The Sherlocks

Front matter

VOL. II. a By JOHN SAUNDERS AUTHOR OF *' ABEL DRAKE'S WIFE," " HIRELL," " ISRAEL MORT, OVERMAN," ETC. THREE VOLS.— II. STRAHAN & COMPANY LIMITED 34 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON 1879 All rights reserved •Sa-Qant-pnc i?tt&sf BALLANTYNE AND HANSON, EDINBURGH CHANDOS STREET, LONL-uN CONTENTS OP VOL. II. CHAP. PAGB I. A HAED CONFESSOR - - • • 1 II. A CRY OF NATURE 9 III. JACK MACLISE 18 IV. PAULINE 35 V. CHANGING MOODS . .... 47 VI. FLICKERINGS OF THE LAMP ....... 77 VII. THE DAT OF RECKONING 99 VIII. GRIEF, AND ITS CONQUEST Ill IX. LETTERS FROM HOME 123 X. THE MAIDEN WARRIOR 138 XI. THE AFTERGLOW 172 xii. Pauline's future home 183 xm. Peter's seven resolves 190 xrv. petee's sermon and Pauline's anthem . . .197 xv. Walter's wonderful news 205 XVI. IN WHICH WALTER AGAIN USES HIS ETES . . 214 XVII. A lover's SILENCE 222 xviii.

Pauline's flight 241 XIX. THE BALANCE-SHEET CHAPTEE I A HARD CONFESSOR. p_Bfnipl§T wid have been noticed that there ŒM. Jfvg was> by this time, between Sophie Hf^ 1^*1* an^ Ben, a something not yet formally recognised by themselves or others, to which no name had been given, and to Avhich no privileges could be said to belong. Ben, however, in his walk homeward with Sophie, after the farewell visit to Walter, thought this nameless something an ample justification for quarrelling with her — and for making himself altogether disagreeable. She had been so unnecessarily long with Walter. She had not once come to the window to let him VOL. II. see he was not forgotten. And when she did come away at last (in sudden recollection that he was outside), all she had to say to him was a panegyric on the virtues and genius of his brother !

Though to be sure she had this excuse — she believed in them both. That was quite clear. She felt them both • her face showed how much. And so on. Sophie was glad when they reached home, for notwithstanding her liking for Ben, and her own conviction that there was much excuse to be made for his jealousy, she dreaded any explanation that might lead them further than they ought to go. Her first duty was to Ben's father — who had not said a word to encourage these attentions ; her second to Mrs. Sherlock, who might, in the present state of her feeling, become still more hostile, if she knew or suspected Sophie was giving him any encouragement. The poor girl trembled at the thought of what her mother might say to her — of the cruel and humiliating words that might be poured on her devoted head under such circumstances.

Chapter II

A CRT OF NATURE. fe^^&ARLY next morning a cab was jjp if\Ptlf a^ door, Sherlock inside, and el W&W waiting for Sophie; while Ben sat on the box with the driver, in tending to accompany them as far as the station. Peter opened one of the front windows to speak to Ben, who bent low to hear. " You have said nothing to Sophie about our last night's conversation?" " Yes, I have," answered Ben stoutly ; " I told her you and I had a very interesting talk, and that I dared say you would tell her all about it." " Oh, indeed," said Mr. Sherlock, putting up the window to close the conversation ; but not before he saw the gleam of humour in Ben's eyes, or before he had allowed an answering gleam to escape from his own. " Not a bad stroke of Master Ben !" said he, " to make me do for him what I won't let him do for himself!"

Then he called out loudly, — "What is Sophie about?" Well, that is a question Sophie herself would find it difficult to answer. She is in her room, lost in reflections about her approaching fare well with Mrs. Sherlock, and half meditating a great stroke — namely, to give her Bannister's letter at the last moment, when she may be in a tenderer mood than usual, and then hurry away. Thus while she slowly dresses for the journey, her thoughts are going back to her recent relations with Mrs. Sherlock, which have been growing daily more full of absorbing interest. The stern check given by Peter, when he arrested the surreptitious attempt on the letter, had done its work on his wife's mind. It had called forth a sense of shame, of remorse ; and had stirred to the depths a nature where the original elements of good rather slumbered than were altogether lost in death.

Hence her change of attitude to Sophie on her birthday, and its happy consequences to both, and to the whole household. But a change once begun, other and unexpected changes followed. Mrs. Sherlock seemed to recur to those early days when Sophie was but the Httle girl left without leave to her care ; and when harsh words and kind deeds — alter nating with harsh deeds and kind words — kept the poor child in a constant tumult of agitation ; unable either to give way to her natural yearning to love and be loved, or to relapse into sullen quietude and hardened indifference. In the meantime, Sophie also had changed : — not in her aims to gain a mother's love before claiming that love as a right, but in her thoughts and feelings as to the best methods of pursuing them. She had grown intellectually many years older in the few months that had elapsed since her memorable birthday.

The supposed craven-hearted drudge showed that she, like the worm, could turn ; and, un like the worm, never without making her mark ; but one that left no rankling pain behind. Sophie saw her mother's respect for her was growing; that she no longer disbelieved her honesty of purpose ; that she was slowly, but surely, recognising her love and devotion • and that through all these combining influences Mrs. Sherlock's heart and brain were expanding, even while in perpetual and confusing conflict with each other. Recollections of her youthful days often seemed to startle her into novel perceptions of, and dissatisfaction with, her present state. A strange yearning for a wider, happier life began to mingle with and modify her alarm at the thought of quitting, even by a single footstep's distance, the narrow rigid limits that had bound her since her first wretched marriage, and the miseries and de gradations involved in it.

With what tearful, what heartfelt delight, wonder, and hope, Sophie watched the growth of this second uprising of nature, we shall not attempt to describe ; nor how she strove so to shape her own attitude in response as to strengthen every loving impulse, every re freshing train of thought or recollection that she was permitted dimly to perceive. Her reward was great. Her mother began more and more freely to open her heart to her in their converse, Sophie all the while warning herself against any rashness that might deprive her of such dear, delicious hours. One particular trait of her mother's progress wonderfully touched her. Mrs. Sherlock looked, spoke, and moved, at times, just as if she were awaking from some long and deceitful dream, which had included all the years since her first love experiences ; and, that dream gone, sweet memories sprang up and brightened and played before her, as if they were but the waters of a fountain, long choked, but now again let loose, to dance and delight in the sun.

And what to Sophie appeared more surprising than all the rest, was the fact that she seemed able to extricate all those streams of recovered youthful association from the influence of the wretched man who had so poisoned them in the old time. But amid this increasing harmony a dis cordant note was struck that terribly jarred on Sophie. Mrs. Sherlock, happening to speak of Benjamin on one occasion, had dwelt on the brilliant marriage she hoped he would make ; and for some days after had been disagreeably surprised by Sophie's behaviour. It almost seemed as if she were consciously repaying Mrs. Sherlock's own former caprices — now passionately tender, now reprehensibly bitter and unjust. Compelled to step out of the circle of her new egotisms, and ask what was the matter, Mrs. Sherlock wondered if the girl were in love with Benjamin.

She tried to sound her, but Sophie shrank from every attempt, and so painfully, that Mrs. Sherlock came to the conclusion she did love her favourite, but was full of bitterness, as thinking how much she had lost in her lover's eyes by Mrs. Sherlock's neglect to have her better educated. Such were the materials of Sophie's confused and agitating thoughts and recollections as she hesitated, up to the very last moments of departure, as to what she would do. Her desire was great to show the letter, and feel the burdensome secret was a secret no lonsrer ; but her instinct warned her the time had not yet come ; that a much more favourable one would surely be hers ; that meantime Mrs. Sherlock was slowly approaching, and that her present business must be to" deepen those favourable inclinings in every possible way, but not to risk any shock or crisis that might undo all the good done.

" Where is Sophie ?" Peter again called loudly from outside ; and Mrs. Sherlock her self went to Sophie's room to quicken her movements. She met Sophie at the door, fully dressed ; so turned and preceded her down the stairs to the sitting-room, and there sat down in her great arm-chair as if herself feeling some emotion she did not choose to favour or acknowledge. An instant more and Sophie was by her side, taking her hand, kissing it, and then dropping on her knees, while both hands clasped Mrs. Sherlock round the waist. Then the pretty head bent low down, and rested on the lap some time in silence. Mrs. Sherlock, too, remained silent. At last Sophie looked up, and began to speak : — " I have been thinking, aunt, that going away from home for the first time is like going to die, in one thing."

" And what's that ?" Mrs. Sherlock asks. " Why, that one feels one ought to go with a clear conscience ; to repent of one's many faults ; to beg pardon for them ; and to resolve to try to do better for the future." The tears were in Sophie's eyes, but she kept them fixed on Mrs. Sherlock's face, in hope to see some response there. " You are a strange girl. I can't make you out at all." " You will, aunt, by-and-by— if only "If only what?" " I — I — don't know what I am saying. Tell me you forgive me all the pain I have cost you." " Yes, Sophie Richardson, that is my duty. I do forgive you all the pain you have cost me, though that has been no little." " And if I try to do better in future, you will love me ?" " That, too, is my duty, Sophie, I am a Christian woman ; and it is enjoined to all such that we love our fellow-creatures."

" Ay, but some better than others ? Ah, aunt, dear aunt, I see you are moved, though you speak so strangely. I do want your love, your respect. On my knees I ask it, as if I were your very own daughter. I can — I will — love you as a mother. Oh, do try me ! — only try me !" Mrs. Sherlock did her best to resist the pleading hands that had caught hold of her own ; the pleading voice that suddenly seemed filled for her ear with strangely familiar sounds, the meaning of which she knew not ■ the pleading and streaming eyes, striving through the tears to gaze on her resisting face. She freed her hands at last, but did it only to take that youthful face between them, to look at it for a moment, as if she would read it in the spirit and power of an all-seeing and inexorable judge; — then stooped, and, with a trembling lip, kissed it once — twice — then pushed her away, and covered her face with the silk apron she wore, and leaned back in her chair.

But Sophie's earnest words could still be heard pouring into her ear — " Oh, mamma — let me call you so — you have made me so happy ! And I pray to God now, in your dear presence, to make me worthy of all your kindness. Good-by ! Good-by !" Mrs. Sherlock felt the kiss pressed on her through the covering silk, but made no response other than a gentle sigh. 2 VOL.

Chapter III. Jack Maclise

jfejlf Eg_t||fO amuse Sophie, who, after a \&ml ipkij long At of silence and absorp \*m Wi? *n own thoughts, roused *t$i»~^mH herself, and then appeared in great spirits, and began to be inquisitive about the writer of the letter avIio was calling them away from home, and to give his thoughts pleasanter occupation than reflecting on the state in which he might find bis friend, Peter, during the journey, told her the stories of the two men, father and son. Of the first, the stowaway, Ben had spoken to her, but only said enough to stimulate her curiosity to hear more. So Peter had to tell that all over again. And then she became only the more interested in Maclise himself — Uncle Sherlock's early companion — -who ever since her birthday, had filled a noticeable space in her imagination, as one of the figures in that moving drama by the waterside, in which her father and mother were such con spicuous actors.

The elder Maclise, she was told, having allowed himself no noticeable enjoyments during his sixty years of labour, while always intending to stop short in the acquisition of money, and to consider seriously how to spend it, his views as regards his only son had become somewhat inconsistent. Jack was educated at Oxford as a gentleman, but was never to forget he would one day succeed to the labours and responsibilities of the office in Pall Mall. He was to have the full benefit of the most refined culture of our time, but to study carefully the development of the " commercial principle" for his own advantage as a man of business. He was to spend with a certain air, as of one who knew perfectly well what he was doing, and could afford it, — but was at the same time to be strictly economical, wasting nothing in idle or sensual enjoyments, spending nothing except where there would be a return, with interest, in commercial gain, social influence, or political 2—2 power.

Blood, rank, the aristocratic framework of things, were to be precious in his eyes, but he was also to remember his origin, and not be ashamed on occasion to volunteer a remark upon it. Conservatism and the Church of England were the two pillars of the Briton's temple of respectability, and Jack would of course be profoundly attached to both ; but then again he was to remember the peculiarities of the time — to keep his eyes open to the pos sible future of democracy in Church and State, so that he might by a timely and graceful retreat merely shift a little the centre of gravity, and be only the more admired for the states manlike breadth of his grasp. Finally, he was never to speculate ; but if he wished to increase his fortune — and what could be more desirable ? — he was to imitate his father, work hard, even if but for twenty or thirty years, with the assured knowledge that starting from nothing, and starting — say — with a couple of hundred thousand pounds, would be just the measure of the young man's final resting-place as compared with his father's. " Jack, my boy," the old man would say in one of those brief fits of enthusiasm which occasionally came over him, even after his faith in his son's commercial mission had begun to shake, — " Jack, my boy, if I had your years and strength, and my own hundred and seventy thousand pounds to add to them, I'd die worth a million, and with a baronetcy, if not a peerage !"

And Jack, looking into his father's hard worn features, just softened a little by the white hair that surrounded them, would catch a momentary gleam of the paternal fire, and begin eloquently to respond — then stop — as his father turned away and stared into the fire, just as he used to do when the fortune was still to make • for Jack knew that his father was thinking no longer of his successes, but of his disappointments — the greatest disappointment of all being Jack himself. The millionaire dream evaporated. Jack lived simply the life of a gentleman, was much liked, and everywhere spoken of as an honourable but somewhat self-indulgent man. He married a lady who had not a shilling, and who died in giving birth to a daughter — blessing Jack in her last moments for his love and devotion as one of the best of husbands.

Then he seemed to grow somewhat reckless - he got into debt, but not heavily ; he specu lated, but without any severe burning of the fingers. Still he did enough to thoroughly alarm his father, who remonstrated sharply, and was sharply answered. Then both grew angry. And when the one happened once more to recur to his old favourite formula of the commercial principle, the other irreverently remarked, — " By which, father, you mean, I suppose the commercial want of principle." And the joke told. The old man was silenced. On the whole, however, Jack did nothing to impair the general estimation in which he was held, or the universal belief that he would use well his father's fortune when in the course of nature it should become his. Can we conceive of a noble ship with all its canvas set, careering along under the impetus of brisk, pleasant winds, amid bright sunshine, banqueters in the saloons below, music and dancing overhead — can we conceive such a vessel suddenly struck in some unknown place and manner, quivering to its heart, then sink ing down into the waters ; and leaving no trace of all her prosperity and happiness, except the mastheads, and some wretched spars sticking above the rippling smiling treacherous waves ?

In some such fashion was Jack's own sense of prosperity wrecked, without even a warning cry. His father died. Jack grieved for him sincerely. He forgot all his father's harsh ways, his inconsistent and unreasonable expec tations about Jack's own mode of life, and remembered only the love, the actual bounty, and the never-to-be-forgotten fact that the old man's life had really been one of devoted drudgery for the exclusive benefit of the inheritor of his name and fortune. In two minutes, past, present, and future were alike changed for the grateful and mourn ing son. The lawyer, when the funeral was over, with some awkward apologies for keeping him so long in the dark, and owning he didn't like to tell the truth, lest some unseemly scandal might arise while the old man yet remained above-ground, explained to Jack, that his father had left the whole of his pro perty — not to Jack himself, but to his daughter, Pauline Maclise, a girl of ten years old ; leaving him, however, all income accruing from the present time until the girl should be twenty one years of age.

Jack laughed when these facts were first mentioned to him — they were too absurd for belief ! And he sat down to peruse the will, convinced that some freak of the old man had misled the lawyer. It was quite impossible any man could have made such a will; and least of all his father, who was a man of sense, as well as a man of heart ! But when he had, with tremulous fingers, gone through the whole, sentence by sentence, pausing constantly as if with the expectation of some new meaning flashing forth all at once and bringing him a great relief, he pushed the document away, thrust his hands in his pockets, stretched his legs out straight before him, and there sat, without a word, his face growing darker and darker each minute, until the lawyer became exceedingly uncom fortable as to what he would do when he did anything.

" This will must be tested before a court of equity," he said, at last. " My father's mind must have been affected. Don't you think so?" " No," said the lawyer. " May I take the liberty to explain ?" " It's the liberty not to explain that we are more likely to differ about, Mr. Slide. This is an infamous will ! And you — but there ! I shall have time enough for words, and for thinking what words, no doubt. Pray go on. You were saying, Mr. Slide " " Your father confided just thus much to me — that you were a son he was proud of " " So I see ?" interposed the listener, with a smile such as no man had ever before seen on Jack's face. " — but also a son he was afraid of. Your very virtues, he thought, tended to increase your danger." " Danger, sir ! what danger !" demanded Jack, starting to his feet in irrepressible ex citement and indignation.

"The danger, sir," said the lawyer, "that the fortune he had so slowly and laboriously built up would melt like snow in the sun of your generosity ; and thus his hope of founding a family become a bitter satire on his own life." The lawyer, for his own part, had no sort of doubt on the matter : — the old man had most accurately placed his finger on that exact part of Jack's moral framework that could the least bear the touch. Jack's income, it was found, when the business in Pall Mall was disposed of, according to the strict injunction of the will (the old man at the last refusing to allow his son to dabble with the " commercial principle" he had so vilified), and when the entire property had been funded, amounted to about six thousand a year. " Every shilling of it, sir, safe beyond even possibility of danger," remarked the lawyer.

He had this then for eleven years to come. He might spend on himself, and his daughter's education liberally, and yet save four thousand a year ; and at the end of the term be master of at least forty thousand pounds. " A nice little fortune !" said the lawyer cheerily. And then he confessed that he had tried to persuade the old gentleman to leave his son something additional for his lifetime, but that he had been met by the remark — " I have thought all that out, friend Slide. I know my son. If I were to do what you wish, he would for that very reason spend his whole present income and save nothing, and so find economy harder than ever when the time came that he must practise it. No ; he sees the position now. He will save ; in saving will become habitually economical ; and by the time my grand-daughter marries, or reaches twenty-one, he will be quite rich enough to keep up a suitable position as her father, and as my son, from his own savings.

And then he will understand and thank me." The testator died in the belief he had made a wonderfully clever will — that he had so balanced one thing against another — so grati fied Jack while so offending him — so called forth his good qualities while controlling his bad ones — so guarded his state in the eye of the world, not only while his daughter was unfit to assume state, but also after that time — that he became proud of his doings, and half-satisfied the lawyer that he was in the right. Listening to much of this now, in his talk with the lawyer, Jack said, with a flushed face, — " Mr. Slide, if you wish to hear my opinion, take it. You'll never be likely to hear me speak again on the subject; — neither you nor any other living man. My father, I perceive, had so high an opinion of me that he thought he could rob me with impunity, on the strength of my excellence of character and position.

For he has robbed me of all my natural rights. And even that is not enough, it seems, but I must myself be made to testify to my own shame by carrying out in detail, year after year, the whole of this monstrous, this most unnatural scheme. But I have spoken — and ended. You will not be surprised, sir, if I now request you to hand over all the papers relative to the estate to my own private solicitor, who will henceforth act for me." He then wished the lawyer " Good-day," left him without waiting to hear any reply, and refused to meet him again ever after wards. Peter Sherlock and Maclise himself had been made trustees for the proper execution of the will ; though neither knew aught of the matter till the old man's death. A bequest of a thousand pounds to Peter accompanied the duty thus conferred.

And it was that gift, increased by a fortunate speculation, his only one, — as Peter explained to Sophie, — which had enabled him to go into business as a merchant in a small way, and ultimately to become master of twenty thousand pounds. So that while feeling for Jack's position, he could not but be grateful for his own. As to Jack, Peter confesses to Sophie his fears that he has never forgiven his father for this will. By three in the afternoon Peter Sherlock and Sophie were walking across fields of oats from the lonely little station which was the nearest stopping place for Ryland's Bay. The warm air and the pretty country through which they were passing had no power to restore tranquillity to Peter's mind ; which, restless and apprehensive ever since he read his friend's letter under the cedar yester day morning, became now every instant more and more anxious.

He was full of uneasy thoughts about his friend of early days, and of fears that the delay of the letter might lose him even the sad satisfaction of a last interview. His ner vous apprehension led him to expect that the worst might have happened — that he was come in time not for his friend's death, but for his funeral. He puffed and fumed at the soft sweet breeze as it came from across the fresh downs to welcome him, and called it oppressive and enervating ; and abused the little town he was approaching, and whose one terrace of tall lodging-houses he could just discern, as an out-of-the way, God-forgotten place — and won dered what could have possessed his friend to go and fall ill there. Every closed blind he saw in the town made his heart grow cold with superstitious dread. As he passed the church the bell was tolling ; and his gloomy forebodings so increased, that it seemed to him he must have been shown in some vision or dream all that would happen within the next few moments.

He felt him self at the door of the house indicated in Maclise's letter ; he heard his own voice ques tioning and another's answering about a death bed ; and so rapidly went on his thoughts in advance as to show him a weeping orphan who had already gone forth into the world — as her father had gone out of it — without his (Peter's) aid. Was such indeed to be the end of the oldest and dearest friendship of his life ? And yet, at the very same time, Peter was altogether angry with this John Maclise. What could the man mean by writing to him about his daughter's pecuniary position, and asking what was to become of her in the event of her father's death ? What was likely to become of a rich and beautiful heiress ? " What would Jack do if he had my poor boys, and Hannah, and little Sophie to provide for ?" said Peter, as he turned to look at the latter ; while he passed his hand lovingly among the waving oats, which, as if to acknow ledge the greeting, shed their seed into his palm.

He wondered with much impatience and irritation what could be the trouble which his friend hinted at, in addition to his illness. " Money again !" Peter concluded ; and he fell to thinking what a wise old man his friend's lather had been to settle his fortune on Jack's child instead of on Jack himself, and what a pity it was Jack did not see it in the same light. The real cause of Peter's irritation, however, was not the thought of his friend's difficulties. The truth was, this letter of Maclise's had made him feel, with a strange sense of dismay and apprehension, how easily the pedestal on which his happiness stood, and which he thought he had made so firm, could be shaken ; so that at times he could not help asking in alarm — "Is this shock to be the last? I have had two. Walter blind ! Maclise dying !