As a mat-
ter of fact it found a resting-place in one of his
boots airing on the hearth-rug, but the ways of
bachelors are proverbially reprehensible, and he
did not care.
Before he had condescended to explain his rea-
sons for condemning Holdsworth to an ignomin-
ious death there was a knock at the door, and a
fair grave young man entered the room.
"Ah, Leonard!" said Crozier, rising; "glad to
see you."
Dr. Leonard, house-surgeon at St. Antony's
Hospital, came forward with his small white hand
extended.
"How are you, Crozier?" he inquired. As he
spoke he gazed into the stalwart singer's face with
rather mournful eyes, full of anxious question.
THE SCHOOL OF MELANCHOLY 113
There was clearly nothing the matter with Cro-
zier; he was as strong and robust and healthy as
men are created in these days, but Wilson Leon-
ard was a young doctor, and a conscientious man.
He was overwhelmed just then by the gravity of
his profession. For him every man and woman
was a possible patient. There were unsuspected
diseases lurking in every limb, unthought-of germs
in every breath. The whole world was for him
a hot-bed of sickness, of bodily woe. His some-
what sensitive organization had been seriously
affected by the long and painful training through
which he had passed. He had never grown cal-
lous. Like many, he took human woes and hu-
man weaknesses too seriously. At the hospital
he was considered an alarmist, and over-anxious.
Not, be it understood, on his own account, for
he never knew the fear of infection, which, like'
other cowardices, is unaccountable and in the
blood. He had yet to learn that men fight for life
as they never fought for anything else. He had
yet to shake off a certain suspicion anent the
power of his own knowledge, the weight of his
own endeavours, and the infallibility of his tac-
tics against the hosts of sickness. This was not
a personal doubt, but a professional realization.
Among other things he had learnt how very little
doctors know; how very much they have to
guess, and what a great lot they leave to nature.
Doubtless he has gained a greater confidence by
this time, or has acquired the noble art of looking
114 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
wise when sorely puzzled, which serves just as
well. At all events, he is high up in the profes-
sional tree now, and his coming into a house is as
that of a good angel or a demi-god, so comfort-
ing, so hopeful, so full of relief is the sound of
his footsteps on the stairs.
"Sit down," said Crozier, "and have a cup of
coffee. It is tepid still."
"Thanks," replied the doctor, absently looking
at his watch.
The singer noticed the action, and smiled in a
barefaced and shameless manner. It was past
ten o'clock.
"Here," he said, "take a cigarette, and never
mind the time. 1 suppose you have been up
hours, curing the diseased, healing the wounded,
comforting the s'ck. Thank God I am not a
doctor."
Wilson Leonard rarely smiled, but he looked at
the singer with a soft expression about the eyes
which meant the same thing. Then he passed
his bloodless hand up over his high, broad fore-
head, where the hair was already very thin.
"I have been at it all night," he said simply,.
" more or less."
Crozier pushed the cigarette-case toward his
visitor, and looked sympathetic.
"1 came," continued the young doctor, "to
ask you where Tom Valliant is."
" He's in very comfortable quarters," answered
Crozier, looking into his empty cup as if he ex-
THh SCHOOL OF MELANCHOLY 115
pected to find some interesting fish swimming
there.
"Is he ill?" asked Leonard, with a peculiar
shortness of enunciation. His lips were slightly
iipart, and the smoke hovered about his face.
Again he looked too anxious, too much as if it
were his duty to sympathize with all the sorrow
on earth.
Crozier glanced involuntarily toward the envel-
ope which lay on the table near his hand. The
address was obviously written in a girlish hand,
quite unlike Tom's careless style.
"I had a letter from him this morning," the
singer said. " He has broken the small bone in
his leg — nothing much, he says; but it will keep
him on his back for a few days, I suppose.?"
The doctor detected the interrogation.
"That is nothing very serious," he answered.
■" He will have to be careful for a short time, that
is all."
In matters of surgery Dr. Wilson Leonard was
confident enough, and a daring operator.
"He writes," continued Crozier, "that it has
been seen to and that he is very comfortable."
The doctor rose and drank off his coffee.
"I am glad it is only a small break," he said.
*' I was afraid when he did not turn up this morn-
ing that there was something wrong."
The singer looked up into the. young fellow's
grave face. His deep-set, earnest eyes were over-
shadowed.
ii6 THH PHANTOM FUTURE
"Something wrong?'" he repeated interroga-
tively. "1 don't think that Tom will go to the
dogs. He is a tritle wild . . . but . . .
I suppose we have all been a little that way in
our time. Oh, no! There is nothing wrong,
Leonard! "
The doctor had placed his hat upon his head —
rather forward over the eyes, which suited his
grave and refined style — but instead of leaving
the room he went slowly to the fireplace, and
stood there with one foot on the fender, gazing
into the fire.
"1 dare say,", he acquiesced, "that he is right
enough. He goes too much to Myra's," he added
after a momentary pause. "Lives too restless a
life. It is all very well for fellows like you, Cro-
zier; thick-limbed fellows with a constitution
like an ostrich, but it is a bad style of existence
for men who are at all shaky. Besides, its a
stupid, aimless waste of time. Of course they
are clever fellows with whom he associates, but 1
do not see that any of them profit much by each
other's society, however pleasant it may be. I
don't want you to think that I am meddling, Sam.
I suppose it is none of my business, beyond the
fact that I am a St. Antony's man. But I don't
want Tom to go wrong. None of us would like
that. He is the best man we have had there in
my time, and the nicest. Everybody is fond of
Tom Valliant."
Crozier had turned his chair round. He was
THE SCHOOL OF MHLANCHOL^ 117
sitting forward with his hands clasped round one
knee. His features were slightly screwed up as
he looked toward his companion, doubtless by
reason of the smoke which curled up from the
end of his cigarette into his eyes. He ignored
the personal hits contained in the young doctor's
remarks in a quiet, indolent way. Indeed he
seemed to have been listening carelessly, for he
remembered only one little phrase.
**Is Tom shaky ?" he asked, without lowering
his eyes.
Wilson Leonard nodded his head gravely.
Then he raised his right hand and touched the
ieft side of his waistcoat significantly.
"Heart . . . I believe," he said in a whis-
per.
There was silence in the room for some time.
The sparrows twittered and chattered in the
lime-tree outside, and over the roofs came the
deep tones of Westminster clock striking eleven.
The doctor moved a little and held out his hand.
" 1 must go," he said.
" Tell me," said Crozier, as he rose and opened
the door for his friend to pass out — "tell me,
do you think he suspects ?"
•• 1 do not know at all. One of the young 'uns
told me. He found it out when they were ex-
amining each other one day in fun."
Crozier usually practised after breakfast when
he had smoked one cigarette, but he now lighted
another soon after Dr. Leonard had left the room.
ii8 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
He stood upon the hearth-rug facing the fire and
smoked it right through. Even after he had
thrown the end away, he stood there with his
legs set slightly apart and his hands clasped be-
hind his back, gazing into the fire with a peculiar
concentrated expression upon his dogged face,
" Poor little girl! " he murmured. " Poor little
girl!"
Then he went to the piano.
CHAPTER XI
QUICKSAND
In the meantime life at Goldheath was very
pleasant. The frost vanished, and for a week it
appeared as if March were to be missed out of
Nature's calendar that year. On the moors the
yellow furze came peeping out among the brown
heather and stiff pine trees. In the hedgerows
green things began to push their way through
the moist soil, and there was on all the earth a
subtle odour of new verdure.
After a short and sharp winter, spring was at
hand.
Tom Valliant's broken bone progressed fa-
mously. Perhaps spring had something to say
to it — something that knit it quickly and drew in
the strained sinews again. After a week he
limped about merrily enough. The doctor's high
dog-cart drew up no more before the broad door,
and there was consequently a perceptible dimi-
nution in the daily consumption of sherry, as
noted by Tomkins the butler.
And while Tom limped about by Elma's side
at Goldheath, his good name strode abroad in all
England and across the seas. Not with halting
gait, but strongly and speedily. In a week the
sale of the new edition of the American singer's
119
I20 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
songs gained a firm liold upon the public. Daily
the ex-medical student received envelopes ad-
dressed in Crozier's smooth running hand-
writing, of which the form and style never
altered perceptibly from day to day. The man
was steadfast even to his penmanship. These
envelopes contained no letter, but printed matter
only — cuttings from newspapers and periodicals.
Praise, and only praise, tempered of course here
and there by kindly advice. The work was
good, and like all good work it was recognized
by its critics. For good work must come to the
top, and critics are just, let cynics say what they
like. The public has been invited ere now to in-
spect a collection of pictures rejected by a com-
mittee of painters and critics, and the result has
invariably been a confirmation of the opinion
given by experts. The public has rejected the
pictures as well. A publisher's ledger will be
found to confirm in a remarkable degree the
literary critic's review^.
Not only did Tom Valliant's venture contain in
itself the elements of success, but its publisher
knew that he had done a good stroke of busi-
ness. Moreover he was watched and urged to
further endeavours by a certain singer who had
much spare time upon his hands and an excep-
tionally shrewd head upon his shoulders.
So the sale went on apace, and the critics
talked while the object of their surmises and
praise grew graver day by day at Goldheath. It
QUICKSAND I2f
was rather a remarkable incident, this gravity
that came to Tom Valliant during his convales-
cence, for convalescence is in itself a happy-
time. Spring IS also a happy time, for it is
mostly anticipation, of which all human joy con-
sisteth chietly. Youth again is assuredly all
brightness. Holding within his arms convales-
cence, springtime, and youth, Tom's face and
manner acquired fresh gravity day by day.
There was no sombreness in his demeanour, no
pensiveness nor outward signs of mental woe;
but the power of turning everything to laughter
seemed to be no longer at command. With
Mrs. Valliant he was little changed. The audac-
ity which was really full of tact and never im-
pertinent, was daringly displayed as of yore.
The careless little attentions and signs of thought-
fulness never failed to please her cold, unenthu-
siastic heart. Perhaps indeed she saw no differ-
ence in this merry nephew, who had forced his
way into her heart by the sheer contradiction of
his ways and fearlessness of his demeanour in
"respect to himself. With the old squire Tom
was hearty, and ready enough with the quick
repartee which never failed to make him chuckle
and gurgle, while he held his back with both
hands just where the lumbago struck him when
he remembered it. With Elma however, he
talked of graver things. Life, treated specula-
tively, as we can afford to treat it from the
threshold; the past mentioned with laughter.
122 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
awakening recollections; but the future was
never discussed in this grave spirit. Elma was
ready enough, but Tom became cynical and
flippant at the mention of anything beyond the
present.
One day they talked of Samuel Crozier. Tom
started the subject.
" I know," he said, " what Sam is doing. He
is worrying that unfortunate publisher into an
untimely grave, in a gently persistent way, with
a smile. He is hammering away at all the critics
and art-journalists — in fact, he is running the
whole concern."
Elma looked up at her cousin over a plate
which was fixed upon her easel. She said
nothing just then, but dropped her two hands
upon her paint-stained apron, and looked out
into the walled garden.
" I wonder why he does it ? " she said practic-
ally after a pause; and without waiting for en-
lightenment she raised her palette, and began
dabbing thereon with a brush which showed
signs of having been imperfectly washed upon
several occasions. The paints used by Elma
were of a peculiar nature. They somewhat re-
sembled honey in so much as they were fre-
quently to be found in small quantities, in most
impossible and unexpected quarters.
" I don't exactly know," answered Tom reflec-
tively. He was seated on a low chair with his
leg upon the end of the sofa, and in such a posi-
QUICKSAND 125
tion that he could watch his cousin creating most
delicate flowers with the dirty brush. "1 don't
exactly know: I suppose he likes it."
"That must be a comforting reflection," said
she, with a short laugh.
"It is a most comforting reflection. Because
I know perfectly well that if 1 wanted to stop
him I could not. It seems to be Sam's mission
in life to keep other folks straight, and urge them
on to better things while he meditates peacefully
in the background."
She laughed and continued painting, but there
was little mirth in the sound of her laughter. It
had the effect of making him continue.
"Sam," he said, "is the most unselfish man I
have ever met. When I was at work on Miles
Standish he cropped up on every page as the
living illustration of John Alden; but I didn't put
him in. His style and his manner convey noth-
ing. You cannot tell from his appearance what
sort of man he is."
"I don't know . . ."said the girl slowly;
" I think you can — a little."
" Ah, but you know him."
She was busy with a very delicate piece of
work, and before replying she touched the plate
lightly once or twice with the end of her brush,
and sat back a little to contemplate the result.
"Not so well as you do," she murmured ab-
sently and yet encouragingly, as if the topic in-
terested her almost as much as her painting.
124 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
" No, of course not," was the reply given
with a certain pride of possession. "1 suppose
no one knows him so well as I do. If ever I
were tempted to write a book (which the heav-
ens forbid! because I cannot compete against the
lady novelist of the day!) I should follow him
about with a notebook and a pencil to take
down everything he said and did. Then I
should work that into shape."
"With the view of making him the hero?"
asked Elma indifferently.
"Well . . . I don't exactly know. He is
hardly the style of hero admired by the reading
public of the day. No; he would be in the book
somewhere. He would represent a character
which the lady novelist has wiped out. The
character of a man. A man who is neither a
fop nor a barber's block, a humbug, nor a black-
guard."
Elma laughed, because Tom had a terse, cheerful
way of saying things which demanded laughter.
" Poor Mr. Crozier," she said; "he would not
recognize himself, I am sure."
"Then other people might. Of course he
would not, though. I do not suppose any of us
would. I firmly believe that Sam looks upon
himself as a lazy, selfish, good-for-nothing
lounger."
" He has a certain indolent way of moving and
speaking," said Elma critically, " but that is only
habit. His mind is not indolent. It is a habit
QUICKSAND 125
which many people have. Lily Gibb has it a
little, and in reality she gets through as much
work in a day as I do in a week. I think all
sailors get it."
"Save me," ejaculated Tom fervently, "from
a girl who gets through as much work in a day
as another does in a week. It is not the missioa
of girls to get through work."
"1 wish," sighed Elma, putting back her hair,
"that 1 could look at it conscientiously in that
light."
" It is the mission of girls," said Tom solemnly,
"to paint flowers and gather them. To make
their fingers in a mess over both occupations,
and to fill up their spare time by flirting with
their cousins."
Elma laughed and blushed.
Keeping her face averted, she rose suddenly,
and threw her brushes down pell-mell.
"I was thinking," she said gravely, "of going
for a long, quick walk."
He leant forward and took hold of the ex-
treme corner of her apron.
"No, don't," he pleaded. "I apologize. Hear
me swear! . . ."
"Thanks. I would rather not hear you swear."
"Sit down, Elma, and go on painting," said
Tom, gravely. "It was a libel — a base libeL
Of course, we all know . . ."
"Now," she said, holding up a warning paint-
brush, "you are going to make matters worse.'*
126 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"I doubt," he said, with a short laugh,
^'whether they could be worse. What were
we talking about ? Sam. Yes. I am going to
talk about Sam. He is quite safe as a topic, and
a friend in all weathers, at all times, and in every
situation."
CHAPTER XII
HOLDSWORTH MOVES
William Holdsworth was not a thorough-
paced villain. He did not possess the requisite
backbone, and he was too susceptible, too soft-
hearted, and too easily led.
The advent of his whilom officer at Goldheath
was annoying, to say the least of it, but as he
was just then under the spell of Elma's beauty
and fascination, he was in a jealous frame of
mind. Things had hitherto gone very well. He
saw Elma frequently, she was always gracious
and kind to him; and, as is the way with young
men, he was fully convinced that she loved him.
He was determined to win her for his wife, and,
as he knew that sooner or later Samuel Crozier
would (to use his own expression) run foul of
him, he audaciously sought the danger. As
previously observed, he was courageous enough;
but, although brave, the move was unwise. He
should first have discovered the degree of inti-
macy existing between Crozier and the Valliants.
He should have gained from Elma a further in-
sight into the character of the man whom he had
only known as a kind officer and patient bene-
factor. All these and similar precautions he neg-
127
128 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
lected; and moreover he counted too much upon
the possibility of not being recognized. The re-
sult was a failure, and Holdsworth found himself
under the influence of a mind stronger than his
own, a will superior to his. Impertinence quailed
before cool justice. Audacity fell back in face of
courage.
There was nothing for it but the consumption
of humble pie. It was not his fault that he met
Crozier again on the following day. His guest,
Walter Varden, armed with a genial invitation
from the squire, expressed a desire to skate on the
old canal, and so they walked over to Goldheath.
The unwelcome news that a girl who certainly
did owe her ruin to him, although he had almost
forgotten the matter, was under Crozier's protec-
tion and existing upon his charity, came at first
as a severe blow; but Holdsworth was hardly a
scrupulous man, and not over nice in his suscep-
tibilities. It was, he argued, a mere piece of
Quixotism on the part of the ex-naval officer,
and if the girl had been left alone she would have
found her own level. It was therefore merely a
matter of levels, upon which, however, folks
are prone to disagree.
There were, he reflected, extenuating circum-
stances. The girl, whose parents kept a small
tobacconist's shop in Gibraltar, had come more
than half-way to meet his advances. She had
led him on, and the consequences were at her
own door. These ungallant reflections were,
HOLDSWORTH MOVES 129
unfortunately, more or less true. There was
that modicum of veracity in them which can so
easily be enlarged at will. But he did not care
to think very much over this question. It was
an incident in his life which jarred inharmoni-
ously with this new love unwittingly inspired by
Elma Valliant, and it suggested an uncomforta-
ble question as to whether a man can love two
women at the same time. This phenomenon oc-
curs at times, and in the majority of cases it is
the old love that wins, unless circumstances
favour, to an exceptional degree, the new. It
may be that conscience has some influence in
this matter, but in William Holdsworth's case
this factor was wanting. His conscience was
dead. He preferred not to inquire too deeply
into the question, and in the meantime he waited
patiently until Tom Valliant should leave Gold-
heath. After the accident he kept away from
the house, contenting himself with sending a
groom to inquire after the broken bone every day.
One afternoon, however, he met Elma at the
house of a mutual friend. He had gone on pur-
pose to meet her, and yet there was no fixed
plan of conduct in his mind. He was vaguely
aware of his own vacillation, and rarely made
plans.
"Mr. Varden," said Elma, when she had
shaken hands, "has gone, I suppose?"
In his quick reckless way Holdsworth saw an
opportunity.
I30 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"Yes," he answered, "he has gone back to
St. Antony's. They are a strange lot these med-
ical students. Happy-go-lucky fellows, who ap-
pear to spend all their time in journalistic haunts
and among theatrical people. Varden gave me
some very funny details of their life. My faith
in the medical profession has consequently be-
come rather shaken. 1 dare say, however, that
it is not the same in all hospitals."
Elma was listening in a perfunctory way. She
nodded and smiled to a girl friend at the other
end of the room before taking any notice of Holds-
worth's observations.
" 1 am afraid," she said, at length, in a tone of
marked mdifference, "that St. Antony's is a trifle
fast in its style."
Holdsworth stroked his beard shiftily. Then
he changed his ground.
"Not all of them," he said, reassuringly.
"Your cousin, for instance, seems to be quite
untainted. He is a thorough gentleman ..."
"Thank you," she interposed, with a light
laugh.
The irony slid off his back unheeded.
"1 really mean it," he said. "From what
Varden told me 1 somehow conceived the idea
that the students associate with a set of men
who do them no good."
He stirred his tea meditatively, and smiled in
sympathy with a general laugh that came from
the main group of visitors around the tea-table.
HOLDSWORTH MOVES 131
Then he suddenly turned grave again and con-
tinued.
"Actors," he murmured, suggestively, "and
theatrical critics, journalists, and second-rate
musicians."
Elma sipped her tea. There was very little in
her cup, but she eked it out so as to make it last
the longer. She looked straight in front of her,
but in her eyes there was a singular expression
wh'ch was almost that of expectancy. He
glanced toward her and saw it not, for his eyes
were blind with admiration, and his spirit was
puffed up at the realization of his own astute-
ness. In sublime ignorance he blundered on.
"Of course," he said, didactically, "such as-
sociations cannot be good for young fellows."
"For Mr. Varden," she asked, innocently.
"No . . . 0, no; 1 think Varden is all
right, although none of them can profit by the
society of such men as — as I mentioned."
He glanced at her again. The tone in which
she had spoken puzzled him. But her face was
sympathetically grave, as if thinking of a possi-
ble danger being run by her cousin, while her
eyes were a triumph of inscrutability.
"Still I suppose these men are clever," she
suggested.
"In their way," he allowed, graciously; "but
they are a terriblv idle set. It is a matter of
genius, you understand — genius without applica-
tion. And unless a genius is of the first water he
132 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
is usually the reverse of an ornament to society.
These men are the scum of the intellectual world."
She laughed and set aside her cup. Still she
showed to him that he might continue.
"I am afraid," she said, "that your descrip-
tion interests me in them. Do you speak from
personal acquaintance ? "
"Oh no!" he said, cleverly avoiding a tone
of self-satisfaction; "except indeed that — Mr.
Crozier; but Walter Varden told me a great
deal about them and their habits of life."
"Yes," she murmured, slowly drawing on her
gloves. There was a stir of departure in the
room, in her eyes there was a faint gleam
which almost amounted to triumph.
"Have you noticed," whispered Mrs. Gibb to
the hostess at the other side of the room, " how
Elma Valliant has lost her girlishness lately. Look
at her now; she is a woman at this moment."
"And a very sweet woman," answered the
kindly old aristocrat. " A very sweet and charm-
ing woman, Mrs. Gibb. I wish I had a son
young enough, and good enough, to try and win
her."
" There seems to be some one else," whispered
Mrs. Gibb, glancing at Holdsworth.
"Ah!" replied the old lady, following her
companion's glance. "Who is that sitting be-
side her? Mr. Holdsworth, is it not? Yes, Mrs.
Gibb, there may be some one else, but it is not
William Holdsworth."
HOLDSWORTH MOVES 133
In the meantime Elma had buttoned her gloves.
"It is a pity," Holdsworth was saying to her,
"that men like your cousin and Varden, who
have been well educated, and are essentially
gentlemen, should be forced by circumstances to
choose their friends among a class so distinctly
beneath them in the social scale."
"1 have never heard," said Elma lightly, as
she rose, " of any one being forced to choose a
friend. Surely there can be no choice where
force is brought to bear."
"Well, perhaps force is hardly the word.
They are led to do so. Of course people say
that it is Bohemianism,'and nothing worse. But
men should not forget that their fathers were
gentlemen, even if they should happen to possess
a knack of writing, a trick of acting, or the gift
of a voice."
He had risen, and was standing before her
with a pleasant smile upon his brown face. His
hands were hanging half-clenched at his side,
and he moved on his feet restlessly. She looked
straight into his eyes with an innocent expression
of attention to his words, and an utter disregard
for the significance of his admiring gaze.
"But," she said, "I think there are no circum-
stances whatever to justify a man in forgetting
that."
Then they crossed the room together, and
Elma offered to drive Mrs. Gibb home to Gold-
heath, which offer was accepted.
134 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Tom was at the door to meet her when she
reached home. His hmp was scarcely perceptible
now. On the following day he purposed return-
ing to town in order to see his publisher, and
come to some definite decision about the future.
" Well," he said. " How did it go off ? "
"Oh, very well, thanks," replied Elma, who
was a little thoughtful. " All the neighbourhood
was there."
Tom glanced at her sharply as she passed into
the hall before him. It was a chilly evening, and
she went straight to the fire.
" Holdsworth .?" suggested Tom, interroga-
tively. He followed her, and stood before the
fire.
"Yes. He was there."
She leant forward and held her gloved hands
nearer to the flame.
"My fingers are simply frozen," she said.
" Rocket pulled most viciously all the way home,
and I could not let him go because of Mrs. Gibb's
nerves."
"Ah!" exclaimed Tom, with an intonation
which might have indicated relief. " She drove
home with you."
" Yes. I dropped her at the Vicarage."
He knelt down on the black fur mat at her
side, and took one of her hands.
"Poor little hands," he said, with burlesque
sympathy. Then he drew off her gloves for her,
slowly and lingeringly.
CHAPTER Xin
THE doctor's malady
The next evening was one of some importance
in the musical world, and Samuel Crozier was
heavily engaged. He dined alone at the Club,
and afterward walked across to Myra's in order
to learn whether Tom Valliant had returned to
Town.
He passed through the outer room, where
Myra herself was attending to the wants of a
few diners, whose tastes or purses did not reach
beyond the succulent products of the grill. Syra
was never very busy between the hours of six
and eight, and Crozier was not surprised on
drawing back the heavy curtain of the Inner
Bar to find but one toper there. This faithful
admirer was not Tom Valliant. It was Wilson
Leonard, the young house-surgeon.
Crozier had heard stories connecting the name
of the grave young doctor with the presiding
goddess of the inner Bar, but he possessed a
strange faculty of stowing such tales neatly away
in some inner pigeon-hole, where they were for
ever hidden from the eye of the curious. It was
long before, when Wilson Leonard was a grave
3'oung student.
135
1^6 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
He entered the small apartment with a smile,
and a hand raised to his hat. There was no
sign of surprise at finding these two in a some-
what confidential attitude at the far end of the
room, both leaning upon the marble counter,
beyond the high silver coffee-urn,
"Good-evening, Syra," said Crozier. "How
are you, Leonard ? I came in in the hopes of
finding a Saint Antony's man here. Do you
know if Tom Valliant is back ? "
"No, I don't," answered the young doctor.
He crossed the room, and leant against the little
iron mantelpiece, so that he was as far away
from Syra as the dimensions of the apartment
would allow.
Then Crozier turned to Syra.
"Have you heard anything about him?" he
asked quietly. He was looking at her rather
more searchingly than he was perhaps aware of,
but she scarcely betrayed a sign of discomfort.
The delicate pink of her cheek altered not in hue
for reasons already hinted at; her mouth was
slightly to one side, her lips delicate and rudd}^
being pressed upward with a strained sense of
effort. Only, her eyes told him something.
They gleamed defiance into his, daring him to
think what he chose, to attempt as he might the
perusal of her motives. But the very glance of
defiance was a confession. It betrayed that
Samuel Crozier's opinion of her actions was a
distinct factor in her conduct, that his approval
THE DOCTOR'S MALADY 137
or disapproval carried weight and influence.
And yet he was nothing to her. He was one of
many, merely a passer-by, who dropped in at
odd moments to meet his friends, and satisfy an
imaginary thirst for the benefit of the establish-
ment. Nothing perhaps but a strong earnest
man, who had a peculiar and embarrassing way
of treating her as if she might have been a lady.
She knew that he was aware that Wilson Leonard
had not spoken to her for nearly two years.
Those close-set inscrutable eyes could not hide
that knowledge from her, and over the decanters
she dared the singer to think that she had called
the young doctor to come to her.
"No," she answered, "he has not been in
here, Mr. Crozier; and I have heard nothing of
him."
Crozier struck a match and lighted his cigarette.
He showed no intention of going just then.
"I suppose," said Leonard, "that you havs
dined."
"Yes," answered Crozier, waving his match
from side to side in order to save himself the
trouble of blowing it out.
" Then have a cup of coffee."
The singer accepted readily. He was well
posted in certain intricacies of the hospitality of
the bar, which is a question of getting in the first
word.
Before their eyes, while they both watched
him, he deliberately poured some cold water into
1^8 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
his coffee which seemed forbiddingly hot.
Leonard contemplated the action gravely. Syra
watched with indifferent eyes, it would be a
nice and far-reaching question to solve whether
either or both guessed that he was spoiling his
coffee with a view of drinking it quickly and
leaving them to themselves.
"If he comes in," he said to Syra, " please tell
him that I am singing to-night, and will not be
home before eleven. After that time I shall be
very glad if he will come in and have a pipe."
"Yes," answered she, " I will tell him so, with
pleasure."
He nodded to Leonard, raised his hat slightly
to Syra, and with a murmured "good-night"
passed out between the curtains. It was none
of his business, he reflected, if Wilson Leonard
'went to the dogs.
He had not walked many yards along the
"brilliantly-lighted Strand (wending his even way
assuredly through Virtue and Vice) when a hand
was slipped through his arm, and some one
walked alongside, falling into his pace.
"I have soon caught you up," said Wilson
Leonard, quietly.
"Yes. One cannot get along very quickly
through this crowd; it is just theatre time, I sup-
pose."
Conversation is not easily conducted in the
Strand between seven and eight o'clock in the
evening, when the later journals are in full cry,
THE DOCTOR'S MALADY 139
when cabs are collidinf? and their drivers ex-
changing civilities, when the "pit" doors are
being cast open to the ••cwo-shilHno:" public.
The two men walked t0£:ether in silence because
they could only converse in shouts, and that
which was to be said between them could not
be cried aloud.
" Let us get out of this." said Crozier, pres-
ently, and he led the way up a dark and narrow
alley. It was not an aristocratic Quarter through
which they passed; malodorous, dark, and reek-
ing with hopelessness and vice, it was at least
quiet; for neither of these is the children of light
and noise.
"I have not been in that place for nearly two
years," said the house-surgeon, reflectively.
"No?" said Crozier, with meek interrogation.
He glanced up at the dark walls of Drury Lane
theatre which they happened to be passing, and
smoked vigourously in view of the approaching
Covent Garden bouquet which already assailed
his sense of smell. This indolent singer was the
unfortunate victim of confidences. These were
poured upon him from all sides without his hav-
ing in the least encouraged the confiders. It was
the natural result of his quiet steadfastness.
People with troubles upon them looked on him
as a sort of well wherein to sink their woes — a
well where Truth lay hidden, where all things
dropped lay in safe and kindly darkness until
called for.
140 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
He knew that Leonard was going to confide in
hjm. There was no help for it, so he looked
meekly up to the heavens and essayed to inhale
as little bad cabbage and putrid potato as possible
for the sake of his throat.
"I suppose," continued Leonard, with an at-
tempt at cynicism, that I was bound to go back
some time or other."
" U'm! " observed the singer, sympathetically.
When a man is determined to confide in one,
it is next to an impossibility to turn aside the
stream.
" 1 suppose," said the doctor, " that you would
call it luck. When 1 left St. Antony's I was fully
convinced that a month at home among my peo-
ple, with my sisters and their friends, would cure
me of what was nothing more than a boyish
fancy. Confound that phrase! Those boyish
fancies leave a scar, Crozier, if they ever heal at
all. I was done with St. Antony's, done with
London, and the Strand, and that confounded
Myra's. 1 thought, at least, that I had seen the
last of Myra's. Then came the offer of a house-
surgeonship. Of course I had to accept it. It
was clearly the only thing to do. They all called
it a grand opportunity. The governor leant
across the table and shook hands with me.
While I held his hand, I knew that this grand
opportunity meant — Syra ; that sooner or later I
would go back to that place. You strong-minded
fellows don't understand it, Crozier."
THE DOCTOR'S MALADY 141
The singer did not answer at once. He threw
away his cigarette half smoked.
"Don't say that, Leonard," he said at length.
"I think every one understands it a little. It is
a malady which is beyond us all, that is the long
and short of it. The worst of it is that we can-
not help each other much, because each fellow is
best left to make his own muddles. The mud-
dle will be made, you may be sure of that — we
all do it; but there is a melancholy satisfaction
in the thought that you went your own way and
had only yourself to blame. At least, I have
found it so."
"It seems funny," said Leonard, with a sudden
laugh which came strangely from his grave lips,
"that a fellow who has been brought up with
retlned and gifted ladies, who has known and
associated with delicate and attractive girls,
should make an ass of himself by falling in love
with a barmaid — a girl who paints her face and
touches her eyebrows with a black pencil, who
is ready to accept compromising presents from
the first spendthrift simpleton who comes along
and asks for a drink — whose trade it is to flirt
across the bar with every one, old and young,
good and bad, drunk and sober . . ."
"That will do," interrupted Crozier in his softest
manner. " You will gain nothing by abusing her.
You forget, Leonard, that I know Syra as well as
you do. What you say is true enough about her
class, no doubt, but it is not quite true of herl"
142 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
They had crossed Leicester Square and were
now in Piccadilly, where the tide of humanity
flowed in a broader and brighter stream. From
the darker haunts of poverty and vice they had
emerged suddenly into a throng on pleasure bent,
hurrying onward on foot, in cab and in carriage
to theatres, concert-halls, and soirees. Most of
the carriages were moving slowly in a long, ser-
pentine file westward toward St. James's Hall.
In this throng conversation became more diffi-
cult. It was broken, and there were perforce
long pauses in which both had time to think
with the acquired absorption of Londoners,
which remains undisturbed by noise and bustle.
"Of course," said Leonard, bitterly, "I cannot
marry her. I am not quite sure that I want to.
It would simply mean ruin to myself and endless
sorrow to my relations. She would be miserable,
and so would I. The world never makes allow-
ances . . ."
At this moment they were separated. Crozier
passed through a narrow place and waited for
his companion to come up.
"No," he said, when Leonard had retaken his
arm; "the world never makes allowances. You
must never expect that of it. I gave up doing so
long ago. Time, Leonard, time is the only thing
that can do it, and from what I have seen of life
I am convinced that there is no sorrow, no disap-
pointment, no bereavement which is beyond the
power of time to cure."
THE DOCTOR'S MALADY 143
" Oh," replied the other, somewhat impatiently
— Crozier was aggravatingly unemotional at
times — "oh, 1 dare say. No doubt it will be all
the same a hundred years hence."
" Yes," assented the singer, "probably; let us
hope so, at least. 1 should not be surprised,
however, if it were all the same as far as we are
concerned thirty years hence if you take that
line of argument."
They were now in the brilliantly-lighted en-
trance-hall of the building where the great ballad-
concert of the year was about to take place.
Brightly-dressed ladies were passing in, throwing
off, with due regard to their hair and flowers,
dainty wraps and shawls. Among them were
their attendant knights, some with long hair and
musical aspirations, others with closer-cropped
heads and truer music in their souls. As stated,
it was a musical event, and among the throng
■passing through the entrance-hall many recog-
nized Samuel Crozier, and turned to look at him
again with a whisper to their friends.
"In the meantime," Leonard was saying (for
they were apart and the conversation was not
laid aside yet) — "in the meantime it is d d
unpleasant to feel that I cannot get past the door
of Myra's, and to know that when 1 go in 1 will
find that girl flirting with the last comer, and
laughing at his double-meaning jokes. Such
men as Marton, the old play-writer, who always
shakes hands with her, and leers across the
144 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
counter — a man with a face like a walrus and a
voice like that of an omnibus-driver. Young
fops like Varden . . ."
"Look out!" said Crozier, interrupting him;
" he is just behind you. I will tell you what you
will do to-night, Leonard; you will come inside.
Here is my card, that will admit you; and there
are sure to be some seats returned at the last
minute, they will give you one. Don't you go
back to Myra's to-night. Next to time there is
no cure like music! "
He spoke quickly in a low voice, for there
were ears around him listening, and eyes that
sought the face of this young singer. But he saw
none of them. He was engaged just then in one
of his Quixotic endeavours to throw out of the
path of life a few of those jagged stones which
lie in front of us all — stones which we all try to
throw aside for ever, but they only fall on the
road where another is at work, and he is sure to
pitch them back again with others that obstruct
his way, and so the merry farce goes on.
Of course Wilson Leonard obeyed. Most men
obeyed Crozier when he stood before them in
that square, persistent attitude, and spoke in a
low, concentrated tone which was musical enough
by reason of the suppressed force that was in it,
and because Sam's voice was always musical.
The young doctor took the card with a murmur
of thanks and was about to move onward with
the gay crowd when Walter Varden came up.
THE DOCTOR'S MALADY 145
This amiable young student had noticed that
the public attention was turned in some degree
toward the two men, and he promptly took ad-
vantage of the situation. Such an opportunity
of displaying his intimacy with a public char-
acter (for in that hall Crozier was as important
a person as the Premier) was not to be lost.
Therefore he swaggered up to them, immacu-
late as to shirt-front and buttonhole, shiny as
to sleek head, and well-washed as to vacant
face.
"Ah, Crozier," he said in a cunningly-raised
voice, "how are you .^ Hallo, Doctor! — good-
evening. I have just come from Myra's; ex-
pected to see some of you chaps there. The fair
Syra is in great form to-night; but she would
not smoke a cigarette."
The two men looked at him gravely. Crozier
examined critically the single diamond stud upon
his manly breast. There was a want of hearti-
ness about his reception, but the public saw that
he was on intimate terms. They could not fail
to do that, and there was a pretty girl, whom he
knew slightly, coming upstairs.
" Is Tom back yet?" he continued. Then he
added roguishly, *•' Ah, Crozier, the lucky dog
has been in clover all this time — you bet! — with
that little cousin of his. Nice little thing, with
a figure like an angel, and a pair of eyes . . ."
He finished up with a short whistle, such as
the conductor of an omnibus employs with a
146 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
view of attracting the attention of his driver,
given softly.
Crozier moved a little toward the door. The
overture had been begun. There was a some-
what unnatural smile hovering about his lips, but
his eyes were dull, as if he were making an ef-
fort to control some emotion.
" Varden," he said gently, "you are a pleasing
mixture of a cad and a fool; at present the fool
predominates; that is the best 1 can say for you."
Then he joined the stream of pleasure-seekers
with Wilson Leonard at his side.
CHAPTER XIV
BURNT FINGERS
Shortly before eleven o'clock Crozier returned
to Lime Court. There was a full moon, and the
old houses were actually poetic. Poetry seems
out of place in the heart of London, in sight al-
most of the lowest haunts of mankind, within
sound of a hundred harsh voices calling out the
attractions of their evening papers. And yet
poetry lingered in the old courts and passages of
the Temple that night. A solitary young barris-
ter was walking some way in front of Crozier,
his light footstep ringing firmly on the pavement
of the sleepy courts and passages. Presentlv this
man let himself into one of the dark, narrow-
windowed houses, and Crozier was alone.
He walked slowly with his ungloved hands in
his pockets, his cigar held firmly between his
teeth. As usual he was humming a tune softly
and reflectively. On entering the precincts of
Lime Court he perceived that there was some one
on his doorstep. This person was not standing
impatiently with his back against the door, but
seated peacefully upon the step smoking a pipe.
Immediately the plaintive note of a cat in distress
broke upon the singer's ears, very cleverly ren-
147
148 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
dered and dying away softly. The effect was so
lifelike amidst the silent passages where there
lingered an echo, that Tom Valliant repeated the
wail before rising from his humble seat.
"Sam," he said, tragically holding out his
hand, "how is it with you.? The situation is
poetic. Young man discovered courting lumbago
on a stone step; he smokes the pipe of medita-
tion; there breaks upon the silence of the old
mullioned dwellings a soft and murmurous
sound. Is it a ghost.? No! Is it the note of
the nightingale.? No! Is it the cat ? Yes! To
him comes presently a troubadour. His cloak
flies in the wind, his shirt-front gleams in the
cold moonlight. Elis cigar is tilted rakishly up-
ward in the right-hand corner of his mouth; his
eye roves. The gallery cheers. They think the
troubadour is screwed. Lend me your latch-key
and I will open the door. Thank you."
"When did you come up?" Crozier asked
presently, when they were in the comfortable
room. He was turning up the gas and he
glanced over his shoulder toward Tom.
"This afternoon," was the answer. Tom
seated himself cheerfully and threw open hi-s
coat. The singer noticed that there was a small
bunch of white violets in his buttonhole. " Yes,
sir, this afternoon. 1 tore myself, away from the
delights of a country life and from . . .
from my aunt."
Crozier knelt down on the hearth-rug and
BURNT FINGERS 149
poked the fire leisurely. The far-seeing Mrs.
Sanders had left a small copper-kettle on the
hearth, and this was soon brought into use in the
very smokiest part of the fire where five men out
of six would have placed it, and from whence
six women out of seven would have caused it to
be removed at once.
"Did you leave them all well ? " he asked con-
ventionally, without turning his attention away
from the fire.
Valliant pressed the tobacco into his pipe and
blew the ash off his gloved finger before answer-
ing.
"Yes, very well — thanks."
Then a short silence came over them. Crozier
busied himself with the simple hospitality of his
bachelor establishment. A tobacco-jar was placed
on the table, and a box of matches. Subse-
quently the copper-kettle came into use, and a
sugar-basin was discovered incidentally in the
lower part of the sideboard. This, however, was
not indicative of tea.
When they were both seated the singer lighted
his pipe.
" I saw Varden to-night," he said; " he was at
St. James's Hall."
Tom turned his head a little toward his com-
panion, but his eyes were fixed on the fire.
"It was funny," he said, pensively, "that he
should have turned up at Goldheath. When I
saw him I cursed loud and deep in my sleeve.
150 THE PHANTOM FUTURE <
The fellow is an ass, Samuel. It is rather aggra-
vating that the only St. Antony's man that Elma
. . . that they . . . know down there
should be Varden,"
Crozier looked sympathetic and waited for him
to talk of Holdsworth. This he did almost at
once, for he had been thinking of him since the
mention of his friend's name, for William Holds-
worth was something more than a cypher in life
at Goldheath.
"That fellow Holdsworth," observed Tom,
"was very kind in sending over almost every
day to inquire after the health of the deponent."
" Sending .^ " repeated Crozier with indifferent
interest.
" Yes. He never turned up himself."
Crozier moved slightly, drawing in his legs and
leaning forward as if about to rise. This he pres-
ently did and went to his bedroom, where he
changed his dress-coat for a very shabby gar-
ment of brown velvet. Then he returned to his
seat and smoked pensively. The result of his
cogitations was soon forthcoming. •
"There are certain bibical stories," he said,
" which are of a strictly contemporary nature. I
mean that the incidents related could not very
well happen nowadays. At all events if they did
take place the result would probably be quite
different."
Tom smiled suddenly. They knew each other
very well, these two, despite the utter disparity
BURNT FINGERS 151
of age, and thought, and nature; and the younger
man was quick-witted enough to follow his
friend's meaning even while he was speaking.
"Wisdom," he said solemnly, "is falling
heavily from thy lips. You are quite right, Sam.
It may be that in ancient days pigs were housed
upon a different principle, but it seems to me in
these times that there is a faint aroma of the stye
about the young man who returneth to his
father."
That was all they said about Holdsworth.
They never discussed him more fully than that.
Indeed, it happened that Tom Valliant remained
in ignorance that there was anything else to say.
Crozier was singularly charitable for a man who
had knocked about in the world. He was at
heart a sailor, and sailors are undoubtedly the
most charitable men on earth in a simple,
straightforward, honest way. It may also have
been some memory of dangers passed through
together, of days spent on sunny seas beneath a
cloudless sky, that prompted this ex-sailor to
conceal his knowledge of William Holdsworth's
history, for when a man claims you as a ship-
mate he invokes a very strong spirit of comrade-
ship. Crozier would have liked to warn Elma
also against this man, subtly and vaguely as he
had warned Tom, but this he could not do.
There was no course open to him beyond leaving
it to her maidenly instinct (which is a sure guide)
to detect the ring of false metal. He did not
152 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
know that Holdsworth had warned her himself
by' a stupid blunder.
The singer now changed the subject. He
spoke of the concert, and incidentally mentioned
that Wilson Leonard had been there. This led
to the disclosure of a fact of which Crozier had
hitherto been ignorant— namely, that Dr. Leon-
ard's secret was almost public property at St.-
Antony's.
" By the way," Tom said, " 1 was told to-day
that he was back at Myra's. There was some-
thing serious between Leonard and Syra, I be-
lieve, when he was a student. The fellows say
that they were engaged at one time. At all
events 1 know that he was always there, watch-
ing her every glance and movement. He tried, I
believe, to get her away from the place, but she
would not go governessing, and I suppose it
would hardly have done for the /(^//r^'^ of Wilson
Leonard, Esq., to have served behind a genteel
counter."
"1 am very, very sorry for the fellow," said
Crozier. " He is making a muddle of his life."
"Well," answered Tom, with a sudden laugh,
"I suppose, in the eyes of the disinterested ob-
server we all do that. It certainly seems as if he
were burning his fingers, but that again is a com-
mon practice. We do it in different ways, that
is all. Even 1, old man, 1, the practical, the light-
hearted, the callous, have been doing so."
More confidences. Crozier rose suddenly from
BURNT FINGERS 155
his seat and poked the fire. He moved about the
room and took up the evening paper casually,
looking at the advertisement columns with deep
interest. Leonard's tale was bad enough, but
Crozier would have given a great deal, for rea-
sons of his own, to be spared this.
"Yes," he was compelled, however, to mur-
mur.
Tom Valliant sat quite motionless in the deep
armchair, waiting until his friend should be
seated or still. His slim white hands were
clasped round his knee. His head was slightly
on one side, and he was very pale — paler per-
haps than usual. His lips, which were thin and
sensitive, were parted slightly, and his heavy
eyelids seemed to weigh wearily over his eyes.
It was a beautiful face, of a delicate and super-
refined mould, but there was strength in it too;
the patient enduring strength of a woman. Such
a face as that is always a study, frequently a les-
son. But just at that moment it was not pleasant
to look upon. It was the face of a miserable and
hopeless man.
The singer stood on the hearth-rug with his
elbow resting on the mantelpiece. He held the
evening paper in his hand and was still studying
the advertisements. The contrast between these
two men reached even into the tiny subtle dif-
■ ferences of carriage and attitude. Valliant sat
with his fingers interlocked around his knee; the
attitude was a favourite one with him. Crozier
154 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
stood, and moreover he stood squarely and inde-
pendently. The arm resting on the mantelpiece
was not supporting his weight. He never clasped
his hands or interlocked his fingers. His limbs
(if the expression be comprehensible) never sup-
ported each other.
There was a stillness in the room for a few sec-
onds, then Tom Valliant spoke.
"When," he said reflectively, "a man is shut
up for a fortnight in a country-house with a girl
■whom he has been trying to avoid for the last
three years, the chances are rather in favour of
burnt fingers."
The singer was reading the paper no longer.
He had not moved, but his eyes were looking
over the journal, presumably into the folds of the
heavy red curtains.
"You talk," he said at length, in measured
tones, "as if there were points of resemblance
between your case and Leonard's. 1 do not see
those points."
He stopped for a second and brushed aside his
mustache with a quick movement of the fingers.
"Some day you will," said Tom, in that mo-
ment, but in such a low voice that it seemed
probable that Crozier did not hear.
"Of course," continued Crozier, tranquilly,
"you may call it burning your fingers if you like,
but it is only a pleasant fable. Leonard cannot
possibly marry Syra, it would only lead to endless
misery, and a few months of unhappiness is bet-
BURNT FINGERS 155
ter than a lifetime: you could marry in six months
if you chose to work. Leonard has good pros-
pects, but they would be ruined by marriage with
a barmaid, whereas your work would be assisted,
if anything, by your marrying and settling down.
His people would cast him off, yours would be
delighted at the idea. . . ."
Suddenly Tom interrupted him with a merry
laugh.
"You are the greatest architect I know," he
exclaimed. "Your castles are a triumph of ar-
tistic excellence — but, my friend, the building
material is only found in Spain. It has just struck
twelve, I must seek my humble dwelling; Craven
Street looks well at midnight."
He rose and put on his top-coat with a great
display of energy. Crozier smiled, without how-
ever losing the thread of his discourse.
"Personally speaking" ... he hazarded
deprecatingly, but he got no further. He moved
away from the mantelpiece toward the window
and drew aside the heavy curtain, looking search-
ingly into the night for some seconds. There
was no visible motive in this action, for it was a,
clear moonlight night, and there was no question
of rain. He did not even look upward to the
sky, but across to the dark houses opposite. He
turned and allowed the curtain to fall back into
its place, crossing the room in a vague peculiar
way.
"Personally speaking," he began again, as if
156 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
^vith a slight effort, "you are the only man I
3^now who is good enough — for her."
"Thank you, Sam," said Valliant simply. He
was ready to go, with his hat set jauntily upon
the back of his head. He moved toward the
■door, followed by his companion.
" 1 don't see how you can imagine that there is
.an obstacle," said Crozier, almost argumentatively,
•when they were in the passage.
Tom turned on the doorstep and shook hands.
"Some day you will see it," he said ambigu-
ously. Then he ran lightly down the steps, and
-walked away into the shadow without looking
back.
CHAPTER XV
A CREATURE OF IMPULSE
There are certain definitions of human charac-
ter which have acquired in use a meaning never
conveyed by the words spoken. To be called a
creature of impulse is to-day a compliment, This^,
perhaps, arises from the melancholy fact that im-
pulse as a human incentive is dying away from
amongst us. We are becoming so wise, so
prudent, so self-suppressing, that we rarely act,
either for good or evil, without thinking twice
upon the matter.
Now Impulse, like Prudence, is a double-faced
hussy. Once she goads us toward good, and we,
hesitating, leave that good undone. The next
moment she will urge us toward evil, and again
we draw back. This sounds like a doctrine of
counterbalance, but it is not such. Impulsive
goodness is superior to slow beneficence. Bis:
dat qui cito dat. While impulsive evil is less
loathsome than wrought-out, thought-out wick-
edness.
When it is stated that William Holdsworth was
a creature of impulse, it is therefore conveyed ad-
ditionally that he possessed redeeming virtues.
The influence exercised over him by the mere
157
158 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
presence of Elma Valliant was not a good one.
Her beauty made him jealous that other men
should have eyes to see it also. Her cheerful in-
dividuality did not soothe his spirit. The effect
of it was to cause wild schemes of winning her
to flit through his brain — unscrupulous schemes,
most of them, smacking of the convenient sophis-
try of the sea-lawyer. The impulse given to his
soul was that of evil, and being open to the move-
ments of mental impulse, he succumbed readily
enough.
Once he sought to poison her mind — gratui-
tously and with no definite aim — against the man
to whose Quixotic beneficence he owed more than
he cared to think about. Indirectly he endeav-
oured to lower Tom Valliant's position in her es-
timation by careless hints of misdoings in London,
iind — grossest error of all — he never lost an op-
portunity of blowing his own trumpet.
Women are most wonderfully tolerant of van-
ity, conceit, and bumptiousness in young men,
much more so than their brothers; but their love
(at least if they be true women) has never been
Avon by virtues of which the happy possessor has
been the first to make mention. In other words,
a. woman never loves the man we love. Most of
us manage to convey, sooner or later, to her
Avhose love we seek the picture of a wonderful
individuality which we modestly take to be our
own. But — if we win — it is not that individuality
which she loves; it is another which she con-
A CREATURE OF IMPULSE 1^9
structs for herself. This latter creation is proba-
bly as far from the reality as our own, but if she
elects to blind herself into the belief that we are
the incarnation of an impossible human being, it
is wiser to refrain from too close inquiry, or en-
lightenment.
Elma never loved William Holdsworth. The
thought of it never entered her head. She con-
sidered him very pleasant to talk to, for he had a;
thousand little tales of adventure to tell, such as
women love to hear. Of these he was with sus-
picious invariety the hero, and with due modesty-
he related them. He had pleasant, hearty ways
with him, and he was neat and clever with his
hands as most sailors are. Perhaps she flirted
with him, just a little, in an innocent childish way
which was beyond his comprehension. There
was that glamour of an evil past in his favour,,
and it rendered him interesting in the sight of this.
inexperienced and imaginative girl. Truly the
ways of innocence are strange.
William Holdsworth was a constant surprise
to her. Little virtues and pleasant accomplish-
ments were for ever turning up at odd moments.
In a semi-interested way she made a sort of
study of him.
Elma Valliant was far from expecting an im-
mediate result to her investigations, but this
came a few weeks after Tom had returned to
town. As usual, luck was against Holdsworth,.
but for once he did not recognize the fact. Luck
i6o THE PHANTOM FUTURE
in this case consisted of a dimly-lighted con-
servatory, where a soft pink glow lay on the
delicate flowers; where the atmosphere was
heavy with the melancholy odour of refined
white blossoms such as stephanotis, tuberose,
and lilies of the valley. There was music also in
a distant room, the voice of a violin in the cun-
ning hands of a poetic Italian, who made the in-
strument wail out the waltz-tune softly. Every-
thing was against Holdsworth. And Elma was
at his side, just a little breathless, the flowers on
lier dress a little crushed, and the lace rising and
falling rapidly. The moment was propitious for
the study of human nature, and Elma saw it in a
new phase.
Holdsworth was glancing at her sideways.
They were quite alone in the conservatory. The
path of virtue lay before him bright and smooth
just then.
"Elma," he said softly, "do you remember
years ago when the canal was full there were
boats upon it ?"
"Yes," she answered, wondering, "I remem-
ber."
" And once we had a large picnic in two boats
above Scar Lock."
"Oh yes, 1 remember, and you had a fight
with a little boy."
Holdsworth wondered uncomfortably whether
she recollected that the boy was considerably
smaller than himself.
A CREATURE OF IMPULSE i6i
"Yes," he said, "I was going to remind you
of that fight. Do you know that the quarrel
originated with you. 1 wanted to be in the same
boat as you. It is long ago, Elma. We were
quite little then, but the boy who wanted to be
near you is of the same mind still."
He stopped and laid his hand upon her wrist.
Elma experienced a sudden sense of chilliness all
over. There was an obstruction in her throat,
and she prayed inwardly that something might
happen suddenly — as it does in books — to pre-
vent him saying more. But nothing did happen.
The music went on, and there was a vibration in
the floor as of people dancing. In a dark corner
of the conservatory the monotonous drip — drip —
of a tap imperfectly turned made itself heard.
Holdsworth had taken her hand within his fin-
gers now.
"I know," he said, "that I have done little
good in the world. I have had a hard fight to
keep straight, for luck has been against me from
the very first. Every one has given a helping
push to the man who seemed destined to go
down-hill. The one thing that saved me, the
one thought that encouraged me was the re-
membrance of that little girl — the little queen of
my boyhood. Through hardship and danger,
through hope and despair, I have thought of that
little girl and wondered whether she remembered
the boy who fought for a place at her side.
When at last I saw the old country again, the
i62 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
golden heath and the placid old canal, the only
question 1 asked myself was, ' How will Elma
greet me? ' "
He was very earnest, but in the impulse of the
moment he was reeling off lies most impru-
dently. Elma also was of an impulsive nature,
but, strange to say, she was quite calm and
self-possessed now. She made no attempt to
release her hand from his grasp. His very ear-
nestness should have carried her away; the thrill-
ing tones of his deep voice so near to her ear
should assuredly have touched a maiden's heart.
But it must be remembered that Elma was no
longer a girl in her teens. No one, it is true, had
ever spoken to her in such tones as these before;
no one had held her hand in such a grip as this,
but there are some situations in life in which in-
stinct is infallible while experience is useless. A
young, heartwhole girl would have succumbed
to the man's power of wooing. Elma found
herself criticizing the sincerity of his words. To
some people the quick knowledge of wise action,
which is vaguely called presence of mind, only
comes when the danger is actually upon them.
For some time back Elma had, in her more
thoughtful moments, contemplated the bare pos-
sibility of this avowal, but Holdsworth's man-
ner had deceived her; his lightness of heart had
instilled a false confidence. And now that the
moment had come she was equal to the emer-
gency. She was actually thinking how she
A CREATURE OF IMPULSE 163
should word that which she had to say to
him.
Suddenly she rose; but he remained seated.
She stood in front of him and looked down at
his stalwart form. Strange to say his eyes were
averted instead of seeking hers. Again he re-
minded her of Samuel Crozier. No two men
could have been less like each other in nature or
face, but there was some subtle point of resem-
blance in the manner in which they held them-
selves — a suggestion of past discipline through
which both alike had passed.
" Willy," she said, gravely, "when I heard that
you had come back I was very glad indeed, be-
cause I thought that it would lead to the renewal
of an old friendship. If you say any more you
will shatter that friendship utterly, and nothing
can ever patch it together again."
"I suppose," he said, almost humbly, "that
you look upon me as a hopeless ne'er-do-well,
an idler and a vagabond — a sort of person in fact
whom no lady in her senses would ever think of
loving."
This appeal was clever. It had paid well upon
former occasions. He rose and stood beside her
with real and earnest dejection depicted on his
handsome face.
"No," she answered, "I suppose nothing of
the sort. It has never entered my head to pass
a mental judgment upon you or your doings. If
any of us had thought what you suppose, we
i64 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
would not have been insincere enough to assume
a friendhness we did not feel. If," she continued
with sudden contrition, " if 1 am to blame in this
. . . if, I mean, I have led you into any mis-
take 1 am very sorry."
He shrugged his shoulders in a deprecating
way, as if to imply that his own feelings were of
secondary importance, and yet to insinuate that
he had received no light blow. The movement
betrayed a certain knowledge of women and
their ways, for nothing appeals so strongly to
the female heart as its own sympathy drawn
"nolens volens" toward a strong man who
rather avoids than seeks it. By that slight shrug
William Holdsworth placed himself in this posi-
tion with regard to Elma. He was thus the
victim of a flirt — a simple straightforward man
deceived and ruined in happiness by a pair of co-
quettish eyes. And moreover he fully believed
it himself, for it is a part of some characters,
especially those that possess weakness and
strength strangely mixed, to deceive themselves
with even greater success than they deceive
others.
" 1 suppose," he said in a dreamy way without
looking at her; "1 suppose there is some one
else."
This cool supposition put forward m a vaguely
meditative way, not untinged with a hopeless
despair, was calculated to leave Elma in rather
an awkward position. It was distinctly a ques-
A CREATURE OF IMPULSE 163
tion, and yet she could not take it as such and
tell him tragically that he had no business to
ask it. If she treated it with silence the infer-
ence would be that the supposition was correct.
She looked down at her companion.
"I do not see," she said, "what that has to
•do with the question."
He was very much in love with her in his
way, and he could not quite persuade himself
that she did not love him. This latter is a way
we have in our masculine modesty. We cannot
fully realize that the young person whom we
honour with our youthful affections can do
otherwise than love us most consumedly. It
would only redound to her infinite credit and
good taste. This happy blindness, however,
lasts no length of time, and 1 am told that when
a man does win the love of a woman — the great,
glorious, unreserved love — his first feeling is one
of fear. He is thereafter divided between a
sense of his own utter unworthiness and a vague
uncomfortable feeling that he has got more than
he quite bargained for, or knows what to do
with.
Holdsworth was, however, untroubled by any
such misgivings as these. He was still in the
first happy period of conscious irresistibility, be-
cause perhaps he had never won the love of any
good woman. And although it would appear
that Elma did not love him yet, he was fully and
pleasantly convinced that it was only the matter
i66 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
of a little more time. Had he looked up into her
face just then he would assuredly have thought
twice over this conviction, or had he taken the
trouble to study a photograph of Elma which
was gradually fading in his mother's album he
might never have said the words that came
naturally to his lips. There is a pleasant and
harmless little theory (doubtless leading — as most
theories do — to nothing) that photographs are
more natural than they are usually considered.
If a man shows you a likeness of himself, and
the face delineated is that of a weak and vapid
person, custom and politeness bid you abuse the
sun and the artist. It is not the face you are ac-
customed to see. But it is just possible that you
have never seen the real face — only a mask; be-
cause masks are worn as successfully to hide
weakness as to conceal strength. The photo-
graph may cause you to think about your friend ;
may awaken suspicions or arouse questions; and
if it does, the result will be a verdict in favour of
the sun. Thus, fierce people who smile sweetly
upon the world will unconsciously assume a
ferocity of demeanour before the camera; and
people who possess a little square chin, like Elma
Valliant, will poke it forward, and impart a sense
of determination to their features which the soft-
est of eyes cannot counteract.
But Holdsworth had not studied the faded
photograph (which, by the way, had been con-
demned as a bad likeness), and was in total
A CREATURE OF IMPULSE 167
ignorance of that little square chin, which was
at this moment singularly noticeable.
"Well," he muttered doggedly, "I believe you
love me, and 1 simply won't take no. I shall go
on hoping, Elma, as long as I live."
"I will never," said Elma, with dangerous
calmness, ' ' be bullied or frightened into caring for
you. Surely you know me well enough to recog-
nize that."
She turned half way from him, and moved
toward the door, but before she had taken two
steps his arms were round her, crushing her
painfully. With sudden passion he kissed her
twice on the lips, and strange to say she made
no resistance. Then he released her with equal
abruptness. She stood for a moment, while he
looked down at her, breathing hard; then she
raised her gloved hand, and pressed back over
her ear a tiny wisp of hair that had escaped and
curled forward to her cheek. When at last she
spoke, there was in the tone of her voice a with-
ering contempt, a cool fearless despisal, infinitely
more cruel than the hottest indignation.
"You do not know," she said, "what love
is."
And without another word she left him, walk-
ing away quietly and without haste. In the
drawing-room she found her father standing
with his hands behind him watching the dancers
with his genial hearty smile, and slipping her
hand within his arm she stood beside him.
CHAPTER XVI
INTRUDERS
With inexplicable dilatoriness Tom Valliant
wasted his time at Saint Antony's. Some weeks
had elapsed since the publication of the book so
successfully illustrated by him, and its career was
assured. A second edition upon superior paper
with a view to doing better justice to the en-
gravings was already in hand, and offers of
work, and well-paid work, were showered upon
him. Artists of standing began to ask each other
whose pupil this new man was, where he had
acquired his art, and from whence he came, but
publishers asked no questions, they wanted to
secure his pencil, and not his past. These clear-
sighted readers of the public taste knew better
than to cavil at a man's work because it was the
emanation of genius, untaught callow genius,
instead of straightlaced talent. Some of them
even went so far as to oppose Samuel Crozier's
advice, boldly telling Valliant to shun all art
schools. The kingdom is plentifully stocked
with art schools. No small town is complete
without an establishment of this description,
duly connected with the head-centre in London,
No doubt the popular taste, the artistic feeling of
i68
INTRUDERS 169
the multitude, is raised by tiieir agency, hut da
these schools produce artists ? It would appear
not. Frenchmen come across — unwashed, un-
taught, merry Frenchmen, if you please — who
have never looked upon a plaster cast in their
lives with the intention of drawing it, and they
illustrate our newspapers as we cannot illustrate
them ourselves ! Italians — long-haired, melan-
choly Italians — come and hang upon the walls of
our exhibition-rooms pictures painted with a
delicacy and truth which make our best wielders
of the brush feel humble. Hard smoking Ger-
mans sit down in our engraving shops, and bend
over the Frenchman's drawing with a result infi-
nitely creditable. And the worst of it is that
these men are totally without artistic training.
Some of them, indeed many of them, have actu-
ally never been taught at all. The age is essen-
tially artificial, but are we not making a mistake
when we take it for granted that art can be
taught.? From the statistics of art schools as
regards their production of artists it would seem
that education kills instead of fostering this deli-
cate growth.
Tom Valliant did not deign to explain whether
he was guided in this matter by his would-be
publishers or his natural laziness; but he treated
all suggestions of study in a hopelessly jocose
spirit, which entirely killed any argument upon
the subject.
"In much study," he would say in a tone of
I70 THE PHANTOjM FUTURE
which the solemnity led many to believe that
they had been crushed by a Biblical quotation—
"is also great vanity! 1 am not vain, but as
long as people are willing to buy I am willing to
draw things as 1 see them."
He undertook to illustrate a story to be brought
out shortly in a magazine; began slowly, and
suddenly became interested in it, finishing in a
few weeks in such a manner as to make the
publisher come forward at once with a handsome
i3id for the monopoly of his pencil, which, how-
ever, he refused.
Withal his name was still upon the books of
St. Antony's Hospital, and he attended lectures,
and put in an appearance in the dissecting-room
in a desultory way. When questioned he
laughed carelessly, and talked of going on to the
€nd of the term, when he would see what turned
up. In his attendance at Myra's, however, he
was very regular, much more so than Sam
Crozier liked; but, like a wise man, the singer
made no comment — indeed he did not appear to
notice it.
" It seems to me," Syra said to him one even-
ing, in her neat, clipping way, "that you are an
adept at letting things slide."
Valliant had just left them, accompanied by
some rather uproarious friends, bent upon visit-
ing a transpontine music-hall of doubtful reputa-
tion, merely, he explained, with a view of study-
ing human nature in a new phase.
INTRUDERS 1711
There was no mistaking her meaning, and
Crozier did not pretend to. He smiled slowly in
answer to the thinly-hidden bitterness of her
tone, and looked at her with a quizzical tolerance.
But there was no answering smile in her eyes^
and the sad lips were firmly closed.
"I can't see why you do it," she added, im-
patiently.
He was smoking a cigar, which he removed
from his lips before leaning his elbow resignedly
upon the marble counter.
"Parables!" he said with mock humility^
"parables which this thick head cannot eluci-
date."
"Why did you let him go to that place to-
night.?" she asked, as she turned aside and
washed some glasses noisily. It almost seemed
as if the matter had a greater interest for her than
she cared to show. Crozier did not always un-
derstand Syra; she interested him greatly, and he
studied her at times with a kindly and tolerant
keenness. He frequently forgot that she was
only a barmaid — a creature whom you, the gentle
reader, would not expect to possess any human
interest at all, any feelings worthy of our virtu-
ous consideration, any thought above vapid
flirtation across the counter. Steeped in vice she
must of course have been to the tips of her pink
fingers, her calling vouched for that; a living;
decoy, her trade and profession was to entrap
the unwary, to lure innocent and confiding young
172 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
men to their destruction, and to sell her smiles
with the liqueur she handed across the counter, to
the highest bidder and the deepest drinker.
It was a strange friendship, and one, we all
know, infinitely discreditable to any one pre-
tending, as Crozier sometimes did, to the title of
gentleman.
Through the veil of mockery there peeped oc-
casionally something more serious. At times
there was a second meaning behind the "stac-
cato " abruptness of the girl or the man's tolerant
cynicism, and these tiny shafts of truth were
never lost. Thus they had learnt to know each
other very well, better perhaps than each in turn
suspected.
Samuel Crozier and Tom Valliant were, as
Syra had once said, different from the rest of the
frequenters of the little bar beyond the thick
curtain. This difference may have been a mere
creation of the girl's fancy (for even a barmaid
may possess imagination, poor soul!), but it is
certain that they occupied a different place in her
mind. The one with his grave good-breeding,
tiis suggested cynicism, and his quiet way of
telling home-truths; and the other with his ever-
lasting good spirits, his assumed chaff, and his
smiling mask were different in her imagination
in so much as they were credited with meaning.
The rest had no meaning — they were merely
Siappy, thoughtless boys, or improvident, reck-
fess men. Some instinct told the girl that there
INTRUDERS 173
was a purpose in these two friends — a purpose
and another life of which "Myra's" and their
present day-to-day existence formed no part.
They belonged to a diflferent world altogether.
From a hundred little incidents, a hundred pass-
ing gestures, momentary silences and veiled
glances she drew with the unerring insight of
her sex her own deductions. Though others
had not noticed it, the remembrance was patent
to her that never since they had first set eyes
upon each other had Samuel Crozier, in mere
reckless fun, or with that peculiar disguised
earnestness of his, addressed to her a word that
might have been turned into an expression of
love or admiration. On the other hand, Tom
Valliant was always doing so, but in such a man-
ner, with such lightness of heart and such merry
smiles, that there was nothing either offensive
or sincere to be understood or seized upon.
In this lay a greater part of the difference..
Crozier might inexplicably treat her at times a&
if she might have been a lady; Valliant might
bring her flowers and cast comically languish-
ing glances over the decanters; but Syra looked
through these outward manners and saw that
she was but a passing incident in their lives.
She saw, however, more than that. Depraved,,
lost, fallen as she might have been, she was a
woman still, and a woman in something more
than the baser instincts that prompted her to
bring out the daintiness of her cheeks by a touch
174 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
of rouge, to make the most of a perfect figure,
iind to wield such arms as she possessed without
quarter or reserve. She looked through the veil
which, although worn so differently, was of the
same texture, and what her lifeless, hopeless eyes
saw there was the shadow of another woman,
and illogically, without just cause or reason, she
had taken the thought into her head that the
shadow on both lives was cast by one form.
By way of reply Crozier shrugged his shoul-
ders. Presently, however, he vouchsafed an ex-
planation.
"1 allowed him to go, Syra, because I could
not stop him."
"Indeed. Because you could not stop him.
Not because you are one of the people who
habitually let things slide; who, rather than find
yourself involved in an argument, shut your
ears placidly to lies and let misery grow up all
.around you ?"
The singer rose from his seat and took up his
iirgumentative post before the fireplace leisurely,
•with his back against the corner of the iron
mantelpiece.
"No," he answered, "no. As you have done
me the honour of asking the question, I reply un-
hesitatingly that it is not because I shut my ears
and let things slide. Moreover, misery is a growth
which is quite natural, and I am informed even
necessary, to the existing state of things. I am
not interested in its cultivation at all."
INTRUDERS 175.
He allowed her some time to reply, but she
continued drying and placing upon the counter
in an inverted position certain small tumblers,
without showing any wish to continue the con-
versation in this channel.
"1 don't think, Syra," he murmured gravely,,
and with some meaning, " that my eyes are more
often closed than those of other people."
She raised her expressionless orbs to meet his
and closed her lips with a defiant twist to one
side. She was not afraid of him, and showed it
boldly. Before speaking she shook out the
damp glass-towel and laid it on the coffee-urn to
dry, all with a curving of rounded arms and
curling of pink lingers which was second nature
to her now.
"The atmosphere you breathe and the life you
live," she said, with mocking demureness, "are
hardly calculated to make you go about the
world with your eyes shut."
He looked up to the ceiling as if inhaling the
atmosphere of the room.
"No," he said innocently, and with a weight
of meaning.
" Oh," she said, " I speak for myself as well."
"Which," he suggested with a twinkle in his
deep-set eyes, " places me in good company."
"I doubt it," she said bitterly, and turned
away.
Presently he crossed the little room and took:
his seat on a high mahogany stool near the
176 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
counter. For some time he smoked slowly,
examining the quality of his cigar between each
puff.
" Syra," he observed reflectively at length,
•" Rome was not built in a day."
The girl was at the far end of the counter, idly
glancing at the columns of a newspaper.
"So I have been told," she replied, without
looking up. " But," she added after a moment,
^' I doubt whether it would ever have been built
at all if' . . ."
She broke off with a short, mirthless laugh and
turned the newspaper impatiently, afterward
placing both her elbows upon the counter and
bending low over it.
"I was going to be rude," she explained,
abruptly.
Crozier was looking at her in a speculative
manner, his deep-sunken eyes very grave and
sympathetic.
"Syra," he said, with quiet masterfulness,
^'the better I know you, the less I understand
you . . ."
"Oh, for goodness' sake," she interrupted,
"do not let us discuss me! You once told me
that it was bad taste, and worse than unprofitable
to discuss oneself or one's feelings with anybody
whomsoever."
"So I did," he allowed, with memory as
unerring as hers; "1 had no intention of bring-
ing forward the topic . . . you mention,
INTRUDERS 177
beyond insinuating in the most respectful man-
ner possible that it has either been my individual
misfortune to do or say something which has
displeased you, or some event has occurred to
worry you. If it is the former . . ." He
stopped, and taking the cigar from his lips,
threw it neatly into the fire. Then he slid off
his stool and went to the other end of the bar,
where he stood before her with his two hands
resting on the counter. " If," he repeated, "it is
the former, without knowing any details, I have
no hesitation in saying that the slight, or the
offence, was unintentional."
She moved nervously and laid her hand upon
the paper without, however, looking up. His
tone had quite changed, and the alteration
afforded her a glimpse of the other man — the
man of drawing-rooms, the well-bred gentleman
whose place was certainly not beside that marble
counter. It was a rare glimpse, and no one but
Samuel Crozier afforded it. She would rather
have remained in the darkness of her station —
rathei" have listened to his easy cynicism than the
softer tones which fell so easily from those trained
lips — rather have laughed cheerlessly than have
been oppressed by a nauseating lump in her
throat, which reminded her uncomfortably of
the days when she could weep.
"You are not perhaps aware," she said, while
continuing to study the advertisement columns
closely, " that people are talking about you."
178 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
He raised his eyebrows indifferently.
"What a calamity!" he murmured, with great
serenity. "May I inquire what 'people' are
pleased to say ? "
"It is the common talk of Saint Antony's that
Mr. Valliant is going to . . ."
"Let us say the 'dogs,'" suggested Crozier,
seeing her hesitation.
" Yes, the dogs, although that is not quite the
expression. And your name is frequently brought
in."
"As showing him the way ?" asked Crozier.
She nodded her head, but made no further re-
ply. He tugged at his mustache pensively — an
action very rare with him.
"That is the sort of thing," he was reflecting,
" that Varden will be only too delighted to tell
Holdsworth, and Holdsworth will be only too
delighted to pass it on."
Nevertheless he smiled at Syra's grave face.
" That cannot be helped," he said reassuringly.
" All will be put right in time. He is going to
leave Saint Antony's at the end of the term.
Once away from there it will be an easy matter
to drop its associations and form more profitable
friendships."
She saw the semi-grave meaning of the last
words, but chose to ignore it.
"He does not care a bit about any of these
men," she said, decisively. " He associates with
them, but thev cannot be called his friends."
INTRUDERS 179
**You have noticed that too, have you?" said
the singer, selecting a second cigar. "I bow to
the correctness of your judgment. He will prob-
ably go down into the country and stay with his
people. There he will come under a new influ-
ence, and a fresh incentive to work,"
The words were spoken with inimitable un-
consciousness. His careless attitude as he chose
a cigar and closed the case, preparatory to re-
turning it to his pocket, was that of a man who
■was not giving his whole mind to the subject of
which he was talking. The choice of a tobacco-
ieaf was at that moment of paramount impor-
tance. But Syra's dull eyes were not taking him
in as a whole. She disregarded utterly his atti-
tude; and the measured indifference of his voice
carried no conviction to her ears. Her entire at-
tention was given to his lips. During the course
of their disjointed, half-veiled friendship she had
discovered this weak point in his worldly armour,
and the habit had grown upon her of watching
the singer's thoughts, not through his impen-
etrable eyes, not in his strong manly way of fac-
ing joys and sorrows squarely and perhaps too
unimpressionably for a young man; but through
the motion or the stillness of his trained lips, for
it must not be forgotten that he was a profes-
sional singer.
"1 am sure," she said, "I hope it will be the
case."
"'It is bound to be so," he answered, reassur-
i8o THE PHANTOM FUTURE ♦
ingly, but very gravely. Then his manner sud-
denly changed, and at the same moment Syra
moved restlessly, and had Crozier looked up he
would have seen a dull patch of red beneath her
eyes which was not there a moment before.
Both had heard a voice in the outer bar wishing
Myra a good-evening in unusually quiet and sym-
pathetic tones.
"Come, Syra," said Crozier, a little hurriedly,
"this will never do; we are getting serious.
The future, and especially the future of some one
else, is not worth getting serious over. We two
should know that by this time. I must be off.
Good-night! "
He raised his hat-, drew back the curtain, and
confronted Wilson Leonard, whose arm was
actually stretched out toward the heavy folds.
Crozier nodded, as if the young doctor were a
regular habitue, and betrayed no surprise what-
ever as he passed on.
"Hallo, Leonard," he said, genially; "how are
you! I'm just off to the club to see the Paris
papers. Good-night, old fellow I"
CHAPTER XVII
syra's secret
There is a sad want of economy in everyday
life. It is like a very large book with a small
plot and few incidents. We take a long time to
do very little; in fact, to use a technical expres-
sion, there is too much padding. The real inci-
dents, the real crises, and the actual successes
and failures are of short duration. They usually
come and go in a few minutes with their attend-
ant emotions. The pleasure of a great success is
after all a passing joy. A man succeeds, and lo!
in a few weeks he is accustomed to success — it
thrills him no longer — its joy is dead. He longed
for success: it has come, and yet he is the same
man. He gets up in the morning, eats, works,
and sleeps again, as he did before. Eating is no
greater pleasure, sleep is no more restful, work
is no less monotonous.
Hope and regret are alone long lived. These
two are the padding of our lives, the fine writing
in the novel which goes on and on, from page
to page, with a few incidents thrown in here
and there to break the paragraphs. Hope is all
sweetness, and regret is bitter sweetness. In ex-
cess they clog the taste, just as too much fine
writing wearies the reader.
i8i
i82 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
To suit the hurried days in which we live the
novelette has been invented. Why can we not
live lifelettes! Reduce volume one by beginning
at the end of it: id est, at the end of childhood.
Scurry through volume two and reach the begin-
ning of number three. All the incidents could
be detailed in a few pages. I could reduce thirty
years to five, and get into that space all the joys
and sorrows, the hopes and aspirations, the suc-
cesses and the failures, the laughter and the tears.
No neglect of necessary detail would result, no»
scamped work. In that time the joys would be
thoroughly enjoyed; the sorrows treasured with a
certain melancholy pride; the hopes disappointed;
the aspirations crumbled to the ground; the suc-
cesses realized, and the failures recognized. And
all in a business-like, shipshape manner worthy
of a most practical and estimable generation. •
Poor, dear, slow old Nature is getting sadly be-
hindhand. Her system of managing human
affairs is effete. She must either work in more
incident or reduce her detail. We have too much
getting up and washing and dicing, and eating
and drinking, and going to bed again. When our
family bibles credited us with seventeen years we
were twenty-five, and instead of making up her
lost time Nature gets more and more behindhand
as life goes on.
Most assuredly Syra thought such thoughts as
these when Wilson Leonard left the little room
which v/as called hers, onlv half-an-hour after
SYRA'S SHCRHT 183
he had drawn aside the curtain to find himself
face to face with Samuel Crozier. Undoubtedly
some retlex of them passed through the young
doctor's anxious brain as he hustled his way
through the crowded humanity of midnight
Strand. Half-an-hour — thirty minutes out of all
the millions — but thirty containing more than
three thousand. That half-hour left them both
older; both wiser, the preacher will say; both
better . . . ivho shall say .^
When Crozier left the inner bar Syra turned a
pale set face toward the newcomer. Why had
Wilson Leonard taken to frequenting Myra's
again ?
And so they looked at each other for a brief
moment over the decanters, across the daintily
arranged counter. Dull lifeless eyes looking into
eyes that were too sympathetic, too kindly for
their possessor's happiness in a world where hu-
man sympathy is a hindrance.
Outside, in Myra's bar, there was the everlast-
ing sound of frizzling chops, spluttering kidneys,
and seething steaks. One or two male voices
were raised in altercation, and there was a laugh
— a single throaty laugh — occurring with weary
regularity at short intervals. Crozier, had he
heard it, would have said that the laugher was
supping at somebody else's expense. Years
afterward Leonard heard that laugh again in a
room full of gaily-dressed people, and it brought
back to his nostrils the sickening odours of cook-
i84 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
ing meat, damp sawdust, tobacco-smoke, and
beer. Before his eyes it raised a picture of gaudy
bottles rising in tiers to the ceiling, and before
them, amidst them, the most beautiful face he
had ever known. It recalled the dull eyes, where
life and a great hopeless misery were struggling
for mastery over an indomitable will; and into his
heart it poured a sudden flood of wretchedness
which overwhelmed all other feeling, quenched
all resistance, and made him for a moment no
better than a dead man.
Leonard raised his hat in silent salutation.
His lips indeed did move, but no words came
from them. The girl bowed her head slightly
and busied herself with some glasses. The si-
lence was becoming irksome.
" What can 1 give you.? " she asked, in a busi-
ness-like tone.
He looked round almost stupidly, and stooped
to examine a brilliant label on a whiskey-bottle,
in a singularly interested manner.
"Oh . . . I'll have some coffee, please."
She handed the cup in a careless, nonchalant
way, which was not calculated to forward Myra's
commercial interests.
"You have grown very abstemious," she said
lightly.
"Yes," he answered, stirring his harmless
beverage leisurely. "I have to be more careful
nowadays. I need all my steadiness and all my
nerve. They are my stock-in-trade."
SYRA'S SECRET 185
Her eyes, resting on him, were almost en-
dowed witii life, but she soon turned away and
went to the end of the counter, where she sat
down wearily.
" 1 once told you," he began in a critical way,
"years ago, when I was a student, that a couple
of years of this work would kill you."
" It is three years since you told me that."
" Yes ? " he murmured interrogatively. "Three
years ago, is it ? "
"And here 1 am still. 1 am not to be killed by
work it seems."
She spoke in a hard discouraging voice, as if
the subject were utterly distasteful; as if no pos-
sible end could be served by discussing it.
" As I came along just now," said Dr. Leonard,
looking into her eyes for the first time since he
had come in, "1 was wondering why you stayed
here."
"Ten shillings a week," she answered
promptly, "and all found!"
It was a splendid farce, but her flippancy was
not successful. She could not even laugh at it
herself. It fell very flat, and there was utter
misery in the air.
" I asked you once before," continued Leonard,
ignoring her explanation, "if you would let me
find you some other work — something easier and
quieter; and something less . . ." he hesi-
tated for a word.
"Degrading . . .?" she suggested. ,
i86 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"Yes," he said, looking at her gently — "de-
grading."
Beneath his gaze the girl turned away. He
came nearer to her, so that only the breadth of
the marble counter was between them. Stand-
ing there with his arms resting on the clear space
before him where no decanters were, he looked
down at her where she sat on an inverted,
mineral-water case. Her face was averted, her
hands were clasped together. She was almost
crouching at his feet — crouching gracefully in
her close-fitting black dress, with the beautiful
golden head bent and turned from his sorrowful
eyes.
It seemed that at last he had conquered — that
at last his stubborn manliness had triumphed over
her power of will.
"You have had many opportunities that I
know of for bettering your position. Many
better . . . places have been offered you.
You know you are far too good and . . .
for this sort of thing, and yet you stay. It can-
not be from love of the work — that is impossible.
You do not pretend to be devotedly attached to
Myra. Why do you stay ? "
She moved restlessly, drawing in one neatly-
shod foot and dropping her arms to her side.
"Ten shillings a week," she repeated, "and
all found,"
"Syra," he said gravely — the habit of calling
her Syra was still with him — "Syra. For
SYRA'S SECRET 187
heaven's sake don't copy Tom Valliant. Don't
throw away your life as if you had many to
spare. It is the only one you have. Is this ? ' —
he indicated the bar, the bottles, the smoke-be-
grimed room — "is this your idea of life. Do,
for goodness' sake, think what you are doing."
Suddenly she rose and glanced at the clock, in
obvious hopes that the theatre-goers would soon
be coming in.
" Oh! " she answered, with an impatient sigh,
"I am thinking what I am doing. I have thought
about it so much that 1 am sick and weary of the
whole business."
She turned her back upon him and dusted the
bottles with a worn feather duster.
"Then leave this place."
Then she threw away the duster and turned
upon him sharply, resting her two hands upon
the counter.
" Why.?" she asked, with flushed cheeks and
eyes that glowed for once. " Why do you take
it upon yourself to dictate to me ?"
"Because I love you," he answered simply.
"You know that. I told you three years ago,
and it is the same now as if I had told you every
day since. Every man has a right to try and do
something for the woman he loves. Is that not
so, Syra?"
Still she resisted, and in reply to his question
merely shrugged her shoulders.
Then he took her hand, pink from constant
188 THE PHANTOM FUTURE "
contact with warm water and damp towels,
moist from beer-drippings.
"Is tiiat not so, Syra ? " he repeated.
She made no attempt to draw her hand away,
but looked at it dreamily, as if comparing its
pinkness with his white slim fingers. No answer
to his question came, and presently he con-
tinued —
"If you will not tell me why you deliberately
throw away every chance, why you stay here
against the advice of everybody who takes any
interest in you — Crozier, Myra, myself — every one
• — I must simply draw my own conclusions.
You stay, Syra, to be near some one! Who is
it.;^"
She raised her head and looked at him. Her
lips were pressed upward and sideways with
that pathetic twist; there was defiance in her
eyes.
"You!" she answered, coolly.
For a moment he ceased to breathe, and when
at last he spoke there was a break in his voice
like a sob.
"Oh! '■ he exclaimed, in a low, unsteady tone,
" v/hat a muddle we have made of it! "
"No," she answered, "we have not. You
have made a mistake — a terrible mistake — in com-
ing back, that is all."
He slowly withdrew his fingers from round
hers, and moved away a few steps, where he sat
wearily down upon one of the high mahogany
SYRA'S SECRET 189
stools near the counter. He leant his elbow on
the marble, and pushing his hat on to the back
of his head, sat holding his forehead in silence
for some moments.
"Why.^" he asked. "Why have I made a
mistake ? "
She looked at him for some moments without
replying. Had he raised his eyes then he would
have seen the quivering tears in hers. He would
have seen the beautiful face transformed to some-
thing still more beautiful — purer, holier, loftier;
lightened by a glow, the pure and glorious illu-
mination of a great unselfish love. A dog can
love like this, can we — dare you — deny it to a
barmaid ? How pitifully small is the basis upon
which turns the axis of a human existence! Had
Leonard raised his eyes he could not have with-
stood the magnetism of her glance; he would
have asserted his manhood, the rights of his de-
votion. His greater passion would have con-
quered her noble resistance, and a splendid sur-
geon would have been lost to suffering humanity.
As it was he only heard her words, spoken in a
coldly modulated monotone.
"Surely you must know,'" she said, "that I
could never marry you. 1 have seen too much of
this . . . degrading . . . existence to be
able ever to settle down into humdrum married
life. I am too fond of admiration, too much ac-
customed to it, to live without it until — well,
until there is nothing left to admire. I should be
190 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
miserable in a year, and so would you. It is
only in books that such things come right. Mis-
ery and nothing but misery could ever come of
it, and you know it."
He shook his head without looking up, but it
w IS a wavering denial. He knew it, but what
could he do ?
"Could things be worse.?" he asked hope-
lessly.
"Yes, 1 think so," she replied more softly.
" I am sure of it. This . . . this wretched-
ness cannot go on long. In a few years it will
be all right. Something may happen — something
must happen. If we married we should find out
the utter folly of it in a year, and think of what
we should have to face then."
Like the proverbial postscript to a woman's
letter, the true thought, the inward secret motive
of her heart came last. She must have been
very sure of her power over herself and over the
man before her, or she would not have dared to
speak the words.
"Besides," she added, as she moved a little
and pretended to be attending to her duties — " be-
sides, you must think of your own family. You
must think of your career. It would be ruined.
The great absorbing desire of your life would be
•entirely frustrated if you married a . . .
a . . ."
"Syra," interrupted Dr. Leonard, "for God's
sake, don't be so hard upon yourself!"
SYRAS SECRET 191
" It is best to look things in the face," she an-
swered, in a dull voice. Then she broke into a
sudden laugh which was terrible to hear, it was
so utterly devoid of mirth, so hopelessly miser-
able.
"In ten years," she continued recklessly, " we
will laugh at all this."
He winced at the sound of her voice, it was so
cruelly harsh. Perhaps he realized for a moment
what a terrible struggle was going on behind that
laugh, but he never knew the full extent of it.
He could not. It was an impossibility for him to
realize what this girl was sacrificing for his sake.
She was right — of course she was right — in the
principle. They would not have been happy to-
gether; but who is? Who is entirely happy
when the glamour fades away ^ And it is cur-
rently supposed that a few years' rejoicing in that
glamour are worth the risk of what may follow.
Soft — so be it! Let us shrug our shoulders and
go on our way. We must live and understand it
not, grieve and comprehend it not, rejoice and
lose the joy. Our lives must be lived in a state of
semi-blindness, of wishing to see more, to under-
stand a little more the point of it all.
Syra's had been a joyless life. Beauty had been
given her, for what ? A great temptation — noth-
ing more. Intellect of a certain keen order had
been vouchsafed to her, to the furtherance of
what end } That she might have thoughts above
her station, that she might dream of better things
192 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
and realize that they were beyond her reach, that
she might raise herself from the lower rungs to
the glorious position of barmaid in a Bohemian
drinking den.
"Tell me, Syra," said the young doctor pres-
ently, " has it always been . . . me?''
"Yes," she answered simply, "always."
He rose from his seat and went nearer to her.
His eyes met hers over the arrayed glasses and
decanters.
"Then you must marry me," he said stub-
bornly, "and we will go away and try our luck
in some other country."
"No," she answered gently; "no, I will never
do that. I have heard the students talking of
you, and Mr. Crozier has told me what others say
of you. You have a splendid career before you —
follow it, and ... for heaven's sake don't
come here! "
But he merely shook his head.
"No," he answered, "1 cannot agree to that;
I must come until you give in or go away. You
don't know what torture it is to me, Syra, to
think that you are here, a prisoner from morning
till night, a slave who has to smile upon the first
comer and do his bidding. It ought not to have
lasted so long as this, but I never knew . . .
You hid- it from me too well. I thought it was
Tom Valliant."
"No," she murmured.
"Or Crozier," almost suspiciously.
SYRA'S SECRET 193
She ceased her occupation of arranging some
small coffee-cups and saucers upon a shelf behind
the counter, stopped abruptly, and left the task
half done.
"Oh no," she said slowly, reflecting gravely;
" I admire him very much. He is a better man
than he himself is aware of, which is very rare.
It was better, perhaps, that you should have
thought that 1 cared for him, because . . .
because it has made you what you are. I think
we are all the better for having met and come
under the influence, however slight, of Sam Cro-
zier."
She finished with a shadowy, pathetic smile, as
if half ashamed at the vehemence of her own
words, and at the same moment there was a sound
of mingled voices in the outer bar, accompanied
by approaching footsteps.
'*Here they come," she whispered.
"I am sure," he said hurriedly, lingering a mo-
ment, "that it will all come right in the end."
But there was no assurance in his voice, no
gleam of hope in his eyes.
" Why should it ? " she asked bitterly. "There
is no reason why things should come right. It is
so much easier for them to go wrong."
And he turned away from her, passing out of
the little room, sick at heart, with her hopeless
tones still ringing in his ears.
CHAPTER XVIII
FORTUNE SMILES
A FEW mornings later, Crozier was placidly
disposing of a very fair breakfast with the help
of a newspaper propped up against the coffee-
pot, when Tom Valliant appeared. The medical
student placed his hat gravely upon the head of'
a bronze statuette that stood upon the .mantel-
piece, and then sat down.
"Good-morning, Samuel," he said. Then he
raised the covers of one or two dishes with some
anxiety. " The cupboard is bare," he remarked,
regretfully.
" Yes; 1 have cleared things off a little; but of.
course you have had your breakfast."
"That is so," answered Valliant, as he drew
the coffee-pot toward him; "but nevertheless
. . . " — he raised the lid and sniffed the steam
that rose— "1 will drink your second cup for
you, just to demonstrate that our diplomatic re-
lationship is perfectly friendly."
"Will you have it in an egg-cup or the slop-
basin ? " asked Crozier, gravely.
"Slop-basin, please," replied Valliant. He
was searching busily in the breast-pocket of his
coat, and presently he produced a card.
194
FORTUNE SMILES 195
"Mrs. Abergeldie Gibb," he read aloud, with
much unction, "at home Tuesday, February the
twenty-first, from eight to twelve. Dancing.
R. S. V. P. Samuel Crozier, Esquire."
He laid the card aside, made a little bow, ac-
companied by a courteous gesture of the hand,
and added in a congratulatory tone —
" There you are, my boy! What do you think
of that."
Crozier took up the card, and examined it crit-
ically, while his companion stirred his coffee
with a table-spoon.
" Are you going } " he asked.
" That," answered Valliant, "is precisely what
1 don't know. There are many questions in that
one — wheels within wheels, as it were; notes of
interrogation inside notes of interrogation, till
the perspective is lost in a haze. Sugar, please!
First of all, axtyon going ? Secondly, is it worth
the long journey } Thirdly, think of the dissipa-
tion of the thing. Eight to twelve; twelve
o'clock! Midnight! Can .we stand it. Are our
constitutions equal to it ? Toast, please! "
" Mine is. Have some butter! "
Crozier rose from his seat and consulted a
small diary which lay upon the writing-table.
As he turned the pages he happened to glance
round, and found Valliant's eyes fixed upon him
with a certain questioning eagerness. ' There was
no trace of a smile upon his face now.
"Yes," the singer continued, after a short
iq6 the phantom FUTURE
search, "I am free on Tuesday the twenty-first.
I vote we go. What do you say ? "
"Oh yes," answered Tom, carelessly, while he
buttered a piece of toast. "Oh yes, we may as
well go. 1 don't think I should have gone alone.
I am not such an enthusiastic dancer as you, but
as you are free, let us go by all means."
Crozier closed the book and returned to his
seat. He looked inditTerent, and somewhat
dense; not at all the sort of person to be reflect-
ing that Tom Valliant sometimes overacted his
part — a little.
"By the way," he said, with sudden energy,
"I have some startling news — so startling that I
could hardly eat any breakfast."
Tom Valliant again looked under the covers
with some anxiety, and a weight of significance.
" Let us have it," he remarked pleasantly. " I
am strong — tell me everything."
The singer selected a blue envelope from
among his letters, which lay, methodically folded
and replaced within their covers, upon the break-
fast-table.
"I have had a singularly friendly letter," he
said, sarcastically, "from a firm of solicitors
whose name I have never heard of, to tell me
that my mother's brother has been removed — no
— I beg your pardon, has passed away. They
call him my dear uncle, but 1 have always under-
stood that he was rather a disagreeable old gen-
tleman. However, I am of a different opinion
FORTUNE SMILES 197
now — this letter has opened my eyes to his true
worth. He has not only left me a quantity of
family plate, but certain moneys duly invested
as per schedule, yielding an annual income of
. . . where is it ? , . , of two thousand
one hundred and seven pounds, ten shillings and
fourpence."
Valliant whistled softly.
"What an uncle," he murmured sadly; "what
an uncle for a fellow to have! Shake hands,
Sam, shake hands! It shall never be said that
Thomas Valliant forsook an old friend because
he was in altered circumstances — never! "
The singer shook hands gravely, and returned
to the perusal of the blue letter.
" One sugar-basin," he read aloud, "one cream-
jug, twelve large forks, twelve small forks, six
table-spoons, twelve tea-spoons, and a soup-
ladle."
Valliant nodded his head at each item, as if to
impress them upon his memory, and when his
companion folded the letter with an air of ex-
treme satisfaction, which was very cynical and
somewhat ungrateful, he looked grave.
"Well then," he said, "you are lost. The
coming season will see you drawn into a vortex
of well-dressed vice and fashionable wickedness
— vide lady-novelists who write from the seclu-
sion of Camberwell, where they study their sub-
ject over a penny Society paper. Scheming
mothers will quarrel over you, and in the privacy
198 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
of the ladies' cloak-room will say to their daugh-
ters, ' Now if that man Samuel Crozier is here —
the man with the fuzzy mustache and the bari-
tone voice— Jix him. 1 know for certain that he
has, besides what he makes by singing, two
thousand one hundred and seven pounds, ten
shillings and fourpence; twelve sugar-basins, six
cream-jugs, and a soup-ladle.'"
"But how do you know.?" asked the singer,
with a smile, "that scheming mothers have not
known my brilliant prospects all along ? How do
you know that 1 have not been 'fixed,' as you
gracefully put it, hundreds of times?"
Tom looked across the table at him with mo-
mentary gravity.
"Then it is not a surprise?" he asked.
"Not quite," was the answer; "I always knew
there was a chance of it."
"What a funny fellow you are!" observed
Valliant musingly, after a short pause, during
which he had lighted his pipe. "And you never
told me — I might have borrowed no end of
money from you. If it were not that I am my-
self rolling in the golden rewards of honest toil,
I should feel inclined to do so now."
"It is very good of you to say so," replied
Crozier, pleasantly, as he turned over the proof
pages of a new song which an enterprising pub-
lisher proposed (upon a financial basis) that he
should sing in public, and allow the fact to be
mentioned on the cover. After studying the
FORTUNE SMILES 199
score for some minutes he rose and tried the air
over with the piano, singing in an undertone
while Valliant smoked and watched him.
"I suppose," said the latter shortly, "that you
■will give up this sort of thing?"
Crozier swung round on the music-stool.
"What! — singing.? Not!. Nothing will make
me give that up."
"Well then," urged Valliant, earnestly, "you
will have to take a house, and marry one of those
eager-looking musical eccentricities who always
wear spectacles and a pencil, go to oratorios and
heavy concerts with a bundle of musical scores
under their arms, and — if report be true — never
fail to turn up when Samuel Crozier is going to
sing."
The object of this graceful flattery ignored the
pleasing suggestion. He had turned his back
upon his companion, and was playing the air of
his new song, softly.
"No," he said, "I thought of buying a yacht
— a yawl, 1 think. I might take the family plate
to sea and throw it overboard in a gale of wind
by way of lightening the vessel and removing the
responsibility of that soup-ladle from my bach-
elor shoulders."
" There is something in that," rejoined Valliant
gravely. "Honestly speaking, Sam, I don't like
that family plate — it is not natural, and it will in-
evitably lead you into ill-considered matrimony.
In my vivid imagination I see you already whis-
200 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
pering into the ear of some fair and well-seasoned
enslaver: 'If the devotion of a lifetime, in addi-
tion to one cream-jug, one sugar-basin, twelve
large forks and twelve small dittos, can do
aught toward a woman's happiness — Araminta,
they are yours; and there is also a soup-ladle! '
The soup-ladle would probably settle the mat-
ter."
"I think 1 would sooner sink the plate in the
yawl," said Crozier, with that pleasant smile of
his, which somehow never waxed into a laugh.
Had Syra, or some other comparatively speak-
ing (for most of us look inward instead of
abroad) observant person been in the room then,
or indeed at any other time when these two men
were together, it is possible that she would have
felt a peculiar tension in the atmosphere. Old
friends as they were, devoted friends and up-
right men, their position toward each other was
not honest. They were not at their ease, and
each showed it unconsciously in the way and
manner that belonged to his character. Tom
Valliant with a gaiety and lightness of heart
which were the outcome more of habit than of
nature. At times it was utterly false, devoid of
humour, and to an acute listener terribly sad.
Nature had in her bounty given him a light heart
and a cheery courage — which is human sunshine;
but one felt that this everlasting "badinage, "this
subtle fear of gravity, had some meaning, and
the meaning could only be that Fate had chosen
FORTUNE SMILES 201
to spoil Nature's good work. The light heart
was fighting beneath an overwhelming weight.
And Crozier! The singer was never intended
for a humourist. He was formed of good and
solid material such as can be shaped into a brave,
man, intellectual enough for most purposes^
genial enough to become a favourite and a true-
friend, and strong, self-reliant, purposeful, suf-
ficiently to win the love of a good woman, and
never let her regret her choice during all her life.
His quizzical cynicism, which had no real bitter-
ness in it, was the fruit of circumstances; und-er
it he hid such softer qualities and virtues as are
best concealed from a preying and covetous
world.
It was therefore somewhat pathetic to see him
(labouring under the disadvantage of his greater
thoughtfulness) endeavour to keep pace with his
friend's lighter vein.
As a rule they were excellent companions.
They had many topics in common, many mutual
interests, and all could be discussed openly and
freely, with one exception. The mention of
Goldheath brought about that strange tension
which was felt by both, though each concealed
the feeling as well as lay in his power. There
are some things which are better left unexplained.
We talk of the ravelled web of human life which
is one day to be disentangled, we whisper of
mysteries which will be cleared up in the Here-
after; but let us hope that everything will not be
202 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
touched upon in that great clearing up of human
mistakes, the final explanation of things that are
dark and meaningless to us now. Let us hope
that many sleeping dogs will be allowed to lie.
There are a thousand unexplained things in every
life which, although they may never be forgotten
and may influence the entire existence of several
persons, are better left untouched. Among these
there is of course a large majority which might
very easily, and some people think, very profit-
ably, be exclaimed now — from lip to ear, or with
pen and paper; but such frankness, such honesty,
and such idiotic plain-spokenness would only
serve to make our threescore years and ten a
greater muddle than they already are.
Reticence is not usually classed among the
standard virtues. It occupies a somewhat dis-
tressing position midway between them and the
rabble of minor vices. With an adjective before
it in praise or blame, it can be made to serve as
either, but the position is ever a false one. It
ought originally to have been elected boldly to
the higher place, and much doubtfulness of mind
would have been spared us, while a clearer line
might have been drawn between connivance at a
mistake and unvarnished falsehood.
Perhaps reticence has never had its due recog-
nition, because in many instances it is a mere
habit, with all a habit's power of growing and
increasing until it is nature. Samuel Crozier was
by nature a reticent man; with Tom Valliant the
FORTUNE SMILES 20}
quality was a habit acquired from association
with one whom he admired and respected as he
admired and respected no other human being
upon earth.
They both felt this dull embarrassment, which
was hardly visible, but existed nevertheless at the
mere mention of Goldheath. The feeling was
less intense, perhaps, with Crozier than with Val-
liant, because the sailor possessed a greater power
of self-control, and there is no doubt that the ex-
ercise of this power over any particular emotion
or sense is liable in time to deprive that sense of
existence; but his observation was keener, and
Valliant's least glance or movement was rarely
lost. Thus they had gone on for years, without
ever approaching nearer to an explanation, and
now it was too late. The habit had grown too
strong, the silence too sacred. But, despite what
may be said about frankness and plain-speaking,
1 maintain that they were better thus. It was one
of those instances where the explanation had bet-
ter never be given, for is not a friendship with
but one flaw in it superior to one that is broken
up ? Had either of them spoken with a view of
dispelling the cloud that rose at times, things
never would have been the same again.
Of most things they talked freely enough, and
Valliant was frequently confidential respecting his
own affairs; but Goldheath and the doings there
never came under discussion. When they left
its broad, hospitable door the subject was by tacit
204 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
understanding shelved. Men have this way of
doing things more frequently than women. Some
there are who go through life without ever dis-
cussing an unsettled point even with father,
brother, or dearest friend, and the question is
never answered with earthly lips, never seen with
earthly understanding. Crdzier never thanked
Valliant effusively for procuring him directly or
indirectly an invitation to Goldheath at a time
when acceptance was permitted by his engage-
ments, and Tom expected no such thanks.
It would have been natural when travelling to-
gether from or to Goldheath to speak of past or
anticipated pleasures there, but no such words
fell from either of them. There were plenty of
other subjects possessing mutual interest, and on
these they conversed until their minds were fully
occupied by other thoughts, and Goldheath was
laid aside or forgotten.
As Valliant rose to go when Mrs. Sanders had
with miraculous rapidity cleared away the break-
fast things, a few words were spoken with ref-
erence to Mrs. Gibb's invitation, which they ar-
ranged to accept separately, while Tom wrote to
Mrs. Valliant, intimating that they would take ad-
vantage of her hospitality expressed in a letter re-
ceived by him.
"Of course we will go to Goldheath to dine
and sleep?" said Valliant, interrogatively, as he
drew on his gloves carefully.
Crozier was standing before the fire smoking a
FORTUNE SMILES 205
wooden pipe, while his hands were thrust into
his pockets.
"Yes," he said briefly. "Is it necessary for
me to write, or will you accept for both ? "
"I will write — that will be enough."
Valliant moved slowly across the room toward
the door. Crozier continued smoking and staring
into the fire.
" G'morning, Sam," said the medical student.
Crozier turned and looked over his shoulder,
but Valliant was already out of the room, and the
door was slowly swinging on its ancient and
noiseless hinges.
"Good-morning," he called out.
Then he walked to the window and stood look-
ing out. Valliant crossed Lime Court without
glancing back, and passed through the narrow
doorway leading westward toward the Strand.
"I thought," muttered the singer, without
taking the pipe from his lips, "that there was
something from . . . Goldheath as soon as
he came in!"
CHAPTER XIX
A SHADOW FORECAST
Syra had in no way exaggerated matters when
she told Crozier, in her abrupt, neat manner, that
the world was pleased to consider that his influ-
ence over Tom Valliant was not exactly beneficial.
But she had put rather a different emphasis upon
the words, and so altered the meaning into a de-
cided expression of condemnation.
It was not considered in Syra's world a very
disgraceful proceeding to go to the bad. So
many had done it, and having reached that mystic
bourne appeared sufficiently well-to-do and quite
happy, that there was almost a sense of merit in
it. Vice most certainly has a subtle fascination
for women and very young men. All Saint An-
tony's students admired, in a way, the out-at-el-
bows scamps who frequented Myra's whenever
they possessed the price of a beverage; and there-
fore, when it had been said that Tom Valliant
was going to the "dogs," and that Sam Crozier
was in no way attempting to stop his career, there
was no virtuous ring of horror in the remark.
"Sam — dear old Sam," was different from
other men. He could do things which other men
could not do — associate with questionable char-
206
A SHADOW FORECAST 507
acters without any one thinking the worse of
him — frequent questionable places without being
noticed there. Outward influence never moved
him. But Valliant was different. Unconsciously
prominent, he did not possess the happy faculty
of passing anywhere unnoticed. His escapades
were talked of, his name freely passed from lip
to lip, while no one took the trouble to inquire
whether Crozier had been there or not.
When Tom Valliant first came to Saint Antony's
it was distinctly and openly under the wing of
Samuel Crozier, who was known to many of the
students, notably to Wilson Leonard and other
older men, who were studying a special subject
without attending every lecture. Crozier and
Valliant had been seen together at all times and
in all places, with the usual result of associating
their names together in men's minds. Where
Crozier was, Valliant might be expected to come,
and vice versa. But this had not lasted long be-
fore the singer deliberately adopted another course.
He saw that Valliant's daily existence was in
many details a very different life from that of a
professional singer. The hours of sleeping and
waking were for the student different from his
own. While his own days were leisurely if not
exactly idle, Tom's were busy, and the night was
required for rest. However he looked at it, from
whatever side he asked the question in his own
mind, Crozier recognized the fact that too close a
friendship with himself was not conducive to the
2o8 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
ultimate benefit of the young fellow tacitly con-
sidered to be under his protection.
He therefore drew back imperceptibly, accepted
engagements to sing in provincial towns, and
eschewed the society of Saint Antony's men. In
a word, he withdrew his influence, from a mod-
est assumption that it was likely to do more harm
than good. But the old association of the two
names held good, and casual observers saw no
difference.
About this time a great change came over Tom
Valliant, who was now in his second year. He
suddenly became a leader instead of being led;
and moreover, he who had been rather quiet and
thoughtful, was the first among the noisier and
gayer of Saint Antony's students.
Crozier noticed this, and concluded that it was
the natural result of association with men of
lighter stamp and a more congenial age than him-
self. But among these new companions there
were some whom the singer did not like — such
men as Walter Varden — and when it was too late
he endeavoured to regain his influence over
Valliant. However, as previously stated, Valliant
had in the meantime changed, and the attempt
failed signally.
Thus Samuel Crozier found himself in the pain-
ful position of being morally responsible in the
eyes of the world for the misdoings of a man
over whom he could not attempt to exercise
influence without incurring the risk of losing his
A SHADOW FORECAST 209
friendship. However, the singer did not attach
much importance to the world's opinion, and
being himself content that Valliant was not going
to the bad, and never would, he merely watched
matters from a distance, without interfering or
thrusting himself forward in any way, when he
had once discovered that his intluence was pow-
erless.
He saw and knew the better side of his friend's
life, while to Syra the worst only was presented,
and it was therefore only natural that she should
treat the matter more seriously and upbraid the
patient singer for his apparent indifference, which
she did freely and sincerely whenever she had
the opportunity. Indeed this was the only sub-
ject which was discussed by them with gravity.
Syra's exhortations did not, however, lead him
to deviate from the course he had laid out for
himself, much as he respected her judgment and
appreciated her sincerity.
These two may at times have failed to under-
stand each other, but there was on the other hand
a singular lack of ////^understanding. Both rec-
ognized the presence in the other of some few
thoughts and a stray motive or two which were
hidden from all; and these, both in turn respected.
Neither attempted to fathom the other; there was
too much mutual respect for that, absurd as it
may seem to apply such a word to a barmaid.
Thus Crozier never quite understood Syra's inter-
est in Tom Valliant; that it was sincere he never
210 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
doubted, and that it was without afterthought he
was convinced. Beyond that he knew nothing.
The girl's words were not entirely lost upon
him when she told him that his own name was
coupled with Valliant's in a manner likely to
come to the ears of his family, with the usual
kindly additions of such imaginations as it might
touch in passing from mouth to mouth. He had
told Elma that his influence over Tom was for
no good, but she had chosen to disbelieve him.
If, now, the same opinion came to her from an-
other quarter she might be shaken in her disbe-
lief, and this scepticism had been very pleasant
to the singer.
One evening, a few days after Syra had spoken,
Crozier conceived the idea that he had neglected
Tom Valliant of late. That strange mutual em-
barrassment which arose whenever the topic up-
permost in both their minds was broached, had
not of late decreased, and this perhaps led to a
slight mutual avoidance. In fact, the friends
were drifting away from each other, as men do
when a woman's shadow comes between. There
was nothing definite, nothing tangible beyond
that vague embarrassment, and instead of lessen-
ing their mutual affection it added to it. It was
not indifference that caused them to drift apart,
but increased affection and the shadowy forecast
of an unavoidable sorrow.
With these indefinite thoughts struggling for
mastery in a mind which would n.ot allow itself
A SHADOW FORECAST 2:1
to think, Samuel Crozier pushed his way through
the crowd that surrounded the stage-door of a
great concert-hall, and bent his steps toward
Myra's. The evening had been a brilliant one,
and his clear steady voice had as usual proved
true to his desire, and quite indefatigable. He
never seemed to take a note that caused him the
least exertion, and he never made a mistake.
The rich harmony vibrated from his lips over the
heads of the audience with a wonderful fluency
and ease, while to him it was a pleasure in which
no tricks of art could be detected.
As a rule he went straight home when his
work was done, or at the most called in at a club.
Of late . he rarely went to Myra's, where his ab-
sence was scarcely commented upon. Success-
ful men were in the habit of dropping their ac-
quaintance with the little meeting-place, which
was, as Tom Valliant once remarked, essentially
a depot for " returned-empties " ; and it was only
natural that Sam Crozier should follow the uni-
versal custom.
To-night he was going to Myra's, and he knew
that Syra's words were drawing him thither.
Tom would be there, and into Tom's life he was
determined to force himself again.
A few yards from the door he met Walter Var-
den, who was hurrying in the opposite direction.
The medical student stopped short when he
saw the singer, and recognized him in the yellow
light of an open shop-window.
212 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"Hallo, Crozier!" he said, rather breathlessly.
"Going to Myra's ? They want you there.
Hell of a row going on ! A couple of German
fellows have found their way into the inner bar
somehow. The men did not like it, of course,
and when they began making up to Syra things
began to look black. Then one of them said
something to the other about her in German, and
Valliant flared up. He understood it, it appears,
but nobody else did. I think there is going to be
a scrimmage."
Crozier moved away a step or two.
"So," he said, in a withering undertone, "you
have discovered a convenient engagement else-
where!"
He walked rapidly on, and only partially heard
Varden, who was left explaining to the lamp-
post that he "er . . . er he had to meet a
fella."
As the singer passed through the outer bar,
Myra looked into his face with a ludicrous mix-
ture of anxiety and bewilderment written upon
her round features.
" Oh, Mr. Crozier," she exclaimed, asthmatic-
ally, "I don't know what they're doing inside at
all. I'm afraid they're quarrelling! "
Through the folds of the curtain came, how-
ever, only the sound of one voice — the light tones
of Tom Valliant, with an uncomfortably strained
ring in its lower pitch.
"I'll count six," he was saying, "and at
A SHADOW FORECAST 213
the word six out you go! . . . One . . .
two . . ."
And Crozier drew back the curtain. He took
in the whole situation at a ghmce. The two
Germans were standing with their backs toward
him at the top of the two steps, while Tom
Valliant stood before them pomting toward the
curtain. His face was not only colourless — it
was livid, and there was in his dark eyes a
steady, cruel glitter.
"Three . . ." he uttered harshly, as Crozier
passed into the inner room, allowing the curtains
to fall together behind him.
Both the foreigners were bigger men than
Valliant, and undoubtedly more powerful. They
were hesitating painfully before that bloodless
face. It was braver to be a coward then ; and
to their credit it must be recorded that they did
not fear the man so much as the possible con-
sequences to himself of this wild rage. Thai
was the cause of their hesitation whether to go
or not. Crozier had no time to judge, no mo-
ment in which to consider whether the foreigners
were to blame for an ungentlemanly act which
warranted Valliant's indignation, or whether they
had merely trespassed against the customs of a
strange country through ignorance or heedless-
ness, just as we Englishmen trespass against the
customs of every land wherein we travel.
Without a moment's hesitation he placed him-
self between Valliant and the intruders, an ac-
214 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
tion which no other man would have dared just
then.
"Out of this!" he said, in a dull, hard tone.
" Out of this at once! "
Valliant was grasping the counter with one
slim hand, the other was pressed to his side as if
to quell a sudden pain. He stepped forward,
and stood side by side with his friend, but said
no word — made no attempt to interfere. Crozier
had taken up the quarrel where he had been
forced to drop it, without inquiry, without a
shred of justice perhaps; but he was content
that it was Tom Valliant s quarrel, and took
upon himself the responsibility of carrying it
through in his masterly, self-restraining fashion.
There was a half-emptied tankard of beer upon
the counter, and with his soft fat hand the German
pointed to it.
"But," he argued, "I have not paid for my
drink!"
"1 will pay for your drink," replied Crozier,
with a short, disagreeable laugh. "Out you
go!"
The foreigners both smiled in a sickly way,
and he whose quarrel it was shrugged his
shoulders and stretched out his hands toward the
tankard, but Crozier was before him. He did
not hurl the metal cup to the ground, or spill a
single drop of its contents, but he drew it calmly
away.
The German looked quickly round the room.
A SHADOW FORECAST 215
There were half-a-dozen men present who stood
idly watching, and into the Teutonic mind there
entered no gleam of intelligence to explain their
idleness; he had no conception of the meaning of
the word " fair-play," and never imagined that a
difference in numbers would be respected. In
his calmer moments this difference had restrained
him, but now he lost sight of it.
" My beer," he said, doggedly, holding out his
hand, " Give me my beer! "
And there followed a few muttered words in
guttural German.
" Be careful! " said Crozier, with singular soft-
ness. " 1 understand German."
The foreigner looked into the stalwart singer's
face, and something there drove the colour from
his cheeks, while his hand dropped to his side.
"My friend counted as far as three," con-
tinued the Englishman. " 1 will go on where he
left off . . . Four . . ."
There was no ring of passion, in this voice,
but its gentleness was even less pleasant to
listen to.
Then the foreigners shuffled restlessly with
their feet, and the younger man, who had not
hitherto spoken, muttered a few pacific words
and touched his friend's sleeve. Before Crozier
could say "five " they were gone, and the heavy
curtains hung motionless.
There was for some seconds an awkward
stillness in the little room, which was ultimately
2i6 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
broken by a squarely-built middle-aged man,
who came forward with his hands in his pockets,
and looked critically at the steps leading down
into the outer bar. This man was a poet, more
or less successful, very lazy, and a noted big-
game hunter.
"That would have been an awkward fall,
Sam," he said critically, "for Germanicus to go
down backward. 1 saw you measuring the dis-
tance with your eye."
Crozier laughed in a constrained manner.
"Yes," he said, "beastly place to land on the
back of one's head."
" 1 expect," said some one in the background,
" that Sam's ocular measurement settled the mat-
ter. Deutscher saw the evil glance, and thought
of his mother."
In Syra's sanctum men laughed easily, and
under cover of the merriment that followed this
graceful sally, the singer met the girl's eyes fixed
persistently on his face. Although breathing
somewhat hurriedly, as could be seen by the
rise and fall of her close black dress, she was
apparently attending to her duties with a
customary calmness. But when she caught
Crozier's glance a momentary gleam of life
passed across her face. Her eyes and lids said
to him quite plainly —
"Take him away! "
With an almost imperceptible nod he reas-
sured her, but carefully avoided looking toward
A SHADOW FORECAST 217
Tom Valliant, who was sipping his weak whis-
key-and-water with a faint and slightly embar-
rassed smile.
"Syra," he said aloud, in his usual semi-ban-
tering tone, "have you any of that tepid and
opaque coffee for which you are justly celebrated
at this time of night, because 1 should like
some ? "
She tossed her head with mechanical sauciness
and an appropriate smile, as she drew the de-
sired beverage, clear, and brown and hot from
the urn.
"Some people," she said, as she handed him
the cup, and pushed sugar-basin and cream-jug
toward him noiselessly, neatly, rapidly, "are
never satisfied."
"No," chimed in a grave journalist, who, be-
ing an Irish Roman Catholic, wrote for a Metho-
dist weekly organ. "No, I expect when Sam is
placed among the baritones in the heavenly
choir, he will complain that his halo is a misfit."
"And," suggested a star of the comic-opera,
mischievously, with his nose in a long glass
which contained nothing more poisonous than
lemon squash, "and will refuse the engage-
ment."
This was a decided hit for Crozier, and was
accordingly well received. The laugh was very
much against the singer, and he smiled with
quiet appreciation of the situation.
And so the conversation went on. Not very
2i8 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
brilliant, you will say; not worthy of the un-
questionable talent possessed by some of the
speakers; not such as a man like Samuel Crozier
— who possessed the elements of good son^e-
"where hidden in his being — should take part in.
Nor was the object difficult to reach. Near the
counter Tom Valliant stood white and dazed.
At times he sipped his whiskey-and-water in a
peculiar, slow way; waiting after each mouthful,
as if it were a question whether he could swal-
low it or not. He was breathing hard, and his
left hand was still pressed to his side.
And so they laughed and talked nonsense,
heeding him not until he was partially recovered,
when Crozier announced his intention of moving
homeward, as he was tired out.
"Coming, Tom.^" he inquired, casually.
■"Come and have a pipe in my rooms."
And he waited, so that Valliant could not but
accept. As they passed through the curtained
doorway together, Crozier took his companion's
arm in a friendly, affectionate way, which they
all knew was quite unlike his reserved habit.
CHAPTER XX
DIPLOMACY
Neither spoke for some time, not indeed until
they had left the noisy region of the Strand.
Then Tom broke the silence. He had evidently
noticed his companion's sudden display of affec-
tion, which had taken the form of linked arms.
"I hope, old fellow," he said lightly, "that
you are not under the impression that I am in-
toxicated."
If Crozier laughed there was no sound in his
laughter; but the tone of his voice when he re-
phed was such as would have led one to the
belief that he was smiling — no doubt at the
absurdity of his friend's notion.
"No, 1 should say you were as sober as a judge»
There is no visible tendency to poor steering."
No other words passed between them before
they reached Lime Court. Crozier opened the
door with his latch-key. Valliant went in first,
and, having climbed the stairs slowly, passed into
the sitting-room before his friend, turning up the
gas and throwing his hat on to the piano, while
the singer followed and closed the door — just as
they had done hundreds of times before.
"Whiskey — water — biscuits — baccy, " said the
219
220 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
host, with monosyllabic hospitality, as he placed
the articles mentioned upon the table.
There were half-a-dozen unopened letters upon
the writing-table near the window, and these
Crozier took up and brought forward beneath the
gas. Then he proceeded to open them without
anticipation or curiosity, as one learns to open
business letters.
Presently Tom, who had been thoughtfully
munching biscuit after biscuit, looked up with
his sunny smile.
"That German deserved chucking out," he
said tentatively.
Crozier was reading a letter with a slight con-
traction of the eydids amounting almost to a
frown, and he looked down over the paper with-
out relaxing his features.
"Um . . . eh .^ Oh, yes — he deserved
chucking out."
"Because," continued Tom, without appear-
ing to notice his friend's absence of mind — "be-
cause he was sober. Had he been half-seas over
J would have forgiven him."
Crozier agreed vaguely in an unintelligible
monosyllable, and turned toward the writing-
table, where he opened his small diary of en-
gagements. Clearly he did not wish to discuss
the incident of Syra's sanctum — the subject had
no interest for him, and he was nervously desir-
ous that Tom should forget about it as soon as
possible.
DIPLOMACY 221
He came forward again into the middle of the
room, with the letter still in his hand.
"Here is a piece of bad luck," he said, with
singularly little sign of regret or disappointment
in his voice. "An afternoon concert on the day
of Mrs. Gibb's dance."
Valliant looked up sharply. Then he shrugged
his shoulders and took a bit of biscuit.
"Oh, hang the afternoon concert! "
"1 cannot hang it, my boy," said Crozier, with
a smile. " 1 must go and raise my angel voice —
by special request of Royalty!"
" By special request . . ." exclaimed Tom/
neatly catching the letter which his companion-
threw toward him. "Oh, lor . . . Royalty*
1 think I should like to go home at once. You
are getting too great a swell altogether for me,
Sam."
Crozier stood with his hands in his pockets,
thinking deeply, while his companion read the-
letter.
"Yes," said Tom, after a moment's silence,
"your little hash is settled — to use a vulgar but
expressive simile. You will have to sing or flee
the country."
Then the result of Crozier's meditations came
forth.
" I will tell you what I will do," he said, prac-
tically. " I will sing my song, and then bolt for
Waterloo in time for that train we went down
by once — the five . . . something . . .
222 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
which gets down in time for dinner at seven. I
will be dressed, so that 1 shall be ready for any-
thing. You will go down earlier ? "
Tom moved in the deep armchair and crossed
his legs. He had quite recovered his usual faint
pink colour now, and was smiling meditatively.
"Yes," he said, "that will do. If — Men
entendii — you think it worth your while."
Crozier yawned.
"Oh yes," — politely — "of course it is worth
my while. I suppose we need not come up by a
very early train the next morning. Will you go
down on the day of the dance, or sooner still ? I
should, if I were you. It is ridiculous troubling
about Saint Antony's; you will never be a
doctor."
Tom laughed in his silent, infectious way.
"Not if I am aware of the fact," he confessed,
in a low tone.
"Then why attend these beastly lectures?
Why learn a lot of things which are not only
useless but unpleasant, and can do you nothing
but harm ? Surely there is nothing to be gained
by investigating human misery, and it ought not
to be an amusement for any man."
Valliant laughed in his most flippant and ag-
gravating way, but made no reply.
"It would be much better for you to get out
of all this," continued Crozier, unabashed and
quite undaunted by his companion's merriment.
** What is the good of your frittering away your
DIPLOMACY 22}
time between St. Antony's and Myra's, doing ab-
solutely no good ? You ought to be down in
the country living a quiet, healthy life, and draw-
ing from morning till night, out of doors if pos-
sible."
Valliant was still smiling, but there was a little
unsteadiness in his lower lip — so trifling that his
companion did not notice it. He remained silent.
"It is not only from that point of view that
the fact is evident that you should get out of this,
Myra's — is not what it used to be, Tom. The
ragamuffin element is on the increase, and the
medical on the wane. The best men from St.
Antony's don't go there now. It does a fellow's
reputation no good to be known as an Jiabttite."
" Does that matter ? " — unsteadily, with a touch
of bitterness.
"Yes," answered the singer very gravely.
"It does. It matters very much."
His pipe was in his mouth, but the tobacco was
not lighted. From his pocket he drew a small
silver match-box, and shook it tentatively, only
to find it empty. Then he went to the mantel-
piece, where a larger box stood always fulL
Slowly he proceeded to fill the smaller one with
great deliberation, dropping each match in sepa-
rately. As he did this he spoke in an even, specu-
lative voice.
"I have always thought that a man's reputa-
tion is a thing which he should keep clean and
bright for the edification of his women-folk
224 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
, . . It matters to you, Tom, what people say
and think, because . . ." He broke off in
order to light his pipe, and apparently forgot to
complete the sentence. " For me it is different,"
he added, as he threw the match away.
" I suppose," murmured Tom, by way of filling
up an awkward silence, "that it will be all the
same a hundred years hence."
"No," corrected Crozier at once, "that is pre-
cisely what it will not be. It will be quite differ-
ent. There again is a distinction between us. 1
have a certain power now over people; I can
make them pay seven-and-sixpence for a stall in
St. James's Hall, or the Albert Hall; I can even
make them shed a furtive tear when they are in
the stall; but in a hundred years there will be ab-
solutely nothing left — no shred of memory. An
old song here and there, brown and musty, will
record that it was sung by Crozier; and some one
idly turning the forgotten music will perhaps
wonder for a moment who Crozier was and how
he sang. But with you it is quite another matter.
If you choose, you can be a living, speaking in-
dividuality to generations not yet born. Your
drawings can teach them to understand the poetry
of an age which has faded from living memory."
"But," suggested Tom, half seriously, "I
don't care a hang for generations yet unborn. I
am afraid that 1 am not thinking of them."
Crozier looked down at him quietly. He was
standing in his favourite position on the hearth-
DIPLOMACY 22^
rug, with his shoulder against the corner of the
mantelpiece and his hands in his pockets.
"No more am I," he said gently; "no more
am I, Tom! I am thinking of you."
Valliant looked up quickly and almost furtively.
It was the glance of a man who, possessing a
secret, fears that it has long been discovered ; but
Crozier's smile reassured him.
" Yes," he said, wearily, "I know you are, old
man. There must be many more profitable sub-
jects to think about."
He rose and took his hat, turning toward his
friend with a sunny smile.
"Come," he said, lightly, "we are getting
serious, which will never do. It suits neither
of us. I cannot do it at all, and when you try
you only become dull and uninteresting. 1 am
desperately sleepy, and so will make a graceful
exit."
Crozier did not move, so Valliant crossed the
room toward him, holding out his hand.
" Good-night, Sam."
"Good-night! "
Crozier allowed him to go as far as the door
before he spoke. Then he raised his voice a
little, and the words fell very clearly from his
lips.
" If you should go down earlier to Goldheath,"
he suggested, "I can bring any flov7ers, or things
you may require."
"Flowers . . . ? Oh ves! Yes, you
226 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
might do that, Sam — if it is not giving you too
much trouble. I had forgotten about flowers,
though of course they have them down there, but
not the proper sort."
" Stephanotis, I suppose," murmured Crozier,
between puffs of smoke, "and perhaps some
white lilac."
Tom was standing just outside the door beneath
a gas jet. He was very pale, and there were
dark rims round his weary eyes. He pushed his
hat on to the back of his head and stretched him-
self in an unnatural way, passing his hand across
his brow.
"Are those her . . . the proper thing for
such an occasion ?" he inquired, with a faint sug-
gestion of humourous sarcasm.
" I should think so," answered the singer, with
untruthful doubt.
"Right. I should be much obliged if you
would bring them down; but don't trouble too
much about it."
"Oh, no trouble," said Crozier, indifferently.
With a little nod Tom continued his way down-
stairs, and presently banged the front-door be-
hind him.
The singer still leant against the mantelpiece
and smoked placidly. He was particularly wide
awake, and evidently had no intention of going
to bed for some time. So far was this intention
from his thoughts that he presently brought
writing materials, and laid them upon the table
DIPLOMACY 227
in the centre of the room, sitting down before
them with leisurely energy. All the while he
hummed a tune beneath his breath. There were
many letters before him, and these he proceeded
to investigate for a second time with methodical
precision; his small diary open before him. The
royal concert was duly noted, and the letter laid
aside for reply the next morning. Many other
letters were treated in a similar manner — most of
them being bare-faced impositions, practised un-
der the cloak of chanty, upon his good-nature.
At last he came to a note written in a spidery
hand upon black-edged paper. There was some-
thing singularly suggestive of the lodging-house-
keeper about this communication. The postmark
on the envelope was Bristol. Crozier read it
through slowly, and placed it in his breast-pocket.
"So Holdsworth is free," he said to himself,
" and I am richer by seventy pounds a year. She
has got away from him at last; but I shall not tell
him until 1 go down to Goldheath."
Then he turned to a batch of advertisements,
mostly from ship-chandlers, riggers, and provi-
sion-merchants in and about Cowes. These dis-
posed of, he drew the writing-case toward him,
and for the first time in his life wrote the words,
"Dear Elma," at the head of a sheet of note-pa-
per. The ink slowly dried on his pen while he con-
templated them, but he was lost in no sentimen-
tal dreams. He was merely wondering whether
he should be weakly scrupulous, which would
228 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
be dangerous, or boldly diplomatic. He reflected
that Elma was always the first down in the morn-
ing, and the letters were placed upon the plates
of those persons to whom they were addressed.
It was marvellous how well versed he was in the
movements and habits of the Valliant household.
It was therefore a very easy matter to get a letter
*nto Elma's hands without the knowledge of her
parents. Bold diplomacy was therefore his wisest
method. If the letter got into other hands no
actual harm would follow, but he preferred that
Elma should alone be aware of its contents, and
the rest must be left to her womanly wit.
" Can you," he wrote, " without allowing your
name or mine to appear, arrange that Tom be in-
vited to go and stay at Goldheath for a few days,
until the Vicarage dance ? Let the letter be from,
your mother, and the sooner he receives it the
better. If possible, let this note be destroyed,
and forgotten at once. 1 have good reasons for
writing it, but must ask you to trust me until to-
day week, when I hope to go to Goldheath."
He ceased writing, dried the letter carefully
with a sheet of blotting-paper, and sat, pen in
hand, thinking.
" If," he reflected, " this gets into the old lady's
hands the whole affair will be muddled, and I
shall be forced to tell her more than I want to, or
let her think more than she ought to. But 1 must
risk that ... I must also risk . . .
whatever Elma may think of me. She is the only
DIPLOMACY 229
person who can help me with Tom now. The
fact that I am doing it for Tom's good may occur
to her, and that will be all she wants, I think."
He added the words, "Yours very truly," and
signed his full name formally.
Then he took another sheet of paper and wrote
quickly without hesitation —
" Dear Leonard,
"See Tom Valliant to-morrow if you
can without awakening his suspicions. Don't let
him know that you have heard from me. He got
into a row to-night at Myra's, and I would have
given thirty pounds to have had you there. Of
course 1 am utterly ignorant from a medical point
of view; but it seems to me that he had a close
shave of something or other. He does not know
that I noticed anything. I brought him here for
a smoke, and he has just gone to Craven Street
apparently perfectly well, but I am rather uneasy
about him. Am trying to arrange sub rosa that
he gets away into the country.
" Yours,
"Sam Crozier."
The singer folded the letter, and addressed it to
Dr. Leonard, at Saint Antony's, and before going
to bed he went downstairs and dropped both
communications into the old pillar-box let into
the wall of No. 1 1, Lime Court.
CHAPTER XXI
THE PLOT
Elma was exceptionally punctual the next
morning, but the squire was before her.
When she entered the little library she found
her father standing at the window contemplating
the walled garden where the white-frost lay in
parts. After placing her morning salutation
airily upon his white mustache, she turned to the
breakfast-table with an eye upon the coffee-pot.
Then she perceived that there were three letters
upon her plate.
"Ah," she said in a pleased voice, "letters.
Letters for me! "
The squire glanced over his shoulder with an
affectionate smile upon his ruddy face, but Elma's
back was turned toward him, and so she lost it.
Her averted face was quite grave, and she was
holding one letter in her hand, reading the ad-
dress in a curious, still way; the others lay un-
heeded on the table. Presently she slipped the
letter into her pocket and opened the other two
energetically with the prong of a fork. While
she read them the squire stood by the window
whistling softly to himself the air of an old hunt-
ing song, of which the memory had been
THE PLOT 291
awakened by the sunny morning, still air, and
harmless white-frost, which would presently
melt away, leaving the ground quite soft.
After a little while she placed the dishes with-
in the fender.
"Mother is very late this morning," she ob-
served, suggestively.
" Yes," answered the old gentleman, replying
to the unasked question in her voice, "she was
not nearly ready when I came down."
Elma came and stood beside her father in the
full light of the window.
" Will you drive with me to the meet to-dav or
fide.'*" she asked, divining in which direction lay
her father's thoughts.
"I must ride to-day," was the reply, uttered
merrilv with palms slowly rubbed together; "1
must ride to-day, little woman."
" But no breaking away," she said, warningly,
with a smile upon her parted lips; " no profanity,
and following the hounds when you promised
not to."
The squire laughed and chuckled with great
enjoyment. It was a known fact in the country-
side that if the hounds found while the squire was
on horseback' within sound, he would begin by
swearing in a round old-fashioned way at the in-
firmities of age, and finish by following almost
as straight as in his younger days.
Elma knew that she never had him safely un-
less he was in the carriage beside her, and she
2^2 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
was fully aware that the old sportsman loved to
be reminded of his weakness.
She laughed a little in concert, and then turn,
ing slowly she left the room without saying
another word. Crossing the hall, she entered
the dining-room with one hand in the pocket of
her dress.
There was no one there. The pale wintry sun
shone through the tall window and divided the
old carpet into squares. The fire had not long
been lighted, so the wood crackled still, and there
was a pleasant odour of burning resin in the air.
There had been a slight frost, and the atmosr
phere of this large room was decidedly chilly,
but Elma did not seem to notice it. She went to
the window, and standing there drew the letter
from her pocket. There was nothing surrepti-
tious in her manner, no desire of concealment, but
she had already obeyed one of Sam Crozier's re-
quests without having seen inside the envelope.
She read the laconic note carefully, and finding
that the contents coincided with her own natural
instinct, she concealed the paper in the bosom of
her dress in order to insure greater safety. This
she did somewhat hurriedly because her mother
was on the stairs.
Elma Valliant was inconsistent in her blind
obedience and bold disregard, shown in the same
moment. Without comment she recognized
that the fact of her having received a letter from
the singer was to be suppressed, merely of course
THE PLOT 2)3
because he said so, because it would assist him
in some scheme of which she knew absolutely
nothing!
Crozier had asked her to trust him until he
could explain matters with his own lips, and she
did so. No question seemed to arise within her
mind as to whether he was acting prudently and
for the best. She knew that he had run some
risk of misconstruction, and that he had also
placed her in a similar position, but for this she
bore him no ill-will. Indeed she appeared to find
some pleasure in sharing the danger, which is
always a more serious matter for women than for
men. She never doubted that his action was the
wisest possible under circumstances which had
evidently arisen somewhat suddenly, and in a
cheery, confident way she undertook to assist
him.
Of course she could manage the task allotted
to her, and would willingly have had it harder.
Such little things are safe in a woman's hands.
Thinking over these and other subjects, Elma
fell into a reverie, out of which she was presently
awakened by the clink of china coming from the
library.
She crossed the room and stood in front of the
fireplace. There she tore up the envelope which
Sam had dropped into the pillar-box in Lime
Court the night before, and threw the pieces on
to the burning coals, where they were soon con-
sumed.
234 THE PHANTOiM FUTURE
"He is so stupid," she wliispered to tlie
flames, witii a gleam in iier eyes. "I should
like to write back to him— a long letter, on two
■sheets, and all 1 should say would be: 'I don't
love Tom — I don't love Tom — 1 don't love
Tom.' "
"It will give so much extra work to the serv-
ants," argued Mrs. Valliant, when the squire
found that he had actually proposed to ask Tom
Valliant down to stay a week or so, including
the Vicarage dance. The old gentleman did not
exactly know how the subject had cropped up,
or how it occurred that he should make such a
daring proposal. We must ask Elma about that.
However, he had done it, and his genial spirit of
hospitality was aroused. Moreover, the prospect
of a jolly meet, and the sight of a cloudy sky
which almost spoke of spring and called a truce
on hunting, exhilarated him. He was hopelessly
genial and exalted — required snubbing, in fact, as
old gentlemen sometimes do, and Mrs. Valliant
presently saw to that, because it was strictly
within her department.
"It will give so much extra work to the serv-
ants," she said, with a half-suppressed sigh of
resignation, as if the scullery-maid's work were
about to fall upon her shoulders.
" I will get up early and polish the grates,"
said the squire, winking obviously at Elma.
THE PLOT 235
There was the sound, even, of a wink in his
genial voice.
The woman who had possessed for twenty-five
years one of the best husbands in England,
smiled in a chilly, heartless manner, and shrugged
her shoulders.
"1 think we can manage without that," she
observed, with great dignity.
The squire was irrepressible. It was all owing
to that light, southwesterly breeze, which has a
frivolous way of getting into mens veins.
"Oh," he said, with a chuckle, "don't hesitate
to make use of me. Any trifling service of the
description mentioned, you know, my dear, will
be a pleasure to me."
This daring impertinence would have settled
the matter finally had Mrs. V^illiant been in-
different respecting Tom's visit. But she was
not so. She wanted him to come, for he was
dear to her, after her manner — the manner of
a hard woman who has never known the love of
a son, which is quite different from that of a
daughter, inasmuch as it is daring and often
arbitrary. And it would almost appear that a
woman values love in ratio to the greatness of
its demands and heartlessness of its subsequent
ingratitude.
" I will write to him this morning," said Mrs.
Valliant, with some condescension, and there the
matter rested.
Elma hardly seemed to notice the final decision.
236 • THE PHANTOM FUTURE
She was occupied with a collection of crumbs,
for which a small feathered tribe was patiently
waiting outside the window.
"I hope," she reflected, as she tapped the
bread-tray with a knife, "that he will be content
with my share of this deep scheme. But . . .
but 1 suppose it will only confirm his suspicion
that I care for Tom."
Two days later Tom Valliant arrived at Gold-
heath. Elma was at the station to meet him.
She had driven over alone, having effected the
arrangement with some difficulty. But she was
anxious to see the first of her cousin — anxious,
in an indefinite desire to speak to him before any
one else. She thought that he might bring some
explanation of Crozier's unusual action — rendered
more peculiar by the fact that the singer excelled
more in a masterly stillness than in moving.
During the first greeting, however, she learnt
that Tom knew nothing of the letter to which he
owed his presence in the little pony-cart by her
side; and the realization of how much Crozier
had left to chance and her own quick wit came
as a shock at the same time. Once or tv/ice
already there had been occasions on which it
would have been so perilously easy to make a
mistake. Notably, in the first instance, on the
receipt of the letter; in the second, on greeting
her cousin at the station.
Nevertheless, Tom Valliant had brought the
explanation with him. It was -written round his
THE PLOT 237
eyes, and in the lines tliat appeared near his
clean shaven lips when his face was in repose.
She did not read, but unconsciously touched
upon it.
"I will not inquire," she said merrily, "what
time you went to bed last night, or whether you
went to bed at all. It may be a delicate subject,
but your appearance might, in mixed society,
lead to unpleasant questions."
He glanced at her keenly. It was a mere flash
of his quick eyes, unnoticed by her in the ab-
sorption of rounding a sharp corner with a home-
going pony. Then he laughed.
" When a jaded, overworked son of toil comes
down from the restless city," he said, with
dramatic gravity, "is it kind to presume upon
rosy cheeks and a digestion untouched by mid-
night oil — to cast his complexion in his face, so
to speak, and to attribute a becoming pallor to
the worst possible causes ? Now you would not
imagine, I suppose, that I attended a Young
Men's Christian lecture last night — would you ? "
" No," she answered severely, " I would not."
He shrugged his shoulders with great resig-
nation.
"It is no good," he said meekly, "talking to
you, if you begin by doubting a hitherto spotless
veracity."
Thus they began and thus they went on during
the few days that followed. Both seemed to be
under a nervous apprehension of some sort. Both
2^8 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
were terribly afraid of becoming grave — of treat-
ing any subject seriously.
On the surface, however, .they were both in
excellent spirits, and superficial things are often
deeper than we reckon.
CHAPTER XXII
FLOWERS
By good fortune Crozier succeeded in carrying
out his plans for tlie evening of Mrs. Gibb's
ball at Goldheath. He sang his two songs,
received his applause with the usual grave bow,
and rushed off to Waterloo Station in the quickest
hansom obtainable.
There was a slight delay at Covent Garden,
where he called for some flowers ordered and
selected a few hours earlier; nevertheless he
caught the train, and at five minutes to seven
stood beneath the broad porch of Goldheath
Court. From the cold gusty night he passed
into the cheery, thickly-carpeted hall, where a
fire burnt ruddily with many a gleam upon
ancient flint-lock and holster pistol suspended
upon the walls.
In the centre, near the table, stood Elma. She
had just run downstairs, swinging gloves and
fan in her hand, and was consequently breathless.
"So you have done it," she gasped, as she
held out her hand with a smile of welcome.
"Yes," he answered, quickly removing his
glove before shaking hands. "I knew I could
manage it. There was really plenty of time."
239
240 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
He laid the flowers on the table previous to re-
moving his thick coat, and Elma looked su-
premely unconscious of their presence.
"I hope the flowers are right," he said, glanc-
ing back over his shoulder as he turned to hang
up his coat and hat. The servant had vanished
with his bag a moment before.
Elma took up the informal bouquet which he had
thrown down somewhat recklessly, and raised it
to her face. She changed colour suddenly.
"They . . . are lovely," she murmured.
He had come back into the middle of the room
and was standing before her, looking down at
the flowers with a critical wisdom.
"I suppose white flowers are always safe .? ''
he said with what seemed to her forced careless-
ness.
"Yes," she answered, rather vaguely, as if she
had not caught the meaning of his words; "yes,
I should think so."
"I mean that they will go with almost any
dress."
" Oh yes — almost any dress."
"I thought so," he said, earnestly, as if a load
had been lifted from his mind — as if one of the
unanswered questions of his existence had found
a reply at last.
He had removed his coat, laid aside his hat,
and pulled down his waistcoat. There was noth-
ing to detain them any longer in the hall, but still
they lingered.
FLOWERS 241
" Thank you very much . . ." she began,
but he stopped her by laying his hand hurriedly
upon her arm, pressing harder than he was
aware of.
"They are not from me," he interrupted,
speaking rapidly; "I brought them for Tom^
by Tom's order, I mean — for him to give to you."
She half turned away, burying her face among
the white flowers with a nod signifying that she
understood. Then she looked up into his face
with a smile.
" Thank you very much, then," she said, "for
bringing them. I may thank you, I suppose, for
having taken some trouble in the matter, although
1 must express my gratitude to Tom for having
thought of it."
He smiled in response, but there was a singu-
lar expression upon his lips which failed to coin-
cide with the perfectly natural light in his eyes.
"It was no trouble," he said, indifferently,
making at the same time a distinct movement
toward the drawing-room door. She could not
but obey his suggestion.
"I expected that Tom would have told you
about the flowers," he said, as he followed her
toward the drawing-room, which was at the
other end of a passage; "and my expectation
was more or less confirmed by the fact that you
came downstairs without any,"
"1 never put my flowers on until the last mo-
ment," she observed, in a tone of vast experi-
242 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
ence, "otherwise they would be dead before the
evening was half over."
He made no answer, and they passed into the
drawing-room in silence.
"1 should like to know," she reflected rapidly,
"as a mere matter of curiosity, who really
thought of it — whose idea it really was to bring
flowers down from London."
"I wonder," he meditated, "whether she has
other flowers upstairs, or if she . . ."
Here Mrs. Valliant came forward with out-
stretched hand and a few formal words of wel-
come.
A few moments later Tom appeared. Elma
held up the flowers, which she was in the act of
placing in a bowl of water in the darkest and
coolest corner of the drawing-room.
"These delicate attentions, iiion cousin," she
said gaily, "are overpowering."
" Ah! " he exclaimed, as if he had forgotten all
about them, or as if the matter were really of
small interest — " Ah — vegetables."
He crossed the room and sniffed at them.
"The delicacy of the attention is not the only
thing about them which will be overpowering
before this entertainment is over, I am thinking.
How are you, Samuel ? Why did you bring such
smelly ones ?"
"Smelly ones!" echoed Elma, indignantly;
" they are lovely. There is nothing so sweet on
earth as stephanotis."
FLOWERS 243
Tom laughed derisively.
"Give me," he said, addressing Crozier with
tragically outstretched arm, "a flower that has
no smell — the humble daisy, the azure corn-
flower, the sustaining cauliflower."
"I am afraid," answered Crozier with perfect
gravity, "that I have not got one at the mo-
ment."
Only Tom remained grave. He shrugged his
shoulders with a great show of disgust.
"The man," he muttered, "has no poetry in
him." And turning sharply round he arranged
his tie with the aid of a Venetian looking-glass
suspended above the mantelpiece.
"But, Tom," said Elma presently, taking up the
unfinished argument, "do you mean seriously
to say that you prefer flowers without smell ?"
"I do," he said. "There is nothing so de-
pressing as the smell of white tlowers. Mind I
like it, but it depresses me. It is the sentiment
of the thing, I am afraid. Were 1 a schoolgirl
the odour of flowers would make me think of
the moon, the shimmering sea, soft twilight
hours, the midnight song of the cucumber — the
nightingale, I mean — and similar unsatisfactory
things. Being a man, I am consumed with a
great desire to smoke instead. Perhaps it is a
mere matter of past association. 1 never thought
of that before. Sam always wears a spray of
stephanotis when he can get it, which no doubt
accounts for the whole business."
244 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
He laughed and looked toward Crozier. Elma
laughed also, but chanced to look in exactly the
opposite direction. The singer met his friend's
eyes and smiled obediently. He had been talk-
ing with Mrs. Valliant, and was without the least
knowledge of what he was expected to smile at
— but that did not matter much.
Then the dinner-bell sounded through the
house, and the squire came into the room, groan-
ing and holding his back, but smiling genially
nevertheless. He was a truly hospitable man in
the good old-fashioned manner; loved to see
strange faces round his table — more especially
young faces. This evening he was resplendent
in dress-clothes of an earlier date, with onyx
buttons on the waistcoat, and three honest rubies
on his broad and manly breast. The groan
meant nothing, and in nowise disquieted the
ladies. They knew that it was only geniality,
which usually takes the form of a noise of some
description, and a painless grunt is preferable to
the aggravating drawing-in of breath through
closed teeth, which is a more common sign.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, holding out his broad
brown hand, " Sam, my boy. Glad to see you I
The singer, eh ? The Royal minstrel — ha, ha,
ha ! How did you get on } "
"Splendidly, thanks!"
"Congratulate you, my boy! Congratulate
you! Only wish your good father was here to
do the same," said the old gentleman, squaring
FLOWERS 245
his arms and pulling down his waistcoat with a
cheery jerk.
" He doesn't look as if he were fresh from the
presence of Royalty, does he ? " suggested Tom,
"except that his hair is a tritle ruffled on this
side."
The singer passed his hand scientifically over
his crisply curled head.
"That," he answered readily, "is where I tore
it when the cab-horse slid down Wellington
Street on its shoulder."
" Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the squire, tailing off
apoplectically into subsidiary chuckles, at the end
of which he looked suddenly grave and turned to
Crozier.
"Must congratulate you also," he said, in the
confidential manner of a stage aside, " upon that
other matter — the money, eh } Don't invest it in
a Dock Company. You needn't be afraid of
horseflesh, but avoid the turf — sailors never learn
the ropes there."
Crozier's reply was lost in the rustle of Mrs.
Valliant's silks as she moved austerely toward the
door.
" Elma, my dear," said the old gentleman,
with a preliminary groan, "1 am afraid I shall
not be able -to have that polka with you to-night;
my lumbago . . ."
"But you must, papa; I never let my partners
off like that. Lumbago or no lumbago, once the
name is on my programme there is no turning
246 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
back. Besides, I heard you running downstairs
just now when we were in the drawing-room."
There was a break in the conversation, while
all heads were solemnly bowed over the table,
and the squire's shirt-front bulged audibly.
"Thank God!" observed the old fellow, rev-
erently — the briefest of brief graces, which never
failed to make Tom smile.
"My dear child," he continued in the same
breath, with twinkling eyes, " I am seriously ill.
It came on suddenly, with a sort of click, when
I was twisting round to try and let out the strap
at the back of my dress . . ."
"Don't you take soup, Mr. Crozier?" inquired
Mrs. Valliant suddenly, with a sharp glance at
each of her servants in turn, just to see whether
their sensitive nerves had been affected.
The squire finished his remark by a compre-
hensive and very evident wink over his soup-
spoon.
Tom Valliant was singularly jolly that evening,
and his cheeks had a faint pink tinge, not in
blotches, but evenly and all over. The dark
rings round his eyes had vanished. Evidently
the quiet country life of Goldheath suited him
admirably. He was also in excellent spirits, and
talked almost incessantly, while the squire
laughed and held his back with both hands.
It was under the cover of a brilliant sally, at
which every one laughed, that Elma spoke a few
words under her breath, without looking toward
■ FLOWERS 247
any one in particular; indeed her eyes were low-
ered to her plate.
" I hope," were the words, " that you are con-
tent with my share in the plot."
Samuel Crozier was next to her. He glanced
in her direction, sideways, along the table-cloth
toward her hands, but said nothing. A few
minutes later an opportunity occurred, and he
replied —
"I never doubted," almost in a whisper and
ambiguously, but she understood.
CHAPTER XXIII
DANGER
As Samuel Crozier bowed over Mrs. Gibb's
chubby hand, he saw William Holdsworth at the
other end of the room. The sailor was no
dancer, but he invariably accepted invitations,
and really made himself very useful to his hostess
in talking to elderly ladies when he could not find
a young one without a partner.
Elma's programme was much in request, and
Crozier saw that Holdsworth did not ask her to
sit out a dance with him. As far as he could
judge, indeed, he concluded that they did not
speak to each other, more than a few formal
words of greeting, during the entire evening.
From this he surmised that something had taken
place — something which saved him from the
necessity of warning Elma against his old ship-
mate.
Presently the two men passed close to each
other in a tiny room, full of people partaking
noisily and merrily of tea and coffee.
"I want to speak to you," said Crozier in an
undertone, after they had nodded casually as
slight acquaintances.
Holdsworth looked uncomfortable for a second.
"Crozier is such an extraordinary fellow," he
248
DANGER 249
reflected, "for hearing confidences. I wonder if
Elma lias told him."
He need have had no such fear. Elma was in
her own estimation singularly capable of taking
care of herself. She had an entire reliance in her
own strength of purpose, hidden, it may be, be-
neath smiles and a certain coquetry, but existing
nevertheless, and only betrayed by that little
square chin and an occasional glance of her
changeable eyes. In confidences she never in-
dulged, and of herself she rarely talked. There
was one person to whom she never spoke on
matters concerning herself, and that man was
Samuel Crozier.
Holdsworth looked keenly into his former offi-
cer's face. The old "quarter-deck" expression
was not there, and the sailor augured from its
absence that there was nothing very disagreeable
hanging over his unfortunate head.
"Will it take long?" he inquired, audaciously
smiling.
Crozier looked at his programme before reply-
ing.
"Number seventeen is a schottische," he said,
in a quietly undeniable manner. "I shall not be
dancing it. Will you keep yourself free ?"
"Yes."
Holdsworth moved away, looking grave, while
Crozier turned to greet an asthmatic old parson
who had known his father. The sailor again
felt a sudden misgiving — a vague sense, as it
:23o THE PHANTOM FUTURE
were, of discomfort— as if some new trouble were
at hand. But presently he threw this off, and be-
came the merriest of the merry. He lived for the
present to an extraordinary degree, and number
one had just begun ; number seventeen, the schot-
tische, was a long way off.
At times during the evening that disagreeable
possibility of Crozier's having heard of the little
scene in a conservatory some weeks before sug-
gested itself to the sailor, but he soon dismissed
it with easy confidence. Tom Valliant's manner
to himself was friendly in the extreme, which in-
cident closed the most likely channel through
which the information might have passed.
The local dancing men found that Elma's pro-
gramme had been seriously tampered with before
she entered the room — the initials "S. C'and
"T, V." occurring alternately in brotherly unity
at short intervals from top to bottom. Tom Val-
liant was a very fair dancer, but incorrigibly lazy.
He never danced from the first bar of the music
to the last, as did his friend. Twice round, and
find a seat, was the principle upon which he
acted. Elma had long ago ceased to draw his at-
tention to the laziness of this proceeding. She
had divined that, much as he loved and invited
chaff, all remarks upon the limits of his endurance
as regarded dancing were unwelcome. In after
years she looked back with thankfulness upon the
instinctive feeling which withheld her tongue on
this point.
DANGER 2sr
Sam Crozier used to s:iy in self-abuse that he
was an old stager — a supper bachelor — and his
friends believed or disbelieved him as they liked.
He only had four dances with Elma scribbled on
her engagement-card hastily, but they were the
four best waltzes there. Thus, the first was imme-
diately before the Lancers, which he knew Elma
would not dance, and by this simple device he
secured an opportunity of giving her the explana-
tion he knew, by the glance of her eyes, she was
awaiting.
They danced the waltz without speaking many
words. Crozier never talked much once the mu-
sic had begun, and they knew each other well
enough to ignore the politer usages of society.
As the music slackened with chordal signs of a
finale, Elma made a tiny movement which he de-
tected at once. It was the almost unconscious
signal of a wish to stop and get away before the
crowd. They both knew the house well. Elma
had run about, upstairs and downstairs, since she
could run at all, while Crozier was born in the
large room above the drawing-room.
And so he led her up the broad shallow steps
with her fingers resting on his arm, as he had led
her, hand in hand, twenty years before. There
was a broad alcove at the head of the stairs, and
here they found a sofa. As they seated them-
selves a sudden rush of voices in the hall beneath
told of a breathless multitude seeking rest. The
dance was over.
252 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Crozier began at once in his usual straightfor-
ward way.
"I wrote to you," he said, "because 1 wanted
to get Tom away from London. He was regu-
larly out of sorts — required a change, you under-
stand."
"And so you thought of Goldheath ?"
"And so 1 thought of Goldheath," he replied,
absently, for he was striving to reach the mean-
ing of her tone, which was not quite natural.
There was a subtle significance in it which he
failed to catch.
"Where else could he — or rather would he —
have gone.?" said the singer, still striving to di-
vine her thoughts.
She turned toward him with a smile.
"Nowhere, of course," she replied.
Nevertheless Crozier conceived the strange idea
that Tom Valliant's visit had for some reason been
distasteful to Elma. He could not be expected
to read a woman's whim. The true reason of
her slight displeasure lay so deeply hidden from
his eyes, and he was so utterly devoid of vanity,
that he never suspected what it was, until the
knowledge was forced upon him later.
"1 hope," he said, "that it was not inconven-
ient, but I was really frightened for the moment.
Tom is not strong, and the life he leads in town
is not such as he ought to lead. I was scared by
the thought (suddenly thrust upon me by some
one else), that I was more or less responsible.
DANGER 253
Perhaps I lost my head a little, for 1 was alone,,
and it was late at night."
Elma laughed suddenly in a peculiar, impatient
way.
"It would be so like you to lose your head,"
she said, sarcastically, " would it not ? "
His deep-set eyes rested for a moment on her
profile. She was looking straight in front of her,
with her two hands resting upon her lap. Her
lips were slightly apart, and the expression of her
face seemed to demand an answer to the question
just asked.
"Perhaps," he suggested, with semi-comic
apology, "it requires more than I possess."
"I should think it does," she said, in a ban-
tering tone. Then she added, quite seriously,
" It is very good of you to interest yourself
so much in Torn. We were very glad to see
him."
The extreme conventionality of her remark
conveyed to him exactly the opposite meaning tO'
that which she intended. He thought that it was
assumed, whereas it was very natural.
"He is much better for the change; I see a
great improvement in his appearance," he ob-
served, carelessly, while he attempted to intro-
duce the upper button of his glove into its hole.
"Yes," she answered, "I think he is better.
Goldheath has done him good."
He deliberately turned and looked into her
face. She bore the scrutiny without changing-
234 THE PHANTOM FUTURb
countenance, but her eyes were a trifle fixed in
their expression, while her chin was thrust for-
ward. It was a wonderful thing how well he
knew her.
"Elma," he said, " Elma, I am afraid I am a
muddler. I have done something stupid. Do
you not know me well enough to tell me what it
is ? Surely it is enough to say that we clambered
together on to this same sofa twenty years
ago. We ran about in these same old passages
hand in hand, and there was nothing between us
then. Did my letter come inopportunely, or
has it vexed you? Or do you think that 1
should have minded my business, and allowed
Tom to manage his, or mismanage it, as he
thought fit ? "
"No," she protested, "I thought nothing of
that sort. I was glad to get your letter, and no
one has seen it — no one saw it — but myself."
"Then you did not want Tom at Goldheath
just now .? I forced him upon you at a wrong
time."
"Not at all. No . . . but . . ."
She stopped with a little awkward laugh. She
w^as slowly twining and intertwining her gloved
fingers, and she swayed a little away from him
as if to get farther from a proximitive influence
which was becoming too strong for her.
"But . . . what?" he asked, in a meas-
ured voice, which seemed to be the result of
some effort over himself.
DANGER 25^
There was a pause of some moments. The
Lancers were in full swing downstairs, so that
the upper part of the house was theirs alone.
The music was almost overwhelmed by the
shuffling of feet and the buzz of raised voices.
"Oh — nothing," she said, suddenly throw-
ing herself back in the seat, and looking at
him with a determined little smile full of de-
fiance.
"That is right," he said, calmly, "don't tell
me. It is much better not. There is nothing
that one regrets sooner, and more, than unwill-
ing confidences. There are so many things
which are better left untold. This is one of
them, no doubt. Some day you will abuse me
for having been weak for a moment. I should
not have tried to make you tell me."
He spoke rapidly and with evident relief, as if
some hidden danger had just been averted. But
he could not divert his thoughts at once from the
question, and sought to excuse himself for the
blunder which he knew nothing of
"1 cannot always understand Tom," he said,,
tentatively, "he is so variable. At times he is
quite serious and amenable to reason, and sud-
denly he will change — laughs at everything, and
is apparently perfectly reckless of consequences."
"You mean," she suggested, "that he does
not dream of misconstruction or deliberate mis-
conception. He never thinks that people may
either heedlessly or purposely put his actions in
2^6 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
such a light as to render their appearance much
worse than it should be."
Crozier knew now that she had heard some-
thing of what Syra had reoorted as the current
gossip of St. Antony's. It was easy enough to
trace this, in imagination, from Walter Varden to
Holdsworth, and from Holdsworth, either directly
or indirectly, to Elma. The story would most
assuredly not have lost weight in transmission,
so he faced it squarely, as was his wont.
"You must not," he said, "on that very
account believe all that you hear. People are
so apt to add a few graphic touches to stories
that pass through their hands. In this matter,
Elma, you must believe me before any one else —
you have no other course but this. Tom is as
good and upright and as true a gentleman as any
man in this house. Some people are beyond the
influence of association, and I think he is one of
them. He can associate with . . . shady char-
acters, let us call them, and never be the worse
for it. But what I do not understand is why he
does it. These men are no companions for him.
I am certain he despises them, and yet he de-
liberately chooses them for his friends. He
knows that I could help him to become ac-
quainted with a better class of men altogether —
intellectual fellows, who are doing good in the
world both for themselves and others; but he
prefers St. Antony's students and their hang-
ers-on. It would almost seem as if for some
DANGER 237
deliberate purpose he were misrepresenting him-
self."
"And other people," added Elma, with gentle
significance.
He looked at her with a slow, grave smile.
She raised her eyes to his, and there was a faint
note of warning in her voice as she repeated the
words —
"And other people."
He could not pretend to mistake her meaning,
and he was chivalrous enough to resist the temp-
tation of compelling her to make it more obvi-
ous.
"Yes," he murmured, indifferently, "I suppose
so." And with raised eyebrows signified that it'
did not matter much.
"You think," she asked, "that it does not
matter ? "
" Not much," was the reply, "and not at all to
Tom. It was of him that we were speaking."
She ignored this broad hint.
"It does matter," she said gravely. "It mat-
ters a great deal to every man, however inde-
pendent and . . . and unselfish he may be."
"Then you did not believe it.?" he inquired,
rashly.
"It . . .?" she echoed, interrogatively.
"What you heard," he explained.
She reflected for some moments, recalling all
that had passed between them on this subject.
Then she turned her head toward him with a
238 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
little inquisitorial air, keeping her eyes, however,
fixed upon the carpet.
"How do you i<now that 1 have heard any-
thing?"
"I foresaw that you would. Certain gossip
had, 1 found some time ago, got into a channel
which would ultimately lead it to you."
"And you made no attempt to stop it ?"
"No — that would have made matters worse."
She studied the flowers painted on her fan
with critical interest for a moment, and without
ceasing her contemplation said, in an even,
measured way —
"It may be of some small interest to you to
learn that I believed — nothing."
"Thank you."
"Tell me," she said presently, as if reading
the words upon the painted silk; "tell me — that
is, if you wish to — who was the person who
suddenly impressed upon you the fact that you
were more or less responsible for Tom ? "
"Syra."
A little nod, almost imperceptible, betrayed to
Crozier that his companion's suspicions had been
confirmed.
"1 do not understand Syra."
" 1 do not imagine that Syra understands her-
self," he replied, guardedly.
She half turned her head toward him, and her
lips were ready parted with a question, when she
seemed to recollect herself, and with an uncon-
DANGER 259
scious assumption of dignity she closed her fan
slowly and carefully.
"I wish," she exclaimed, with a little sigh,
"that Tom would assume the responsibilities of
human life. 1 am sure that he is very clever.
He could be a great artist if only he set his heart
upon it. There is nothing so discouraging and
so sad as to see people miss success; to see it
within their grasp, and yet to see them fail for
some reason, for the lack of some little requisite."
There was a great movement upon the stairs
and in the hall beneath them. The next waltz
had begun.
"That," he said with a deprecating smile, as
he stood up and offered her his arm, " is life — to
see success just in front and never to reach it."
CHAPTER XXIV
THE RECKONING UP
HoLDSWORTH and Crozier met at the foot of the
stairs when the schottische — number seventeen
upon the programme — was started. For a mo-
ment they stood there — two sturdy, typical Eng-
lishmen. One fair, blue-eyed and merry; the
other darker, with crisp curled hair, and thought-
ful, deep-set eyes of an observant habit; both
straight and upright, with ready hands, and a
peculiar carriage of the head.
"My dance, 1 believe," said Holdsworth,
audaciously.
Crozier nodded his head with a faint smile, and
looked round him slowly. They were practically
alone in that house full of people, the stairs being
only used for a resting-place during the crush
between the dances.
"Let us sit down," said the singer, indicating
the bottom step.
And so they sat there with elevated knees held
apart, and clasped hands between, in a similarity
of pose which was remarkable.
Beneath his lowered lashes Holdsworth glanced
furtively at his companion, waiting.
"1 have news for you, Holdsworth," said the
singer, after a moment.
260
THE RECKONING UP 261
The sailor clasped his hand round his beard,
making the golden hair rustle.
"Something disagreeable, I bet," he said, with
assumed indifference.
"I do not know . . . whether it will prove
disagreeable or not. it is the news of a death."
"A death!" echoed Holdsworth. "Emily
Harland.^" he added interrogatively, after a
pause.
"Yes."
Holdsworth remained silent for some mo-
ments. Then he heaved a sigh — the easy light
sigh of an utterly selfish man.
"She always was delicate," he remarked in a
resigned spirit.
Crozier turned deliberately and looked at him
as one looks at a curious and rare insect.
"She died of consumption," he said.
"Yes," answered the other in the same cool
way, "it was in the family."
Crozier rose from his seat. He did not even
take the trouble to show his disgust.
"That is my news," he said, curtly. He was
about to move away when he looked down at his
companion, and their eyes met. Then he stayed.
Holdsworth's face was haggard. It was no
longer the face of a reckless ne'er-do-weel, de-
void of scruple, free from remorse. In a mo-
ment the features had changed. He who sat there
and looked up into Crozier's strong, peaceful face
was a hunted man, with haggard, scared, weary
262 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
eyes, the victim of persistent ill-fortune. The
singer had a strong man's true softness of heart.
He had seen that look on the sailor's face before,
and had never yet turned away from it. He now
stood at the foot of the stairs with his hand upon
the oak balustrade — simply stood there and said
nothing; but his presence had a comforting sense
of sympathy such as draws us to certain persons
in time of trouble.
The gay, rattling music rang in their ears; be-
neath their feet the floor vibrated incessantly.
At last Holdsworth spoke in a low, unsteady
voice.
"When you tirst told me that you had . . .
helped her," he said, "I was jealous of you. F
don't believe 1 even said thank you. Or perhaps
you would not let me do so."
The last words were uttered with a faint bit-
terness, but Crozier showed no sign of having
heard them.
" I am not going to say it now. You need not
go away," continued the sailor, "1 know better
fhan to offer thanks to you. But I want to
reckon up with you."
He took his programme from his pocket and
laid it upon his knee. Then he tore the pencil
away from the card and began writing. In the
dim light of the shaded lamp, at the foot of the
broad old staircase, a strange transaction took
place while the jerky schottische music rang
through the house.
THE RECKONING UP 263
" Five years and six months," said Holdsworth,
slowly writing as he spoke. " That is five years
.and a half at — what ? What did you allow her.^"
"Seventy pounds a year," answered C»'ozier,
betraying no surprise.
"Three hundred and fifty — three hundred and
eighty-five pounds," calculated the sailor aloud.
" 1 shall pay you that, Crozier, some day."
He tore the dainty little card in two and looked
up, programme-pencil in hand.
"Will you take an 1 O U.^"
"No."
Holdsworth did not press the point. He
looked at the pencil figures again, to make sure
that there was no mistake, and returned the two
pieces of polished pasteboard to his waistcoat-
pocket.
"Three hundred and eighty-five pounds," he
repeated in a business-like manner; "I shall not
forget the amount."
It was the price of a ruined human existence
— not much after all, and probably more than it
was worth; but he did not seem to think of that.
"Three hundred and eighty-five pounds," con-
firmed the singer.
Holdsworth stood up, but neither moved away.
"I suppose you will let me pay it," he said,
defiantly.
" Oh yes," replied the possessor of an annual
income of over three thousand pounds, "I will
let you pay it."
264 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
This was justice indeed. The affair was thus
arranged; the last apparent obhgation put into a
fair way of settlement, and there seemed to be
nothing more to say. Crozier made a little
movement toward the dancing-room, but the
sailor detained him by a slight jerk of the head.
"In case," he said, with cynicism — "in case
there is any misconception in your mind as to
past events, I may as well tell you that I alone
was to blame. I alone was the cause of Emily
Harland's leaving her home and going . . ,
to the bad."
"Yes; 1 suppose so" — with a certain cool
cruelty which was mostly founded upon the past^
for it was totally unlike Samuel Crozier.
"Yes," continued the sailor, reflectively, "I
suppose you know that 1 ruined her. But,
Crozier, 1 did not do it deliberately, remember
that. I was led away . . . perhaps she was
a little hit to blame. I am such a beastly impul-
sive fellow, you know, and act on the spur of
the moment, leaving regret till afterward."
"Well," said Crozier, "I wouldn't think toa
much about it now. It is finished and done
with, and there is no good to be got out of at-
tempting to fix the blame upon anyone in par-
ticular."
Holdsworth stood in front of the singer, lean-
ing against the wall. He was watching his face
speculatively.
"I wonder," he said presently, "if you did
THE RECKONING UP 265
right in keeping us apart. It was a great re-
sponsibility, Crozier."
"Yes," was the answer, "it was. But there
is nothing so despicable on earth as the man who
tries to get through life without incurring re-
sponsibility. Despite what has happened, I still
think that you were better apart."
"You mean that she was better apart from
me."
The implacable Crozier nodded his head in
acquiescence. It was an unfortunate fact that
Holdsworth divined his former officer's thoughts
concerning himself with remarkable accuracy,
and Crozier was too straightforward a man to
deny them.
"I wish, Crozier," continued the sailor, "that
1 could understand you a little better. 1 wish I
could understand why you have done all that you
have done and tried for me." He took the half-
programme from his pocket and glanced at the
pencil figures, hard and black upon the polished
surface of the card. "I don't think," he con-
tinued, "that it ought to finish up with this! "
He held out the card so that the figures were
visible to his companion.
"On the contrary," said Crozier, coolly, " I do
not see what better ending could come about. It
is a settlement in full, is it not.^"
Holdsworth shrugged his shoulders impa-
tiently.
"No," he said, curtly, "it is not."
266 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"I think we had better consider it so," said
Crozier, moving away. The music had ceased,
and the dancers were already crowding out of
the hot room into the passage.
Holdsworth followed and they walked side by
side down the broad corridor toward a group of
mutual acquaintances.
"Gad! Crozier," whispered the sailor, with an
incredulous wonder in his voice, " you are a hard
man! "
The singer turned toward him with a faint,
almost apologetic smile.
"I'm afraid you are right," he said. And they
joined the party, where Tom Valliant and the
squire were laughing at each other.
CHAPTER XXV
FOREWARNED
Despite Crozier's tirades against the degenera-
tion of musical taste, he gathered a certain
amount of enjoyment from the first nights at
which his appearance was necessary. He had
undertaken the musical criticism of a London
weekly paper and two provincial journals because
their editors had asked him to do so, and at a
time when the monthly cheque for "literary con-
tributions " was welcome. Now in his affluence
he intended to continue it for its own sake. The
love of criticising is deeply planted in every
man's soul, and Crozier wrote in a deliberate and
straightforward style, which not only carried
weight with it, but conveyed a sense of earnest-
ness and an unusual freedom from personal con-
sideration or bias of any description. About the
" operas-boil ffes" and " operas-cojiiiqiies," v^'hich
at certain intervals carry all better musical taste
before them, he wrote curtly and descriptively,
but not with open criticism. Public opinion was
against him, and he had neither the power nor
the energy to attempt its education into better
channels. It was after all a mere matter of taste.
The British public liked its music thin and.
267
268 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
tawdry, served up with a show of tinsel.
" Soit/" It was no affair of Samuel Crozier's.
To Syra he grumbled occasionally in a semi-
bantering way — to a mere barmaid! It is to be
feared, however, that this singer and critic was
hopelessly Bohemian in those days. He even
treated her as if she were a woman, with a
woman's instinctive good taste; sometimes he
actually went so outrageously far as to treat her
and speak to her as if she were a lady.
It was with some feeling of pleasant anticipa-
tion, therefore, that he called a cab one evening
in March and drove to a new theatre in the West
End. The excitement in dramatic and artistic
circles anent this new venture had been intense
for some time. The building itself was as gor-
geous as masonry without and gold-leaf within
could well make it, and of course its stage was
constructed with a strict regard to the contingen-
cies of comic opera. The house was to be
warmed by an entertainment of this description,
got up with a due regard to cheap tunefulness
and the newest slang.
At the side of the stalls there was a kind of
lounge, or drawing-room, where the occupants
of those luxurious seats could retire between the
acts to stand about and meet their friends with-
out being actually compelled to leave the theatre.
It was here that Crozier, on entering, met several
acquaintances and friends. These men were
mostly brother-critics, and they returned later to
FOREWARNED 269
the same spot to discuss their verdict upon the
performance.
The news of Sam Crozier's good fortune was
still fresh, and he was sufficiently a favourite to
call down real and hearty congratulations from
all who knew him.
" Here comes Croesus! " said one man, gravely
— the correspondent of a comic American journal.
"So he is," said another, who wrote musical
criticism for a religious publication, and had,
strictly speaking, no business in the theatre at alL
"Let us try and borrow money from him — eh,
Sam ? I suppose all your friends are doing that
now."
"Trying . . . Yes!" answered Crozier,
as he shook hands all round with his vague,
genial smile.
"1 congratulate you, Crozier," said a melan-
choly-looking man, who wore spectacles, coming
forward with a thin delicate hand outstretched.
"I congratulate you from the bottom of my
heart. I suppose now I may look forward to
being appointed musical and dramatic critic to
the Daily intelligence, which is the aim of my
life. For years 1 have waited and prayed for
your death. 1 have hung about concert-halls in
order to watch you take your high notes, and I
have even consulted eminent medical men as to
whether they have ever heard of a brute, with a
constitution like a camel, breaking a blood-vessel
on F sharp! This, however, does as well, so we
270 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
will say nothing more about the weary years of
waiting,"
Some of the listeners joined in Crozier's easy
laugh, and most of them smiled, but the man
who had spoken never changed countenance.
He looked gravely round him through his large
spectacles, and walked away to greet a friend.
He rarely spoke seriously — this eccentric genius
— but he never smiled.
At this moment the orchestra struck up a lively
introduction, and there was a general move.
The critics were placed within reach of each
other, and some of them composed themselves
to quiet slumber at once, while the younger
members of the fraternity fumbled for their
pencils, with just sufficient ostentation to call the
attention of any one who happened to be look-
ing in their direction.
Crozier, who was without pencil or notebook,
gave his usual placidly earnest attention to the
music. He had a singular habit of looking
straight in front of him in a theatre, which arose
doubtless from the fact that his face was well
known among frequenters of first nights and
lovers of music. If he looked round, the action
entailed greeting acquaintances who interested
him little, or it would be received by nudges and
suppressed whispers which in no way gratified
him, flattering though it might be.
During the first act he scarcely removed his
eyes from the stage, and at the end of it he en-
FOREWARNED 271
tered into a deep discussion with a friend occupy-
ing the next stall, who advocated comic opera as
being within the understanding of the people.
He therefore had as yet scarcely looked round the
theatre. While the understanding of the people
was still in dispute, a young man made his way
along between the knees of grumbling old gen-
tlemen and stonily-staring dowagers, with a view
of occupying the seat on Crozier's left hand,
which was empty. This individual was he who
had first addressed the singer on his entrance.
He took the vacant chair, and presently raised
his glasses to his eyes. The glasses were directed
toward a box somewhat high up upon the righ*
of the stage, much to the contentment of a be-
diamonded lady occupying the same; but the
critic's eyes, instead of looking through the
lenses, were directed in the shadow of his hand
to the "lounge" where he had first met Crozier.
There were many gentlemen standing there with
due solemnity and appreciation of their own
shirt-fronts, and a few ladies examining the
decorations.
"Sam,'-' said the young fellow, without lower-
ing his binoculars, " what have you been up to ? "
Crozier accorded him his attention with an an-
ticipatory smile. Despite a certain ring of gravity
in the speaker's tone, he could only conclude that
the comprehensive question was the beginning of
a joke.
" What have 1 been up to ? " he repeated. "Let
272 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
me see. Nothing criminal within the last week,
I think."
The young fellow laid his opera-glasses on his
knees, and turned sideways in his seat, crossing
his legs and leaning his arm upon the cushioned
back of the stall.
"Of course," he said, "it is no business of
mine; but I happened to be looking round the
place just now, and I saw two fellows standing
in the gangway behind the upper boxes. There
was nothing at all noticeable in them beyond the
fact that they were looking at you; in fact one of
them was pointing you out to the other. I
watched them, and there was something sneaky
and disagreeable in their movements which I
didn't like at all. Don't look in that direction just
yet ; but they are now standing in the little ' salon '
place, where we all met to-night."
Crozier scratched his strong chin thoughtfully
with one finger.
"It is a funny business," he said; "1 don't re-
member committing any crime lately. I expect
they're secretaries of charity organization socie-
ties, who have been reading the Illustrated Lon-
don News, and want to fix me for an annual sub-
scription or so."
The correspondent of the theological paper was
not by any means a serious young man, but he
took this incident very gravely.
" It is no joke," he said, " to be taken for some
one else in some cases. Of course there are
FOREWARNED 273
plenty of us here to-night to prove your identity;
but I have a wholesome dread of the law."
At this moment the curtain rose, and Crozier
took the opportunity of glancing toward the spot
indicated by his companion. The two men were
certainly there, standing modestly in a dark cor-
ner, but rendered conspicuous by their rough top-
coats amidst the black-clad pleasure seekers.
"I admire the police very much," he said pleas-
antly to his companion as he settled himself to
face the stage, " in the abstract."
At the end of the act he leant forward to seek
his hat beneath the seat.
"What are you going to do?" asked his com-
panion.
"I am going out — at least, I am going to the
foyer. These fellows will finish by making me
conspicuous, which for a man of my shy and re-
tiring nature is a painful prospect."
The young journalist did not seem to take the
matter in quite such a placid spirit.
"What! — are you going to speak to them.?"
he asked.
"No; but I am going to stand quite close to
them. They would like a good look at me, I am
sure."
" Well, don't let us have a scene."
Crozier laughed reassuringly.
"I have never taken even a minor part in a
scene yet. This is hardly the place to make a
debut," he said. "Come along and stand near
274 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
me; we will talk weather while they walk round
LIS and take notes. Privately, Soames, I believe
it is you they are after."
And he rose, in every detail he carried out his
threat, even to discussing the weather.
The two men bore it for some moments in
silence, then one made a step forward, and with-
out touching Crozier, stood beside him. Soames,
the newspaper correspondent, was in front of
him, looking up from his inferior height into the
singer's face.
"George Shenstone," said the man, in a clear
undertone; "George Shenstone, unless I'm mis-
taken."
Crozier's finger and thumb had been resting in
his waistcoat-pocket, and he now withdrew them
from it with a card which he handed unostenta-
tiously to the detective. It was all done so quietly
and indifferently by both men, that no one who
did not actually hear their words would have
thought that any communication had passed be-
tween them ; but Soames noticed that at the men-
tion of the words "George Shenstone," an ex-
pression of mingled surprise and anxiety passed
across the singer's face.
"No, I am not George Shenstone," he replied,
as he gave the card. "That is my name, and
there are twenty men within call who will vouch
for it."
The man glanced at the card, and gave it back
immediately.
FOREWARNED 27s
"I thought we were on the wrong track," he
said, apologetically. "1 ought to have remem-
bered your face before. There is a photograph
of you in a music-publisher's shop in Oxford
Street."
"Indeed."
"I must apologize," continued the detective,
simply; "it was very clumsy of me."
" Not at all," answered Crozier, in a constrained
tone, which was unlike him.
The detective glanced in a keenly questioning
manner at his impassive face, and then moved
away quietly without saying anything more. He
called his companion with a mere movement of
the eyebrows, and they passed out of the audito-
rium together.
Crozier did not move until the swinging-door
had closed behind them.
" Soames," he said, " don't say anything about
this. I believe 1 know something of the fellow
they are after — a poor devil of a blue-jacket, who
got sick of the sea before his time was up, and
deserted. Not much of a crime in times of
peace."
"All right!" answered the journalist; "1 will
keep quiet."
And it is worth noting that he did so.
Then they got separated, and Crozier presently
went back to the stalls. He did not, however,
return to his own, but occupied for a few min-
utes a vacant chair next the melancholy gentle-
276 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
man who so openly coveted his post on the statT
of the Daily liitelligetice.
"I say, Watson," he said, when he was seated,
" have you got a telegram-form ? "
"Never am without one, my friend," replied
the old stager.
After a short search he handed Crozier the re-
quired paper, and discreetly looked the other
way while the singer wrote.
The gist of the message was hardly calculated
to be read, however, at once by a casual observer
with much edification.
"I was to-day mistaken for a. seaman, late
Willow-'wren, who is wanted. — S. C."
This ambiguous and pointless news was ad-
dressed to William Holdsworth, Heath End,
Goldheath; and a few minutes after it was writ-
ten a commissionaire hurried to the General Post
Office from whence it was despatched.
In the meantime the play was progressing
happily enough, and the critics were beginning
to yawn. At the end of the third act these
gentlemen met in the open space at the side of
the stalls and talked over their verdict, after
which it is a painful duty to record that some of
them went home.
Crozier, however, stayed to the end, as was his
wont. When at length the curtain fell he passed
out of the theatre alone, and at the door found the
detective who had spoken to him earlier in the
evening. There was no sign of his companion.
FOREWARNED 277
The man dropped alongside of him when he
had penetrated through the crowd and fell into
step.
"Excuse me, Mr. Crozier,'" he said, "excuse
me troubling you again, but we have to suppress
our own inclinations very often in my profession,
and I can assure you that it is quite against my
will."
The singer laughed as he lighted his cigar.
"Oh," he answered, "pray don't apologize.
I suppose it is the duty of every honest citizen to
assist the cause of justice."
The disciple of justice did not exactly seize
with avidity upon this theory. He contented
himself with murmuring something to the effect
that the general impression was of that nature.
" I have just recollected, sir," he continued in a
business-like tone, "that you were once in Her
Majesty's Navy — did you ever serve on board the
IV/I/ozo-wren ?"
The question, asked with a certain doubtful-
ness as if the event were very unlikely, might
have disconcerted any one totally unprepared
for it.
"Yes," answered Crozier, quite naturally, "I
served seven years on board of her."
" Then this man Shenstone would be on board
at the same time as you."
The singer turned slowly and deliberately.
The man, who was slightly above him in height,
was looking at him, and their eyes met.
278 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"Indeed," said the singer, with an expression
on his quiet face which can only be described as
dense.
" Yes," remarked the man vaguely, "I believe
he would." He could not make out that density,
and something in the ex-officer's manner made
him feel uncomfortable, as if he were prying into
the affairs of a gentleman with whom he had no
business.
"Well," he added with some hesitation, after
they had walked a short distance in silence, " 1
can only apologize again, sir, for having troubled
you."
"Not at all," said Crozier, looking straight in
front of him.
"Good-night, sir."
" Good-night."
The detective dropped behind and presently
crossed the road, while Crozier walked on smok-
ing restfully.
"Got rid of him," he murmured between the
puffs with a certain satisfaction.
As he walked on through the crowd, beneath
the brilliant lamps, amidst the roar and hubbub
of midnight life in the Strand, he reflected as
quietly and collectedly as if he had been alone in
some desertfed country lane, or keeping the middle
watch on board the Willoiv-wren.
This power of self-absorption was no special
possession of his. It is a growth of the pave-
ment — that stony place where many vices and
FORHVVARNHD > 279
few virtues llouiish— and men who walk the.
streets, soon acquire it. They soon learn to pass
by Vice and touch elbows with it, unheeding,
uncontaminated, and probably unmoved by pity.
But Virtue, alas! they also gaze at vaguely and
admire it not, scarcely taking the trouble to dis-
tinguish it.
As he walked home from the theatre, and after
a little sigh of relief directed toward the depart-
ing detective, Crozier allowed himself to reflect
— not upon Wrong and Right and such things —
but upon his own recent action as regarded
William Holdsworth. Of course he had done
wrong; there could be no doubt about that; but
he smoked serenely, and to judge from the ex-
pression of his face, was fully prepared to go on
doing wrong. Such indeed was the case. He
had warned the runaway sailor, and if further
aid was needed, he was in an indefinite way pre-
pared to render it — not from friendship toward
the unsatisfactory fellow, but because there
existed between them the mystic tie of a mutual
affection. One name there was in either heart
enshrined in the halo of an old association — the
name of Willow-ivreii, — and for the sake of that
name an upright man willingly frustrated the
cause of justice, and rendered a great service to a
shipmate, who would never possess the means,
nor be actuated by the desire, to return it. While
he reflected, there arose before his mind's eye the
upright form of a genial, white-haired old sailor
28o THE PHANTOM FUTURE
— his former chief — a man whose heart and soul
were wrapped up in the Willow-wren, and who
boasted in a harmless lovable way that her good
name had never been dragged through court-
martial or newspaper trial.
"Yes," muttered the ex-officer, " Holdsworth
must get away, for the sake of the old ship."
CHAPTER XXVI
FOR THE ship's SAKE
It happened that Crozier reached his rooms
rather earlier than usual in the evening following
the theatre episode. He had been out several
nights in succession, and was tired; but the fatal
habit of keeping late hours was strong upon him,
and at eleven o'clock he took a book, lighted his
pipe, and established himself in his deep arm-
chair to enjoy a quiet hour.
Hardly was he seated when a light footstep
beneath his window caused him to look up. The
sound of it in some way suggested flight. It
seemed as if some one had fled to Lime Court,.
and, having no knowledge of the locality, was
now standing beneath the window with the
double purpose of ascertaining whether the pur-
suer were still following, and of observing the
possible exits in case of necessity.
The very lightness of the step attracted
Crozier's attention. The ordinary malefactor is
not light-footed. A chase down the darker
streets and alleys leading from the Strand is of
nightly occurrence, but he who leads it rarely
runs lightly. He is generally a pickpocket, with
shocking bad boots several sizes too large for
281
282 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
him. The scientific burglar is a heavy-footed
man, but he counteracts this natural defect by a
pair of list slippers, which make no sound at all.
Without thinking much of these things in a
general way, the singer allowed his attention to
wander from his book, and he sat listening in a
semi-indifTerent way for the next movement of
those light feet.
Suddenly there arose in the silence a sound
which made the placid singer jump to his feet,
iind throw his book upon the table without
staying to mark the place. This sound was a
whistle, low and melodious without being ac-
tually furtive. It might have been the call of one
boy to another in a game of hide-and-seek, a
pastime much in vogue among the youths of the
neighbourhood, and to which the intricacies of
the Temple lent additional charms. Only a naval
man would have recognized that the whistle was
the boatswain's call of " all hands on deck."
While Crozier stood listening the call was re-
peated.
" Holdsworth! " he muttered. '•' What a fool!
What an insane fool! "
Then he ran lightly downstairs and opened the
door. In the shadow of the lime tree, which
was weakly budding, stood a man looking round
his apprehensively.
" Come in! " said Crozier briefly.
The man came forward, ran lightly up the
steps and passed into the dimly-lighted passage.
FOR THE SHIPS SAKE 28^
He was breathless, and his weak mouth twitched
convulsively.
"1 did not know your number," he gasped,
" but 1 knew it was Lime Court! "
Crozier nodded his head and led the way si-
lently upstairs. When they were in the room
and the door was closed, he spoke at length, and
there was a suggestion of tolerance in his voice
which his companion's quick ears did not fail tc
catch.
"What a fool you are, Holdsworth!" he
said.
"That's it," exclaimed the other petulantly.
" Hit a man when he is down; stoop from the
heights of virtue, and shove a chap down the hill.
But I have no time, Crozier, to listen if you are
going to abuse me, which I suppose you have a
right to do. Im in a beastly narrow place, and
somehow I've come to you. It isn't the first
time, God knows! "
"No," agreed Crozier; "it isn't the first time.
But surely any one with a scrap of sense would
have known that it was simple foolery to come
to London after my telegram."
"Your telegram," repeated the other; " what
do you mean ? "
" 1 telegraphed to you last night."
" At Goldheath .? "
"Yes."
"I have been in London three days."
"Ah, " said Crozier, in a softer tone, " that is
284 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
a different matter. I beg your pardon. My
warning missed fire."
At this moment some one walked sharply past
beneath the window. Holdsworth, who had in
a great degree regained his composure, changed
colour.
' ' Listen ! " he whispered ; ' * who is that ? "
Then, for the ilrst time, they looked into each
'Other's faces. In Holdsworth's eyes there was
;an unpleasant glitter, which by some strange in-
ifluence was transmitted to Crozier's. The singer's
thoughtful face was quite transformed by it, and
the change was hardly pleasant. These two men
diad been in action together, actually fighting side
(by side. Mere affairs of a boat's crew these had
been, in connection with the suppression of
Chinese piracy, but where a man's life is con-
'cerned it matters little whether the battle be a
Waterloo or a skirmish. In those few moments
both recalled the half-forgotten dangers they had
shared in bygone days, and perhaps Holdsworth
benefited by the recollection. The footsteps died
away, and both heaved a little sigh of relief.
"There is no time to lose," said Holdsworth,
hurriedly; "listen to this. Yesterday morning I
Avas walking along a quiet street near Victoria
Station, when who should I meet, face to face,
but Jerome.^ You remember him; he was a
middy in your time, and the greatest fool on
board. He recognized me at once, though I did
inot give him credit for so much sense; stopped
FOR THE SHIPS SAKE iS^
and held out his stick so that I could not pass.
'George Shenstone — A. B.,' he drawled, in that
confoundedly squeaky voice which used to bet
nowhere in a breeze of wind. 'George Shen-
stone, I think you're wanted.' I wasn't going to
be taken by a weak-kneed dandy like Jerome,
who is no more a sailor than those sugar-tongs,
(yes, thanks, 1 will have a little cold water), so E
let out. 1 did not hit him in the face; only on;
the chest; but I think I hit hard; then I sheered
off."
Crozier took up an evening paper which la}?
upon the table.
"Yes," he said slowly, "you must have hit
hard, for you broke two of his ribs. There is art
account of it here. Luckily for you, Jerome was
too much injured to make his deposition, or give
a minute description of his assailant. They fear
some internal complication. There it is; you had
better read it."
Holdsworth took the newspaper and read the
short notice through once or twice.
"Just like my luck," he exclaimed, recklessly _
" But he will be all right, never fear; I didn't hit
him hard. Besides, he must have recovered suf-
ficiently to give particulars, because I ' was-,
tracked to Myra's to-night. I went in there with
Varden. Soon afterward two fellows came im
and asked for a drink. That pretty girl there —
Syra — served them, in an off-hand wav, and I saw
the fellows glance uncomfortably around, as if
286 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
they felt a little out of their element. It appears
that all the frequenters of Myra's know each
other more or less, and these two outsiders were
promptly recognized as such. When they had
left, the question arose as to who and what they
were; and one feljow laughingly suggested that
they might be detectives. I laughed with the
rest, but I knew that he was right. I can tell
you, Crozier, it took me some time to make up
my mind to go out of that door. When I did go
out — hanging on to Varden's arm like a sailor's
sweetheart — I looked up and down the street;
and in a doorway higher up the hill I spotted the
two men. We walked along as far as Charing
Cross, and 1 suppose they followed us all the
way. I only dared to turn my head once, and
then I saw them some way behind. At Charing
Cross Varden took a hansom. I got round the
corner, and made a bolt down Craven Street,
through that tunnel under the railway station,
iind back into the Strand by the darkest streets I
could find. I have given them the slip, but there
is no time to be lost. What am 1 to do, Crozier?
Tell me, for the sake of old times."
"Oh," said the singer, "it is all right. Ill
help you, but not for the sake of old times,
Holdsworth. I'll do it for the sake of the ship.
We don't want her name dragged through the
police-courts. These two men came to me last
night at the theatre. They mistook me for you,
and as soon as they were persuaded to the con-
FOR THE SHIPS SAKE 287
trary I wired to you at Goldheath to be on the
lookout, taking it for granted that you would
lie low there until the affair blew over. Of
course I did not knoAV of this business of Je-
rome's. 1 thought it was only the old question
of the unexpired service. Afterward they came
back to me, apologized, and said that they had
discovered that I had been an officer on board
the IViHozv-zcrcii, and told me that they were
seeking for you."
Holdsworth's confidence was returning. This
was undoubtedly the result of his companion's
cool readiness to assist him. He knew that
Crozier would carry out anything he undertook.
"And now," continued the singer, "you must
get back to Goldheath. That is the safest place
for you. Every outlet from the kingdom is
watched, and a sailor cannot disguise himself
when he smells tar. They would spot you by
the very way you walked down the gangway to
the boat. You had better stay here to-night, and
go down by the first train to-morrow morning."
" Hush! " interrupted Holdsworth. " What is
that ? "
There was no mistaking the official tread; and,
moreover, other footsteps accompanied it.
Holdsworth reached out his hand toward the
gas, but his companion motioned him to leave it^
" It is all right," he whispered. "'The curtains
are thick; they cannot see that the gas is
alight. "
288 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
" Then turn it out and look through the corner
of the window," said Holdsworth.
Crozier obeyed him, and moved cautiously
across the dark room toward the window.
"There is a light downstairs in the passage,"
Holdsworth whispered hoarsely.
"So there is in every passage in the court,"
replied Crozier, as he cautiously drew back the
curtain. " We are a dissipated lot! Yes," he
continued, "there they are — two fellows in plain
-clothes and a bobby."
"Well then, I'm caught."
"Not yet. They have traced you as far as
here, by some means or other, but they must be
off the scent now. There is no place in London
like the Temple for leading people astray, espe-
cially at night, when some of the passages are
barred, and others left open."
The murmur of suppressed voices reached the
ears of the two men as they stood in the dark
room, hardly breathing. Then Crozier closed
the curtain cautiously, and lighted the gas, tak-
ing, however, the precaution of keeping it low.
"You cannot stay here, Holdsworth," he said.
^' As soon as these fellows move you must make
a bolt for it."
"1 think," said the other deliberately, "thatl
will go out and give myself up. It is not worth
getting you into a row."
Nevertheless he stood still beside the table,
iind showed no sign of moving.
FOR THE SHIPS SAKE 289
"Rot!" murmured Crozier. He knew William
Holdsworth very well, and rightly judged that
the argument would go no further. " Listen to
me," he continued in a business-like way. " As
soon as these fellows move we will go out to-
gether. I have an old ulster which you can
wear, and you may as well take one of my hats.
We will go out arm-in-arm, and simply brazen
it out. If the fellows see through it, make a
fight for it and run; I will make a fight, and let
them collar me. It is very dark all about here,
and they will not be able to tell one from the
other. Now pay great attention to this — wait, I
will draw you a chart, because it is complicated.
There are four outlets from Lime Court. This is
the one you must take. It divides about ten
yards down. The alley to the right is the one
you must follow, but don't go straight ahead;
turn sharp to the right as soon as you get into it.
It looks almost like a doorway, but it is really a
passage, which curves round and takes you into
a narrow street near the embankment. Go across-
Blackfriars Bridge, make your way along South-
wark Street, and get into London Bridge Station
just in time to miss the last train to somewhere
or other, it does not much matter where. Then
go to the Bridge House Hotel to sleep, and take
care to let everybody know that you have missed
the last train, which will account for the absence
of luggage. Go down to Goldheath by the first
train to-morrow morning. Do you understand.^"
290 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Holdsworth studied the roughly-drawn chart
for a moment.
"Yes," he said, eagerly, "1 understand; and
by God, Crozier, if 1 get out of this 111 . . ."
"All right," interrupted Crozier, almost
roughly, " 1 know all about that."
Holdsworth shrugged his shoulders, and laughed
bitterly.
"I see you have not changed," he said.
"There is a suspicion of the quarter-deck about
you still."
But Crozier was not listening. He had passed
through the curtained doorway into his bedroom,
and presently he returned carrying a large coat
and a hat.
" Here you are," he said. " Put that ulster on,
and the hat. Nothing changes a man's appear-
ance so much as another fellow's hat. I will
wear yours," he continued, after a pause, "es-
pecially as I noticed that it is a superior article to
my own."
In a few moments Holdsworth was ready.
His companion slipped on a top-coat, and then
turned out the gas. He approached the window,
and drew aside the curtain.
"They have gone," he said. "No doubt they
have dispersed to watch the exits, which is all
the better. Turn up the gas, and let me have a
look at you."
A short survey apparently satisfied him.
"Yes," he said, "you will do splendidly
FOR THE SHIP'S SAKE 291
And now cigars, and then we will be complete.
Cigars and a swagger."
He handed the box toward Holdsworth across
the table and helped himself. He struck a match,
and lighted up before handing the match to his
companion. Instead of taking it, Holdsworth
leant forward with the cigar between his lips;
and had either man been in the least nervous it
would have been impossible to hide a slight
tremble of hand or lip. Ifut cigar and match
were alike steady, and the tobacco glowed.
Then Holdsworth looked up, and their eyes met.
Both were smiling, as if they took a youthful
pleasure in seeking danger for its own sake.
That passing smile illuminated by a flickering
wax match, framed in a halo of cigar smoke,
was the recollection that each carried of the other
through the rest of his life, for they never looked
into each other's face again. Crozier threw the
match into the fireplace, and led the way to-
ward the door.
"By the way," he said on the stairs, "have
you enough money ?"
"Yes, thanks," was the reply. "Fortunately
I get a cheque cashed yesterday, so I need not
borrow anything from you. 1 owe you a good
deal, Crozier, that 1 can never pay, but if some
day you get a cheque for three hundred and
eighty-five pounds, pay it into your bank, and
remember that the remainder of my debt is not
quite forgotten."
292 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Holdsworth was under the warming influence
of real honest gratitude, and it was rather annoy-
ing not to be able to express it. He did not dare
to do more than hint at it in this way, and the
singer gave him no encouragement. His faith in
Holdsworth's gratitude was dead, and it could
never now be revived.
" Five years and a half,'* continued the fugitive,
"at seventy, is three hundred and eighty-five
pounds. Some day i will pay you!"
" Better leave it as it is!" grumbled Crozier.
His hand was on the latch, and turning, he looked
sharply at his companion. "Are you ready.?"
he inquired. "As soon as we are outside take
my arm, and try to walk differently from your-
self; put on a swagger, and hang your head.
Don't let them see that you've been drilled."
Then he opened the door, and they passed out.
It was a clear dark night with no moon. In the
open country the reflection of the stars might
have illuminated the earth to some small extent,
but in the narrow passages and courts of the
Temple the darkness was profound. With linked
arms they went down the steps together, and
crossed the court. There was a man standing
idly at the exit by which they intended to pass.
He appeared to be searching for a match where-
with to light his pipe. As they passed the lime
tree, Holdsworth committed a slight error by
falling into step in a practised manner with his
companion.
FOR THE SHIPS SAKE 293
The man struck a match at the precise moment
when they passed him, and guarding it within
his half-closed hands, managed very cleverly to
throw the light upon their faces, while apparently
having no other intention than that of lighting
his pipe. Holdsworth, however, who was near-
est to him, frustrated his design by deliberately
shielding his eyes \yith his hand as if the light
dazzled him.
"its confoundedly dark," he said, at the same
time.
Crozier assented airily, and they passed on;
but glancing back over his shoulder he saw the
man run across the court, doubtless with the in-
tention of calling ^ companion.
" Run! " whispered the singer. "Run for it! "
Side by side they sped through the narrow
passages, and presently emerged into a deserted
street-
"Now," said Crozier, somewhat breathlessly,
^' we must walk a little. There are often police-
men about here, and we must not attract atten-
tion."
Soon after he broke into a run again, and
guided his companion through a maze of narrow
and dirty streets. Occasionally they passed a
house that was lighted up, and from which the
throb of an engine suggested printing, which is
essentially a nocturnal industry in these hurried
times, but most of the buildings upon either side
of them were dark and deserted.
294 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
At length they arrived in a broad thoroughfare
through which a scanty traffic straggled.
"Here you are!" said Crozier, "Take a
hansom to London Bridge. 1 go this way. We
must not be seen together. Good-bye! "
He turned to go at once, without waiting for
thanks, without taking his hand from his pocket;
but Holdsworth followed him.
"Good-bye, Crozier," he said, in a concen-
trated voice, as he held his hand out so that it
was impossible to ignore it.
The singer shook hands quite simply and
naturally.
" Good-bye," he repeated. "There is a han-
som at the other side of the road."
And he turned his back and walked away.
Presently he turned into Fleet Street, and through
the more crowded thoroughfare placidly made
his way. Around him was vice enough, and
misery more than enough. The very incarnation
of both touched him on either side, brushing past
or cringing after, but he heeded them not. This
darker side of humanity was no new thing to
Samuel Crozier, and perhaps he was after all a
hard-hearted man. He hummed a tune to him-
self under his breath, and disregarded the story
of the woman at his elbow who had not eaten a
bite o' bread for four days. Yet he had risked
his good name, disregarded his obvious duty as a
late officer in her Majesty's service, and openly
connived at the breaking of the law in order to
FOR THH SHIP'S SAKH 295
lighten one of these burthens; for the line of dis-
tinction between Holdswoith who drove away
in a hansom, and the felon who sneaked back to
his particular doorway clutching the penny he
had earned by shutting tiie cab-door was less
marked than the former thought.
Crozier seemed to be quite unconscious of
having wrought a little good, of having lifted
for a time at least the weight of misfortune that
crushed one life, out of the thousands upon
which the merry stars twinkled blithely that
night — lives which no optimist would dare to
consider worth the living. There was no smile
of conscious virtue on his face, no warmth of
benevolence in his heart. He merely walked on,
unobservant and indifferent, content and aimless,
while the half-drunken woman with the piteous
tale of starvation cursed him obscenely for his
hardness.
CHAPTER XXVII
IMPULSE
So William Holdsworth escaped the clutches
of the law. Early on the following morning he
went down to Goldheath minus baggage, for
which he wrote later. He walked home across
the heath, full of confidence, and blithe as the
birds in spring, for his heart was a poor recep-
tacle — care never nestled there long. His plans
were not yet formed, but he felt in a vague way
that England would not hold him. The escape
of the previous evening, the excitement of those
few minutes in Crozier's rooms, followed by the
chase through the narrow streets, perhaps also
the old associations awakened by the sight of
Crozier, old memories of adventure recalled by
the singer's voice, cool and steady as it always
was in time of peril, awakened within him the
semi-dormant spirit of restlessness.
This spirit was upon him now as he hurried
through the keen morning air. But also the in-
fluence of Samuel Crozier was with him still;
the only influence that had ever remained with
him for an appreciable space of time; an influ-
ence exercised by no other man hitherto.
The runaway sailor was grateful, and he
296
IMPULSE 297
imagined that his gratitude was* called forth
only by the service rendered to him ten hours
before; but it was not so. The debt he acknowl-
edged was that of a lifetime; the influence that
subjugated him had not been acquired in a few
minutes, by a single act; it was the fruit of
many deeds, the result of a great effort; and it
was the only good influence in William Holds-
worth's life. He carried it with him through the
days that were to come, and in all human proba-
bility was a better and a happier man for the
burden of it.
But as he walked across the heath, his mind
was filled with another thought not totally un-
connected with Sam Crozier. The singer had
told him in very plain language that Elma Val-
liant must not be molested by his attentions, and
now that the spirit of adventure had hold of him
(for it is like fever and ague, which may be
allayed but never killed), he knew that he did
not love her. In his strange capricious nature
there was a crooked desire at work which may
perhaps have led to this conclusion by reason of
the feeling that he was at liberty now to love and
woo her (Sam Crozier having no further author-
ity in the matter), and therefore the wish to do
so was no longer so strong. The incentive of
competition, or rather of pugnacity, no longer
urged him to give other men trouble for his own
amusement.
And — in seeking to account for what followed
298 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
— let us give ■him credit for good feeling, for a
real honest desire to repair harm done. We
cannot, or we do not, often give others credit
for the best motives; — in fact we usually assign
the worst, with reason, you will say. Perhaps
it is so. But let us give William Holdsworth the
benefit of the doubt in this case; let us pretend
for once to believe that there is a little elemen-
tary, sedimentary good in human nature. Of
course his action was impulsive; the words he
spoke to one who listened to them greedily
enough were dictated by a mere passing influ-
ence, a flighty warmth of gratitude. But im-
pulsive good is better than no good at all. Had
he been given time to deliberate, it is probable
that a prudent reticence would have been the
result. But it happened that as he walked home
that morning, with the excitement of the previ-
ous day still thrilling through his being, with
gratitude still warming his heart, and with the
singer's influence still upon him, he met Elma
Valliant. Not only did he meet her, but circum-
stances threw him into her individual society for
some length of time.
Taking advantage of his absence Elma had be-
thought herself of driving over to see old Mr.
and Mrs. Holdsworth, and had chosen this bright
cold morning to do so. Had she seen Willy
Holdsworth on the road in front of her it is prob-
able that she would have pulled up her self-
willed pony and turned him round; but this
IMPULSE 299
chance of avoiding- him was not afforded her.
Her road ran at right angles to his, and he reached
the corner before she did, but the sound of
wheels made him turn, and the recognition was
mutual and instantaneous. There was nothing
for him to do but stand and wait for her at the
crossroads; there was nothing for her but to
drive on.
He raised his hat with a grave smile, and with
quick feminine instinct she gave a little sigh of
relief as she acknowledged his salutation. She
saw at once that a new humour was upon him
— his mood leant neither toward love-making
nor merry-making. He was therefore not
dangerous, and might even be pleasant. His
eyes were steadier, and his erect carriage firmer,
but beyond these details there was something
else — something vague and indefinite, which
rendered him more manly than he had ever been
in her sight before.
They had not spoken since a certain evening
when events had occurred in a conservatory such
as may be of small account in a man's life, while
they leave a girl somewhat different, marking
her existence with an immovable milestone
which is almost a turning-point.
She drew up with a little smile quite free from
embarrassment, and held out her gauntleted hand.
" This is an inglorious way of returning to the
paternal roof," she said, lightly.
" Yes,' he answered, after the fashion of a man
300 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Avho is speaking of one thing and thinking of
another; "yes, they will be surprised to see me."
"You have come earlier than you intended,
have you not?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, and there was a new gravity
in his voice which made her look suddenly at
him, instead of toward the pony.
" I thought so," she murmured, in a tone which
invited him to proceed.
"I am off again," he said, moving restlessly
from one foot to the other; " I cannot stand this
country-squire life any longer."
Elma stroked the back of her pony thought-
fully with the end of the whip, but made no
comment.
"1 am glad we met," he added. " I wanted
to see you."
For a moment the girl was uneasy, then her
eyes met his, and she saw that there was no cause
for any such feeling. He made no attempt to ex-
plain his outburst of passion on the last occasion
of their meeting, but simply ignored it. This
method is scarcely recommendable to young men
of impressionable hearts, although in this excep-
tional case it was perhaps the best thing Holds-
worth could have done. But as a rule it is very
dangerous to ignore having once told a woman
that you loved her. Apologize — tell lies — make
excuses — humble yourself, but do not ignore it!
Whether she love you or not, she will never for-
give such a sin as that.
IMPULSE 301
" I have something to tell you," he went on to
say, moving away a few steps, and laying his
hand upon the horse's broad back where the whip
had been a few moments before. "Shall I tell
you now — on the king's highway — or shall I
wait till the inspiration goes from me and never
tell you at all?" he asked, with a slight smile in
his blue eyes as they rested candidly on her puz-
zled face. She raised her glance to his, meeting
him kindly, inscrutably.
"Perhaps you had better decide," she said,
"so much depends upon what it is that you have
to tell me."
He stroked the sleek pony reflectively, then
without looking toward her he spoke with a cer-
tain continuous deliberation which allowed of no
interruption.
" I do not know," he said, "what you have
heard about me — about my past life, 1 mean..
Probably a little truth, and a good many lies. I
don't want to know. But there are a few things
I should like you to hear before I go away, be-
cause it often happens that the truth is not so bad
as uncontradicted exaggerations which may be
only half believed. I won't trouble you with de-
tails. Many of them are not pleasant, and some
there are which are better suppressed. People
say, Elma, that there is no such thing as bad luck.
Never believe that, never believe Ihat a man has
only himself to blame for what comes to him!
There is something else at work — something rais-
302 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
ing or lowering his life, quite beyond his reach,
quite outside his power. Call it by what name
you like — Providence with a big P or luck with a
small 1 — the result is the same as far as our lives
are concerned. Mine has not been quite a suc-
cess, I suppose, in fact it has been an utter fail-
ure." . . .
He laughed shortly, and defied her to contra-
dict him by a humourous glance which was really
somewhat pathetic.
"Is it not," she suggested, " rather premature
to give a judgment yet ? "
"I doubt it," he replied, " unless luck changes."
With ready tact she avoided raising a discussion
respecting the much-maligned little word, which
he repeated so often with a certain cynicism.
Whatever she may have thought, she silently ac-
quiesced in his theory that human lives are laid
out upon a fatalistic, immovable plan which no
earthly influence can alter.
"I can honestly say," he continued, "without
thought of complaint or irreverence, that I have
had luck dead against me from the beginning.
Of course I have been to blame; but really, Elma,
really and truly, on my word as . . . let us
say 'a gentleman ' just for once, 1 have had con-
sistent bad luck all through, and people soon rec-
ognize an unlucky man. They won't help him,
and often they won't employ him. But . . .
there has been one man. In all these last ten
years of steady progress downhill, I have only
IMPULSb 30^
passed one man who made a grab at me. And
he did more; he came down a little, and tried to
haul me up again. Time after time he succeeded,
time after time I slipped again; but he never
turned from me. He never lost patience, and
never, while our lives were thrown together, gave
up the attempt. But he grew hard — hard and un-
merciful — he lost faith in me at last. Perhaps he
is by nature what is called a hard man. But I
know that he spares himself as little as he spares
others. Things have been bad ; Elma, I have been
farther down the hill than 1 like to think of when
I am near you; but if it had not been for that man
I should not have been here now. I should not
have had the chance that I have before me
now, of trying my luck again. 1 was once a
sailor . . ."
He stopped speaking. The reins which had
hitherto been lying loosely upon the pony's back
had suddenly been drawn tight. He glanced at
her, and saw a slight flush upon her cheeks. Her
features were too still to be quite natural.
"You have guessed who it is," he said slowly.
"Yes," she answered, looking past him across
the heath — "Sam Crozier."
" How do you know ?" he asked sharply, with
a ring of emotion in his voice which was very
akin to pain. " What made you guess ? Surely
he has not told you."
" No," she answered. "No. He . . . has
told me nothing. It was a mere guess."
304 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"But there must have been something — some-
thing to make you guess " — suspiciously.
"It never occurred to me before this moment
to think that you might have met before, but I
have always noticed some points of resemblance.
You hold yourselves in the same way, and . . .
and you both use your hands quite differently
from other men. I suppose it comes from having
been sailors."
"We were shipmates," said Holdsworth, as if
that explained everything. "He has done more
for me and attempted more than any man on
earth; and I suppose it is the natural consequence
that, now that it is too late, I would sooner have
Sam Crozier's esteem than that of any man. At
first he began by liking me, I honestly be-
lieve. When I got into trouble he pitied me and
still believed in me; now he simply despises
me."
" Are you not," she asked softly, " making out
the worst case you can against yourself? 1 do
not think that Mr. . . . that he despises you.
He is too just to despise any man."
"It is his justice that does it," answered
Holdsworth, with an awkward laugh. "Unfor-
tunately he has a right to treat me as he does.
He cannot understand weakness of any descrip-
tion — and 1 suppose I am weak. I know that I
cannot rely upon myself. The desire to do the
proper thing is there right enough, but when the
time comes I somehow cannot do it. Luck is
IMPULSE 305
against me, and " — here he shrugged his shoulders
— "I suppose I am weak. At least, Crozier
thinks that I am; I can see that."
Elma was puzzled. This ex-sailor was beyond
her grasp of character. He had puzzled a much
deeper thinker than her, for Crozier had striven
in vain to get at the man's real inner self. There
was much good, and really very little that was
bad in William Holdsworth, but the blend was
so irregular that evil seemed to predominate. He
made the most of his bad qualities, as unam-
bitious men are in the habit of doing; and with
his virtues he made a very poor show. More-
over, he was disappointed in life, and somewhat
bored; taking a queer delight in boasting of his
own failures.
"Holdsworth," Crozier had once said to him
from the quarter-deck when they were both in
oilskins, which sometimes covers gold-lace and
its subtle differences at sea, "you want ballast.
You would be better for it in fair weather as well
as in foul."
A few words spoken in kindly praise — shouted
rather, for a typhoon raged round them, and the
air was seething — at the successful termination
of a wild feat aloft which made Holdsworth's
name known on every ship of the China squad-
ron. " The fellow who cut away the Willow-
•wrens fore-topmast," they said on the quarter-
deck. "The d — d fool who went aloft in a
typhoon," they grumbled in the forecastle.
3o6 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"I do not think that he is a hard man,"
pleaded Ehna, examining the lash of her whip.
" He was a strict disciplinarian at sea,"
" But is that the same thing ?" asked the girl.
" A disciplinarian is as hard upon himself as upon
other men."
"Yes — he never spared himself. But he does
not make the least allowance for difference of
temperament. He forgets that other men are
not like himself — not cool and self-suppress-
ing . . ."
"1 do not think that you understand him," in-
terrupted she, thoughtfully.
" He does not understand me."
Then the quick-witted girl began to suspect
that the sailor's words were not prompted by ill-
feeling. He spoke against his former officer in a
peculiar, insincere way, as if seeking to lay the
blame upon another for something that had come
between them. She felt that the spirit of enmity
had no place here. There was another influence
at work, and instinctively she hit very near the
mark. There was in her mind no definite thought
that Holdsworth was suffering under the sting of
unsatisfied gratitude.
" But," said she, " you tell me that he has done
a great deal for you — that he has helped you, and
— and that you are grateful to him."
She was watching his face now, and saw the
contraction of his lips; the pained, dissatisfied
gleam in his blue eyes as he looked across the
IMPULSE 307
heath, seeing nothing. And with a woman's
quick warm sympathy she pitied him. She
knew then, and never afterward deviated from
the conviction, that Sam Crozier had made a mis-
lake. The singer in his strong manliness treated
Holds worth as his own equal; treated him as a
man, strong in his convictions, steady in his pur-
pose; giving him credit for two qualities which
he was without. She felt that there were pas-
sages in the lives of this man and of Samuel
Ciozier of which she knew nothing, and of which
she would in all probability never learn the de-
tails; but instinctive judgment (a woman's mo-
nopoly) told her that by some warp the better na-
ture of William Holdsworth had never had fair
play.
" Yes," he answered, gravely, "he has done
more for me than I can tell you — more than he
thinks; but not more than I realize. And what
is the result from his point of view ? He looks
upon me now, at this moment, as an outcast, a
hopeless vagabond, a failure. He will never
believe to his dying day that I have really tried to
do better — not from instinctive desires, not from
fear of the law, but in order to show him that
his pains and his . . . great . . . kind-
ness have not been thrown away. Whenever I
try to show him this 1 fail. Whenever I come to
him, it is not to hold out my hand and tell him
that he can take it without fear or shame — it is to
ask his help. Only last night, Elma; not twelve
3o8 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
hours ago I . . . was forced to go to him.
He never suspected what it cost me to do so — he
never cared whether 1 thought of kiUing myself
first or not. All he knew and all he saw was an
outcast, a runaway, a criminal, and he never-
cared to look deeper."
He stopped and looked toward her suddenly,
surprising a soft and almost tearful look in her
eyes. He was telling it simply as a story — a
mere relation of facts; but she saw the weary
pathos of it, and the old time-worn limit that
foils all human attempts to make human life a
better thing than it is.
"It is a long story," he said, apologetically;
"1 don't know why I should trouble you with
it."
" Go on," she answered, " I am listening."
"Yet," continued Holdsworth, "he helped me.
He deliberately broke the law to save me. And
as usual he succeeded — Crozier always succeeds:
in the end. When 1 tried to thank him he shut
me up ... brutally. When 1 talked of
gratitude he laughed."
The sailor laughed bitterly, and waited for her
comment.
"How utterly,'- she said at length, very
gently; "how utterly you have misunderstood
each other! "
"I suppose he is right," continued Holds-
worth, after a pause; "I suppose he is quite
right Of what possible value can my thanks be
IMPULSE 309
to him ? What difference can it make to such a
man as Crozier whether a vagabond be grateful
to him or hate him ?"
So Elma learnt it at last. At last she reached
the root of the affair, the base of the widening
gulf that lay between two brave men. And
there, of course, she found Vanity.
"He told me," continued the sailor, "that he
did not do it for my sake, but for the sake of the
ship,"
Elma almost smiled, the detail was so like
Crozier. He had an aggravating way of screen-
ing himself behind a false motive. He might
profess to have helped his shipmate for old
associations' sake; he might even persuade him-
self that his motive was no higher; but Elma
thought she knew better. She knew Samuel
Crozier too well to believe that.
"And you believed him .> " she asked, in-
credulously.
" Yes; he meant it."
Elma shook her head with petulant impa-
tience.
"Some day," he went on to say, "he will
mention my name, and you may have an oppor-
tunity of telling him what 1 have told you. I
should like to tell all the world, because people
do not know what Samuel Crozier is. You may
tell every one that a scamp once said that he was
the finest and the best man, the ablest seaman
and the truest gentleman that he ever met. And,
yjj THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Elma, remember that scamps see the best side of
human nature. If you should ever speak of me,
don't tell him of any protestations of mine.
Simply say that I have gone away to try again.
If ever I come back it will not be as, what Tom
calls, 'a returned empty.' I shall come back
with clean hands, or not at all. Now — he does
not refuse to shake hands, but he never offers
to."
He smiled vaguely, and moved away a little
with his hand upraised toward his hat. But Elma
stopped him.
" Shall I not see you again before you go ?"
"No!"
She held out her hand with a little air of
bravado.
" Good-bye then."
He returned and took her fingers within his.
"God bless you!" he mumbled awkwardly;
"you are more charitable than Crozier."
Then he raised his hat and left her. She
turned and drove home slowly, meditating over
men and their ways. A week ago this man had
told her, with all appearance of sincerity and
truth, that he loved her; and she knew now,
without shred of doubt or misconception, that he
had never loved her at all. This was the text of
her meditations.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE BUSHEL RAISED
Lady Firton's ball was as usual fixed for the
Thursday after Easter. This function was an
annual affair, and young couples wondered in
that suggestive and dangerously melancholy
manner, which is the result of supper and bad
air, how many times they had danced together
in her ladyship's drawing-room.
To Lady Firton's ball was usually bidden the
latest literary star, and a choice selection of lions.
This was not because her ladyship (a sensible
little woman, with a romantic heart of her own)
loved lions, but because she recognized the wis-
dom of providing them, just as much as she knew
that ices and lemonade were necessary.
Elma Valliant was one of her ladyship's most
reliable young ladies. She always came to town
immediately before the ball, and spent two or
three days among flowers and carpetless rooms,
making herself generally useful. The squire and
Mrs. Valliant usually stayed with other friends,
and appeared among the first arrivals.
Tom, of course, was invited, and Sam Crozier
was an habitue of the house, and a special friend
of the clever and successful diplomatist, Sir
3"
312 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Thomas Firton, who was reputed to speak eleven
languages.
On this occasion, however, Tom Valliant re-
fused. To Lady Firton he made a conventional
excuse. To Crozier he laughingly declared that
his dancing days were done, and to Elma he
would say nothing serious at all, merely turning
off her questions with a joke. With the crowd
Crozier arrived. He made a semi-sarcastic boast
of passing anywhere with the crowd, among
which, however, he was never a nonentity, try
as he might.
Through the crush he ultimately made his way
to Elma's side, and as he shook hands noticed
that she was wearing white stephanotis, sent to
her no doubt by Tom,
"Are you really alone.?" she asked. "Has
Tom not come ? "
"No; he has not come."
"Why . . . 1 wonder?"
" I don't know at all," he answered carelessly,
for he thought that Elma knew more about it
than himself. " May I have a dance . . , ?"
he continued, holding out his hand for her card.
With a mechanical little bow she gave it to
him, and watched his face with a smile of amuse-
ment as he studied it gravely.
"There is nothing . . ."he said, offering
to return the card — " nothing left."
She allowed him a few seconds to express his
disappointment, but he said nothing, merely
THE BUSHEL RAISED 313
standing before her in silence, holding out the
card.
"All those,'' she said confidentially at length,
" marked T. V. are at your disposal — to choose
from, 1 mean . . ."
She turned away from him to speak to some
one else, leaving her programme in his possession,
and he heard her say that she had no dances left
disengaged.
"Did you keep these for Tom?" he asked
incautiously, when she turned to him again.
"Yes," she answered, indignantly, "but he
has not come to claim them; so," she added,
"you may take your choice."
Without a word he gave her back the card.
Over the delicately-traced letters T, V. he had
on all. three occasions written deeply the initials
S. C.
She saw what he had done, and slipped the
card into the front of her dress, with a little
laugh expressive of suggested remonstrance.
"Is that all right.?" he asked gravely, before
moving away to shake hands with his host.
" No," she answered in the same tone, with
however a little twinkle of mischief lurking be-
neath her lashes. "No, 1 should think it is
wrong."
And with a slow smile and murmured " Thank,
you " he went away, moving through the crowd
labouriously, for he had many greetings to ac-
knowledge and exchange.
314 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Later, when he came to claim his first dance,
he found Ehna in the same dangerous humour;
coquettish and kind by turns, sweetly grave and
mischievously gay alternately.
"Why did Tom not come?" she asked, im-
periously, as she took the singer's arm. The
question implied plainly that she had by no
means forgotten that this waltz belonged by
rights to her cousin.
"Goodness knows," he answered, shrugging
his shoulders hopelessly.
" C est possible, hut . . . do yojc?"
"No; I have not the least idea. He does not
care much for dancing, I believe."
They began waltzing, and the floor was
crowded, so the conversation dropped for a few
moments.
"Have you seen him to-day?" she asked
f ■' esently.
"Yes, I saw him for a few minutes."
" In town ? " she asked.
*'Yes."
" At Myra's ? " ^he persisted.
" Ye-es," he answered, with some slight hesi-
tation.
At this moment the crowd suddenly increased.
It was almost a block, but Crozier detected an
outlet, and escaped through it, reversing and
steering admirably. When they were upon a
clearer floor he laughed.
"They seem to be rather jammed in that
THE BUSHEL RAISED 315
comer/' he observed in a lighter lone, which
had the etfect of driving away the gravity which
had come into Elma's eyes.
"Yes," she answered, "we are well out of it,
thanks to your seamanlike manoeuvre. 1 suppose
that is part of your discarded profession ?"
" What — getting out of a tight place ? "
"Yes."
"It is better never to get in," he replied gravely.
" By the way," she said, with apparent lack of
sequence, "do you know that Willy Holdsworth
has gone away again ? "
"The young fellow," he suggested, with in-
nocent interrogation, " who lived with his father
and mother near Goldheath ? "
She did not answer, but looked up with pecul-
iarly unsteady lips into his eyes. He could not
understand at all the expression of her face. It
was a strange mixture of suppressed laughter
and something else — something very different,
which he could not define.
"You are splendid," she said, with a faint
suggestion of reproach.
For once in his life he was taken aback— all
aback, he would have said technically. After a
pause, however, he looked down quizzically at
his own apparel.
"Yes," he murmured, complacently, "I think
my get-up is very nice."
She did not laugh, but merely gave the faintest
of smiles as a tribute to his wit.
3i6 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"If ever," she said, "I am overburdened with
a secret; if I feel that I must tell somebody or
. . . or die, I will choose you; you are lik^
a well."
■ " With Truth hidden in it?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, "most certainly; with
Truth hidden in it."
"Thank you," he said; "but please explain.
You must remember that I am a little dense. 1
am not a quick thinker . . . like Tom."
There was contradiction written in her eyes;
but she said nothing for some moments. At
last she made a little movement, dragged slightly
upon his arm, which he promptly and correctly
read as a suggestion to stop. They passed oul
of the room into a smaller apartment where all
was quiet.
"Willy Holdsworth," she then said, "spoke
to me before he went away."
"Oh!"— doubtfully.
"He gave me a slight sketch of the career—
the downward career — of a rolling stone."
"Rash man," suggested Crozier, uncomfort-
ably.
She looked at him gravely, almost impatiently.
"I have acknowledged," she said, "that you
are splendid; is it necessary for you to keep i1
up any longer.?"
"That depends," he answered unabashed,
** upon how much he told you."
"I think he told me everything — suppressing
THE BUSHEL RAISED 317
only a few details unfit for my delicate atten-
tion."
Still Crozier looked embarrassed and somewhat
doubtful.
"You can dispense with the bushel" — looking
at him with grave meaning.
"It is an article," he returned, "of which I
make little use. My light may flicker, but it is
fully exposed to the public gaze."
She shook her head in contradiction.
"That is hardly the pure and simple truth.
On several occasions 1 have come suddenly upon
good that has been done by stealth. You need
not deny it. I like doing it very much indeed."
He moved restlessly, and looked round the
room in a vague, smiling way. The exhausted
dancers were now appearing in couples seeking
seats.
"Please do not look so very solemn," he
pleaded, in a lowered voice. "These observant
people will think that we have been quarrelling,
or . . ."
He stopped suddenly.
"Or what.?"
"Or boring each other."
Elma laughed, but made no further answer.
For some moments they sat without speaking,
then Crozier moved briskly, drawing in his legs
and sitting forward. ■
"This is not ball-room behaviour," he re-
marked. " We should be talking weather very
^18 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
gravely, or nonsense noisily. At all events we
ought to smile vapidly and look pleased with
ourselves."
Ignoring these weighty suggestions, she spoke
in the same serious strain.
"He sent a message to you. That is why I
mentioned his name."
"Indeed" — with some interest. "What was
it.?"
"He asked me to tell you that he has gone
away to try again — that is all."
Crozier brushed aside his mustache by a
quick movement of his hand, first to one side
and then to the other. It was a habit with him
upon the platform, or when he wished to think
deeply. He always began to sing with that
quick movement of the hand.
"Nothing more?" he asked.
"No; nothing more."
He sat gazing thoughtfully across the room at
nothing in particular, while in his deep-set eyes
there came a melancholy, dissatisfied expression,
such as always shows itself upon the face of a
man who is looking back over a past that might
have been improved. There was no actual re-
morse in Crozier's heart. Indeed he would have
acted in the same way in like circumstances
again. It was an unfortunate chance — that was
all — that a strong man should have become the
benefactor of a weak one who was no coward.
Witl> courage Samuel Crozier expected to find
!
THE BUSHEL RAISED 319
steadfastness, and found it not. From him
Holdsworth looked for a tolerance unnatural in
a self-judging, self-suppressing man. The dis-
appointment was mutual, and its influence
stronger upon the characters of the two sailors
than one would have imagined. It almost
seemed that they had not met upon the broad
highway of life by mere accident. There was
something more than chance in the drawing
together of these two men — both born on Gold-
heath — upon the high seas.
We must simply acknowledge that human
influence goes for naught in this existence.
Man's work unto man is nothing, else why-
should Crozier have failed in his attempt, pure
enough and disinterested, to benefit a straggler
upon the highway ? Why should they have
parted in haste in the Blackfriars' Bridge Road.
never to meet again — never to learn that each
had done some good to the other — that the mis-
understanding between their finite hearts was
also finite.
Elma knew that there was woman's work to
do here — for women were most assuredly in-
tended to patch up man's faulty nature; to
bring men together and soften the grating
angles. But she recoiled before the task which
was utterly beyond her powers. She could only
tell Samuel Crozier what had happened. To in-
fluence him directly was more than she could
accomplish, though she almost felt herself within
320 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
reach of the misunderstanding. She could al-
most lay her hand upon the fault and say, "This
or that have you done wrong;" but something
held her back — some strange shyness. And so
she attempted nothing.
Presently there was a movement among the
guests, and Crozier rose from his seat, offering
his arm. In a Cinderella dance men seek their
partners early, and so there is no time to be lost.
As they crossed the room together Crozier
looked down at his companion, and said in an
explanatory tone —
"There is much good in Holdsworth, I am
sure; but somehow he has been unfortunate.
The good has not yet had an opportunity of
coming out."
She made no answer; indeed she could not do
so, because her partner for the next dance was
standing before her.
They did not again talk of William Holds-
worth during the evening. There were other
subjects which interested them, and when they
parted at the end of their last dance together
they did so merrily and unconcernedly. She
upbraided him for laziness in going home so
early, and he laughingly replied that there was
now nothing to retain him at the ball, which
compliment she acknowledged with a gay nod.
There was no slightest premonition, no in-
stinctive foreknowledge that they were to meet
again before the dawn of the next day. As
THE BUSHEL RAISED 321
usual, Crozier was gravely ready to fall into any
humour that might be influencing her — as usual,
she was gay and incomprehensible.
He elbowed his way through the throng with
the little half coquettish nod and the glance of
the defiant eyes still in his memory, and he did
not know that she was watching him while she
talked to her partner.
Without attracting undue attention he made
his way out of the house. He never quite de-
fined the feeling that prompted him to leave
Lady Firton's so early. Such a proceeding was
contrary to custom, for he was not a "blase"
man at all, and being an enthusiastic dancer as
well as a keeper of very late hours, he was usu-
ally among the last to leave. The cheery little
hostess did not fail to notice his early departure,
for she had counted upon his remaining to the
second informal supper after the guests had
left.
He had a vague intention of "looking up"
Tom Valliant — not such a difficult task in their
small Bohemian world as one would imagine.
When he passed down the broad stone steps
into the dark square he found a long file of de-
serted cabs. The men were congregated to-
gether in the middle of the road, and in a mo-
ment the singer saw the reason of it. To the
eastward, over the denser parts of London, there
hovered in the sky a shimmering glow of light.
With that easy sense of intercourse with a
^22 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
lower class which most men learn at sea, Crozier
joined the group.
"Afire?" he said, interrogatively.
" Yessir," answered a man near to him, "and
a big 'un too."
The sky was all rosy, while the glow rose and
fell unsteadily. Observing this a young cabman
took his pipe from his lips and expectorated
energetically.
■ "See it jumpin'.?" he observed. "That
shows it's near."
"It's in the Strand, that's my opinion," said a
gruff voice in the background.
"I believe it is," rejoined Crozier; "some-
where near Bratton Street. 1 am going in that
direction — who will drive me .? — a hansom, I
mean."
"I'm your man, Mr. Crozier," said a young
fellow who, with the keenness of his race, had
recognized the singer; " I'm first on the rank and
a good horse too."
Crozier followed the cab-driver, and in a few
minutes was rolling through quiet streets toward
the Strand. He had directed the man to drive to
Myra's, and proceeded to light the inevitable
cigar; no easy task in a brisk southeasterly
breeze.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE FIRE
Crozier was right. The fire was in Bratton
Street. Moreover, it was at Myra's. Fortunately
the theatre-traffic had been disposed of before
that stout lady began raking out her grill with a
crooked poker.
Mishaps of all descriptions have a peculiar way
of appearing almost impossible before the event,
and absurdly easy after. The front of the grill
fell out, and the burning coals rolled upon the
floor. One reached as far as the curtain of the
inner bar, which blazed up at once. In a few
moments it was wrenched from its rings by Tom
Valliant from within, but the thin, heavily var-
nished woodwork was already alight. Still it
would have been quite possible to pass unhurt
through the blazing doorway. But Tom did not
attempt it. Through the smoke and flame the
occupants of the outer bar, with whom was now
a policeman, saw him return to Syra. The girl
was a prisoner behind the curved bar, surrounded
by brilliant bottles, decanters, and glasses.
Against the little doorv/ay at the far end of the
counter, the flap of which Syra had already
raised, was a heavy box containing bottles of
mineral water, and this she was in vain attempt-
323
324 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
ing to push aside. When she did not come to
his side, Tom glanced over his shoulder and saw
the reason of her delay. Then he laughed —
actually laughed with the smoke and flames ris-
ing all round him.
"Wait a second!" he cried, and leaving the
burning curtain on the floor, he went to her
rescue.
In the meantime the policeman' was bravely
fighting the fire in the outer bar, but it spread
terribly. A living cinder had fallen among a pile
of newspapers beneath the counter, and these
were now blazing, while the thin woodwork
crackled. The man had nothing but his water-
proof cape, and with this he was endeavouring
to stifle the flames, but his hands were badly
burnt, and he was half stupefied and blinded by
the acrid smoke that came from the varnished
wood.
Myra it was who, standing behind the police-
man, still grasping the crooked poker, saw that
the two occupants of the inner bar could not
pass out because the floor was alight.
" You cannot get through now," she shrieked.
" Go back — go upstairs! "
"Yes," cried the policeman, as he staggered
back baffled and blinded, "yes, go back — go up-
stairs! "
Seizing his arm, Myra dragged the man out
into the street. The outer bar was no longer
tenable. Already there was a cordon of police-
THE FIRE 325
men forming a semicircle round the blazing
house, and keeping back the excited crowd.
"Is there anybody in the house?" asked an
inspector, hurriedly.
"Yes," answered Myra, gasping; "there's
two. They've gone upstairs."
The inspector stepped back and looked up
anxiously at the windows. Through those on
the first floor came a dull red gleam, showing
that the flames had penetrated the ceiling of the
ground-floor. Then he spoke a few words to a
policeman near him, who immediately pushed
his way through the crowd, and ran up the street
in the direction of Covent Garden.
The inspector returned to Myra, who stood
silently wringing her hands in the semicircle
formed by the policemen.
" Have you much spirit in cask in the house .^"
he asked,
"Yes. There's forty gallons of whisky in the
cellar under the bar; and there's over a hundred
dozen of different spirits in the two bars and the
cellar."
The inspector tugged at his chin-strap, and
glanced uneasily up and down the street.
"Any paraffin.?" he inquired, sharply.
"No!"
"Nor gunpowder.?"
"No! What would I be doing with gun-
powder .? "
A hoarse shout at the corner where Bratton
326 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Street joined the Strand interrupted them'. This
was immediately recognized by the crowd, and
greeted with a cheer. The crowd fell back, and
the first engine, a "steam,"' with gleaming brass
funnel, pulled up with a rattle of chains. The
men were off before the horses had recovered
themselves, and in an incredibly short space of
time the hose was run out, while two men ran
with a lighter pipe to the nearest hydrant. The
crowd cheered again. They were getting ex-
cited, and the inspector sent a messenger for
more men. In a few moments three more
engines arrived, and suddenly the assembled
multitude raised a great ringing cheer, which
completely drowned the hoarse grunting of the
steam-engine, which was now at work literally
jumping at each throb of the pump.
The reason of the shout was that Tom Valliant
had appeared at the second story .window.
Some broken glass falling at his feet apprised the
inspector of this, and he stepped back into the
middle of the street. The window was small,
and Tom was breaking away the frame for
greater convenience in getting out. When the
cheer had died away, a dozen hoarse voices were
raised, each shouting different instructions. The
inspector of police was now placed in a second-
ary position by the arrival of a district chief of
the fire brigade. The nearest escape had been
sent for some time ago, but there were as yet no
signs of its approach. A few minutes more and
THE FIRE ^27
the two occupants of the small room upon the
second floor would be compelled to choose be-
tween a jump into the blankets already awaiting
them, and a retreat to the third floor.
At this moment a fireman approached his chief
and spoke for some moments with him.
''Well, you can try it," said the chief at
length, and he turned to make a sign to Tom to
remain where he was for a few minutes more.
Almost immediately the fireman reappeared. He
had in his hand a coil of rope sufficiently stout to
bear the weight of two or three persons. The
police had now formed a double cordon across
the street, completely blocking the traffic, while
behind their dark forms extended a sea of anx-
ious, eager faces, upturned to the flames that lit
them up luridly.
It seemed almost impossible to throw a rope
from the street up to the window where Tom
Valliant and Syra were waiting, but the fireman
was an old Dover pier-head hand, who had not
thrown ropes for five years by day and night in
all winds and weathers in vain.
He now mounted on the level top of a manual
engine which quivered and throbbed beneath his
feet. Then with the old familiar, "Standby!"
he adjusted the coils. Looking up, he rapidly
measured the distance, and swinging back his
whole body, he threw the rope. It whistled
through the smoke-laden air, freeing its snake-
like coils as it flew.
J28 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
" Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Bravo ! "
With one coil to spare it fell clean into the
window, and Tom Valliant caught the end. He
disappeared into the room for a moment and
secured the rope. In the meantime the fireman
had leapt from the manual engine. The rope
had to be drawn taut in a slanting direction up
the hill. Had it been allowed to hang straight
down from the window, not only would descent
by it have been impossible, but it would have
been burnt in a moment, because the flames
were darting out of the large ground-floor win-
dow, and the frames of those on the first-floor
were burning, the glass having long ago fallen.
A hundred willing hands grasped the rope and
drew it tight. A man of ordinary strength could
now descend without much risk, hand-under-
hand, swinging in mid-air. It was merely a
matter of unusual tension on the arms for a few
minutes; many schoolboys would have been
willing to undertake it for the fijn of the thing.
The upturned faces worked and twitched con-
vulsively, many unemotional men talked hur-
riedly to themselves, some shouted aloud, and
others spoke to those around them and were in
nowise heeded.
They could see that Tom Valliant was explain-
ing to the girl, who had remained singularly calm
throughout, how she should cling to him. Then
she appeared to refuse to burden him with her
weight, which could not, however, have been
THE FIRE 329
very great, because, although above the medium
height, she v^as slightly formed. She shook her
head and appeared to be urging him to go alone.
They both leant out of the window and looked
up the street, evidently in the hope that the fire-
escape might be in sight.
Then the chief of the fire brigade raised his
voice for the first time with all the science of a
man accustomed to making himself heard.
"Come on, come on, my girl!" he shouted;
"you only have a minute more!" And the
crowd heard every word.
Valliant was seen to speak hurriedly, and at
last it would seem that the girl gave in. Again
he instructed her how to hold firmly on to him,
and then climbed half out of the window, with'
one leg in and the other out. The crowd was
silent now, and only the throb of the engines
rose above the steady roar of the fire, while oc-
casionally a distant whistle rang out as the fire-
men called for a greater pressure of water on
their hose.
Valliant turned sideways and stretched out his
arms to Syra in order to help her out of the win-
dow. With his assistance she crept out and
took her place beside him.
"That's right," cried the chief of the firemen.
"Never fear! "
Valliant's evident intention was to slip off the
window-sill and swing from the rope. That first
wrench on his arms would be the worst. Syra
330 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
was to place her arms round him ; one over his
shoulder and the other beneath, clasping her
hands firmly together, while he gave her what
support he could with his legs.
She had actually thrown her arms round him,
and was sitting on the very verge of the win-
dow-sill, when Valliant suddenly cried out some-
thing which was unintelligible to the crowd,
although the words sounded like, " Look out,
Syra! "
Suddenly abandoning his intention of grasping
the rope with both hands, he half turned and
clutched vaguely and unsteadily at the frame-
work of the window. The movement over-
balanced the girl, whose hold round him was for
the moment loosened, as he had fallen back,
crushing her hands between himself and the
brickwork of the window.
Before anyone could realize what had hap-
pened, there was a sickening crash upon the wet
pavement. Two policemen rushed forward, but
their inspector motioned them to stop.
"A blanket," he said, shortly and sharply, "or
a sheet. You must not try to lift her! "
Very tenderly the three big men knelt on the
streaming pavement. For a moment there was
a great hush as the awestruck multitude surged
backward and forward. Syra lay still, and made
no sound. Silently she had fallen; silently she
lay as the three men bent over her — for they
were merely three men now, not two policemen
THE FIRE 331
in the presence of their superior officer. The
dainty figure in its close-fitting black dress was
slightly twisted to one side, the arms and deft
fingers were limp and nerveless. The white, im-
mobile face bore no sign of pain. There was no
trace to tell that fear had crisped the features.
They were indeed perfect now in their great re-
pose, for the mouth was no longer twisted side-
ways and upward as if existence were an effort.
The effort was not needed now, for Syra was
dead. The tenderness with which she was
raised and carried away was futile, because
earthly pain was hers no more.
In the meantime Tom Valliant had remained
for a moment balancing upon the window-sill.
Then he fell backward into the room. He must
have recovered partial consciousness almost at
once, for he was standing at the window the
next minute. With one hand he held mechanic-
ally to the window-frame, while the other was
pressed to his breast. His face was pallid, and
his eyes quite dull and lifeless. The effort was
nothing more than physical, and it seemed as if
he did not know where he was. The glare was
very great now, and he was visible to all. From
that surge of frantic faces a thousand eyes watched
his slightest movement.
The chief of the fire brigade looked anxiously
up the street. "D n that escape!" he mut-
tered. " Is it never coming ? "
His question was answered by a distant shout,
^}2 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
and the tall, weird machinery of the ladder
appeared at the summit of the short hill. A
hundred onlookers ran to meet it, shouting as
they went, and pointing to the window where
Tom Valliant was. He had now fallen forward
across the sill.
As the escape neared the house it began to
sway and totter from side to side, and the
crowd looked up apprehensively. Then sud-
denly a mighty cheer arose. The tall red ladder
was swaying because a man was already half
way up it, running lightly up the rungs without
however touching them with his fingers. His
hands were round the uprights — a way they are
taught at sea.
The average Englishman is an unemotional
being, but he is not devoid of that spice of life
which is vaguely called the devil. He requires,
however, the society of his fellow-men and the
spirit of emulation to raise that devil. It is this
peculiarity that makes him a good sailor and an
excellent soldier — excitement brings out a sudden
fierce energy, while the cool independent man is
behind it somewhere ready for an emergency.
Nevertheless it often happens that a crowd of
Englishmen is no more self-contained and no
wiser than a crowd of any other nationality, sur-
prising though this may be.
A trifling incident now drove this mass of
people, collected in Bratton Street, almost frantic
with excitement. This was nothing more than
THE FIRE 333
the mere fact that the man who was upon the
escape in certain peril of his life was an English
gentleman in evening dress, with a white flower
gleaming in his buttonhole.
But one of the liremen, an old blue-jacket, had
caught a glimpse of his face, and saw something
more there than a "swell" in dress-clothes.
"Boys," he yelled hoarsely, turning to the
crowd, "that's a sailor."
The cry was passed from mouth to mouth,
"He's a sailor! he's a sailor!" and immediately
there arose a hundred voices encouraging him.
"Stick to it, Jack!" they cried. "Go it, my
hearty! God bless ye."
"Ay, d n him," muttered the man in
charge of the escape, as he looked up to take his
instructions from Sam Crozier far above his head;
"he's a sailor, or else he wouldn't ha' been up
there before me! "
The escape was cautiously wheeled nearer to
the house, from which the flames were now
shooting outward in forked tongues. From the
window where Tom Valliant's inanimate body
was still visible there shone a red glare. The
fire had reached the second-story, and at any
moment the floor might fall in, adding fuel to
the flaming, spluttering mass of spirit-soaked
wood on the ground where the bar had once
been. From the opposite side of the street the
firemen were playing into the second-story win-
dows in a vain endeavour to save the floor.
334 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
Perched upon the top of the escape, with his
legs twined firmly among the rungs, Sam Crozier
signed with his right hand to ^those below to
move the ladder nearer to the burning house.
Nearer still! Right into the flames. Past his
head seethed and roared unheaded the glittering
column of water. So great was its force that if
the firemen made the slightest mistake, swerving
to one side, and hitting him, the shock would
undoubtedly have stunned him, causing him to
lose his hold.
The crowd saw Crozier leaning toward the
window with outstretched arms, and then there
was a tremendous crash, shaking the very earth.
A column of smoke and flame seemed to envelope
him and he was lost to sight. The second floor
had fallen in.
CHAPTER XXX
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
For a moment there was a dead silence and all
stood breathless, while the fire roared and cracked.
Then the group of firemen at the foot of the
escape shouted aloud, and the crowd of on-
lookers, peering over each other's shoulders, saw
Crozier standing among them with the rescued
man in his arms.
"He is a friend of mine," said the singer to
the police-inspector who had come forward. "I
will take him home. He is not burnt. It is only
a faint. Let me have a man to clear the way
through the crowd."
Before the stalwart constable, the tightly-
packed multitude made way respectfully, and as
Crozier passed they greeted him with rough
words of commendation.
"Well done, my lad! " they said. " Brayvo!
You're a good 'un, an' no mistake! God bless
you! "
Some one had called a cab, and Tom Valliant
was lifted in. Then the singer turned to the
policeman.
"Here, constable," he said, in a quietly com-
manding way, "I want you to take him home.
Number 5 Lime Court, first-floor. This is the
335
336 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
latch-key. I am going round by St. Antony's to
bring a doctor, and will be home almost as soon
as you."
The man leaped into the cab, and Crozier gave
the driver the address. Then he shouldered his
way through the crowd and disappeared in the
restless traffic of the Strand. Presently he left
the busy thoroughfare and made his way through
several narrow passages at a brisk run.
"If I can only get there before he is called to
attend to Syra," he muttered, breathlessly, as he
sped along.
The broad door of St. Antony's was open
when he reached it; the night-porter who touched
his hat to Crozier was directing two policemen
to take the stretcher they were bearing to the
end of the passage in front of them where a
nurse stood waiting.
"Is Dr. Leonard upstairs?" asked the singer.
"Yes, sir," replied the porter — "he's in his
room."
There was a broad-faced, middle-aged man
upon the stairs descending slowly with a smile
(which was habitual) on his face.
" Hallo, Sam! " said the gentleman, cheerfully.
"I say, Martin," said Crozier, stopping for a
moment, "I am going to take Leonard away
for a bit — you don't mind taking his watch, do
you ? "
"Not a bit," was the ready answer. "But,
tell me, is there anything wrong ? "
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 337
"Valliant!" cried the singer, as he sped up-
stairs.
The middle-aged man whistled softly, a single
prolonged note, and continued his way down-
stairs. There was a nurse waiting for him in
•he passage below.
Crozier found Wilson Leonard in his room.
1 he young doctor was smoking in a deep arm-
chair, and slowly turning the pages of a large
scientific work which was fixed on a movable
rest attached to the chair.
" Leonard," said the singer, "can you come to
Lime Court with me at once.?"
The doctor rose from his chair quickly.
" You — Sam ! " he exclaimed. " What's up ? "
" Tom Valliant . . ." was the reply.
"Look sharp, man. Tom is insensible. He
wants you badly."
For a moment the singer's voice was unsteady.
His deep-set earnest eyes hesitated to meet the
grave glance of the young doctor. Leonard
wasted no time in taking his hat from a peg be-
hind the door; then he looked round the room as
if in search of something.
"What is it ?" asked Crozier, sharply.
" My coat."
" Good God, man, come on!" cried the singer,
almost fiercely. "What is a coat compared to a
man's life ?"
Wilson Leonard had known this grave, self-
contained man for years. They had been to-
338 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
gether through many untoward incidents, as
through many lighter scenes. He glanced anx-
iously into his face as he seized his coat from a
chair where it lay.
"All my instruments are in the pockets," he
explained gently, while his mind was busy with
the thought that he had never heard Sam Crozier
speak like that before. There was a thrill of
something which was almost fear in his voice,
and Wilson Leonard heard it with a sudden and
unaccountable misgiving.
A minute later they passed down the hospital
stairs together, and out of the broad door.
Crozier was breathing a trifle hard, but it was
not from the exertion of running. He had suc-
ceeded in getting Leonard away from Saint An-
tony's without his being confronted by the
mangled body of Syra; but there was still the
news to be told.
"How did it happen?" asked the doctor,
when they were seated in a hansom cab.
"Well, I was not there myself, but it appears
that in the midst of great excitement he suddenly
fainted. I will tell you afterward; this beastly
cab rattles so much that I cannot make myself
heard."
"Was it at Myra's? "
" Yes," answered Crozier. Then he recollected
that the man was driving them in the direction
of the fire. He jumped up and put his head out.
"Go round by the Embankment, cabby," he
THH VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 339
shouted; "the Strand is crammed — and go
hard!"
The man obeyed the instructions, driving with
apparent recklessness at a quicl<: trot down one
of the steep and narrow streets that lead from the
Strand to the Embankment.
In a few minutes they were in Lime Court.
Crozier glanced up at his windows, and saw
that they were fully alight. The policeman had
arrived with his burden.
They found his helmet and cape in the sitting-
room, while the door of the bedroom stood open.
Tom Valliant was lying on the bed when they
entered, and the policeman was bending over
him loosening his clothes gently.
"He's still insensible, sir," said the man,
standing erect.
Wilson Leonard went forward and leant over
the bed. In a few moments he learnt every-
thing.
" How long has he been like this?" he asked.
"About twenty minutes, sir," answered the
constable.
Then for the first time since they had entered
the room Crozier spoke.
"Mrs. Valliant, his aunt, one of the few re-
lations he has, is in town," he said. "Shall I
send for. her ?"
" Is she," asked the doctor, without turning
his attention away from his patient, "the sort of
person one would send for } "
340 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
" Yes, I think so."
"Then lee her come."
Crozier passed into the other room, followed
by the policeman.
" I will write a note," he said, " which I want
you to take out and give to a commissionaire;
doubtless you know where to find one. Tell
him to take a hansom, and drive as hard as he
can to the address which he will find on the
envelope. There is a ball in the house, so that
he will find them still astir."
"Right, sir."
"In the meantime," continued Crozier, "here
is the whiskey-bottle, the water is on the side-
board. Help yourself while I write the note."
"Thank you, sir, 1 will," was the answer.
"Such work as we have had to-night is apt to
unsteady a man."
The singer nodded his head in acquiescence,
although his hand was as steady as a rock while
he wrote —
"Dear Mrs. Valliant,
"Your nephew Tom has taken se-
riously ill. He is here, in my rooms; and the
doctor on hearing that you were in town
asked me to send for you. Hoping that a
change for the better will take place before youf
arrival,
" I am, yours very truly,
"Samuel Crozier."
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 341
" It is no good mincing matters with Mrs. Val-
liant," he reflected, as he folded the letter. "She
is not that sort of woman."
He was thinking of the gray eyes with a ring
of darker colour round the iris.
The note was despatched, and Crozier returned
to his bedroom. Leonard had drawn forward a
chair, and was sitting at the bedside with his
fingers clasped round Tom Valliant's wrist.
" Well ?" whispered the singer, interrogatively.
The young doctor shook his head significantly.
"I am afraid," he answered, "that he is sink-
ing fast."
And thus they waited for the advent of that
dread angel whose wings were even now over-
shadowing them — the doctor seated by the bed-
side, the singer standing beside him silently.
There was something infinitely pathetic in the
utter helplessness of these two helpful men.
They could do nothing but wait, each in his char-
acteristic way — Wilson Leonard with grave sym-
pathy, but watchful as behoved his profession;
he knew that there was no hope, but being young
he hoped still — Sam Crozier, self-restraining and
self-contained as usual. During the last hour he
had passed through what would have been suf-
ficient to shake the nerve of a strong man, but
this ex-sailor knew that there was work for him
to do yet — work requiring all his tact and all his
wonderful nerve. He stood there silent in his
strength; not unemotional, not hard-hearted or
342 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
unfeeling, but simply mastering himself. There
is in some men a calmness which is nothing less
than density, and a brutelike incapacity to feel
sorrow or joy, but his was not this. His was
the outcome of a great courage, and an unusual
consideration for the feelings of others.
They had not long to wait. For some time
Tom Valliant's breathing had been laboured and
irregular. Presently it simply ceased, and the
Answer was his — the Answer to the great unend-
ing " Why .? " which haunts every human life. It
is hard for us to understand why life had been
given to him at all, why unusual talents had been
vouchsafed, why a brave heart had beaten in his
breast, if this were to be the end of it all.
Here was ambition held back by a terrible cer-
tainty of unfulfilment — talent wasted by the
thought that there was nothing to work for — love
crushed by the knowledge that it dare not ask for
love again. Here was a life denuded of all that
makes existence a joy, for in that vague uncertain
promise which we call the future lies the germ
of human happiness.
Tom Valliant's life was like a splendid lamp
with too little oil. It lacked an essential of which
the absence was not apparent to the onlooker.
Others may have suspected it, but \\eknew — knew
infallibly and indubitably — that his existence was
without a future. There were indeed times when
hope seemed for the moment to have overcome
science; but science never dies, and never sur-
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 34?
renders, she only waits. And so he had to shape
his plan of Hfe without an aim; he had to steer
his course upon the dark waters without a light
or port to make for.
The two living men wondered over these things
as they looked upon the pallid, calm face of him
whose task was done. There was a shadowy,
vague smile upon the clean-cut features — even
death could not drive that away. And they felt
that that indefinite smile denoted that he had the
Answer vouchsafed unto him.
Presently Dr. Leonard rose from his seat at the
bedside.
"You never told me," he said, "how it hap-
pened."
"No," answered Crozier, looking at his com-
panion in a curious, searchi-ng way. "No; I will
tell you."
He paused, and withdrawing his hands from
his pockets he rubbed them slowly together, palm
to palm. This man never attempted to beat
about the bush.
"I did not tell you before," he continued,
slowly and deliberately, "because it is a long
story, and . . . because . . . because I
funked it."
Wilson Leonard had not been a doctor for
some years without acquiring a few small profes-
sional mannerisms and habits. He was unscrew-
ing the ivory end of his stethoscope with a certain
briskness which many know too well. We all
^44 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
have a professional way of handling the tools
which our craft requires. Watch the doctor with
his instruments — consider the waiter with his
plates. He looked up sharply as he continued
unscrewing. The action was that with which he
heard of an undesirable symptom.
" Yes," he said. "Goon, please."
" Myra's," said Crozier simply, " has been burnt
down. St. Antony's fellows have prophesied it
for years, and now it has come. Tom was un-
fortunately there. He and Syra were in the inner
bar, and they were driven upstairs by the flames.
There was a delay in the arrival of the escape, and
the only way out of it was to swing down by a
rope which the crowd held taut, away from the
house. He attempted to save Syra, and would
have done so, but he fell back insensible."
Wilson Leonard stood quite still. He was care-
fully buttoning his top-coat in a peculiar mechan-
ical way. He pulled it down in front, and tapped
his chest where there were wrinkles in the cloth.
"And Syra.?" he asked in a toneless whisper.
For some time there was silence in the room.
Crozier moved uneasily, and turned his back upon
his companion.
"She fell," he said at length.
Dr. Leonard moved, and Crozier, turning, saw
him draw the sheet over Tom Valliant's face.
"Where have they . . . taken her to?"
he then inquired.
"To St. Antony's."
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 34^
Leonard stroked his colourless mustache
thoughtfully.
" And that was why you were in such a des-
perate hurry to get me out of the place," he said
softly.
The singer did not answer. There was noth-
ing to say, and he wisely recognized the fact.
His companion now crossed the room, and sat
slowly down in a low chair. He looked up spec-
ulatively at Crozier.
"How quietly 1 am taking it, Sam," he said,
"am I not.? Very quietly."
At this moment they were interrupted by foot-
steps, clear and loud, in the solitude of Lime
Court.
"There is Mrs. Valliant," exclaimed the singer,
moving toward the door. But Leonard stopped
him.
" I say, Sam! "
"Yes . . .?"
"I would sooner," said the doctor, "have
heard that news from you than from any man in
the world."
Crozier nodded his head in vague acknowledg-
ment, and passed out of the room, leaving Leon-
ard alone with his own thoughts — alone with the
calm, restful form beneath the sheet. He hurried
away, with all a man's cowardice, from thanks;
but he fully recognized the meaning of the sim-
ple phrase, which was at once a confession and a
mark of lifelong gratitude.
CHAPTER XXXI
"BE YE THEREFORE VERY COURAGEOUS"
Crozier's note reached Elma as the last guest
was lighting his cigar in Sir Thomas Firton's hall.
Lady Firton had just dropped wearily into a low
chair in the drawing-room when the servant
brought in the letter upon a salver. He handed
it to Elma, although the address was distinctly
written ; but he knew that Mrs. Valliant had left
with the Barker family some time before, and the
word "immediate," written across the corner of
the envelope, justified the action.
Notes do not usually arrive at midnight, but
the rest of the house party were too well bred to
show their astonishment. Only Lady Firton
looked a little anxiously at Elma. It was notice-
able that her habitual expression, which was one
of capable kindliness, changed with marvellous
rapidity to a look of keen anxiety.
"It is addressed to mother," murmured Elma
to her hostess, who was seated quite close to her;
"but I will open it, because it is from Mr.
Crozier. I am afraid something must have hap-
pened."
Lady Firton was still watching, with the quick
contraction about her lips somewhat intensified.
346
"BE YE THEREFORE COURAGEOUS" 347
She said nothing. Ehna had ah-eady torn open*
the envelope in a dexterous, fearless way, so-
there was nothing to be said. But Lady Firtort
noticed the fearlessness and the quick determina-
tion.
"The only thing she has inherited from her
mother," she said to her husband later, "is
nerve. She has her father's cheery nature and
her mother's strong nerve."
Elma read the note, and rose quietly to hand it
to Lady Firton.
" I must go at once," she said, in a low voice.
Somehow the other guests had dropped av/ay,
and they were alone at the end of the long room.
In a moment Lady Firton had taken in the
meaning of Crozier's hasty words.
" I will go with you, dear," she said at once,
"No," answered the girl earnestly, "I would
not think of such a thing. My own maid will be
quite sufficient escort."
" But, my dear Elma, you cannot go to a man's
chambers at this time of night with no one but a
maid."
"Mr. Crozier's chambers," suggested Elma.
"Yes," replied Lady Firton, readilv enough ;^
"I know. Sam is different from other men, but
still . . ."
At this moment Sir Thomas entered the room.
He was smoking a very large cigar, and a pleas-
ant smile came over his bronzed face when he
saw his wife.
348 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
"Tom, come here," cried her ladyship.
*' What are we to do ? "
He took the letter and read it slowly. Then
he emitted a thin, spiral cloud of blue smoke.
" Sam Crozier," he said, with a sudden change
•of manner, from easy indifference to grave
•energy, "is not the man to lose his head and
make a mountain out of a molehill. This letter
means more than it says. 1 see it is addressed to
your mother."
"Yes," said Elma, hastily; "but mother is
sleeping at Mrs. Barker's. I must go at once to
Tom."
Sir Thomas glanced at his wife. Their eyes
met for a second.
"Yes, my dear child," he said then, "you
must go at once. Shall 1 go with you, or would
you rather have Parkyns the butler }"
Elma hesitated. She was afraid of appearing
Tude to this diplomat, who seemed to divine her
thoughts almost before they were formed.
"I will tell you what we can do," said Sir
Thomas, without waiting for her reply; " you go
•off with Parkyns in a hansom to Crozier's. I will
go to Mrs. Barker's. If the house is shut up and
1 cannot see your mother, 1 will go down to the
Temple myself, and bring you home here. It
may not be so serious after all. Now run up and
put on a thick cloak. Parkyns will have a cab
■waiting by the time you com.e downstairs."
The girl obeyed, and husband and wife were
"BE YE THEREFORE COURAGEOUS" 349
left alone in the empty ball-room. Sir Thomas
removed the large cigar from his lips and looked
into his wife's face. The expression of anxiety-
denoted by a contraction around the eyes was.
still there.
"Is this an incident," he asked, " or a tragedy ?"
Lady Firton was looking at the bare, smooth
floor. Here and there a flower, a bow, or ai
piece of muslin had been kicked aside. It is-
better to turn out the gas and go to bed as sooa
as a ball-room is deserted ; the sight of it is not
cheerful.
" I am not sure/' she answered, " I cannot telE
at all. There is some one ; I only hope it is not
Tom Valliant."
Sir Thomas had Crozier's letter in his hand.
He now read it again, thoughtfully.
"Yes/' he said, "yes. It is to be hoped so,
for I think the boy is dead. By the way, be
was not here to-night."
"No; he does not go to dances if he can heip
it."
Sir Thomas turned away to call the butler,,
who passed the door at this moment.
"You had better go down to the supper-
room," he said to his wife. "They are all there^
and will be wondering where we are."
The streets were empty, and the cabman di-
vined that pace would pay. When Parkyns an-
nounced that they had arrived at their destina-
tion, Elma realized the fact with a sudden throb
350 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
of fear. As they had come by the Embankment
she had seen nothing of the fire which was now
ahnost under control.
Before there was time to ring the bell Crozier
opened the door himself.
" You! " he exclaimed, anxiously, when he had
recognized Elma.
Then he looked over her shoulder, and saw
that her companion was Sir Thomas Firton's
butler.
"Good-evening, Parkyns," he said, in a singu-
larly calm voice. "Just wait here, will you ?"
There was a comfortable chair in the passage,
and the butler seated himself resignedly, while
Crozier led the way upstairs. Elma followed
him closely. His peculiar hesitation of manner
{as if for once in his life he was at a loss and
<did not know what to do next) puzzled her. In
ii mechanical way she noted the characteristics
of the room, even to the little copper kettle in
the fender, the pipes upon the mantelpiece, and
the piano laden with music.
"Where is Tom? "she asked, looking round
the room.
"In there," he answered, indicating the door
of the bedroom, across which the curtain was
drawn.
She moved toward it, but he was before her,
imd stood squarely, with his back' to the curtain.
" You must not go in," he said, gently. " Why
did you come ?"
"BE YE THEREFORE COURAGEOUS" 351
"I came," she answered, "because mother
had left; she is staying at Mrs. Barker's. Sir
Thomas has gone to bring her. It was clearly
my duty to come to Tom."
She made a step forward, as if expecting him
to move aside, but he remained motionless.
Then she looked up into his face. Suddenly her
childlike eyes contracted with a look of horror.
"He is dead! " she whispered. "I can see it
in your face."
In her excitement she laid her hand upon his
arm. The sleeve was wet, and looking up she
noticed a dull black mark across the front of his
shirt, where a dripping rope had dragged. He
took her hand and led her away from the door
toward a chair.
"Yes," he said, slowly; "he is dead, and that
is why I do not want you to go in. There is
nothing to be gained by it. He himself would
rather that you did not go, I am sure."
She was hardly listening. Her cloak had fallen
from her shoulders. Her soft white dress was a
little crushed, the flowers at her breast were
brown and withered, and she was very pale and
weary. But there was a look of keen womanly
scrutiny in her eyes while she looked up at her
companion.
"What has happened?" she asked, quickly.
"Your clothes are wet, and you are burnt.
Your hair and even your eyelashes are singed."
He passed his hand across his face. His crisp
352 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
hair, his eyelashes, and even his mustache were
tipped with white.
" There has been a fire," he replied. " Myra's
is burnt down. As 1 was coming away from the
Firton's I saw the glare, and knew that it must
be somewhere in the Strand. It began in the
bar, and Tom, who was in the inner room, was
driven upstairs. He tried to save . . . Syra
. . . and would have done so, but he sud-
denly fainted. 1 was not there, but I was told
of it. I got there a few minutes later with the
escape, and — we — managed to get him out."
"And Syra.?" inquired Elma.
"She fell from the window when he fainted."
"Killed ?" whispered the girl.
"Yes. It was the second-story window. I
brought Tom here; at least I sent him under the
care of a policeman, while I went round by St.
Antony's to bring Dr. Leonard. He never recov-
ered consciousness."
Elma was seated in a low chair. She leant
forward and stared at the dying fire.
Crozier suddenly raised his head and turned
toward her. There was a puzzled expression on
his face, like that of a man who hears a sound
for which he cannot account. There were tears
in her eyes, and suddenly she began to weep
gently and quietly. The dainty little lace hand-
kerchief which she held to her face was never
woven for tears.
He stood with one foot on the fender and his
"BE YE THEREFORE COURAGEOUS" 3^3
right arm resting on the mantelpiece, waiting
with that purposeful calmness which was char-
acteristic of the man. Presently she ceased sob-
bing, and sat motionless, with the tears still
glistening on her lashes. Then he turned, and
his deep-set eyes rested for a moment on her
face and form.
"You are utterly exhausted," he said. He ap-
proached her, and stood for some moments near
her chair; indeed his hand was resting upon the
back of it, looking down at her. There was a
sense of comfort and helpfulness in this man's
silent sympathy which warmed Elma's heart.
Then he turned away and opened the small side-
board. With the quick noiseless movement of
the hands which never quite leaves a sailor, he
poured out a glass of wine and brought it to her.
"Thank you," she said, and obediently drank
it.
At this moment there came the sound of some
one moving in the bedroom, and Elma started.
"Dr. Leonard is in there," Crozier hastened to
explain, as he went toward the door. He drew
aside the curtain, and Dr. Leonard came into the
room, closing the bedroom door behind him.
"This is Dr. Leonard — Miss Valliant," said
Crozier.
Wilson Leonard went forward and took her
hand. His eyes were very sympathetic, and his
grave, melancholy face was singularly pale.
"I am glad to have seen you, Miss Valliant/'
354 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
he said. "Tom and I were great friends, and 1
knew that his heart was very weak. ... I
knew that this must come, sooner or later. He
has been a condemned man for years. I never
told him, but 1 think he knew it. I am almost
sure he knew it. Some people may think that I
did wrong in not telling him, but the knowledge
of it would not have made any difference. If
doctors told all they know the world would be a
more miserable place than it is. If your father
and mother wish to see me, I shall be happy to
give them all the information in my power."
He held out his hand again and nodded to
Crozier as he turned to leave the room. Before
he reached the door he staggered to one side, and
only saved himself from falling by clutching the
sideboard. In a moment Crozier was at his side.
"All right," said Wilson Leonard, huskily.
"1 am all right. It was only a little giddiness,
which will pass off when 1 get outside."
He pushed Crozier's arm aside almost roughly,
and passed out of the room. They heard him
close the door, and immediately afterward his
footsteps rang out firmly and clearly on the pave-
ment of Lime Court.
" He has had bad news to-night," said Crozier,
when the sound had died away.
With womanly intuition Elma connected Wil-
son Leonard's bad news with the fire at Myra's.
"Tom once told me," she said, gently, "about
Syra. Was it Dr. Leonard .^"
"BE YE THEREFORE COURAGEOUS" 355
"Yes," answered the singer; "it was Dr.
Leonard."
Tiiey were botii silent for some time. Perliaps
they were thinking how promptly Wilson
Leonard had come to his friend's side; how en-
tirely he had set aside his own weariness and
want of rest; how the man had given place to
the doctor.
"1 think," said Elma at length, in little more
than a whisper, "that Tom knew. It would
explain many things which I did not understand
before."
Crozier recalled the conversation he had had
with Tom Valliant not so very long before, about
the girl seated there within a few yards of the
man who had loved her.
"Yes," he answered; "it would explain many
things."
"That is why he would not take up any work
seriously," continued the girl; "why he was so
utterly indifferent about the future." . . . She
stopped, and looked up toward her companion
with a wistful smile. ' ' That is why, " she added,
"he always talks of the phantom future — used
to talk, I mean."
She glanced toward the bedroom door, as if
half expecting Tom Valliant to draw aside the
curtain and greet them with his quick smile, and
some merry suggestion. Death seemed so far
from him in whom a bright vitality was never
wanting. It was indeed hard to realize that
356 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
the mobile and dancing eyes were closed for
ever.
"If he did know it," said Crozier, "he was
very plucky about it."
"Yes; he concealed his knowledge very
bravely. Do you remember, once long ago 1
told you that 1 thought his merriment was not
quite sincere?"
" Yes, 1 remember."
"He must have known then," murmured the
girl, thoughtfully.
He did not answer her, and they relapsed into
silence. Both were recalling a thousand inci-
dents which rose before their mental vision, now
that it was cleared by knowledge, in evidence of
the fact that Tom Valliant knew, and had known
for years, that he was a doomed man. Such
knowledge is one of the saddest things that hu-
man life contains, which, God knows, is saying
a good deal, and science has assuredly done us
doubtful service in this matter.
Elma's great calmness puzzled Crozier. He
had always taken it for granted that she loved the
man who lay dead in the other room. He had,
in a desultory way, concluded that she was wait-
ing for Tom Valliant to declare his love, and now
he knew why his friend had kept silence on this
point. Such, in truth, it had been, for he had
suspected that Elma's love was within his reach
had he stretched out his hand. But he was with-
held — withheld by the knowledge that in manly
''BE YE THEREFORE COURAGEOUS" 357
honour and fairness he had no right to speak of
love to any woman ; that the future was indeed
a phantom.
"1 wonder," meditated Crozier, following out
his own thoughts with regard to Elma, " I
wonder if I have been on the wrong track for
5;ears. 1 wonder if 1 have made a great mistake."
Before the silence was again broken there was
a sound of footsteps in the passage, and shortly
afterward a light tread upon the stairs. The door
was opened quietly, and Sir Thomas Firton en-
tered. He glanced at both occupants of the room
in a quick, comprehensive way, and then he
turned to Crozier. He raised his eyebrows inter-
rogatively, and at the same time his lips framed
the monosyllable —
"Dead.^"
The singer nodded his head.
Then Sir Thomas went to Elma's side. If
Crozier had made a mistake, he was not alone in
his error.
"I could not bring your mother," said Sir
Thomas. "The house was shut up. Come
home with me now; you can do nothing more."
She rose and took the cloak which the singer
laid gently upon her shoulders. There are some
women who seem destined never to realize the
pathos of life. It is not that they are devoid of
feeling or sympathy, but in their sunny natures
there is a fund of innocence and sweetness which
never turns to sorrow or disappointment. They
338 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
cannot believe in the evil of human nature; they
never quite comprehend that life is real and ear-
nest. Of these was Elma Valliant. To such fair
optimists as this, men and women unconsciously
make the best of things, seeking to detract from
sorrow, surrounding them with the elements of
human happiness. Thus it happened that Sir
Thomas Firton and Samuel Crozier played into
each other's hands — as men sometimes do — in-
stinctively. Although Death was within a few
yards of them, although the singer had looked
upon it in all its grim reality a few minutes be-
fore, they avoided, by tacit consent, adding to
its horror by lowered voice or awestruck manner.
It may be that Elma divined their intention,
when she said to Sir Thomas, " It is very good of
you to take so much trouble. You are both very
kind to me."
Her eyes were still a little red from recent
tears, and as Sir Thomas had said, she was ut-
terly worn out between pleasure and pain.
Crozier accompanied them downstairs, and held
open the door. Parkyns went on in front to
call the cab. Sir Thomas walked gravely down
the worn stone steps, and Elma followed him.
Then suddenly she turned back, and running up
again stood beside Crozier in the doorway.
" Are you quite sure," she asked in a whisper,
" that you are not burnt or hurt in any way ?"
" Quite sure," he replied, looking down at her
with his slow smile.
"BE YE THEREFORE COURAGEOUS" 3^9
She left him with a little nod — left him stand-
ing upon the top step, but he was quite grave
now, the smile had vanished from his face.
While he still stood there, the voice of Big Ben
came echoing over the roofs; it was two o'clock.
In less than two hours it would be daylight.
The singer turned and mounted the stairs
slowly. Standing on the hearth-rug before the
glowing cinders, he leisurely passed his hands
over his arms and shoulders. His clothes were
almost dry now, and he had a nautical disregard
for clean water. Nevertheless he reflected indefi-
nitely, that the fireman upon the opposite roof
need not have directed his hose toward the burn-
ing window just as he reached it.
He glanced toward the closed door of the bed-
room, then he boldly crossed the room, and
drawing aside the curtain he opened the door
and crossed its threshold. Presently he returned,
having exchanged his dress-coat for a short
jacket. Then he settled himself in his deep arm-
chair with the evident intention of sleeping there.
But he was restless, and slumber failed to an-
swer his call. He moved impatiently once or
twice, and finally sat forward with his elbows
upon his knees.
"I wonder," he said, murmuring to himself,
"whether I have been making a huge mistake
all along."
CHAPTER XXXII
GOLDHEATH AGAIN
Crozier was not an impulsive man, but at
times it pleased him to imagine himself to be
such. His habit was to make up his mind
slowly and very surely; and once made up it
was as the laws of the Medes and Persians. His
mistakes — for we all have them to look brck to,
— came rather from placing both sides of a ques-
tion upon too equal a footing, than from a rash
adoption- of the course that for a moment ap-
peared more expedient.
When, therefore, he stood one fair and sunny
May morning at his window, and attempted to
deceive himself into the belief that he was in an
undecided frame of mind, the result was not en-
tirely satisfactory. His mind had been made up
for weeks, almost stretching into months. The
day had come for which he had been patiently
waiting — that was all — a fair spring morning,
when men's hearts are bold and women's soft.
Moreover, he felt energetic, and there ran in his
veins that subtle fire which imbues confidence
and commands success. He felt that whatever
he attempted to-day would be satisfactory.
" I think I shall go to Goldheath," he said, " I
think I shall go to Goldheath to-day!"
360
GOLDHEATH AGAIN 361
The deception was glaringly obvious. There
was no thinking in the matter. He knew that
there was half an hour yet before he need start,
and he therefore stood lazily smoking, absently
gazing down into the court where the shadow of
the old lime-tree lay in fantastic patterns upon
the pavement. The leaves were out and fully
formed, but were yet delicate in their texture and
thin and bright in spring-like hues, so that the
sun glancing over the tiled roofs threw golden
gleams among the branches and soft hazy yellow
shades. The ubiquitous London smut had not
as yet taken up his lodging to any great extent
upon leaf and stalk (though the seasoned wood
was woefully black), so that the toilers of Lime
Court and idlers of the same could glance out of
their dirty windows and learn most unmistakably
that spring was now established in the land.
The legal sparrow knew this also, and held May
meetings on the smutty branches from early
morning until sunset. He did not sleep beneath
the leafy roof because his town-bred feet were
unaccustomed to a slumberous grip of round
things; preferred something flat, with the warm
corner of a chimney to lean against and be thank-
ful for, about three o'clock ante-meridian. But
he came down from the roofs and called his
friends, and set up a restless chattering and a
hopping from twig to twig, while all the neigh-
bourhood's cats prowled around with murderous
thought intent. For even spring (in addition to
362 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
the battle that hovers round love) breathes murder
and sudden death.
The singer looked down upon these signs of
joyous life, and listened vaguely to the sparrows'
voice. With his hands thrust deeply into his
pockets he stood upright, and while smoking the
everlasting wooden pipe, thought gently over the
possibilities of life, taken from the point of view
of a strong man of thirty years. Of late he had
acquired this evil habit of allowing himself to re-
flect upon abstract things and possibilities. He
Vv'as no longer nervously active, anxiously studi-
ous; and some people thought that he was sing-
ing better than ever, although he confessed to
being too lazy to learn so many new songs as
publishers might desire.
The yawl was purchased, and once or twice
during the spring its owner had run down to
Cowes to superintend her fitting-out in the
Medina, but no plans were yet made for sailing
her, no voyages proposed.
Professionally the singer was in a better posi-
tion than before. He had always been particular
in the choice of his engagements, and his reputa-
tion now gained by this. One or two important
concerts, patronized and attended by Royalty,
had served to consolidate his name, and now he
had the pick of the musical world. With his old
heedlessness he accepted or refused engagements
as the spirit moved him, quite regardless of per-
sonal influence; and with his former generosity
GOLDHEATH AGAIN 36^
he offered his services in unexpected quarters
when it was a question of pure charity.
Men spoke of "old Sam" with the same
familiar affection as of yore, and it was soon
almost forgotten that he was a rich man; that he
did not belong at all to the improvident world of
artists, journalists and play-writers, who made
merry over misfortune and their wasted lives in
the busy circle which is the inner hub of London
life; where night and day are as one; where
mind and body are never quite at rest; and
within whose charmed ring more genius has
assuredly lived and died than in all England
beside.
Homesick foreigners, hospital-sick students,
and life-sick strugglers of all sorts dropped in;
casually at No. 5 Lime Court, as they had always
done, and went away from the door later feeling
glad that they done so. No meal-time, no hour
of night or day was sacred — one could always
find Samuel Crozier, and he never appeared too
much occupied to spare a few minutes to help by
word or deed his fellow-men.
While he was still standing at the window,
Wilson Leonard ran lightly up the stairs and
entered the room.
"Spring at last," he said, with a grave smile,
as he held out his hand.
"Yes, the spring has come."
The young doctor's sympathetic glance sought
the singer's face, and searching there discovered
364 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
that there was a second meaning in the simple
acquiescence — a meaning intended for the speak-
er's private edification. From the strong and
gentle face Leonard turned his attention to tiie
upright person, and detected there a difference in
habiliment. Crozier was dressed in country
clothes, and yet he pretended to himself that the
idea of running away from London and its dusty
life had only come to him after breakfast. The
doctor moved a little, and looked out of the win-
dow thoughtfully. Suddenly a short rapid sigh
broke from his lips, and he seemed quite uncon-
scious of It. These little sighs were becoming
dangerously habitual with him.
"This sort of weather makes-one long to get
away," he said, softly; "to get away from town
and hospitals, sickness, accidents . . . and
, . . everything."
''Yes . . ." answered the singer. It seemed
as if he were going to add something more, but
he stopped suddenly and continued smoking.
He was pondering over that sharp sign and the
emotionless, sympathetic face — wondering over
the wealth of meaning that lay sometimes in the
little word " everything."
Professionally, and from a practical worldly
point of view, Fate had interposed her steady
hand for the infinite benefit of Wilson Leonard
as a doctor and a gentleman. Poor Syra had
been right when she boldly told him that she
could only bring misery into his life, and he
GOLDHEATH AGAIN 365
knew it, but from the knowledge gained no con-
solation. Had the world known the story of
this kindly young doctor, they would have bid
him congratulate himself that a terrible mistake
had been averted — that it lay in a nameless grave
in one of the vast fields where sleep the London
dead, crowded and hustled even in their rest.
But the world knew nothing of the story. It
was hidden from every living soul with the
exception of the broad-shouldered man who
stood smoking in his simple silence, pondering
over that little word "everything," and realizing
slowly that there was something which Dr.
Leonard could never leave behind, and never get
away from.
"I am beginning to think," said the doctor,
"that I cannot stand this much longer. No
doubt it is the effect of the spring weather. But
Saint Antony's is too busy with misery — uttef
and hopeless misery. I have done my share; I
think I have waded deeply enough, Sam, into
the mire of human troubles. It cannot be good,
for a fellow to live too long in one groove,
especially when that groove is full of suffering."
"You want a thorough change, Leonard," said
Crozier, presently. " You have seen too much of
the shady side of existence all at once, and it has
done you harm. You will be beginning to think
that all the world is like it, which is a mistake."
"Yes, I suppose it is."
" I will tell you what you must do," continued
366 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
the singer. " Come with me for a cruise; the
IViI/ow-icren is ready and waiting at Cowes. I
want to get up a party . . . the Valliants
, . . yourself, your sister if she will come,
and a sailor 1 know of. We will go for a month
up into the Norwegian Fjords, where there is
never a heavy sea, and fish and lounge. I think
perhaps we all want a change."
" It sounds very jolly," said the doctor, with a
wan smile.
" It will be very jolly. I will get the company
together at once. In fact I rather thought, of
going down to Goldheath to-day — partly with a
view of seeing if they would come. The old
gentleman is an enthusiastic fisherman, and
, . . Miss Valliant . . . paints."
" When do you think of starting ?"
"About the middle of June," replied the
singer, " Midsummer is the best time for north-
ern regions."
It is strange how men can go on living
together, or near each other as friends for years,
without ever exchanging a confidence. No ref-
erence to the past had ever been made by either
Crozier or the doctor. Syra's name had never
been mentioned, had never passed their lips since
that night when Elma sat in dazed silence and
watched the two men standing together at the
door — Leonard pale and sick, Crozier quick and
watchful. The little stagger, the numb clutch-
ing at the wall, had never been explained, and
GOLDHEATH AGAIN 367
never would be now. A strained reference was
occasionally made to Tom Valliant, sleeping
peacefully in Goldheath churchyard, blind to all
the shadows, deaf to the weary plash of rain and
the dull foreboding roar of storms; but the sub-
ject was too near to other matters painful for
both, and was soon dropped. It was only by
vague half-hidden words of sympathy that Crozier
referred at times to the chapter in Leonard's life
which was destined for deliberate obliteration in
the face of the world, though its effect went
through existence with him; and by quiet acqui-
escence Leonard acknowledged his friend's in-
tention.
"Then," said the singer, in a business-like tone,
" I may count upon you? 1 may hold you out
as an attraction to hesitators ? "
"Thanks," replied the other; " I should like to
go very much."
His tone was cheery enough, but Crozier
glanced at his face as he turned to seek his hat,
and saw that Wilson Leonard was not telling the
strict truth. Had he told this he would have
said that he did not care a rap where he went
and what he did, for a great and weary indiffer-
ence had come to him.
" I must be going now," said Crozier. "There
is just time to catch the train. Will you walk
along with me ?"
The doctor looked round for the inevitable
Gladstone bag, but saw it not.
368 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
" You are taking no luggage ?" he said.
" No. I am not going to stay — have to sing at
Kensington to-night."
Conversation became broken and desultory as
they walked together i.long the Strand. The
human tide was flowing eastward, and was
therefore against them, which necessitated con-
tinual separation. At the corner of Waterloo
Bridge they parted, and Leonard went back, to
St. Antony's, while Crozier crossed the river.
There was absolutely no incident to mark the
railway journey, and yet it was one that the
singer remembered to the end of his life. The
train was almost empty, and he had the choice
of many compartments. Once beyond the sub-
urbs he lowered the v/indow, and soon after-
ward his newspaper began to lose interest.
The line was very familiar to him; he had trav-
elled on it years ago with his first brass buttons
proudly gleaming on his breast, and his last tears
struggling to flow. Between those two railway
journeys lay a whole history.
Presently the train ran into the sandy pine
country. There had been rain the night before,
and all the atmosphere was fragrant with the
strong energetic smell of oozing resin. Through
the odourous forests the travellers sped, stopping
here and there at quiet little roadside stations,
until at last it was Crozier's turn to alight.
Mechanically he nodded to the station-master,
who remembered his father, and held his own
GOLDHEATH AGAIN 369
opinions about a parson's son taking to singing
and play-acting, and the like. Sam Crozier had
never acted a part in his life except his own,
which had at times been difficult enough, but
at Goldheath one stage was considered as bad as
another.
As he walked along the gravelly platform he
loDked round him at the broad open country, and
inhaled the air. Never, he thought, had breath
been so sweet — without even noticing that the
station-master's wall-flowers were out, which no
doubt accounted for it all.
In a few minutes he was striding across Gold-
heath by a narrow pathway shorter than the
road. Goldheath it was indeed that morning,
for furze and whin were blooming in golden
luxuriance, and the yellow-clad undulations
rolled away into hazy distance unbroken save
by a stunted pine or two and some straight
larches clad in new and delicate green, of which
the subtle aroma came in puffs.
Overhead the larks were singing blithely,
while all around whin-chat, wren, and yellow-
hammer added their voices to the great rejoic-
ing. Away somewhere in the distance a hawk
whistled his mellow call, and fancied himself a
curlew.
Through this Samuel Crozier sped rapidly
with firm long strides, and softly hummed his
most melancholy song because the world was so
fair, the morning so bright; because he felt that
370 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
the day was his, that whatever he attempted he
must accomplish, whatever he sought he was
sure to fmd.
The short cut which he had chosen did not
lead to the village of Goldheath, but direct to
the Court, cutting diagonally the long path.
There was a stile from the open heath into the
orchard, which latter was but thinly wooded,
and no great success in the primary matter of
fruit, and as he climbed this he heard the sound
of wheels upon the soft gravel of the avenue.
He walked on beneath the blossoming trees to-
ward the sound, and then suddenly, and in a most
unaccountable manner, he stopped. Through
the, as yet, untrimmed hedge he had caught sight
of Squire Valliants ancient mail-phaeton. The
old gentleman was gallantly driving with squared
elbows, and at his side sat his wife.
Years ago in a little affair of a naval brigade,
Samuel Crozier had learnt most effectually the
art of seeking covert. He merely stooped and
turned down his trousers, in which he had taken
a reef for greater convenience while crossing
the sandy heath; but it happened that a very
promising black-current bush entirely concealed
him from the view of any persons who might be
in the avenue.
As the sound of the wheels diminished he rose
again erect, and walked on with no outward
sign of an evil conscience.
" She will either be in the walled garden or in
GOLDHEATH AGAIN 371
the house, painting," he said gravely to himself.
"Of course she may be out, or even away from
home, but . . . but 1 think she is here."
On nearing the house he ignored the formal
Dell at the side of the broad porch, and directed
nis steps across the turf toward the trellised door
of the walled garden. There was no hesitation,
no pause in his progress. He merely pushed the
door open and walked straight in. Instantly a
warmer breath of air met his face, and it was
heavy with the odours of a hundred old-fash-
ioned flowers. A few yards away from him
was Elma. She did not hear him, for the soft
sandy gravel made no sound beneath his feet,
and she did not see him, because she was walk-
ing in the other direction with a book in her
hand which she was reading.
Round the walled garden, which was itself a
circle, ran a circular path of sandy gravel — a
pleasant path to walk upon, for at parts it was
shady, and there were sunny intervals such as
are bearable and even grateful in most of our
English summer days— which, if a wanderer may
say so, are as near perfection as earthly climate
reaches. Again, there was no break in the path,
no halt and turn, but a continuous round amid
sweet-smelling flowers. Here Elma loved to
walk with a book, amidst her odourous slaves,
with the birds singing all around her.
Crozier stood beneath the shade of an old ilex,
and watched her as she moved away from him.
372 THE PHANTOM FUTURE
He stood in his silent repose, and waited for
her to come round to him. Unconsciously he
thus symbolized his own life. Had he not
waited in that same fatalistic, unmurmuring way
for her to come to him through all the years that
lay between them ? Had she not, in her turn,
started on a path which apparently led in an op-
posite direction, following its winding guidance
through sunshine and shadow, scarce glancing to
either side with those soft inscrutable eyes of
hers, only to tread in the right way at last ?
There was no break in that circular path, and if
we only knew it, there is a similar path beneath
our feet marked out for us to follow, and yet we
leave it deliberately, and crush the flowers that
grow on either side. Elma loved the flowers too
well to crush them, and she knew the path too
well to leave it.
Suddenly she became aware that there was
some one near her, standing indeed hatless in the
middle of the path before her. It was beneath
the shade of a glorious old cedar, but a shaft of
sunlight glanced through the dark boughs and
gleamed upon the pages of her book, throwing
back a soft glow upon her features. Thus it
happened that although her face was in the light,
her eyes being in the shadow were soft, and
deep, and dark, when she raised them to his
face.
THE END.
/O
Ph
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