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 expense been withdrawn from circulation in 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 
 
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