Spin A Black Yarn Novellas Josh Malerman

download

https://ebookbell.com/product/spin-a-black-yarn-novellas-josh-
malerman-59500664

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

Spin A Black Yarn Novellas Josh Malerman

https://ebookbell.com/product/spin-a-black-yarn-novellas-josh-
malerman-51559064

Spin A Black Yarn Novellas Josh Malerman

https://ebookbell.com/product/spin-a-black-yarn-novellas-josh-
malerman-77466410

Spin A Black Yarn Josh Malerman

https://ebookbell.com/product/spin-a-black-yarn-josh-malerman-52952244

Spin A Black Yarn Josh Malerman

https://ebookbell.com/product/spin-a-black-yarn-josh-malerman-55514940
Capturing Sin A Paranormal Demon Romance Playing With Demons Book 2
Sakura Black

https://ebookbell.com/product/capturing-sin-a-paranormal-demon-
romance-playing-with-demons-book-2-sakura-black-57982392

Capturing Sin A Paranormal Demon Romance Playing With Demons Book 2

Sakura Black

https://ebookbell.com/product/capturing-sin-a-paranormal-demon-
romance-playing-with-demons-book-2-sakura-black-58042878

A Night Of Sin And Corruption A Deadly Sins Anthology Vices And

Hedonism 1st Edition Indie Black

https://ebookbell.com/product/a-night-of-sin-and-corruption-a-deadly-
sins-anthology-vices-and-hedonism-1st-edition-indie-black-46383464

A Night Of Sin And Corruption A Deadly Sins Anthology Vices And

Hedonism 1st Edition Indie Black

https://ebookbell.com/product/a-night-of-sin-and-corruption-a-deadly-
sins-anthology-vices-and-hedonism-1st-edition-indie-black-46433644

The Skin Were In A Year Of Black Resistance And Power Desmond Cole

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-skin-were-in-a-year-of-black-
resistance-and-power-desmond-cole-22153304
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
between man and man, especially when they hold the relation of
solicitor and client—a relation which I trust will be resumed between
us when this matter is adjusted—there must be frankness, honesty.
Come now"—he spoke jovially—"about that fine house of furniture?"
"My wife's, I assure you—bought with her money."
The lawyer's face fell perceptibly: "Settled then?"
"Not precisely, but the same thing; you see it was in fact a wedding-
present from her father, a man in an excellent position, Mr.
Robinson."
"Ah!" Mr. Robinson showed his teeth. "Law doesn't recognize
sentiment, my dear sir—a pity, clearly, but so it is. The furniture is
yours to dispose of as you will."
The unfortunate man first flushed, then turned pale. "And what has
this to do with it?" he asked rather angrily.
The lawyer raised his hand: "Calmly, calmly. These matters should
be looked in the face, sir—looked in the face. I only speak in your
own interest: that little balance at the bank—very little indeed, I
think—is all you have to look to if you wish to set up again. I
(remember, sir, I too have a wife and children) must be firm in this
matter. A bill of sale on this furniture of yours—or of your wife's, if
you will—can be given to me as security; I will then release your
account and set you on your feet again. What do you say?"
"If it must be, it must be," replied the man with something between
a groan and a sneer.
Mrs. Grey's name, or that unfortunate mortgage of the interest on
which not a penny had been seen for the last year, was not, as it will
be noticed, mentioned between them. One allusion only was made
to it.
"We'll allow you to make a start," said Mr. Robinson benevolently,
"and after that it will be time enough to look into those other little
matters that are between us still."
"Those other little matters!" The bare mention of them made the
unfortunate wince, especially when the reference was made to the
accompaniment of Mr. Robinson's hard smile and cold, blue-steel
gaze; but he hoped on, as men in his position will hope, for a stroke
of luck, a good speculation, something to raise his status in the
monetary world.
He drew on his gloves hurriedly: "Yes, yes, my good friend, as you
so kindly say, time enough; I must feel my legs before I disburse,
and to pay up at present would be out-and-out ruin. In the mean
time you may rely upon me. My affairs are in your hands."
So Mr. Robinson felt, and he rubbed his hands pleasantly. The
consciousness of power was always agreeable to him. "I hope so, I
hope so," he replied briskly. "Let me assure you, sir, that I shall
watch you narrowly. In my client's interests you know it is incumbent
on me to be firm."
"But in your own firmer," muttered the man between his teeth as he
went down stairs. "What precious humbugs these lawyers are! If I
were only out of this one's hands!" He clenched his fist and his
brows contracted. That "bill of sale" was rankling in his mind, but
moaning could not mend matters, and he was by no means the only
one whom Mr. Robinson held that day, writhing but submissive,
under his cunning hand.
He smiled when the door closed behind his client. This man's
tastefully-decorated house had often awakened in the lawyer's mind
not envy, malice, guile and all uncharitableness, for Mr. Robinson
was a consistent man, but a certain keen admiration that perhaps,
looking at it in the light of the sequel, might have passed very well
for their counterfeit.
The furniture he had admired was in his power; this made the
lawyer smile, but the smile passed into a business frown as a timid
rap at the door announced the approach of one of his clerks.
He was bringing in the letters from the last post, and presenting
those that had been written for the signature of the head of the
firm. Mr. Robinson proceeded slowly to inspect his letters, the young
man standing near him in a quietly respectful attitude.
"Mr. Moon been written to?" he inquired curtly.
"Yes, sir."
"And Mrs. Grey?"
"A letter from her, sir, on the table."
"Right!—wait a moment."
Mr. Robinson did everything in a quiet, business-like way. He
proceeded with great deliberation to open his letters one by one,
using a paper-cutter for the purpose, until he came to the one in
question.
"Have you got Mrs. Grey's letter there? Ah!" He tore it across, and
threw the pieces into the waste-paper basket at his side. "Tell Wilson
I will write myself—something wrong there. What are you waiting
for? Do you want anything?"
"Only to say, sir, that you promised—that is, I mean—"
"Say what you mean—can't you?—and don't stand there wasting my
time and your own."
The young fellow's features twitched nervously. He was of good birth
and breeding, though so poor as to accept, and accept thankfully,
the miserable pittance of a lawyer's clerk.
"I have been with you three years, sir," he said with some dignity;
"you promised my mother that if I gave you satisfaction you would
give me my articles. My mother has requested me to ask you
whether this promise is to be fulfilled. My poor father—"
The young man spoke easily now; he was warming to his theme. His
poor father had made Mr. Robinson's fortunes.
As a man of the world he had taken him up, introduced him to his
circle, a large one and influential, and by his recommendations
gained for him clients innumerable.
He was dead, and before his death, by an unfortunate series of
speculations, had ruined his family. His sons had been trained at
school and college, they were at home in the hunting-field, they
excelled in all kinds of manly sports, their pleasant accomplishments
and gentlemanly ease made them welcome in every society, but as
men of business they were practically useless.
Mr. Robinson had been accustomed, only when their father's back
was turned, to sneer at them for fine gentlemen. Nothing aroused
his jealous ire so much as the sight of what he was pleased to call a
fine gentleman, for Mr. Robinson had a certain innate consciousness
which more of his class possess than we generally imagine. It was
this: he knew that in the world he might do his own will, coin money
by the handful (for in his temperament and constitution were all the
elements of success), become rich, powerful, sought out: one
distinction he could never reach. The quiet ease, the graceful
nonchalance, the tone of high breeding which a fine gentleman
possesses, as it were, by instinct, was and would always remain
beyond him. And therefore he professed to despise the class.
"Tush! tush!" he said, breaking short the young man's allusion to
him who had been his friend in those days when he, the great Mr.
Robinson, had been climbing painfully; "don't you attempt to bring
home tales to me or I'll make short work with you. There shall be no
snivelling here. Mind you, it is only respect for your father's memory
that induces me to keep you at all. You're not worth your salt. As to
giving you your articles, what good do you suppose that would do
you? Be off! mind your work, and let me have no more of such
whining."
James Robinson was enjoying himself. His blue-gray eyes flashed
and a smile curled his lips. To put down a fine gentleman was the
finest piece of fun in the world, but this time he had gone too far.
Suddenly the boy changed; manhood and manly purposes seemed
to look out from his eyes, the obsequious attitude had gone, he
approached his master, and dared to look him fully and fearlessly in
the face: "Then, Mr. Robinson, hear me. I will sit down no more to
your desk; I will bear your insolence no longer. My mother and I
believed you had offered me a situation out of kindness and
gratitude; yes—glare at me if you will; I repeat it—gratitude to my
father's memory. We thought your intentions honest, and the
peculiar ungentlemanliness of your conduct to be attributed only to
your want of good breeding. I may tell you that yesterday I was
offered, and offered pressingly, what you refuse so insultingly to-day,
and by a far better and older firm than yours. I thought I owed you
a certain duty, and would not accept it until I had put you in mind of
your promise. Now I have heard you, and once and for ever I shake
myself free of you, only humiliated that for three long years I should
have associated daily with so base and low a nature."
He turned on his heel, he was gone, leaving Mr. Robinson in a white
heat of rage and indignation. He had been hearing home-truths for
once, and, what was still worse, hearing them in his own domain,
the kingdom he had been accustomed to rule with a rod of iron. For
a moment he was utterly taken aback, breathless, but lest the
contagion should spread self-control and swift action were
necessary.
"Let him go, the insolent young beggar!" he muttered; then turning
he rang his bell. The office-boy appeared: "Send Mr. Wilson here."
There was a notable change in his voice; the bully had gone from it,
preparation was being made for the impressive chapel tone.
Mr. Wilson, the head-clerk of the firm, found his chief rather pale
and exhausted, leaning back in his chair.
"Sit down, Wilson," he said with unusual urbanity; "I must have a
few words with you."
The flattered Wilson obeyed.
"You noticed, I dare say," he continued after a pause, "that young
McArthur went out in something of a hurry just now?"
"Yes, sir."
"I am sorry to say that I have been obliged to perform a very painful
duty. I will not enter into details. My deep respect for the
unfortunate youth's family, and especially the memory of his father—
a true Christian, Wilson, one who sleeps in peace—makes me wish
that as far as possible this should be kept a profound secret. Of
course I have dismissed McArthur. It was a duty, and from duty,
however painful, the Christian never shrinks." Mr. Robinson paused
to draw his white handkerchief over his brow. The force of habit is
strong. He imagined himself for the moment on the platform of a
gospel-hall. "If he had been my own son"—Mr. Robinson's face
expressed proud consciousness that a Robinson could never demean
himself in so mysterious a way—"if he had been my own son I could
not have felt the matter more keenly; nor indeed could I have acted
differently; the position I hold enforces upon me a certain
responsibility. But this is all to no purpose—a few words drawn from
me, as I might say, by excess of feeling on this painful occasion.
What I particularly wished to say to you, Wilson, is this: it is my
desire that no questions shall be asked in the house about this
unfortunate boy or his sudden dismissal. You may say, if you like,
that he was discontented, tired of the monotony of office-life—
anything; my only wish is that he should be shielded from exposure.
I would give him a chance of buckling to once more. Heaven grant,
if only for his poor mother's sake, that he may see the error of his
ways! But we are wasting time over this unhappy youth. Well,
human nature is human nature, and my feelings toward him were
those of a father. Ah! I remember one thing more. It is my special
wish that none of my clerks shall have intercourse of any kind with
young McArthur. You will understand me, Wilson. The young man is
indignant at discovery—not as yet, I fear, truly penitent. He may
wish to injure the firm. We must be on our guard."
Mr. Wilson was clever as a man of business, but he did not possess
much penetration. He cherished a blind admiration for his chief, and
was quite ready to look upon his every statement as gospel. On this
occasion he did not even stop to consider how very vague and
guarded was all that Mr Robinson had said about the young man he
professed to have dismissed; he was satisfied in his own mind that
something dark lay behind these vague phrases, and was ready to
help his chief to neutralize the mischief.
"All right, sir," he replied quietly; "I will see to the young fellows, but
I scarcely think Mr. McArthur will venture to show his face here. A
pity, too—a fine young man, and tolerably smart, his bringing-up
considered."
"Ah! there it is," replied Mr. Robinson, with unction. "Pride, Wilson,
pride, the crying sin of our fallen nature. His bringing-up was his
ruin. But enough about him. Anything particular for me to-morrow?"
"No, sir; we can manage very well. You think of going into the
country?"
"On business. Mrs. Grey is in some new trouble. Unfortunate
woman! I suppose I had better see after the matter myself. I verily
believe she has no friend in the wide world but me. Queer person,
too—can't quite make her out. Send up the rest of the letters,
Wilson, and if there should be anything of importance, telegraph to
this address. I may probably be two or three days away."
Wilson retired, and Mr. Robinson proceeded to inspect the time
tables of the Great Northern. A little change in the early summer
weather would do him a world of good, and Mrs. Grey's business
could easily be prolonged.
Before the letters came in for signature he had decided on an early-
morning train, and was already enjoying by anticipation the luxury of
a series of drives along the coast.

CHAPTER VI.

MR. ROBINSON PROMISES TO DO HIS BEST.

 But all was false and hollow; though his tongue
Dropp'd manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels.

"Let us look at the matter in this light, Mrs. Grey." The speaker was
Mr. Robinson, and his tone was particularly lively. "Your husband has
cause, fancied or real—for the sake of argument we must put that
part of the question aside—your husband, we shall say, has cause of
complaint against you. He has ceased to consider you a fit guardian
for his daughter after the first unconsciousness of childhood. What
ought to be his method of proceeding in such a case? Why, clearly
this. He should advertise you, through your solicitor, of his desire,
and allow him to negotiate between you. Had he done so, my advice
no doubt would have been of some service. I should have suggested
that Miss Laura should be placed, for the time being, in some
educational establishment where both parents could have had
access to her, even, if Mr. Grey had insisted upon this point, under
certain restrictions on your side."
Mr. Robinson paused at this point as if for consideration. Mrs. Grey
shivered slightly, and drew her shawl more closely round her
shoulders. It was a beautiful July day. The sun was shining brightly,
the birds were singing, there was the warm breath of summer upon
everything, but Margaret was like one stricken with a chill. Her face
was pale and haggard, her dark mournful eyes were sunken, her
long white fingers, almost transparent, twitched nervously from time
to time.
"But Mr. Grey has not acted in this way," she said with some
fretfulness in her tone.
"Patience, my dear lady," he answered in the lively manner with
which he had entered upon the subject; "we are coming to that
point presently. Affliction, you know, cometh not forth of the dust.
Job suffered grievously, but held fast his integrity. In this world
tribulation; your trials are sent; you must ask for the grace of
patience, that you may be enabled to bear them worthily. But to
return. The first point we should consider is this: Who was actually
the person that removed your daughter from your care? the second,
How and in what method was such removal accomplished? In this
you must help me. Will you try and make a concise statement of the
events of the day in question—what your occupations were, how
your child came to be alone—giving me also the grounds of your
suspicion that Mr. Grey is a party to the kidnapping of his child?—
Rather amusing, by the bye, when one comes to think of it—a father
running away with his own daughter." Mr. Robinson laughed
pleasantly at his own joke, which did not seem to impress his
companion so agreeably.
Margaret rose from her chair impatiently, rang the bell and walked to
the door of the room: "I shall send you the servant, Mr. Robinson;
she was the only person in the house when my daughter was taken
away."
She went out into the garden and stood under the trees. The sun
was falling on her hair, the soft wind swept it back from her brow,
but her pale lips quivered, and from her eyes came no responsive
gladness to meet the beauty of the summer morning. She was
wondering why she had sent for this man, why she had laid bare her
bleeding heart. Would it not have been better, a thousand times
better, to have hidden this last anguish as she had hidden the others
—to have suffered and wept in silence? For the lawyer's keen
criticism and unsparing common sense had been like a kind of
analysis of her torture—had added to her sorrow the agony of
undeserved humiliation. Her husband had insulted her. This was the
bitterest drop in her cup of anguish, and this Mr. Robinson, a
representative of the world, which is given to harsh judgment of the
weak, had not failed to bring clearly before her mind. It was bitterly
hard to be borne.
She thought, and bowed her head upon her breast with a sigh that
seemed to drain the life-blood from her heart. How was it that
everything grated upon her, wounded her? What had she expected,
then? she asked herself. That this man, a man of business, with
interests and affections of his own, would enter tenderly and
religiously into the sanctuary of her grief, would touch her wound
lightly, would bring help without adding suffering? Was it not folly,
madness? But she would cast this morbid sentimentality aside;
Heaven would grant her in time the hardness she needed.
She sat down on a seat under the tree. She could see through the
parlor-window that Jane was taking full advantage of her position.
She was interviewing the lawyer to some effect, talking volubly and
illustrating her statement with expressive gestures.
Margaret could not help smiling faintly. As a calmer mood returned
she felt she had put herself in a somewhat ridiculous position. She
returned to the house, breaking in upon a florid account of Jane's
terror on the night following Laura's disappearance. "That's quite
enough, Jane," she said, some of her old dignity in her voice and
manner; "you may go down stairs now."
The landlady by no means approved of the interruption. She had
been giving the lawyer her statement, in keen and hungry
expectation of his. He would probably, she thought, unfold to her
some of the mysteries that had been perplexing her, and now she
was summarily dismissed.
There was some malignity in the glance she cast upon her mistress,
but Margaret was too much engrossed in the business upon which
she was bent to take the slightest notice of her. Jane retired—as far
as the next room, that is to say, hoping some fragments of the
conversation would reach her.
She was disappointed. Mrs. Grey opened the French window and led
her solicitor into the garden.
"That's a most sensible woman," Mr. Robinson said when they had
seated themselves outside; "she has a good head and evidently a
good heart; her feeling for you is quite remarkable. You see, Mrs.
Grey, the goodness of Providence?—friends raised up for the
friendless. We are all apt to overlook our mercies and over-estimate
our trials. You don't agree? Ah! one day I trust you will come round
to my opinion. But to business. Will you be kind enough to tell me
what you wish me to do in this matter?"
"I thought I had explained it already, Mr. Robinson." Mrs. Grey
looked tired and spoke with a certain languor. "I do not wish to
dispute my husband's will. If it is his desire to remove my daughter
from my care altogether, I submit. I wish simply to communicate
with him on my own account, and for this reason I want you to find
out his address for me. It cannot surely be a very difficult matter.
These affairs, I know, are sometimes expensive. I desire that no
expense shall be spared. Let any capital I may still possess be sold
out and used. I believe I have this power. I have some jewelry too; I
had wished to keep it, but that desire has gone entirely." She drew
off two or three rings, one of diamonds and emeralds apparently
very valuable, and placed a casket in his hands, saying as she did so,
"Do what is to be done as quickly as possible; there is no time to
lose." Her cheek flushed painfully, and she pressed her hand to her
side.
Mr. Robinson had taken the jewelry with some empressement. He
looked at it curiously: "I shall have these trifles valued on my return,
Mrs. Grey. We shall hope to have no occasion for the use of them. Of
course these inquiries, especially when time is a matter of such
moment, cost something, and capital can scarcely be realized at so
short a notice. However, set your mind at rest: everything that lies in
human power to accomplish shall be done; the result we must leave
to higher hands than ours. And, by the bye, as we are on the
subject of business, you will be glad to hear that your debtor the
mortgagee—you will remember if you cast your mind back to our
last interview—is completely in my power. I shall certainly realize the
greater part of the sum lent. Do you follow me, Mrs. Grey?" for
Margaret's attention seemed to flag. She had forgotten the
mortgage, the debt, the threatened poverty, for her whole force of
mind was centred on the one anxiety—to find out her husband, to
appeal to his memories of the past, to persuade him at least to see
her; and that fainting-fit with the succeeding weakness had
frightened her, making her feel that possibly her time on earth might
be short.
"Yes," she said absently; "but, Mr. Robinson, tell me how soon you
will be likely to hear of Mr. Grey?"
"Impossible to say accurately, my dear lady, and it is quite against
my principles to encourage false hope. If I were a doctor, I should
frankly tell my patients of their danger, relying on a higher power
than mine to temper the wind and prepare the mind of my patient
for the shock, though, indeed, if we all lived in a state of
preparation, the approach of death would be little or no shock—
shuffling off the mortal coil, going home. But to return: I was saying,
I think, that I make it a rule never to encourage false hopes. I have
lost clients by it, Mrs. Grey; you would really be amazed at the
pertinacity of some folks. It is in this way: A man comes to me.
'Shall I succeed if I go to law in this matter?' he asks. If hopeless, I
answer candidly, No. Sometimes my client will insist upon my taking
up the business. If not against the dictum of my conscience—an
article, by the bye, which we lawyers are not supposed to possess—I
submit and do my best, leaving the result. Sometimes he will go off
to a more unscrupulous practitioner. It matters very little. What,
after all, is so much worth having as the answer of a good
conscience?"
Mrs. Grey sighed. This torrent of words wearied her beyond
measure. "You have not answered my question, Mr. Robinson," she
said; "under favorable circumstances how long would such an
inquiry take?"
"And who is to guarantee us favorable circumstances?" replied the
lawyer, smiling pleasantly. "My dear lady, I must beg you to be
patient. We may fail absolutely. Mind you, I do not mean to assert
that I apprehend we shall fail. Come! a promise. As soon as ever I
receive intelligence of any kind I will transmit it to you by telegraph.
Will that satisfy you?"
"I suppose it should," she replied sadly, but there was a feeling of
dissatisfaction at her heart that belied her words.
She had not quite the same confidence in Mr. Robinson as she had
once had.
In the light of that fever of anxiety which consumed her his trite
commonplaces, his rapidly-given assurances looked hollow and
vague. She felt as if another standing-point were being cut ruthlessly
from under her feet, and yet what could she do? She had no friend,
no hope in the wide world, but this man.
She looked up at him, fixing on his rather hard face her mournful
eyes, in which unshed tears were swimming. "Mr. Robinson," she
said, "you are a Christian man. I can trust you; you will do your very
best for me."
He answered by a frank smile and a cordial hand-grip: "You are a
little upset, Mrs. Grey, or I should be apt to resent the want of
confidence which those words imply. Of course you can rely on me.
Now good-bye: I must be off to my wife. I left her at the hotel here,
close at hand. She came along with me merely for the trip, and is
particularly anxious for a drive before her return; but duty first,
pleasure afterward, I told her."
"Good-bye," said Mrs. Grey.
She was reassured once more, ready to blame herself for the
momentary distrust.
Mr. Robinson went away with a light swinging step and a cheerful
smile. He was no villain, at least in his own eyes, for his small
villainies were disguised under such pleasing names that he really
thought himself a very good man.
"Poor woman!" he said to himself as he walked along, "what an
absurd notion! She'll never find that husband of hers; and if she did,
where would be the use?"
And all this meant, "I shall take no particular pains to find him, and
certainly not yet; it might be awkward."
Thought is strange in its working. There is the surface action,
employed on that which holds it for the moment—the book, the
work, the occupation; that which flows under, memory of what has
just passed, planning for something in the new future; and often,
beneath both these, a deeper undercurrent, its existence scarcely
acknowledged even to the mind itself.
It was in this undercurrent that James Robinson hid thoughts which
would not hear the light, and thus to the world, to his family, and
even to himself, he continued to be an upright and strictly honorable
man.
It was a dangerous game. Thought has a volcanic tendency. It is apt
to force its way upward, to cleave suddenly the superincumbent
strata that holds it from the surface.
Many such a man as James Robinson, quiet, respectable and
respected, even to all appearance devout, has been astonished by
waking up some fine morning and finding himself a villain.

CHAPTER VII.

THE TWO FRIENDS.

Friend of my heart! away with care,

And sing and dance and laugh.

On the day succeeding that of the interview between Margaret and

her solicitor, Arthur Forrest was preparing in his chambers for a short
absence from town. The memorable conversation with his cousin
had taken place on the previous afternoon. Since then he had made
all needful arrangements, and was to start by the afternoon mail for
York. He was busy about his room, his portmanteau open before
him, picking out the few necessaries he would require.
He looked rather different from the moonstruck individual who had
so sorely tried his good little cousin's patience only a few hours
before, for determination and action have a certain power. They can
brace the nerves and give courage to the spirit. There was fresh,
buoyant life in young Arthur's face; there was light in his eyes; there
was healthy activity in his movements.
He was whistling lightly over his task and the pleasing meditations
induced, when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. The knock
was followed by the appearance on the threshold of a young man
probably of about his own age, only that the pallor of his face and a
general delicacy of appearance made him seem younger.
Arthur leapt over the portmanteau, upset in his transit two or three
chairs laden with linen and clothing of various kinds, and grasping
the new-comer warmly by the hand drew him into the room:
"Why, Mac, old boy! who would have thought of seeing you, and in
the middle of the day, too? Has your old tyrant played the truant, or
have discipline and responsibility run wild in his establishment?"
The young man laughed: "Neither. But the fact is this—I have grown
tired of my master at last; and yesterday—or the day before it must
have been—I told him a few wholesome truths and turned my back
on the firm, leaving my last few pounds of salary in his hands as a
parting gift."
Arthur had been gathering some of his shirts together. He dropped
them suddenly and gave a rapturous bound: "At last! You don't
surely mean to say so? All my prophecies come true. Bravo, old
fellow! I congratulate you heartily. But come, I am all impatience. I
must have a full, true and particular account of the whole. What was
the last drop? How did you resent its introduction? For, upon my
word, Mac, you took him so patiently that I began to fear your old
spirit had gone. I longed at times to show all those muffs in that
confounded hole of an office what you could do when the blood was
up. But why don't you say something?"
"Because, old fellow, you won't let a man get in a word edgeways.
And then, you see, my memory's short. I was never good at learning
by heart, especially my own efforts at composition. He spoke
insultingly when I asked him to keep his word to my mother and
give me my articles. In reply I let him know, in good strong English,
what I thought of him generally and of his present conduct in
particular. Finally, I left his place in a fine rage, I can assure you. I
imagine Robinson was ditto, but his after-thoughts he didn't reveal.
There! will that satisfy you?"
Arthur gave a long whistle: "Spoke insultingly, did he? I wonder who
that fellow thinks himself? Well, I needn't enter into particulars;
you're well aware of my sentiments. And now, old man, what's to be
the next step?"
"Perplexing," replied young McArthur, knitting his brows. "There's
your man of business—Golding. You heard of the kind offer he made
me the other day. I was scarcely, as I thought, in a position to
accept it. I wish to Goodness I had, though; my cutting remarks
would have had double force. By the bye, Arthur, that was prompted
by you, I imagine. Do you think he would renew it?"
"Not the faintest doubt in the world. Golding is an excellent old
fellow, and honester, I sincerely believe, than the ordinary race of
lawyers. Then, don't you see, it would scarcely suit his book to break
with me just now. I shall be of age in a few weeks, and he takes a
fatherly interest in my affairs. Joking apart, though, I believe he
does. It's a better firm altogether than Robinson's. But come, I was
just off to lunch. Take a little something with me and we can talk it
over by the way. Then, if you like, I shall have time to go with you
as far as Golding's. I know your mind will be easier when this matter
is settled. Now, don't be a humbug. I can see in your face that you
have not lunched, and for once in the way you are, like myself, an
idle man."
McArthur smiled, and pointed to the chairs and table.
"But what about all this? Do you intend to leave it so? And—you're
off somewhere?"
"Only to York on a little matter of business," replied Arthur, who had
turned to the mirror, and was occupying himself in imparting a
certain air of fascination to the set of his budding moustache. "I
must get the old woman here—a motherly body in her way, and
useful when a fellow can get out of reach of her tongue—to finish
for me. Yes, that's decidedly the best plan. Come along, Mac! If my
coming of age is worthy of being made a festival, certainly your
breaking loose from that rascal—whose whining is enough to sicken
the healthiest person—is trebly so. We must have a bottle of
champagne and a general jollification on the strength of it; then we
can go to Golding's together, and after that I shall still have time to
catch the afternoon mail."
"I didn't know you had friends in York."
"Did I say I had friends there?"
"No, but what can your business be? I always thought it consisted in
carrying out and bringing to a successful end a rather laborious
system of amusement."
"Come, Mac, don't be severe. I'm turning over a new leaf, and am
fast becoming a most useful member of society. I have already two
pictures, a score of elaborate novels, a series of scientific works and
books of travel innumerable in my eye."
"As your own performance or your neighbor's?"
"My own, of course. Do you mean to be insulting, Mac, or have you
fallen so low as to imagine a solicitor's office the only path to fame?
But don't apologize, old fellow; I forgive you in consideration of a
certain derangement of brain, the result, no doubt, of your late
experiences."
"What have you been doing to yourself, Forrest?" The young man
looked at his friend with some curiosity. Arthur's face was flushed
and his eyes were beaming with excitement. "Your spirits have been
at rather a low ebb whenever I have had the opportunity of seeing
you lately; now they are perfectly exuberant. I think there must be
something more in this visit to York than is quite apparent to the
casual observer. Blushing, too! Why, old fellow, I thought your
blushing days were over long ago, like mine."
Arthur turned away in some impatience: "Don't be absurd, Mac, or I
shall certainly be cross, and at present I feel generally genial—
sympathetic, as I shall remark in my first novel, with the sweet
influences of the balmy breezes. By the bye, that would be rather
neat, wouldn't it?"
"Uncommonly. You're improving, old fellow. Heigh-ho! my
sentimental days are gone by. Nothing like office-life for rubbing off
that kind of bloom. Do you remember the girls' school, and my deep
indignation when you would insist upon singing about 'the merry
little maiden of sweet sixteen'?"
"An awfully good song, by the bye," put in Arthur.
His friend did not notice the interruption. "I am not so sure, after
all," he said thoughtfully, "that hard work is not the best thing at our
age. Everybody could not pass as you have done through the
temptations of an idle youth."
Arthur laughed, but he looked at his companion affectionately:
"Come, come, Mac, that kind of thing won't quite fit in, you know—
philosophy and compliment in one breath. But here we are. Now, if
you're not hungry I am; so a truce to reflections. They shall come, if
you still feel anxious for them, in the shape of dessert."
The young men sat down to dinner together, and Arthur took care it
should be a particularly good one. He and McArthur had been chums
at Eton, and although the very different circumstances of their after-
life had necessarily thrown them apart, they had still kept up their
friendship in a certain spasmodic way.
It had been broken at times by a slight want of consideration on the
one side, and a certain pride, the growth of poverty, on the other;
but real mutual affection and respect had been strong enough to
heal the different little breaks, and the young men had reached the
point of understanding each other, and of making mutual allowance
for the weaknesses engendered by circumstances.
They did not often meet, for their lives were very differently spent,
and McArthur was wise enough to know that for him to enter at all
into his friend's pursuits or to frequent his circle would be sheer folly.
This it was that occasionally hurt and fretted Arthur. But a meeting
such as that of this day was a source of real pleasure to both.
During the short hour everything life held of weariness and
discontent was forgotten. They rattled on as if they had been still
school-boys, with no present care to oppress their lives and a
brilliant future before them.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE INDIAN SCARF.

A man in love sees wonders.

A few hours later, and Arthur Forrest was lodged for the night in an
hotel which looked out upon one of the quaint, old-fashioned streets
in the ancient city of York.
The journey had by no means diminished his excitement. He was
literally aflame with the fever of anxiety and suspense that
consumed him, for this was his first young dream, and it mastered
him with an absoluteness which only that first in the series that
often diversifies the adolescence of humanity, male and female, can
possess.
Afterward we know what to expect; then everything is new,
wonderful, incomprehensible—the sweet waking up to a heavenly
mystery. And it comes generally at a time when life is at its fullest;
when imagination, passion, sentiment reign in the soul with
undisputed sway; when the heart is uncontaminated—at least
partially so—by the influences which those to whom youth's Eden is
a forgotten land delight to throw round the inexperienced, giving
them lessons, they would say, in the great art of living—lessons,
alas! which the young are only too ready to receive and put into
practice.
Arthur was in this first ecstatic stage. No doubt to the experienced
onlooker it might appear highly ridiculous; to himself it was intensely
real. His very existence seemed to have changed in the dazzling
glamour that the treacherous little god had cast over his vision. He
saw all his past, his present, his future in relation to this one thing—
his chances of success with the fair Margaret.
It was late when he reached York—too late for him to think of going
farther that night.
He ordered a private sitting-room, for no particular reason but the
necessity he felt for quiet meditation, that he might unravel the
tormenting problems of the how, the why and the wherefore which,
in spite of Adèle's encouraging assurance, had begun to embarrass
him sorely. How should he present himself to Mrs. Grey? What could
he give as a reason for having left London to seek her out? In what
light would she look upon his intrusion? These thoughts perplexed
him as far into the night he paced the floor of his sitting-room,
resting himself by the continual movement, but sorely interfering
with the rest of the gentleman who occupied the room below his. He
had taken many turns up and down before any light had dawned
upon his mind, and in final despair he was about to retire to his
bedroom and try the effect of darkness, when suddenly his eyes fell
on something that had hitherto escaped them. It was an Indian scarf
of great brilliancy which had been left lying on a small low chair in
one of the corners of the room.
It brought a certain memory to Arthur's mind. He took it up,
handling it with reverential tenderness. Where had he seen it
before? Why did the sight of it affect him so strangely? He looked at
it, he touched it; he laid it down and retiring to some distance
examined it again. Then by degrees the sought-for link returned.
The pictures, the crimson-covered seat, the pale woman, her shabby
dress, and in striking contrast with it, the costly fabric on her
shoulders. It was a coincidence, he said to himself—a very strange
one—that here, when he was seeking Margaret, he should find the
fac-simile of what she had worn on the occasion of their first
meeting. Could it be the same—hers, left behind her? If so, here
was an opening thrown by kind Fate into his lap.
The silken scarf should be his excuse; with it he would present
himself to Mrs. Grey. It was valuable in itself, and she had evidently
had some other reason besides its intrinsic worth for prizing it. She
would be grateful for its preservation, and the bearer of her treasure
would have a certain claim on her consideration.
Arthur determined to discover the history of the scarf on the next
day, and if he should find it at all fit in with his ideas to take it back
to its owner in triumph. For that night it was too late to do anything.
He looked despairingly at the little French clock over the chimney-
piece. It was two o'clock a. m., and an absolute silence reigned in the
house.
But he possessed the sanguine nature of youth. He could not doubt
that he had found a solution to the problem which had been
agitating his mind. His anxieties being thus partially set at rest, he
began to feel tired. With the silk scarf close to his hand he fell
asleep; its colors mingled in confusion inextricable with all his
dreams; it was the first object that met his gaze on the following
morning.
He felt inclined to ring at once and make inquiries, but on second
thought he decided that to take such a step would scarcely be wise.
Young men in Arthur Forrest's position are keenly susceptible to
ridicule. Undue anxiety might possibly seem suspicious. He
controlled himself so far as to dress, to walk into his sitting-room,
and to restore the scarf to the place it had occupied on the previous
evening; then he rang for breakfast.
While the waiter was busy about the table he looked across the
room as though for the first time the appearance of the scarf had
struck him; then he took it up and examined it with apparent
curiosity.
The waiter noticed his movement. "Ah! sir," he said briskly, "queer
thing that."
"This scarf?" said Arthur carelessly; "it's certainly a very handsome
one."
"I didn't mean the scarf, sir, but the tale, as one may say, that hangs
on to it. It was left in this very room, identical, some four or five
days ago, it may be, and I was the waiter as attended on the
gentleman and little girl: a pretty creature she was too, with—"
"A gentleman and little girl?" broke in Arthur, forgetful of his
prudence in his astonishment.
"Yes, sir; a gentleman not young, as one might say, to be the father
of the little lady; and a lady she was, every inch of her, so pretty and
well-behaved. It's my belief"—here the waiter lowered his voice and
looked confidential—"there was somethink there over and above
what met the eye, as one might say, sir." Then he disappeared to
fetch the tea-pot.
Arthur was strangely interested in the little tale. "Stop," he said as
the waiter was about to leave the room again; "what makes you
think there was something mysterious about these people?"
The waiter smiled pleasantly. His loquaciousness was natural to him,
but it had so often received rude checks that he had long ago been
taught to control it. "It interests you, do it, sir?" he said cheerfully.
"Well, now, to speak confidential, it's my belief as that gentleman
wasn't father at all to that there little lady. She cried considerable
that first night, for the chambermaid had been given somethink a
little extra by the gentleman when he came into the hotel that every
care might be taken of the little lady. And it was all on and off, so
she says, the little lady a-crying and a-sobbing, and 'Oh, my
mamma! I want my mamma; take me home.' Not much sleep had
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com