UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES iilfi^iH!;'! 11 iK' I'i'i ..ill •:,.»; iit>-V : vk» LIVING OE DEAD VOL. I. LIVING OK DEAD Jl ilooci BY HUGH CONWAY AUTHOR OF " A FAMILY AFFAIR," " CALLED BACK," " DARK DATS," ETC. C"^^<5UCV, c~, IN THKEE VOLUMES VOL. L ' ' D, 3 J J 3 •" j"3 -"> » J ^ ' ^ ' ; ] J 3 > , J = >3» » J J 1,1 MACMILLAN AND CO. 1886 The Right of Translation and Reproduction it Reserved RfCHARD Clay & Sons, BREAD STREET HILL, LONDON, Bungay, Svffolk. c c • c < c ' « t t !• t C 1 r -I V v./ S CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAPTER I. SOLITUDE . CHAPTER II. RECOGNITION AND DENIAL ... CHAPTER III. ^ I AM SO LONELY ... CHAPTER IV. A NEW LIFE CHAPTER V. FAOF, 1 26 48 "child of THE sun" ... ... ... 68 CHAPTEli VI. A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST ... ... ... 88 1571 (« VI CONTENTS. CHAPTER VII. PAOE NEW FlUENDS ... ... ... ... 118 CHAPTER VIII. DISTHACTION WITH A VENGEANCE ... ... 150 CHAPTER IX. CONFESSIONS AND EXPLANATIONS ... ... 180 CHAPTER X. LOAFING ON SCIENTIFIC PRINCIPLES ... ... 206 CHAPTER XI. A TERRIBLE OLD MAN ... ... ... 224 LIVING OR DEAD. LIVING OK DEAD. CHAPTER I. SOLITUDE How ]itt]e flid Pliilip Norris, a solitary hoy, who dreamed for hours hy the sea of tragedies and tales he would one day write, imagine that the first, and perhaps the last tale he will ever tell, would be his own — - that of all subtle plots he wove — plots, for the greater part, unconscious thefts from the books he had already assimilated — the tan- oied threads of his own life and belonirinirs, when unravelled, would lead him to strano-er events, more marvellous coincidences, and greater surprises than anything his ingenuity could sua-q-est — and his life at that time seemed so prosaic and commonplace I VOL. I. B 2 LIVING OR DEAD. [ciiAi-. For I, the riiilip aforesaiJ, liad lived all mv life, or at least since I couUl remember anything, in one house, in one plaec. Why that house was built lias been a mystery to everybody ; but as so few people know of its existence, the word " everybody " must be taken in a very limited sense. It lies miles from the main road, and as no land to speak of has ever been held with it, it cannot have been designed to do duty as a farm-house. Indeed, its appearance tells you at once it is a gentleman's residence, although whoever built his residence there cared little about easy access. High tors rise to the left and the right of it, the valley in which it lies terminates in a steep hill, which stretches away in a tal)]e-land of moor. These are three sides of the frame, the fourth is the sea, on which every window of the front — the north side of the house — gazes point-blank. n.] EECOGNITION AND DENIAL. ^ CHAPTER II. RECOGNITION AND DENIAL. When I was fourteen my father gave me a boat. He had evidently no wish that I should become a recluse like himself, and encouraged me in every woy to spend my leisure hours out of doors, in such sport or pastime as I liked best. For years, when the weather was anything like tempting, I had sjient two or three hours each day on the Avater. The fishermen and I were sworn allies, and their boats were always at my disposal. They taught me all their craft, so that at the age of fourteen I could handle a boat with any of them. I knew every inch of the coast, I was strong for my B 2 4 LIVING OR DEAD. [, hap. age, and fearless. IMoreovcr, I could swim like ca duck, so to my great deliglit, on my birthday I became the possessor of a staunch, safe, yawl-rigged boat. She was an open boat about oighteon foot long, easily managed by one person ; and, proud of my new- treasure, I spent the greater part of what time I had to spare during the next few months afloat, generally alone. One morn- ing, when a brisk westerly breeze sent me along, wet but gloriously happy, under jib and foresail, I saw a small schooner-rigged yacht stretching in towards shore on a long winning tack. A yacht being always an object of curiosity and pleasure to me, and besides, not very often seen off the North Devon coast, I went about, and beat down as near to her as I could. For some reason which I could not divine, she hove to about a quarter of a mile from the shore, exactly op])osite our little ba}'. As I flew past her, admiring her white sails, tapering spars, and II.] RECOGNITION AND DENIAL. 5 beautiful lines, some one on the deck hailed me, asking; if I could o-et alono;side. The ' O DO breeze was very fresh, and the sea lively, but I saw nothing to prevent my doing so. I got up to windward, took down my easily- managed sails, put out a pair of sculls, and in a few minutes had hold of a rope thrown from the yacht. Two gentlemen looked over the side and spoke to me, as I kept my boat at a respectful distance from their craft. " Can we get ashore there ? " asked one, pointing to the bay. " Yes, very well," I replied. "We want to put a sick friend ashore. He insists upon leaving us." Here the two men laughed heartily. " I will take him, if he can get on board," I said. " Thanks, you are very kind. Now, Dunstable," said one, turning inboard, " tumble up ; deliverance is at hand I " III a short time a face appeared beside 6 LIVING OR DEAD. [, hap. them. It was tlie picture of {ibjoct misery — sea-sickness written in every line. But with all his suffering Mr. Dunstable still valued life. "Is it safe ? " he gasped — " such a sea ! such a small boat — and onlv a lad to manaofe it ! " I said nothing, but waited his decision, justly indignant. " Safe ! Of course it's safe ! He can manage his boat like a top. He's been out in worse than this little breeze, I can see ! Here, jump in with you, if you can manage it ; but you will have to be quick about it ! " The sufferer looked -askance at my boat, which was pitching merrily — thump, tliump, thumping the green waves — then a spasm of his malady decided him. " But you two fellows might come with me," he said, beseechingly ; " be good- natured, and see me safe on dry land again ! " n.] KECOGNITIOX AND DENIAL. 7 They laughed at his piteous appeal. , " I Joii't mind," said the younger one, " if Rothwell likes to come. If our young friend will put us off again, I shouldn't mind o-ointr with vou and seeing: you on the rio-ht way home." Eothwell consented. They gave their captain instructions to stand off and on until they signalled him ; then I drew the boat close alono-side, and, watchino; their chance, they bundled in JMr. Dunstable, who immediately subsided — a breathing, but inanimate mass of matter — in the stern- sheets, jumped in after him, hoisted sail, and away we went. It was not until we ran into the little sandy bay where, at the expense of wet feet, we drew my boat up, and exti'actcd ^Ir. Dunstable from its recesses, that I was able to find time to look properly at my pas- sengers. When alongside their yacht I had been too busy in keeping from collision to 8 LIVING Oil DEAD. [riiAP. notice tlieir nppoarnnno, and the passago to land required great nicety of steering, if I wished to confirm the yachtsman's favour- able opinion, and show iiie absurdity of Mr. Dunstable's fears. We liauhMJ the boat up liigli and dry, and then, as the two yachts- men thanked me for my aid, and com[)li- mented nie upon my nautical skill, I looked at them. They were both good-looking men, bronzed witli wind and suji. Both wore serviceable yachting suits, meant for work and comfort, not show. Even with my contracted knowledge I realized they were o-entlemcn. The elder mav have been about forty-five, his friend some ten years younger. Mr. Dunstable I do not attempt to describe, as it would be unfair under his present disadvantageous circumstances. The poor man was still almost without life or motion. It is a common idea witli people who suffer from the sport of the sea, that the moment their foot touches firm land all II ] EECOGNITIOX AND DENIAL. 9 sorrow leaves them ; but in an unusually severe attack like Mr. Dunstable's it is not so — it is sometimes hours before happiness is re-established. I have seen victims for as long as a couple of clays yaw about when walking with the giddiness still lingering in their brains, Mr. Dunstable's friends told me they had left Ilfracombe early that morning for a run up channel, persuading him to accompany them. The sea had risen since they had started, and the poor gentleman's sufferings had been so acute that he had beo-aed, even commanded, that they should land him at the first place they could, no matter where, or how far from civilization. Only let him get on dry land again ! His request would have been unheeded, and hours of agony must yet have been his, had it not been for my lucky appearance. " And now," said the elder of the two, whose name I knew was Rothwell, " what's 10 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. to be (lone ? Dunstable isn't in walkinir trim. Can we get a conveyance any- where ? " Wlien I was on the sea, with the tiller in my hand, I felt almost a man, and spoke accordingly. Now, on shore, I was a shy boy again ; l)ut I managed to tell them they were three miles from the main road. Farmer Lee, our nearest neighbour, who owned such a thing as a gig, lived about four miles off. They heard my news with dismay. "The devil!" said the vounfyer man. " And Dunstable still in a state of collapse ! Poor old chap, you will have to come back with ns after all." •'Not for a thousand pounds!" said the invalid, with a shudder. " There must be some way out of this," said Mr. Eothwell. "How do they get to the house just above ? " The mention of our house reminded me II.] RECOGNITION AND DENIAL. J 1 of the rites of liospitality. " That is our house," I said, " but there is no road to it, only a bridle-path, if you woukln't mind coniiug up to it. Mr. Dunstable can lie down for an hour or two and get better, then he can have my pony, and I will show him the way to go." " You are a verv kind youno; man," said Dunstable ; " it would do me good to lie down." " But we may be intruding," said Roth- well. " Not at all," I said eawrlv : " onlv my father and I live there ; please come — this is the way." Feeling quite proud of my unexpected guests, I turned up the valley — they each gave Dunstable an aim, and followed me. As we neared the house the elder said, " You had better know what names to present us to your father by-— mine is Rothwell." 12 LIVIXG OR DEAD. [ciiap. " Ami mine is Stanton," said his com- panion, " and this is ]\Ir. Dunstahlc of the Albany — a very amusing, high-spirited gentleman when quite himself." " iMy name is Norris," I said, seeing that they looked at me incpiiringly. " Please, Mr. Norris," said Kothwell, " we ^viIl thank you and your father beforehand for the hospitality you are showing us. Now, let us get on and put our poor friend to bed." I conducted them to our house, summoned the housekeeper, and placed Mr. Dunstable under her care to show him to a room where he could lie down and sleep away his suffer- ings. " I will have something ready for you to eat, sir, when you awake," I heard her say as they went up-stairs. " Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't mention food to me ! " groaned Dunstable. "Ah, but you will have a right good a^Dpetite when you coom tu," answered 11.] EECOGNITION AND DENIAL. 13 his guide, opening the door of a bed- room, in wliich he hid himself and his woes. My father was, as usual, in his library. I begged my guests to be seated and I would call him. Before I could do so the door opened and he entered. I just began, " This is Mr. Roth well and Mr. Stanton, who — " when the former gentleman stepped quickly forward, with signs of great astonish- ment on his face, and both his hands extended towards ray father. " You I " I heard him say, as he crossed the room. "You, of all people, in this lonely place ! How I have sought you for years and years ! " But my father betrayed no sign of recog- nition. He drew himself up to his full heioht, and moved neither hand nor foot. The surprise caused by his visitor's strange £rreetin;lit contortion passed over his face, as dreams, most likely, brou2fht back his ao;onies. Considerino; it would be a sin to disturb him, we stole away, and wandered round the garden, up the valley, and finally down to the beach. The yacht was beating about in the distance, the crew doubtless as impatient to be off as Mr. Stanton himself. That gentleman threw stones in the water dis- consolately. " We shall never get back," he said. " The wind has veered round due west. We shall have to beat the whole way, against tide, too. Wliat the devil can Rothwell want all this time with your father 'i " I expressed my ignorance, but suggested it might be some scientific subject they II.] RECOGNITION AND DENIAL. 19 were discussing, as my father was a great man at science. " Science," he said. " What can Roth- well want with science ? Here's a fellow with twenty thousand a year, more or less, who rushes oflf at a moment's notice to shoot buffaloes in the far north or ostriches in Africa. Why can't he stay at home and keep a good stud and win the Derby ■? " " It must be very jolly to travel like he does," I ventured to say. " He calls it jolly. Every one to his tastes, I say. But he's an out-and-out good fellow, only rather long-winded at times. He's giving your governor a good spell of it now." As he spoke Mr. Stanton looked up at the house, and seemed struck anew with its loneliness and inaccessibility. *' I say," he said, " do you two live there all tlie year round ? " c 2 20 LIVING Oil DEAD. [citap. " Yes, all the year round. I have never lived anywhere else." " Well, don't you find it quiet, not to say dull, at times ? " I laughed. " You would call it so in winter, when the snow is on the ground.'' " I should call it so summer and winter. Whatever do you do with yourself ? " " Oh, I boat, and fish, and read." " Don't you go to school ? " " No ; my father teaches me." " Why, you ought to be at Rugby or Eton — a great strong fellow like you — playing cricket or football. What are you going to be ? " *' I don't know. I have never thought of it." " Then you ought to think of it. You can't be buried alive here all your life ! I was going to do splendid things at your age, only some old fool of an uncle left me a thousand a year ! Just enough to spoil a II.] RECOGNITION AND DENIAL. 21 man, and not enough to make liim ! All ! here they come at last," he said, with a sigh of relief, as Lord Roth well and my father emerged from the gate. They were talking earnestly, as they came down the path. Rothwell looked to me as if he were making some appeal to my father, who shook his head sadly several times. " Is Lord Eothwell married ? " I asked Mr. Stanton, before they came within earshot. " Married ! No ! He's never been at home long: enough to get married. I think he's disappointed in love, as they call it ; but it was before I knew him." "Now then, Rothwell,'' cried his friend, as they approached. " Let us be off at once ; we have no more time to lose." " I beg your pardon, Stanton, for keeping you waiting, but our host's books were so interesting, I could not tear myself away. I had no idea it was so late." 22 LIVING OR DEAD. [cuap. " One hour and fifty minutes heave I been kickhig my heels here. Now, CaiDtain Philip, our boat and away ! " Before he lent his aid to launch the boat, Lord Rothwell laid his hand on my shoulder, and looking at me almost affectionately, said, " I have been trying to persuade your father to let you go for a cruise with me — a good long cruise ; but he says he cannot spare you." My heart leapt at the delightful idea ; and I turned eagerly to my father. " No," he said ; " I cannot spare the boy — not yet." I knew it was no good preferring any request of mine. AVe launched the yawl, and with a second adieu, away we went from land, my father standing on the beach and watching us until he could no longer distino;uish features. " Whom did you mistake my father for ? " I asked Lord Eothwell, with, I fear, rather impertinent boyish curiosity. II.] EECOGNITION AND DENIAL. 23 " For a very dear old friend of mine — lost sight of for many years ; but I seem to have been mistaken." " You don't often make a mistake," said his friend ; " and the confab you have been holdino; has been lonof enouo;li to have con- fessed or compared all the iniquities you have been guilty of since you last met ! " " We all make mistakes sometimes," said his lordship, sententiously. As we neared the yacht he turned to me : " AVhenever you come to London, call on me, my boy. I should like to see you if I happen to be at home. My address will always be known to my bankers, Messrs. Coutts, — write that name down when you get back. Don't forget to come." I promised obedience ; but saw at present little chance of keeping my promise. Then we got alongside the yacht, and after cordially shaking my hand, the two men sprang on board, and in a minute three 24 LIVING OR DEAD. [cuap. lumdred yards of green water separated us. "Don't foro^et," I beard Lord Roth well shout, as he waved his hand to me for the last time. I got back, eager to talk to my father about our visitors, as it was not often we had such a topic of conversation ; but found he had retired to his room, not feeling well. He had left every instruction for Mr. Dunstable's comfort, and w^ord for me to apologize for his absence, and play the host as best I could. As I never saw Mr. Dunstable, except on this occasion, I need only say that shortly after my return he made his appearance, quite restored to health ; and, as predicted by our housekeej)er, in possession of a splendid appetite, which, however, he was anxious to get rid of as soon as possible. He kept me laughing all the evening with a comic description of his sufferings — a II.] EECOGNITION AND DENIAL. 25 more amusing companion on dry land it must have been hard to find. He readily agreed to stay the night, and the next morning we trudged up the hills, across the moor, until we got hold of a light spring- cart, which no doubt in due time safely deposited him at Lynton. 1 found my father did not seem disposed to talk upon the subject of Lord Roth well and his friends. Indeed he displayed so little interest in the matter that I soon gave up speaking of it, and my life con- tinued to run on in its old accustomed groove. 26 LIVING OR DEAD. [cuap. CHAPTER III. I AM SO LONELY. Yet tlie chance visit of the yachtsmen and Mr. Stanton's half-jesting remarks exercised an influence upon me. If for some time longer my life was the same out- wardly, a great change was at work within me. I date it from the moment that I saw the white sails of the schooner filling out and bearing my new friends away — away to other scenes, other lands it may be. Then it was, I think, I began to realize the solitude and strangeness of my lot — to wonder why I should be bound to one small neglected spot of earth, and whether such a state of things must last for ever. Why III.] I AM SO LONELY. 27 sliouki others go to and fro in the world, mix with people, work and compete for its prizes, and I, although but a boy as yet, be condemned to take no part in the joys and sorrows, the successes and reverses of my fellows ? My range of vision contracted to a few miles of seaboard, a few^ miles of vallev and moorland. The fellow-creatures of my own degree only seen at long inter- vals, and even then, looking upon me as something different from themselves on account of my monotonous life and secluded home. I began to dream of great cities, of a whirl of men, of many faces. I longed to plunge into the ever-moving stream of humanity. The sight of an ocean-going steamer away in the distance w^ith a long ribbon of smoke stretching from her fun- nels, made me sigh, as I sat gazing over the sea. Was she not full of people, carry- ing them to some great city teeming wdth busy life and industry? Day after day 28 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. these tliouGjlits o^rew stronQ;er till I o-rew peevisli and thoroughly unhappy. I did not suppose I should be obliged to grow old in this place like my father. I knew that the time comes when a man must fare away on his own account, but I trembled to think what I should be like by that time, if nothing changed in the mode of my existence till then. All my experience of the ways of the world would be gathered from books alone, all I knew about men and women would be from the same source. Day after day I resolved not to sleep again until I had sj^oken to my father and told him what troubled me — day after day my heart failed me as I saw his melancholy face, and felt that any step I took away from him must cause him g-rief and greater loneliness. These thoughts may seem too old for a boy of little more than fourteen, but when thoughts are his sole companions, they grow, expand, and pass on before his years. in.] I AM SO LONELY. 29 Brooding in this manner, yet endeavour- ing to conceal my longings from my father, I believe I was within an ace of a severe bodily or mental ailment. 1 found I was losing my nerve ; I began to shun launch- ing my boat in the windy weather, which formerly I preferred ; I began to grow dizzy as I walked the high tors and tremble at the consequences a slip of my foot would entail — a matter I had hitherto thouo-ht so out of the range of probability that I had never considered it. I almost feared to swim out of my depth, shuddering as I remembered that I might sink without any one to stretch out a hand to save me. All this was not cowardice, but the craving for companionship. My father must have noticed my changed looks and manner. At times I saw him looking at me wistfully, and once or twice he asked me if he should write for any fresh books, or was there anything else I wanted. 30 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. If SO, I sliould have it. I could not find courao-e to tell him what ailed me. September was with us now — the evcn- insrs were drawino; in. I was sittingi: with my father, who was at the piano — I have told you before that music was the pursuit that occupied him most after his literary and scientific studies. He would play for hours, whilst I read and listened at inter- vals. I know now what a true musician he was ; what a brilliant performer. But at that time, for all I knew, everybody in the world save myself might have played as well as he did. I could play after a fashion ; my father had been teaching me for years, patiently and kindly — but the difference between the sounds I drew forth and those which followed his touch was disgusting to me. This evening, as the twilight faded, he sat playing. It was growing too dark to read, and, unwilling to disturb him by ringing for lights, I sat III.] I AM SO LONELY. 31 and listened till it grew so dark tliat tlie only things I saw plainly were the white keys and his whiter hands flitting from one to the other. The night was sombre, the sky full of driving clouds — a fierce north-east wind was blowing directly on to the land, and above the music I could hear the dash of the surf. My father was playing sweet, but most melancholy strains. He may have been improvising — he may have been playing his own compositions, or those of some great master. Only, as I sat there, hearing bar after bar of plaintive harmony, in which the player seemed so engrossed that he had even forgotten my presence — somehow I felt the solitude of the situation more than ever. The dark, drifting skies, the sound of the wind and sea, the pathetic music seemed to com- pletely overpower me, and all my thoughts and craving culminated and expressed them- selves in a burst of passionate sobs. I felt 32 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. thoroughly ashamed of my breakdown, but I could not help it. My father was at my side in a moment. Pie put his arms round me. " My boy, what is it ? What is the matter ? " he cried. " Let us go away ! Let us leave this horrible place," I sobbed. " If we don't I shall die or go mad." " Wait a moment, Philip," he said. " Let us have lights, then we can talk about it all." He rang, and the lamp was brought. He took it from the servant's hand at the door that my agitation might not be seen. Then he drew the dark curtains across the window, and reseated himself at my side. I soon recovered myself in a great measure. My hysterical sobs ceased. The light, no doubt, drove away my despondency. I began to feel ashamed of my outburst, even attempting to meet his eyes with a smile. He looked at me gravely and sadly. in.] I AM SO LONELY. 33 " You are unliappy, Philip ; I have noticed it for some time, but I have been selfish, aud hoped it would pass away for the present. Tell me what you wish, my boy." " I am happy with you," I answered, " because I love you ; but oh, father, I am so lonely aud wretched at times." " You want to see other faces, make friends and companions of those your own aire ? Don't be afraid to tell me : I am not angry." But he was sorrowful. I could see it ; \'et I could not help repeating, " I am so lonely." He laid his hand on my shoulder. " Yes, I have been wrong," he said dreamily. " Roth well told me so, and pre- dicted this ; but I fancied you were perhaps different from others — had enough of my blood in you to feel happy away from the world. You shall leave me, but you will f(jrgive me, my boy % " VOL. L I> 34 livinOt or dead. [cr-iAP. Somehow separation had not exactly entered my thonglits. " But you will come too," I cried aghast. He smiled almost wearily. " No, my home is chosen ; it is here." "Then I will not go, father. Forget all I have said. I have not been feeling quite well lately. I shall soon be all right ngain." " No, you are not well, Philip ; I have known it, but would not see it. I have been selfish, I told you. But the remedy is easily found. The day after to-morrow you will go to London." My heart bounded. " But not alone,"' I said "you will come too." The look against which I knew there was no appeal crossed his face. " I shall never set foot in London ag;ain," he said. " You will have your desire, Philip ; and if separ- ation from me grieves you, it will teach you the lesson early that no desire fulfilled approaches expectation. Something always III.] I AM SO LONELY. oO mars it more or less. Now, my boy," he added kindly, " say no more. "Wish me good-i]iglit, and sleep if you can. To- morrow I will arrange everything." I left him half-glad, half-sorry. Is it any wonder that morning broke before I closed my eyes ? ]\Iy father was very calm and undemon- strative the next day. Although once or twice I thought his eyes followed me, he betrayed no emotion, but gave me instruc- tions as to the course I was to adopt, as though my going to London were the most ordinary thing in the world. For my part, I could scarcely look at him without tears in my eyes ; picturing his absolute loneliness in my absence, forgetting that what seems misery to one temiperament may be comfort to another ; forgetting that, as far as I knew, he was immured in his out-of-the-way home by his own free will and choice ; that he might leave it any moment it pleased him to do so. D 2 36 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. I was busy all clay ^^acking — it was sucli a new experience that I lingered over it lovino-lv, altliono:li the amount of luc^o-aire I should muster would he very small. " Put the Greek and Latin books in," said my father. " You must not be quite idle." I did so, and by dinner-time my box was packed to my satisfaction and corded in a knowing, seamandike style. Then I sat down rather dolefully to my last dinner with my father. He talked to me kindly and cheerfully during the meal, told me wdiat to see and what to admire in London, giving me to understand that my stay was to be of some duration. "But where am I to go ; where am I to stay when I get there 1 " I asked, descending from my dreams to everyday necessities. " I shall give you a letter to Mr. Grace, my solicitor. You will take a cab and drive straight to his house. It will be late when you get up, but he will not mind that. He III.] I AM SO LONELY. 37 will look after you and take care of you. He is under some obligations to me, so you need not be afraid of trespassing on liim." ; Then I mentioned my promise of calling upon Lord Kotliwell. My father was silent a short time. He appeared to be thinking earnestly. " I see no harm in it," he said at last ; " but I do not expect you will find him in London. From what he told me, half his life is spent abroad. Still, as he wished it, you can call." " You can either tell one of the fishermen to carry your box this evening up to Lee's farm, and get them to meet you to-morrow and drive you to Minehead, or you can be off at daybreak and go down to Lynmouth in your boat and catch the Bristol packet." As I thou'dit the ioltins; of the sea would O JO be merciful compared to that of Farmer Lee's so-called spring-cart, I decided on the latter course. 157109 38 LIVING on. DEAD. [( hap. I received my letter and an ample snpply of money Lefore we parted for the night. I Lade my father good-bye then, tlnnking I should not see him in themornino-- l)iit early as the hour was, he was up, break- fasted with me and saw me start, with a fine breeze, and old Dan the fisherman to bring the boat back. I reached Lynmouth in good time, and safely boarded the steamer bound for Bristol. As we passed our house, I borrowed the captain's glass, for I could sec a dark figure standing out against the sky on the summit of one of the tors. It was a wod glass, and I could note with its aid tlie bent head, and as I fancied dejected attitude — a white handkerchief fluttered for a second, and then something threw a fdm over my eyes, or the captain's powerful binocular prevented my seeing more. When I had rectified this defect, the figure had disappeared. in.] I AM SO LONELY. 39 " After all," I Scaid, " it is but a few weeks' absence. One would think we were never going to meet again." But in spite of this a feeliuQ: of sadness clunnr to me until I hmded at Portishead pier, and the train whirled me away alongside of the muddy stream that flows throuo-li Bristol. At the capital of the west I had a couple of hours to wait — the packet having been longer than usual on her journey, and the train we were supposed to catch having left some time. I walked into the smoky city, looked at the outside of many and the inside of a few of the churches, whose spires seemed starting up in every direc- tion. I watched the busy people thronging the streets with the greatest interest, and although I could have lingered for hours gazing into the shop - windows, you may be sure, with the greater glories of London in prcspcctive, I tore myself away in time to catch the evening train. 40 LIVING OR DEAD. [< hap. How I revelled in the noise and the headlong speed of that journey to London. It seems almost ridiculous to. write it, but although I had seen trains, as yet I had never been in one ; the little railway tribu- tary from Portishead to Bristol had seemed wonderful to me, but the iireat broad o;auo;e main line, along which we sped at some sixty miles an hour, was an experience I had never dreamed of. The fierce rush of the mighty engine on and on through the dark night, the flying telegraph-poles seen dimly, the sparks scattered on either side as we sped on, the ghost-like double of myself sitting in the phantom carriage which always ran side by side with us — all these were to me such absolute novelties that no traveller yet ever found the journey less wearisome and shorter than I did. I did not attempt to realize the magnitude of Paddington — I contented myself with following my instructions to the letter in III.] I AM SO LONELY. 41 calling for a porter, telling liirn to find my box and see me safely installed in a cab, whose driver was directed to shape his course to No. — , Russell Square. ■ Never shall I forget my first impressions of those long, wide, gas-lit streets we passed. So endless they seemed to me, that I thought my charioteer must be driving me all round London. Mathematicians tell us that the human mind is only capable of conceiving certain quantities ; that glibly as we talk of billions and trillions, we cannot under- stand what they mean. So it is with other things besides numerals. Till you have really seen it, or have been accustomed to ffreat cities, vou cannot imagrine the size of London. I could write page and pnge expressing my wonderment, but it would be absurd ; so few are placed like I was, that my audience who would understand and enter into my feelings must be too limited to trouljle about. 42 LIVING Oil DEAD. [chap. And yet UiLssull Square is not so very far from PaJdinoton. In less than half an O hour tlic cab stopped, and T laid a vigorous hand upon the knocker of a door which l)ore No. — upon it. A respectable-looking man-servant answered my summons. lie informed me that ^Ir. Grace was at home, and upon my expressing a wish to see him, show^ed me into a small room, lit the gas, and went off to inform his master that a young gentleman from the country was waitino; an audience. I did not dischara"e my cab, as failing Mr. Grace, the driver of that conveyance would l)e the only one in London I could ask aid fi'om, and I was feeling almost frightened at the immensity of the town of which, as yet, I had seen only a corner. Vc'iy soon j\Ir. Grace appeared — a portly, close-shaven gentleman, with a dignified appearance, but kind look ; a man of sixty or sixty-five years of age. He gave me HI.] I AM SO LONELY. 43 •d quick inquisitive glance tlirougli Lis spectacles, Lowed and waited my com- mands. Tlie nnexpccted appearance at eleven o'clock at niglit of a Loy and a Lansom caL, with a large Lox on top of it, certainly demanded explanation. " AVill you please to read tliis letter ? " I said, Landing Lim tLe introductory lines. He Lroke tlie seal, glanced, naturally, lirst at tLe sio-nature, and tlien looked at me witL unmistakaLle interest. Several times during tlie perusal of tlie epistle Le turned and looked at me. TLeii Le folded tlie letter longwise, j)laced it carefully in Lis breast-pocket, and sLook me cordially by tlie Land. " Mr. PLilip," Le said, *' I am extremely glad to see you, and in saying extremely glad I mean glad to tlie extreme. Indeed, I may add tliere is no young gentleman in tLe world wLose accpiaintance I was more anxious to make." 44 LIVING OR DEAD. [< hap. Mr. Grace had a sententious manner. He pronounced every word slowly and with great distinctness, but even then appeared to think that repetition of words and a paraphrase of sentences was needful to make his meaning quite clear. I thanked him, wondering why he should desire my acquaintance ; then I added a hope, expressed in boyish words, that I should cause him no inconvenience. " You will cause us no inconvenience, IMr, Philip ; not the least inconvenience. We have a roomy abode, and in calling it a roomy abode I mean a house with ample accommodation for visitors even less wel- come than yourself. Well, Twining ? " For the respectable man-servant at that moment entered the room respectfully. " The gentleman's cab, sir ? The man wants to know if he must wait." " Pay him, Twining — fairly, even liberally — but not ostentatiously. Then carry this in.] I AM SO LONELY. 45 gentleman's luggage to tlie spare room, and order some supper for liim at once. Mr. Philip, please to follow me." He led me up- stairs to a large drawing- room, heavily and handsomely furnished. A lady about his own age was there, knitting busilv. " My dear," he said, rather ceremoniously, " this is ]\Ir. Philip Norris, tlie son of an old friend and client of mine, whose name you have often heard me mention." Mrs. Grace o:reeted me kindlv, but looked at me with an even more evident curiosity than her precise husband had shown. I began to blush and wonder if my appearance was so terribly boorish and countrified. *' Mr. Philip, my dear," continued Mr. Grace, " has lived, as I believe you know, all his life in great seclusion — I may say, utter solitude, with the exception of his father's company — in a romantic valley on the Devon coast." 4G LIVING OR DEAD. [chap " Poor boy ! " said Mrs. Grace, kindly. " Young people ouglit to mix with young people." "Precisely so," said Mr. Grace. "Ilis father now sees that, and has sent him to spend a week or two with us." " P)ut we are not young people, Joshua," and Mrs. Grace seemed to enjoy her husband's slip. " When I lay claim to that happy dis- tinction it will be time to correct me," said Mr. Grace. " Mr. Norris wishes Mr. Philip to enjoy a few sights of London in the first place. We must lay down a 23rogramme for im. " The first item in my programme must be supper, the second bed," said the kind lady. " The boy looks tired to death. What time did you start?" " As soon as it was light," I answered, feeling, now that'such an idea was suggested, that I was very tired, and from the pleasure III.] I AM SO LONELY. 47 I felt at hearino; Twinino; at that moment announce tliat supper was ready, judging that I was extremely hungry. Indeed, I mio-ht well be so, as in the excitement of the journey I had neither cared fur nor thougjht of eatino^. So I made a hearty supper and went to rest, lonfrinfT for morninG: and the wonders it would bring. The only things on my mind were the pictured loneliness of my father and the curiosity my appearance seemed to excite. Yet, as I looked at myself in the long mirror, I fancied I was neither an illdookino: nor altosjether unpresentable youth. 43 LIVING OR DEAD, ['HAr. CHAPTER IV. A NEW LIFE. At breakfast next mornino- 1 found in addition to tlie host and hostess two sons of the house. They were both grown up men Avith wliiskers and moustaches. Proljably they had not returned home before I went to bed on the nii>;ht before. It was a rehef to me to find that they appeared to greet me as if I were an ordinary personage. As both seemed interested in trout-fishing and boating I talked to them without shy- ness, and felt flattered when, on departing to their offices, the younger promised to take me to the opera in the evening. Mr. Grace, who was probably beginning to take IV.] A NEW LIFE. 49 life easily, lingered over the breakfast-table. He drew out the letter of the preceding night and re-opened it. " How old are yon, Mr. Philip 1 " he asked, laying it beside his plate for reference in case of need. " I was fourteen last spring." " Fourteen only ! You look older — I thought your father was making a mistake.- And so you are to go to Harrow ? " This was news to me — welcome news, I am ashamed to say. I told Mr. Grace so. He referred to the letter. " Yes, he says so plainly enough ; this term, if it can be managed. I must see what can be done. No doubt it may be difficult to arrange, but we must try." " But am I not to go home first ? " " I do not read his instructions so : ' Let Philip enjoy himself and see what is fit ; then send him to Harrow.' That is how I read it." VOL. I. E 50 LIVING OR DEAD. [ruAV. *' Then I sluiU not see Lini fur months. Oh ! I must go home first." Mr. Grace looked at me gravely. *' Your ^visll is very creditable, highly becoming, I may say. But I think, Mr. Philip, you had better follow your father's commands to the letter. Speaking for myself, I should prefer to do so, as j\Ir. Norris — as I remember him — is a man who, when he says ' Go,' expects that the recipient of the mandate goeth." I quite agreed with him, and made no farther ol)jection. *' Your father is a strange man," con- tinued Mr. Grace, stirring the coffee-grounds in his cup in a meditative wiiy ; " a strange man, and in using that expression I wish to imply that I think him an uncommon man. You will find, as you grow older, that he is difierent in many ways from most people ■ — by most people I mean the generality of mankind. Still, I should say from his letter " — unfoldinoj it aoain and referring iv.] A NEW LIFE. 51 for precision's sake — " that lie was extremely fond of you. So it may bo he wishes to save you both the pain of another parting." , For the want of a better I accepted this explanation, but my eyes were tearful. " Now," said Mr. Grace, with his usual impressive pause at the conjunction, " now — I will desire Twininof to attire himself in his best, and accompany you to the objects of interest which you will first of all wish to visit, and, of course, inspect. We can spare Twining very well to-day, and he is a respectable man, not without education. I would come myself, but have appoint- ments I cannot w^ell break without causino; inconvenience — even annoyance— to others," Then ]\Ir. Grace went about his business, and shortly afterwards Twining appeared and took me under his wins; — a most irre- 2)roacliable, correctly-plumaged wing it was. So well dressed and respectable did he appear, that any one who noticed us must E 2 52 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. Lave siippoaetl us to be a town-bred luicle showing a country nephew what was worth seeing in London. Twining was polite, but patronising — civil, but condescending. The expression his face bore of having thoroughly done this long ago somewhat marred my enjoyment nntil I became used to it, whilst the lions of London most w^orthy of inspect- ing seemed, in his opinion, the Gaiety and Criterion Eestaurants, and other promising cubs of the same breed. To the credit of his head and heart, I must say that, as far as I was concerned, he strongly recommended lemonade or ginger beer as- the most refresh- ino; and palatable beveraoe : re2;rettino- that an unfortunate disposition to flatulence, which he expressed by a monosyllabic term, prevented him from indulging in a like exhilaratino' and harmless drauo'ht, and com- O CD ^ pelled him, against his will, to imbibe more nourish in 2; fluids for his stomach's sake. Knowing, in theory, the action of alcohol Ev.] A NEW LIFE. 53 on tlie human frame, and having read a scientific discourse on the various stages of intemperance, I was not surprised, upon our return to Russell Square, to learn that Mr. Twininor l^ad found himself so knocked up by his unusual exertions that he felt com- pelled to retire to bed, and depute his duty of waitino: at dinner to a female servant. On the whole, I fancied my sight- seeing had better be done witliout his respectable aid. One way and another, I managed to see all the stock siohts. Sometimes with Mr. O Grace, sometimes with Mrs. Grace, some- times with the good-natured young men, their sons; but oftener by myself. Pleased as I was to have a companion, being alone was such a natural state of things for me that I was happy in my solitary investiga- tions. But the oreatest siojlit of all to me was the people. The wonderful,, never- ceasins: stream of men and \^'omcn ; each 54 LIVINfi on DEAD. [chap. going Lis own way, eacli witli Lis own little interests and oLjects — wLatever tliesc may hi', or liowever great, to tlie individual, so small and petty wLen compared witL tlie ao-oTorrate man. Sometimes I watclied tLe tliousands passing me, witLout a tLouglit in common witli mine, sometimes I felt more lonely than I did on tLat sea-waslied spot tliat was Lome to me. My fatlier was indeed wdse in sendino: me to London. Perliaps if I Lad stayed at Lome niucL longer I sliould Lave become a precocious pLilosoplier, a juvenile cynic, witli tlie tLeory tliat, as tlie world is composed of units, tLe Lappiness of eacL unit is all tliat need Le considered, and tlie prime end of a man sLould be to study Lis own well-being, and so add an atom to tLe geneial comfoit. But I was a boy yet, and must live in a boy's world before I judged of tLat peopled by men. Harrow was my destination, and Mv. Grace Laving found some way to com- IV.] A NEW LIFE. 55 pass it, at tlie end of September I made my first appearance at any school. It was a new life to me — a revelation. I grew younger all the time I was there, in- stead of o-rowino; older. New ties, new ambitions, new interests, and new ideas thronged nnon me. I had friends and O i- companions. The trouble m.y ftither had taken with my education left me not a whit behind any one of my own age, as far as learning was concerned. If I knew little or O nothing of public schools' sports, when I first went to Harrow, I could outrun, outclimb, or outdo in feats of strength any of my contemporaries. Tall and strong as I was nimble and fearless, I soon picked up the technical knowledge of cricket and football, whilst in the " runs " I made my mark at once. After all, althouo-h I said so as I com- menced it, my tale is not my own history • — it is the history of others — but of others 56 LIVING OR DEAD. [' "Ar. whose lives are so bound up in niiue that my life seems a part of theirs. So I need say little of my school life, excef>t that I was popular with my schoolmates, favour- ably looked on by my tut(n-s, equal if not before all of my own age, both indoors and outdoors. All who have been to a public school will know that this means a happy career. With the exception of a few^ days in London and a couj)le of short visits at a school friend's, I spent the whole of the holidavs during the time I was at Harrow in Devonshire. How could I do otherwise, knowing that my father wished me to be Avith him \ He was nndenlonstrative as ever, still dee}) in his scientific and literary pursuits, still holding communication with the world only at intervals, and then chiefly throudi scientific societies and their publi- cations ; but I knew he looked forward to the day of my carrival with longing, and to IV.] A NEW LIFE. 57 the day of my departure with sorrow, and as I n;rew okler I felt that the time must come at List, when we sliould be separated for much longer periods than now, so I gave him all the time I could wdthout o;rudoino- it. Besides, I was more cheerful now in the old house. The sons of the nei2:hbourinQ; Qfentrv — althouoli few and far between — were within riding distance, and in their eyes, the fact of my being now a public schoolboy like themselves was sufficient to atone for all my early shortcomings. I had a horse now, and a ride of ten or tw^elve miles was nothing to me, when it gave me a dav's shootinoj or some other sport, in company with those of my own age. But for the greater part I spent the days at home, much in the old way. My father and I read together, walked together, and lived much as we had always lived. I boated, bathed, fished, and dreamed away the hours as of yore. I think latterly 1 took to 58 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. .-tu'.] ' CHILD OF THE SUN. 69 " No, lie told me anythiDg in reason. AVhat do you understand by that, Mr. Grace ? " Mr. Grace seemed for a moment almost nonplussed. Yet lie was equal to tlie occasion. " I should say," he replied, with much care in his speech, " I should say that any- thino- in reason meant a sum which was not unreasonable. For instance, I should not pay twenty thousand pounds for you." I laughed at his explanation. " I am placed in a difficult position," he continued. "Your father's instructions are not quite as explicit as usual. As you appear to know nothing of his means, I am afraid I shall betray his confidence when I tell you he is very well off, and does not nearly spend his income. So under the circumstances, Mr. Philip, I think you may please youisclf in the matter of furniture." It was satisfactory to know that niy father was well-to-do, but it made him 70 LIVING OR DEAD. [CHAP. a greater puzzle than ever to me. It struck me that perhaps Mr. Grace could give me the key to the enigma. " Mr. Grace," I said, " I wish you would tell me all you know about my father." He started slightly — then looked at me. He must have seen I was in real earnest and made the request from no motive of idle curiosity. " I will tell you what I can. What do you wish to know ? " "Something about his early days, why he has lived for the last twenty years in such a miserable place. Why he sees no one, or has no friends or relations. And tell me about my mother." He, Grace, w^aited a few moments, think- ing — then he sjioke. He spoke slowly and carefully as ever, weighing each w^ord, but I noticed the stilted manner and repetition of sentences was absent now. Probably I was now^ hearing him as he spoke to clients, v.] "child of the sun." 71 when important matters were at stake. Till this moment I had never understood how he could have gained such a reputation as a clever lawyer. " Mr. Philip," he said, " I have often thought the time would come when you would ask me these questions, and I have wondered how I should reply. I think it is better to speak openly and candidly to you, as far as my relations with your father permit. I am only at liberty to tell you the broad facts, the details you must fill in as you think fit. Your father's mode of life is as incomprehensible to me as it is to you, and in order to explain it at all, we must start with the assertion that Mr. N orris is a strange man — different in many respects from his fellows. His numerous good quali- ties I so fully recognize and admire, that you will not think me disparaging him, wheJi I nientiun those peculiaiitics \\hi('li, to my mind, have spoilt his life. A certain 72 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. amount of sternness, and a determination to have his own way, and tread his own path, regardless of all advice, and yet, under that a sensitive nature, feeling acutely every breath of the world's opinion. A man who, in spite of a morhid predisposi- tion to suspicion and mistrust, would trust implicitly, l)ecause his reason told him that trust was due — yet, when once deceived, would never forget or forgive. A proud man, to whom defeat means death, and yet wantino; streno;th of mind to face the world and retrieve his misfortunes. I am speaking very plainly, Mr. Philip, but I believe correctly." I recog-nized some of the traits he de- scribed, and was willing- to take his word for the others, so I made a motion of assent. " Well then, we will suppose — I only say suppose, for you must fill in the details — a man as I have described Mr. Norris, making; what he considered a g-reat failure 1^ ,. ^.c.u XXV. v../rxoxv.v,.v.vt c. ^. v.] " CHILD OF THE SUN, 73 in early life ; finding what he had counted as bringing him happiness, a shipwreck. He is too proud to comj)hiin ; too wealv, shall we say, to face the world with his misfortune overshadowing^ him ; too dis- pirited to struggle any more. He turns his heel upon the world disgusted ; but his susceptibility to its voice makes him brinof himself where he shall l)ear it no longer. He lets the world pass him, cares no more for it, leaves it to its own devices, and, in fact, lives that lonely, uncomfortable life, the thought of which makes me, as a busy man, sliudder. Now I have told you all I can without saying things I should not." I sat very thoughtful. I wondered what could have been the bitter disappointment and failure that ruined such a man's life. Mr. Grace said no more. " But my mother ? " I asked. " Your mother I never knew." 74 LIVING OR DEAD. [n\AV. " Who was she ? what was her name ? " " That I cannot tell vou," said Mr. Grace shortly. "Did mv father love her?" "Very dearly, I believe. Their short married life was happiness until the end." " Until she died ? " " Until she died," repeated Mr. Grace. How strange it seemed that no one could or would give me information about my mother, who had died so young. I left I\lr. Grace's office not much the wiser for my interview. I had listened to a meta- physical description of my father, and had ascertained that he was a rich man. That was all. But I had other and pleasanter things to think about than the enigma of my father's life. I was commencing London life and manhood under favourable auspices. Tbe chambers in Albemarle Street were taken, and wdth the aid and advice of a most v.] " CHILD OF THE SUN." 75 refined and accomplished gentleman from one of the large furniture establishments, who had all the new theories of domestic art at his finger ends, they soon presented a highly satisfactory appearance. A few people were just at this time beginning to creep out of the abominations of the nine- teenth century style, and I pride myself upon being one of the first to recognize the new truths. I was rather frightened at the amounts for which I had to draw upon Mr. Grace, but that gentleman made no sign of disapproval His eldest son, now a man about forty, and a rising barrister, brought about my election as a member of a highly respectable club of unimpeachable morality, where the legal element predominated ; and under the auspices of an old college friend I found myself nominated for another, whose constitution was composed of lighter, pleasanter, and perhaps more dangerous 70 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. elements. In a few weeks I was tliorouglily established in my new home. Reading for the bar is not very hard work, and though I kept my conscience clear by doing all that seemed necessary in this way, I yet had ample time for amusing myself. I soon made plenty of acquaintances and a few friends. Amongst the latter was one named Vigor — a young man about two years my senior — with whom I had many tastes in common, and whom I envied as having already made two or three successful literary attempts which gave promise of greater things some day. One night, about half-past eleven, I was with him in his room, enjoying his clever conversation, when the door opened, and Mr. Estmere w\as announced. Vigor welcomed his visitor heartily. " Why, Valentine, my boy, I am glad to see you — radiant and beautiful as ever ! Where have you been ? " v.] " CHILD OF THE SUN." 77 A tall young man entered, and tlie two shook liands cordially. " Just come from the theatre," said the new arrival, whose evening dress was covered by a light coat. " I saw your lamp lit, so thought you'd o'ive me a cioar and a drink." " Your conclusions are correct ; I will. But first let me make you two known to each other. Mr. Estmere — Mr. Norris." Estmere turned his pleasant face to me, and held out his hand. Then throwing off his coat and curling up his hat, he settled. down in the most comfortable chair he could find, evidently quite at home. He was a tall, well-built young man of about twenty ; his hair was light ; his eyes w^ere blue. I have often wondered what was the peculiar charm about Valentine Estmere wdiich made his presence bring instantaneously gaiety and kindly thoughts even to perfect strangers. I can tell }'ou 78 LIVING OR DEAD. [cnAP. he was liandsome. I can describe liis liair, eyes, nose, forehead, complexion, and general appearance, but his manner is indescribable. It may be that tlie key to it was his being so perfectly natural. The smile he greeted YOU with seemed more truthful than other people's ; if you were his friend, it was true because he loved you — if you were a stranger, it was true because he loved man- kind as a body, and was pleased to meet any member of it. As for enemies, I never heard he had any. I have met hundreds more brilliant men whose words were worth more listening^ to — hundreds of men whose accomplishments were far greater — but there was something: in Valentine Estmere that no one else I have encountered possessed in so great a degree — the power of at once winning; men's affection and liking;. After all this is the true triumph if we would but understand it so — to Avin men's love ; that of women is comparatively an easier con- v.] "child of the sux. 79 quest. His voice was the pleasantest voice I have ever heard, and his airy and unre- strained style of conversation — alike to hi2;h, low, vouno; or old — to me at least was a source of perpetual delight. Of course in this feeble delineation I anticipate considerably. At this present moment, when he entered Vigor's room, I could duly feel drawn, as every one else was, towards him, and I remember think- ino; that Vio;or's lano-hino; exclamation of " radiant and beautiful " was not much too exalted a phrase to address to him. Indeed, my thoughts went back to that delightful book, ' Prescott's Conquest of Mexico,' and I pictured Alvarado as just such another, and quite understood why the Aztecs at once called him the ' Child of the Sun.' Yet the young fellow was attired in the faultless and inevitable black and white, and sat puffing a large cigar with the usual after- theatre zest. He was nothing different 80 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. ill liis [it tire to his fellows, except tLat lie wore more jewellery than is usual now-a- days — several fine rings glittering on his fingers. Somehow jewellery looked more in its proper place, and less ohjectionable on Valentine Estmere than on others. All the Esterhazy diamonds would not have made him look a snob or a petrolium prince. "Now, Estmere," said Vigor, "let us know what you have been doing all these months." " Eobbiiiu" from one mistress to adorn another. Tiyiiig to get wrinkles from the attire of one to beautify the other." " Talk more prosaic if you can, poetry and hansom-cabs don't o-q too-etlier. Besides, you are frightening Norris with your glow- ing metaphors." " I have been with nature for the sake of art — yet trying to turn art into nature." " That sounds even more obscure." " Then in words suited to your capacity, v.l "child of the sun." 81 I have been down in Cornwall sketcliincy the coast." "You really mean to be an artist, then ? " '•' Of course I do. Have I not to-day been to Mr. Soloman, the dealer, and requested permission to bring him some of my sketches with a view to a mutually advantageous arraug-ement ? " " That was kind to Soloman. What did he say ? " Estmere laughed merrily. " Said he was never so disappointed in his life ! " " Were the sketches so awfully bad ? " " No ; he didn't see them. I couldn't co lugging a bundle about with me, so thought it better to make an appointment with him. The old rogue was bowing and scraping, and begged me to walk up-stairs ; called me ' my lord,' I think. You should have seen liis face when I told him I was a young artist. 'I'm deceived,' he murmured; 'I should have thought, sir, }'ou was more in VOL. I. ' (^ 82 LIVING OR DEAD. [i'UAv. the liabit of buying pictures tlian painting them.' " " Flatterino:, hut cliscourasxino;. So you couldn't trade ? " " No, we couldn't trade. Very good thing, too. I hate Jews. You are looking at my rings, Mr. Norris," he said, turning to me. I coloured, feelino; rather foolish. He had waved his hand, as if to banish all Jews, and the orems c;littered throuo-h the cloud of tobacco-smoke. *' Valentine's hands look just like a struggling artist's, don't they ? " said Vigor, with good-tempered sarcasm. " I know ; I am awfully ashamed of it," said Valentine, almost humbly. " But I can't help it. It is a constitutional weak- ness, or an inordinate love for bright things. After all, what can be more beautiful than a sapphire ? " He looked at the fine stone on his fourth finger with great aff'ection. v.] " CHILD OF THE SUN. 83 " A womaa's eyes," suggested Vigor. " Perhaps so ; but I haven't seen them yet. When I do, I will fall down and worship them. Till then I shall continue to impoverish myself to wear what Vigor calls ' o-litterino; o;evvo;aws.' " " Anybody else would look an awful cad," o:rumbled Visor, " and sucrg;est thouohts of how much he mioht be pawned for ; but somehow such adorn- ments seem natural to you. They suit your peculiar style of beauty," Estmere took his friend's banter in the best possible spirit, owning, and not defend- ing, his weakness. "Now, sino; us somethino; " said Vio;or, who was fond of music, and whose rooms boasted a piano. He obeyed without any amateurish apolo- gies for threatened shortcomings. lie sang a couple of ballads with great taste and feelini^. His voice, if nothiuo: wonderful, G 2 84 LIVING OR DEAD. ['HAP, was well trained. Then, after playing a few snatches of popular operas, he twisted round on the music-stool and told us some amusino' anecdotes of his sketchino: tour. o o His descriptions and imitations were so fresh and original that I Lcgan to envy Vio'or and his friend. " I must be off now," he said ; " my mother waits for me. Are you coming my way, Mr. Norris ? If so, I can give you a lift." " You extravagant young beggar ! " ex- claimed ViQ:or. " A cab all tbis time 1 You must be rollincf in monev. Get out at once ! " I was half amused to hear him talk about his mother waiting up for him. Few young fellows of his a2;e would have mentioned the fact. Estmere spoke as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. I did not go with him ; my rooms were very near to Vigor's, and I was so interested v.] " CHILD OF THE SUX." 85 in my new acquaintance, I wanted to learn something about him. He left us, promis- ing Vigor to see him again very soon, and, to me at least, the room seemed darker as the door closed behind him. " Who is he ? " I asked. " Valentioe Estmere — a 2:reat favourite with every one. You can't help liking the fellow. He lives with his mother. Lady Estmere, in St. John's AVood." " Are they rich ? " " Well off, I should think. Valentine has more money than is good for him, if he intends to do anything in art." " Is his father living ? " " Dead — years ago, I think. Sir Some- body Estmere, he was." " Why doesn't he get the title ? " " There's an elder brother, I suppose. J hit I know notliing of the family ; I only know Valentine. By the Ijye, Norris, I slioidd think he was just the fellow to suit you. 8G LIVING OR DEAD. [ciiAr. Not a bit of luirm in him ; and I defy your melancholy liumours to show themselves in his presence." " I wisli you'd bring him to my rooms." " I \\ill. Ask me to dinner or tea or somethiiio- and I will brine; Estmere with me." But I happened to fall across Estmere the next day in the park, so I asked him on my own account. He accepted the invitation readily, and after that often dropped in of an evening. Vigor was right — he did suit me exactly — and it may be I suited him. Perhaps the many different points in the character of each attracted us one to another. I had spoken of myself as being a happy man; so I was, but doubtless the solitary life I had led during my boyish davs had made me thouo;htful and melan- choly at times in my manner. Gradually I believed I w^as growiug out of it, but I still had fits of what I called dreaming, v.] "child of the sun." 87 or, ill other words, remembrances of my former solitude, or realization of my present loneliness ; for after all, with the exception of my fiither, there was no one in the world, as far as I knew, with whom I could claim kith or kin. Valentine Estmere supplied a great want of mine at that particular time, always gay and hopeful, and with that strange power of imparting his good spirits to others — a more desirable acquaintance I could not have made. He had a host of friends, but after a short time I was happy in believing that he had singled me out among them, and that I was the chosen receptacle of his confidences. All mine he had directly. As soon as Valentine w^as your friend you trusted him in everything. In a few weeks 1 began to realize that I had contracted my first, and perhaps a life's, friendship, and when with Estmere understood something of the relations between David and Jonathan. 88 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. CHAPTER VI. A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. It must have been about a fortnidit after I made Estmere's acquaintance, before we had cemented our friendship, tliat I was lingering over my breakfast in Albemarle Street. I was growing quite a connoisseur in breakfasts by now. It is all very well to talk about the country, but my experience is that you can get newer milk, richer cream, fresher eggs, nicer butter, and altogether more palatable things in the West End of London than anywhere else — if you like to pay for them. The best of everything goes to the metropolis, and the relish with which you eat the boasted productions of the n.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 89 country is clue more to tlie fresh air than to their own inherent virtues. I am cer- tainly country-bred, so have a right to speak on the sulijeet. I was lingering over my breakfast, sipping my cup of tea, and thinking of a cigarette, but now and ao;ain lookino- at a letter whlcli lav before me — a letter which had filled me with unqualified amazement. To under- stand my feelings you must read it with me. "My dear Philip, " Ailments are so unusual with me that you will be surprised to hear I have been far from avcII lately — indeed, I was oblio-ed to see the doctor. But you will not be surprised at hearing his opinion that change of scene and mode of life was the only treatment he could advise, for my ailments have been mental. He must have been rio-ht, for I be«an at once to long for a sight of other lands again. 90 LIVING OR DEAD. [crup. Perhaps I am beginning to feel somewhat like you felt before you went to school. Perhaps 1 am growing wiser ; any way, I have resolved to follow the doctor's course and travel for a while. I think I shall go round the world. I sliall start for New York on Wednesday next. Will you meet me in Liverpool to say good-bye "? 1 sliall be at the Adelphi Hotel on Monday. " Yours affectionately, " NORRIS." 1 think the first thino; I did when I clearly understood the wonderful intelli- gence conveyed in the letter w^as to laugh aloud. The absurdity of the situation struck me with irresistible force. A man who for nearly twenty years had not been more tluxn ten miles from his secluded home, all at once takino; it into his head to circum- navigate the globe ! To say the least of it, it was runnino; from one extreme to the VI.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 91 other. I \Ya,s both glad and sorry. I was Mad that he at hist thoiiirht fit to ememe o o o from his retirement, but sorry and even ahirmed that mental ailments should have necessitated such a course. For some time past I had dreaded whether such a melan- choly existence as my fiither's must not, sooner or later, show its effect upon his mind. Still, if evil was to be apprehended I felt the step he was going to take was the right one to escape it. I was sorry to think of such a loug separation, for I read between the lines of his letter, and knew he had not the slio'htest intention of askino- me to accompany him. I determined to suggest it, although I felt the suo-o-estion would not be entertained. Had he wished for mv companionship he would have given me more time tlian a few days to prepare for a journey of such a duration. No, it w\as clear he meant to go alone, and perhaps it would be two years before I saw him again. 92 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. I thougjht it was well to consult Mr. Grace on the subject of such a surprising communication ; so, after breakfast, I walked across to Bedford Row. " Good morning, Mr. Philip," said the old gentleman as I entered his office ; " you are the very man I was just thinking about." " Then you have heard from my father, Mr. Grace ? " " I have heard from your father, as you sav. " He talks of taking a long journey, he tells me." " Yes, a long journey — indeed, a pro- tracted journey. I am glad to hear it. I hope he may return cured in more ways than one." " Does he say whether he wishes me to go with him ? " ■'' He does not say so, but I should be inclined to think, or rather I gather from his letter, he does not. There is a certain VI.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 93 paragrapli referring to you ^YLicll I can only- read in one way." " He is going quite alone ? " " Quite alone," said Mr. Grace in liis most persj)icacious manner. "But in saying alone, I do not mean that lie will be tlie only passenger in steam-boats or railway trains. I mean he will be un- accompanied by friend or relative." " Has he any friend or relative except me ? " I asked sadly. " I think not, or none he cares for. But you will go to Liverpool to-morrow, I suppose ? " " Yes, of course I shall." I went to Liverpool as arranged, and met my father. He was looking thin and woni — so ill, indeed, that I begged earnestly to be allowed to accompany him. He refused me kindly but firmly. " I shall be away nearly two years," he said — " years you might always look back upon as wasted if you left London and your 94 LIVING OR DEAD. [f hap. future career now. Besides, I wish to 2:0 alone. I am trying a physical and psycho- logical experiment, Philip. If it succeeds I shall upon my return live once more in the world. TJien we shall be more together, and perhaps better friends." His manner had never been so affectionate since that evenino; when I found the solitude of my younger days greater than I could bear. I felt my eyes grow dim. " Oh that it may be so ! " I cried. " That you will come back and take your true place among men — I see so few to compare with you, father ! " I spoke the truth. My father would have been a man of mark in any circle. I was learned enough to appreciate his great knowledge and scholarly acquirements — to measure them by my own standard and know how they excelled. I could see, as none could fail to see, the well-bred, refined gentleman in every feature, line, and move- VI.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 95 ment. He was youug yet, and I hoped that the rest of his life might not be wasted. I felt the siiifulness of a man of his stamp burying his talents as he had hitherto done. He smiled at the boyish warmth of my compliment. " Well, we shall see, Philip, what time and chan2;e will do. Old dreams and am- bitions may be revived — old sorrows at last forcfotten — old shame even lived down — old love and old hate vanished. If not, there is always Torwood to return to." " But before you go," I faltered, " will you not tell me something about yourself? I am a man now, and could understand, and you are going away for so long — so far. H anything should happen shall I never know more about you than I know now ? " I trembled at my jiresumption, but he was not offended. "Mr. Grace has papers which will tell 96 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. you all tliat is necessary in the event of my death. By the bye, I have given him full instructions to furnish you with all you need. I trust you, Philip, implicitly. Live as you like, and how you will. Follow your chosen profession if it suits you; but you may as well know it is not absolutely neces- sary you should work. On my return we will decide about your future. Now, good-bye." I saw him on board the mighty Cunard steamer. I waved the last adieu, then returned to London, feeling very miserable and lonely. What would happen before we met again ? His movements were quite uncertain. He promised to write, and told me to send letters to certain places on the chance of his getting them. He was going unfettered by any laid down course of travel, just where his spirit moved him to go, so I could not help feeling it was possible that I might be dead, buried, and forgotten long before VI.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 97 his return home. This was not at all a pleasant thought. Then it was that I opened my heart to Valentine Estmere, that I began to look and long for his company, that his friendship — his entire and unreserved friendship — seemed absolutely necessary to my happiness. I scarcely kuow how to put into words the affection I began to feel for this bright boy, this " child of the sun," as I playfully called him. Such feelin2;s between men are rare ; very young schoolboys at times experience them, but when the struo-de for success and self-advancement has commenced there are few to whom it is given to feel that another man's success gives greater pleasure and happiness than one's own — that his failure is more bitter than any miscarriage of your own schemes and ambitions. Yet this was how I felt with Valentine. I must confess, had it been necessary, I would have sought and schemed to win his love as I might that VOL. L H 98 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. of a woman. Fortunately such a course was not needed — he met me half way. His friendship and soon his love were mine, and foolish as I knew my weakness was, I rejoiced to know 1 was not alone in it. Confidence, hopes, thoughts, ambitions, and what cares we might have were joint property, or so I was glad to believe. His was a strange character, and its study was to me an unfailing source of pleasure and amusement. In some thin2;s his sim- plicity was almost childlike, in others he displayed an amount of shrewdness it was hard to imagine he could possess. The same peculiarity which led him to bedeck his hands with rings inclined him to gay apparel. Yet in garments I dared not have worn, Estmere seemed to be most properly and fittingly clad. If extravagant in some things he was prudent in others — almost economical at times. He was both lazy and hard-working. He would work VI.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 99 hard at the clnidgeiy of his art, but for days and days would not do a stroke to attain the results he wished for as the reward of that drudgery. Ideas and execu- tions were not to be forced, he said. Whether Valentine would eventually suc- ceed as an artist I was unable to predict. He was deliberately adopting art as a pro- fession. He rented a studio at Chelsea, where I spent many pleasant hours with him, watching him work when he was in the humour, sittinoj and chattinof at our ease at other times. His sketches made out of doors showed considerable power — ■ the question was, what would his greater and finished painting be like. At times he was hopeful and satisfied with his progress, at times discontented and dis- paraging of his own efforts. I gave him what praise I could. It pleased him, but he knew it was partial, so did not carry the conviction he wanted. Yet Estmere's II 2 100 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. despondency was merrier and more amusing than many another man's high spirits. One evening, after what he considered an unsatisfactory day, he was consoling himself with my sympathy, and soothing his spirits by playing the music he loved best on my piano. I sat listening and smoking my cigar in great contentment, for Estmere's performances were well worth listening to. By-and-by he finished up a composition which I knew was his own with a great bang on the notes, closed the piano, and wheeled round to me. " I almost wonder you never thought of music as a road to fame and fortune," I remarked. " But I did once — some years ago I almost determined to go to Leipsic and study for three years. Indeed, to tell the truth, I think I tossed up which it should be, music or painting." *' Happy man to be able to choose be- VI.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 101 tween tlio two ! — and happier in being rich enough to be independent of either," " But I am not rich. What gave you that idea ? " " I think Vigor must have conveyed it somehow." " Well, you had better get it conveyed away again. My mother has a fair income now, but only a life-interest — at her death it nearly all goes from me. You don't know my mother, Philip — but you shall soon." I thanked him. " She is away now," he said. " She went to Malvern about ten days ago — I am afraid she will not return for six weeks. Then you must come and see her. You wiJl like my mother, and I think she will like you. Dark, grave-looking fellows like you suit her." " You are very fond of her ? " 1 asked. Valentine laughed his pleasantest laugh. " Fond of her is not the word. You sec 102 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. we are alone, and everything to each other. I ought to be with her now, Init she would not let me come." " AVhat is she like — tell me ? " " How can a son describe his mother ? To me she is the fairest and noblest of women — but any woman who loves you like she loves me must seem that. But my eulogies make you look sad. I ought to have remembered you have never known a mother. Let us talk of something less exclusive. Art, for instance." I was feeling sad, and he observed I envied him his mother as much as I did other c;ifts of his. So I chanoed the subject. "The 2;reat work is not 2;oin2^ as well as you wish ? " I said. " No ; I took out my knife resolved to rip it up to-day ; but I resisted the temptation." " Every wise man striveth for an excel- VI.] A SUCCESSFUL AETIST. 103 lence lie cannot hope to attain,'" I quoted, loosely. " Yes, but lie does not like to fail, all the same." " How far high failure overleaps the bounds of low success," I continued. " Keep that second-hand wisdom to your- self, Philip ; you don't know how pictures are made. If you want to see a successful artist, come with me to-morrow and I will show you one." The next morn in 2; I called at Valentine's studio, and we sallied forth together to find the successful artist. After a brisk walk of half an hour we stopped at a small but respectable-looking house, and inquired for Mr. Baker. I did not know the name in modern art, but was willing to take Valentine's word for its owner's merits. The artist, quite a young man, soon made his appearance. lie received Valentine with affability and condescension. 104 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. " I told you," said Valentine, " tliat with your permission I would bring a friend some day to call on you and see you at work. Men of your standing are always glad to let beginners take what hints they can." " Quite so, Mr. Estmere, quite so — no one should grudge assistance in the techni- cal parts of art. The inspiration, of course, cannot be given — that is the artist's sole possession." " Precisely so," answered Valentine; " the sacred fire that burns in one's own grate cannot be induced to glow in another by imitation." The artist looked highly gratified. " Please follow me, gentlemen." He conducted us up a couple of flights of stairs in a very dignified manner. Estmere looked full of amusement, but I was puzzled where the joke lay. Mr. Baker ushered us into a large room on the top of the house. In Ti.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 105 one corner stood a large pile of new can- vasses, and the usual accessories of the painter's art were scattered about. Arranged in line at a short distance apart were three easels, each bearino; a laro-e canvas. Two men very much like our guide in general appearance were standing idle before them. As we entered they touched their caps respectfully to Mr. Baker, who acknowledged the salutation slightly. " You are come at a good time," he said to us. " I was just going to commence a fresh work." " Mr. Baker is a creator, I must tell you," explained Valentine, with a suspicion of lauo'hter in his voice. " His onlv sketches are mental ones. You will be astonished at the facility of his work." I was astonished. The gifted artist, with a bold, free hand, drew a semblance to the outlines of mountains, trees, and lake on his virmn canvas, and in five minutes his 106 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. brush and colours were in full work. The amusing part of it was that the men stationed on each side of him followed him stroke Ly stroke on their canvases, and showed us the surprising spectacle of three pictures alike in every detail and colour coming^ into existence at once. At the rate they all painted it looked as if the pictures would be finished in a few hours. I watched them with great curiosity for a long time, until the fugleman stopped and turned to us for the meed of praise he evidently considered his due. "It is very wonderful," said Valentine, gravely. He could not have chosen a better word, so I echoed it. " Now let us see some finished work," said Valentine. Thereupon Mr. Baker showed us some score or two of large paintings all fresh from the easel. All of the same class — VI.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 107 mountains, lakes, waterfalls, and trees ; with fio-ures fisliino; deer drinkiiio", or cows reclining, to break tlie monotony. We thanked liim for the interesting sight ; but imagine my disgust when Valentine said, " My friend would like to carry away a specimen of your art ; which sliall it be, Philip ? " " You must choose for me," I said rather ruefully, thinking if Mr. Baker charged me fifteen or twenty pounds for a picture I could not hang, I should feel grieved I ever made his acquaintance. " This one, then, I think," said Valentine, picking out one of the soberest productions. " It is very broad, and full of atmosphere. How much, Mr. Baker ? " 1 trembled. The painting was 48 by 36 at least. Any artist appraising his own ware must, for the sake of his self-esteem, ask fifty pounds for a work of such dimensions. "You have made a good choice, ]\Ir. 108 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. Estmere," said Mr. Baker. " Tliat picture cost me much thouo^lit and work. I am under an obligation not to sell any pictures under a certain price, so I cannot say less than two guineas." The relief I experienced at tliis modest demand was worth all the money. I pulled the guineas out with alacrity. " Shall I get it framed for you ? " asked Mr. Baker. " No, thank you," said Valentine quietly. " I don't think you need trouble to get it framed. Mr. Norris will send round for it some day." But the some day is not yet come, and I dare say my purchase went back into stock aoain. " What do you mean by calling a fellow like that a successful artist ? " I asked when we were outside the door. " A successful artist is one that makes money ; he makes money." VI.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 109 " How 1. " " Those men turn out some fifteen pictures a week, wliicli tliey sell to an enterprising- dealer at thirty shillings a piece — equalling twenty-two pounds ten a week ; not a Lad income ! " " Who are the two men who copy him ? " " That's the joke of the matter ; they are his brothers. He is the creator, — the man with the sacred fire, — and of course ranks hio'h above them. In recoQ-nition of the immense superiority of this gifted beiiig, the two brothers, although permitted to share the emoluments, are expected to touch their hats to him on every occasion, as a slight token of respect to his genius." " How did you pick up such queer acquaintances ? " " I foro-et ; I met him somewhere. You see I talk to every one, and somehow they all seem kindly disposed to me." It was true enough — Valentine Estmcrc 110 LIVING OR DEAD [chap. talked to everybody, high or low. He troubled little what sort or condition of man it was. That stram>'e charm of manner he possessed won the goodwill of every one. As we walked alono; New Bond Street I saw a tall, bronzed, bearded man standing at the door of Lon2:'s — a distinmiished-look- ino; man, although not dressed in the height of fashion. Although nearly ten years had passed since I had seen his face, I knew him at once — it was Lord Rothwell. It was not my fault that we had not met before ; I had inquired about him on my first visit to London, but he was away at the other end of the world. For several years I had repeated my inquiries whenever I was in town, but without success. He was never there at the time I was. Latterly I had given up the hope of ever seeing him — and after all, I felt that I must be quite forgotten by now, and did not care to trouble him. He had seen me when I was a boy VI.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. Ill for a couple of hours — not sufficient grounds for expecting ca welcome after long lapse of years, and I hated the slightest appearance of wishing to make grand or titled acquaint- ances. I had scarcely made up my mind what to do — indeed, I think I should have passed without making myself known — when Estmere caught sight of him. "By Jove!" he cried, "there's Lord Kothwell ; I did not know he was back ! " Before I could speak he had darted from my side, and was across the road shaking hands heartily with the great traveller. I followed more leisurely. As I reached them I heard Lord Rothwell say, " Why, Valentine, you are grown ! you look just the man I expected you would be ; so like your mother too. I am glad to see you, my boy." They were evidently old friends. Seeing me pause beside them, Lord 112 LIVING OR DEAD. [cnAP. Kotlnvell looked at mc curiously. " X friend of yours, Valentine ? " he asked courteously. I lauo'lied, and answered before Valentine could speak : " You Lave forgotten me, Lord Roth well. Don't you remember your sea-sick friend, Mr. Dunstable, and ]\Ir. Stanton, and the boy who took you all ashore in the yawl ? " " What, Captain Philip ! " he cried, hold- ing out his hand, " You have grown and changed too ; who could remember the boy in tlie whiskered man ? Yet I ouo:ht to have known your eyes. But," he continued, looking from Estmere to mo, whilst a serious yet astonished look came over his face, " how is it I see you together ? How long have you known each other ? " AVe both laughed at these questions. " Not very long," I answered, " a few weeks, I should think. A mutual friend introduced me in the usual w\ay." " If there is anything vicious in his VI.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 113 character, or anything about him that won't bear daylight, please tell me. Lord Rothwell, so that I can cut him in time," said Valentine, with mock gravity. " I make the same request," I added. Lord Eothwell said nothing for a few moments. Then he spoke quite seriously, as if he had been weighing pros and cons in his mind. " Xo, I can see no reason why you should not establish a lasting friendship — you seem to suit each other. No, there is no reason aorainst it." " Thank you," said Valentine, wdio utterly lacked the organ of reverence. " That is kind of you, and our minds are now at ease ! " His lordship took the joke in good part. " All right," he said ; " now come in and have a cigar and some champagne — all you boys want champagne now. Come along." VOL. 1. T 114 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. "We followed liim, and sj)cnt an hour chatting with him. He had only arrived in London the nio;ht before. He had been CD exploring the interior of Asia, and informed US his travels were over. Of course, he had a book in prospect, detailing in amusing and instructive terms his last experiences. Any way, he would be in England for a long time now, and hoped that he should see a good deal of us. When we rose to leave him, he shook hands with Estmere — " Yes, you go now, Valentine ; but I want Philip to stop a little longer — I have something to say to him." " The new friend pushes out the old — but, never mind, I am above jealousy" — and Valentine nodded and left us. I felt much pleased with Lord Eothwell's friendliness. It was unmistakable, and the easy and natural way in which he addressed me by my Christian name, showed that I VI.] A SUCCESSFUL AETIST. 115 was not mtruding upon him when I had made myself known. He lit another cigar, and asked me many questions about myself. I told him of my intention of going to the bar. Although he seemed interested in my plans, he offered neither advice nor suo^o-estions. " And your father," he asked at last. " Is he still living in that lonely place where I saw him ? " I laughed. " No, he took a fancy into his head to travel. He has just started on a voyage round the world." " When does he return ? " '* Not for two years, I believe. Perhaps he wants to emulate you." Then I spoke of something else — thinking that my father's proceedings could not be an interesting topic to a man who had only seen him once, and tliat eight years ago. "Have you seen Valentine's mother yet V he asked. I 2, 116 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. " Not yet. She has been at Malvern for some time. Valentine has promised to introduce me when she returns." " Yes, that is right. Go and see Lady Estmere. You will find her a very pleasant friend." " Valentine is passionately fond of her." " You won't w^onder at that when you know her." And from the tone of his voice I knew that Lord Rothwell either loved Lady Estmere or had loved her ; and as he sat silent for a few minutes I was huild- ing up romances, and w^ondering whether his years of travel were due to something of this kind. " I am going to my lawyer's now%" he said, rising. " You see T make no ceremony with you. Good-bye ; I shall see you again soon. In a few days I shall have some quarters of my own here. J\Iake Estmere take you to see his mother as soon as she returns. Good-bye." Yi.] A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. 117 I was growing quite anxious to see Lady Estmere. I left Lord Rotliwell, feeling I had made a pleasant friend, and had, if I found favour in Lady Estmere's eyes, another in prospect. 118 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. CHAPTER VIL NEW FRIENDS. A FORTNIGHT after my meeting witli Lord Rothwell, I was driving across to St. John's Wood in a hansom, looking forward with some curiosity to making the acquaintance of Valentine's mother. I was not too san- guine as to the residts of the introduction. People know each other so differently and from so many different points, that I have always found it best when on the eve of making a fresh and highly lauded acquaint- ance to be prepared for disappointment. Lady Estmere had returned sooner than Valentine expected. Two days after her arrival in London he beo;o;ed me to waive VII.] NEW FRIENDS. 1 1 9 ceremony, and dine with them that evening. He had asked Rothwell, but he was going away on a short visit to an old friend, so we should be alone. I accepted the invitation readily. "What chums you and the noble traveller seem to be!" said Valentine. "He was at our house yesterday, and could talk of nothing else but your perfection. My mother as a rule does not show much curiosity about people, but after his lord- ship's praise she is anxious to see you — so don't disappoint us." I promised not to fail, and at seven o'clock that evening I entered the drawing- room of Lady Estmere's house in St. John's Wood. Valentine, who was usually behindhand in such matters as dressing for dinner and such minor details of civilization, was not there, but as a lady rose and came towards me with her hand outstretched, 1 120 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. knew that I was face to face with Lady Estmere. If not tall, above middle height, and graceful as her son, to whom she bore a strong, though refined, delicate, and femi- nine likeness, Lady Estmere's great beauty was the first thing that impressed me. She was fair and slight, her fioure almost oirlish. For a moment it seemed ludicrous to sup- pose her to be the mother of my tall friend, yet a second glance made one aware that the idea she gave of extreme youth was but a transient one — due perhaps to her graceful carriage and erect bearing. With- out knowing Valentine's age, on examination I should have judged her to be past forty. Her complexion was pale but clear, her features most regular and finel}^ cut, and I noticed at once the smallness and beautiful shape of the hand she placed in mine. There was a softness in her eyes which I can best describe by comparing it to the look in MI.] NEW FEIENDS. 121 tlie eyes of some of Eomney's portraits of beautiful women. Yet her eyes met yours fully, frankly, Lut I must also add proudly. The most noticeable feature of all I describe last — it was Lady Estmere's liair. This was thick, luxuriant, but by some trick of nature or constitution, whilst retaining its youthful abundance it had turned to a snowy white. As she wore no widow's cap or head-dress of any sort, the effect was at first startling ; but in a few minutes the idea came over you that nothing could be more beautiful, more out of the common, more thoroughly suited to her style of face than this frame- work of pure white hair. This was Lady Estmere, and if her disposition were in keeping with her outward charms, Valen- tine's expression of " fairest and noblest of women " might not be much too exalted. She greeted me with perfect courtesy and ease of manner, and entirely relieved me by a few well-chosen words from any 122 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. awkwardness I micrlit have felt in the absence of my sponsor. She welcomed me, and placed me in a chair near to her. Her voice was low and sweet, but under the sweetness lay a suspicion of melancholy. Indeed I may at once say that Lady Est- mere's appearance and manner altogether gave an acute observer the impression that her lot had been a sad one. " I have heard a great deal about you, Mr. Norris," she said, " both from Valentine and Lord Roth well. I am very glad to see you. Valentine calls you his closest friend. As we are almost one in thought, you must try to take two friends instead of one." I was framing a suitable reply, when the door opened and Valentine entered. He was not alone ; a tall oirl came throug^h the doorway with him, and if I say his arm was round her waist I shall be saying no wrong, unless truth is a crime. The lady was the only one who appeared vnj NEW FHIEXDS. 123 at all discomposed at being detected by a straiiQ-er iu such an unconventional attitude. Valentine came forward with his ordinary- natural bricrlit manner. " You here, Philip ! I never heard you knock. I am very sorry, but I have no doubt both my mother and you were equal to the occasion. Claudine and I were in the garden trying to find a rose that had survived London smoke," he added, turning to Lady Estmere. " Claudine, Miss Neville, is my niece, Mr. Norris," said Lady Estmere, and the young lady and I made proper salutations. Valentine had told me something in his airiest manner about a cousin who was coming back with his mother, but I had not given his words much attention. Claudine Neville therefore came upon me like a sur- prise, but such an agreeable surprise, that towards the end of the evening I was bcfyinnino: to feel interested in asccrtainiui^ 124 LIVING OR DEAD. [riiAP. whether the manner in which the young rehxtives entered the drawing-room was a simple demonstration of cousinly affection, !| an assertion of cousinly rights on the part of Valentine, or something more. There w^ere no other guests at dinner. We dined in a cosy, pleasant way at a round table. Everything was quiet and simple, but in the best possible taste. Valentine faced his mother, and I had the pleasure of sitting at her right hand, and studying Miss Neville's handsome face across the flowers between us. It was not long before I discovered that her face was well worth study. Valentine was of course the life of the party, but Miss Neville and I bore our share in the pleasant chat. Lady Estmere spoke frequently, but her words had naturally a more sober tendency than those of the younger members of the party. Rothwell and his eccentricities was a very fruitful VII.] NEW FRIENDS. 125 subject of conversation. Lady Estmere was curious to know liow I became acquainted with him, and why he seemed to be so fond of me. This occasioned the recital of the facts of our first meeting, and I described as well as I could the comic side of it, and ]\Ir. Dunstable's distressing condition and dismay. My mention of the lonely place he landed at, which was more- over my own, drew forth personal inquiries from Lady Estmere, and somehow I began to talk freely and unrestrainedly of my boyish days. The elder lady's soft, kind eyes looked at me with great interest, and encouraged me to proceed. Valentine seemed pleased to hear me so eloquent, and Miss Neville looked shyly, and as I was pleased to think, sympathetically across the scarlet oreraniums on several occasions. So I was drawn on to tell them nearly all I have endeavoured to say in these pages about my early life. I said nothing about any 126 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. mystery of my father's life, or my utter ignorance concerning my dead mother. Naturally, they asked me about my father, and I described him as well as I could, praised him, and spoke affectionately of him. " What a strange boyhood ! " said Lady Estmere, laying her beautiful white hand for a second on my arm. " You must be much happier now." " I wonder you did not develop into a poet, Mr. Norris," said Miss Neville. " But perhaps you are one ! " she added, seeing Valentine glance at me meaningly, and an absurd blush cross my cheek as I caught the glance. " A poet ! Of course he is. Look at his massive brow," said Valentine. " Why, my dear Claudine, he has written reams — tragedy, comedy, and all the rest. Ask him to bring a bagful over and read to you. He only wants encoumgement to give me VII.] NEW FEIENDS. 127 the benefit of them all. But I am firm and never press him." I felt inclined to kick him, for all the world knows that a hidden smile lurks in every heart when a man is called a poet, " But after all, Philip," said Valentine, coming back to the original subject, " your father must be a queer bird — excuse slang, mother. Claudine, how would you like to live in such a place ? No new bonnets, no fashions, no shops, Claudine — fancy ! " " Substitute hats and coats for bonnets, and I can picture your desolation," said Miss Neville, quietly. The action was cousinly after all I thought with some satisfaction. " Exactly," said Valentine, " I should die without them. I saw a glorious sapphire in Bond Street to-day, Claudine. I asked the man to put it aside for a twelvemonth. Then, when you come of age, you shall give it to me." 128 LIVING OK DEAD. [^nAr. Miss Neville laughed, and promised to j^ratify him. The ladies then left us, and Valentine and I adjourned to a snuggery for one small cio-ar before ioinino: them. O JO I may as well confess that even at that early hour I had been greatly struck by Claudine Neville. I can say so with a clear conscience, for as yet I have not breathed a word of love in these pages. Yet I had met women at various times and had been trouljled in my heart a little by one or two, but my fate had not come yet, so I spare you the usual boyish rhapsodies, hopes, disappointments, disdain and forget- fulness. Till now I have never met so beautifid a girl as Valentine's cousin, so I w\anted to know all aljout her. That was all. " How do you like my mother ? " asked Valentine, almost anxiously. " I can only say I understand your words when you speak of her. I can say no more, Ml.] NEW FPJENDS. ] 29 except to thank you for making me known to her. You never told me how nice your cousin was." "Didn't I? Fellows get so used to their cousins, they don't talk much about them." " Why, bless the man ! she is lovely. Can't vou see it ? " " Yes, of course I can. AYe are very fond of one another. I admire her im- mensely." " You don't seem to know your own luck. I suppose ifs all settled between vou i " I suppose it is," he answered carelessly. " Then I have to congratulate you, and there's an end of it ! " ** Yes, we are to be married some day — in two years or so, I think. Is your cigar (jut ? Let us go in and have some music." We joined the ladies. Valentine and Claudine sang together, and as they were VOL. I. K 130 LIVIXC! OR DEAD. [< nvr. aecustomeil to sucli joint performances, the effect was artistic and pleasing. Tliey were evidently the best of friends, l)ut witli the exception of the manner in which they entered the drawing-room dnring my wliole visit I had detected no sio;n of that love which I fancied a girl of the type of Claudine Neville would expect from the man she chose as her husl)and. Lady Estmere talked to me, and I noticed looked with quiet satisfaction npon her son and his betrothed. So kind and natural were they all that I felt quite like one of their own familv, and vexed at contributino- so little to the general enjoyment, did nil I could to make my conversation entertaining. The evening slipped away very quickly. When I bade them good - night Lady Estmere, in a manner the sincerity of which was not diminished by its sweet politeness, becTcred me to come often and see Valentine and herself. Claudine made some merry VI].] KEW FRIENDS. 131 and unaffected remark, and I wended my way back to Albemarle Street, tliiuking; I had spent the pleasantest evening in my life with the kindest and most attractive people, and that Claudine Neville was the loveliest girl I had ever seen. Lucky, lucky Valentine. I did not go to bed for some time after my return home. I snt smoking and think- ing of my new friends. I was making so many now — A^alentine, Roth well, Lady Estmere, Claudine Neville, besides ethers in a lesser degree whose mention my tale does not require. It is a pleasant feeling for a young fellow with a tendency to melancholy to find that people like him. I thought of Lady Estmere, and how nearly perfection she must have been in her younger days. I tried to imagine her regular and pensive features wearing the brightness of youth, and lier hair, that wonderful white hair, a mass of gold. Yes, K 2 132 LIVING OR DEAD. [chap. she must have been one of the loveliest 2"irls of her day- Tlioii I thoiioht of Valentine, and with Valentine Claudine Neville came to my mind, I found myself tryino: to recollect all she had said durino; the evenino;, to recall the soiws she had sung in her rich contralto voice, to deter- mine the exact colour of her eyes and hair, and to decide to my own satisfaction what she had worn. This, of course, was en- tirely for Valentine's sake. I was bound to be interested in his future wife. But as I went at last to bed, I could not help wishinor he had told me what relations existed between his cousin and himself, so that from the first I might have been pre- pared to look upon Claudine as his particular property. Not onlv did I Sfo to the Estmeres' house several times durin