Anthony Graeme

Chapter I

A man of revolutionary mind ; To revolutionary deeds inclined.' ' It's the money as does it,' said Griselda. 'You may live with folks all your life, and think you can read them off like your alphabet or the Book of Psalms, and then, when a bit of money comes along, all the reason goes out of 'em, and there's no more accounting for their actions than for the tricks of the grandfather clock, when something's gone wrong inside. Eh ! but we're made of poor stuff, and unstable — that's the truth of it.' And Griselda folded the letter which she had just finished reading, removed the spectacles from her severely aquiline nose, and sat down. Her appearance at this moment was not en couraging. Threescore years of work and con scientious service had left their mark upon her furrowed brow ; her demeanour, speech, and opinions all partook of the same incisive and somewhat aggressive character, acquired during the long years of a uniform and responsible career.

Griselda gloried in the responsibility, and in her position of absolute trust ; it was not an onerous position, and it had a certain dignity most sooth ing to temperaments like hers. But just now the central luminary of her little sphere was wanting — the Professor of Moral Philosophy was not at home. ' It's like a man,' said Griselda, continuing her soliloquy from the old leather-covered chair. ' It's like a man to have all the place got ready for him — his slippers and his meals all waiting, and his room brushed up (not that there's overmuch of that at any time) — and then to write and say at the last moment that he's not coming.' She threw a withering glance round the com fortable but disorderly apartment, strewed with the ample paraphernalia of a literary inmate, and where the power of the broom was unknown. ' But it's not like him,' she resumed, after a brief, comprehensive survey. ' Here's a man who's never gone beyond his home for the last ten years, and who is regular and punctual in his habits, and not given to pleasure-seeking or change ; and now he goes away on this precious business for a week or so, and has stayed over a fortnight, and now, instead of coming home on the day appointed, writes and says, " The day after to-morrow " !

It's the money as has got into his head, and turned him from his usual ways. There's many different forms of intoxication. If it isn't the drink, it's the pleasure-going, or the sweethearting, or the hoard ing up silver, or the spending of it, and there's no good comes of " to-morrow " and " to-morrow." ' Out of doors, in the garden, the indistinct murmur of bees made music in the fragrant atmosphere. Meshes of summer sunshine, glancing upward through the interlacing leaves of Virginian creeper, floated through the sombre room. Griselda followed the rays as they travelled softly across the bookshelves with a critical glance of disapprobation. ' Ay, there's no hiding the dust and the moth holes in the broad light of day,' she observed grimly. ' But there's some folks as can't see a lighted candle just under their noses when their wits are gone wool-gathering.

Learning's a fine thing, and there's no denying that it keeps 'em quiet. But it's a queer sort of life, to live like a toad in a hole, and never know that you're brush ing away the dust with your coat-sleeve.' The grievance which thus betrayed itself was of long standing. Griselda had an exaggerated, housewifely respect for furniture, which made her the terror of her subordinates, and created the only active source of disagreement between her master and herself; for the Professor of Moral Philosophy, in all other respects a tractable and inoffensive inmate of his own house, yet contrived to keep his library inviolate — it was subject to none of the periodical upheavals which assailed the other corners of his domain — and the housekeeper had gradually come to accept this state of things, however repugnant to her principles, and contented herself, as in the present instance, with a few murmured invectives and trenchant criticism.

She put the letter into her pocket and rose from her chair. ' Well, we'll just wait and see what the day after to-morrow may mean,' she said to herself, as she closed the door of the library behind her ; ' but it's my belief that there'll be more letters coming, and more delays.' But for once her shrewdness overshot its mark, and in the afternoon of the day appointed the Professor came home. ' I hope you've had a pleasant change, sir,' remarked Griselda amiably, as she followed him into the library and began to prepare the tea, which was already spread upon a little table. ' And I hope I see you well.' ' I thank you, Griselda,' replied the Professor courteously. ' I am exceedingly well.' Then ensued a silence — of intense and curious scrutiny upon her part, and of entire abstraction upon his.

To a casual observer it might have appeared that the Professor had returned precisely as he had gone, and that the change had left no mark upon him. He was a tall man, slightly built, with a quiet, self-possessed demeanour. His countenance was remarkable for its expression of habitual placidity, and his speech was invariably courteous and calm. ' It's like pouring water on a jelly,' said Griselda, when her remarks had failed to attract his attention, ' and a wasting of one's breath.' Although yet in the prime of life, a suspicion of gray had declared itself in his luxuriant brown hair, and the light blue eyes wore a frequent look of grave abstraction — the result, perhaps, of a specialized study in the realm of speculative thought. The one peculiar attraction which he possessed, and which was felt by all who knew him, was his voice.

To a natural flexibility had been added a calm and perfect enunciation, and these qualities, combined with a fluency both natural and cultivated, produced an impression of singular charm. Griselda peered at him through her spectacles, as he sat down thoughtfully before his writing table, and took some papers and letters in his hand. ' Your letter came very unexpected two days ago,' she observed presently, 'just as I had the tea all ready to welcome you ; but I make no doubt that you had good reason for the delay.' But the expected answer was not forthcoming ; the Professor had not heard a word. 'The Lord help us !' she ejaculated softly, 'but he's come back more daft than ever.' She shut down the lid of the teapot sharply, and spoke with greater emphasis. ' I said, Mr. Graeme, that no doubt you had good reasons for putting off your journey home, and I make so bold as to hope that all this business is settled satisfactory.' Then the Professor looked up. ' No, Griselda,' he said, turning his pale blue eyes meditatively upon her inquiring countenance. ' The business is not settled, and it may necessitate my leaving home again in the course of a day or two.' ' Indeed, sir,' was the frigid reply.

Then he rose and came smilingly towards the table. ' A cup of tea will be so acceptable,' he said pleasantly. ' It is a very warm day. We had some nice cool showers, though, last evening at Elverton.' ' Indeed, sir. And it is a pretty place, I dare say.' ' Yes ; the country round is very pleasant.' ' Perhaps you will be making a longer stay next time, sir.' This was spoken tentatively, with another shrewd glance ; and the Professor hesitated. ' I do not think I shall be long away, Griselda,' he replied quietly ; and the conversation ceased for the time. But the old housekeeper found food for reflection and comment. ' I was right in thinking that there'd be more to-morrows and more gallivanting now it's once begun,' she said to herself dryly ; ' there's no knowing what folks will do when they've got money left 'em ; but it's no use trying to talk sense when they're gone daft and wool-gathering.

Maybe he'll get a bit more understanding after awhile ; but what with the learning and the money ' She shook her head sorrowfully ; the prospect did not tend to cheer. Quiet and beautiful on the following morning was the old University town. The summer sunshine, bringing out into vivid prominence all that was most characteristic here and there, threw gleaming lights upon each solemn tower and graceful pinnacle, on twisted column and deep Ionic curl. In the college gardens bright shadows were falling upon the greensward, and the flower beds were radiant with bloom. The cloisters were silent and deserted save for the occasional chatter of some vagrant bird which was fluttering to and fro. The Professor walked slowly through the quiet streets, now comparatively silent with the leisurely repose of the long vacation ; his hands were clasped behind his back, his glance bent earthward.

One or two acquaintances saluted him as he passed, but he took no notice, and they moved on with a smile. He was only abstracted, they said affably ; there was nothing remarkable in that. A short walk had brought him to his destina tion, and he passed through a massive mediæval gateway into the quadrangle of St. Bede's ; there he raised his eyes and halted. Before him rose the grand old building in tones of gray and gold. Fragments of ivy, leaving the parent stem, strayed hither and thither among the windows, each shining leaf a mirror of the sun ; and above, long undulating sprays of Virginian creeper fell from pinnacle to casement in a sweep of vivid green. The Professor stood for a moment looking up with thoughtful gaze at the beautiful tower of the chapel, which rose in noble outline against an azure sky ; then he went slowly towards the Master's house, and knocked for admittance at the door.

All was quiet as, a few moments later, he entered. A fragrance of damask roses suffused the hall and stole in through the oriel window of the large, old-fashioned room into which he was ushered. ' Why, Anthony,' said a hearty voice in greet ing, ' this is a surprise ! We thought you were still camping out among the rustics. Has the dissipation lost its delights ?' The voice belonged to an elderly man of un usual height and awkward build. His head was particularly large and massive, covered with a pro fusion of curly gray hair ; but the eyes, dark and brilliant beneath their shaggy eyebrows, gave the most characteristic expression to a countenance by no means lacking in charm. A lady sitting near him, book in hand, rose at the same moment to welcome the visitor, though with a shade less of cordiality in her greeting.

Anthony Graeme took the chair that was offered to him, and looked out dreamily upon the terraced garden, with its spreading cedar-trees and well kept lawn. ' I have just returned,' he answered, ' and I came to have a talk with you before I go away again for a few days. But Mrs. Mervyn will hardly thank me for interrupting your peace.' ' Such interruption is only pleasant,' said the lady herself, with a smile. ' The long vacation has robbed us of nearly all our acquaintances and friends, and Robert was only wondering yesterday as to your welfare.' The speaker had a countenance and manner of peculiar charm. Her soft gray hair surmounted a forehead of unusual breadth and beauty ; the face had not lost its perfect oval, nor the deep gray eyes their light ; something of classic dignity, the gift of years, had wrought the attributes of youth into a more severe and perfect beauty.

The Professor received her gentle speech in a somewhat embarrassed silence ; he was evidently even more preoccupied than was his wont. ' We have not much local news to tell you,' said Robert Mervyn. ' The very air is heavy with an idleness which no one seeks to disturb — that is, no one has sought until this instant ; but your return recalls one sharply to the workaday world and the ceaseless machinery of life.' 'We will not ask you what you have been doing,' said Mrs. Mervyn, with a light laugh. ' We might as well demand from the working bee a list of the plants he has visited ; but you might perhaps give us some slight account of your adven tures without putting us too utterly to shame.' The Professor smiled. ' I have done nothing very remarkable — as yet,' he said, with a half-apologetic air. ' A fortnight in an old country house, with no books for com pany, and no society to speak of, and only a few business matters to transact — such an environment does not allow much scope, does it, for adventure ?' ' Perhaps not,' admitted Robert Mervyn, with a laugh ; ' but seriously, my dear fellow, I congratu late you on the completion of the business.

What has become of the old house, by-the-by ? Is that also part of your legacy ?' ' No ; my sister left it to the girl,' said the Pro fessor slowly. ' To — her — adopted daughter, you know.' ' Ah, yes ; I remember. A Miss Forrester, is she not ?' ' Rachel Forrester ; yes With the quick intuition of her nature, Mrs. Mervyn detected a note of restraint underlying the simple words. The quiet and self-constrained Professor was no favourite of hers ; she did not understand him, and their intercourse, though friendly, was never sympathetic. Her choice therefore often led her, as on the present occasion, to absent herself from the interview and to leave the two friends alone. ' Shall we go into the garden ?' said Anthony, rising from his chair as though in sudden relief. And the two men went out together.

Chapter II

' Well, then, this world is a dead iron machine, the god of it Gravitation and selfish Hunger ; let us see what, by check ing and balancing . . . , can be made of it.' — Carlyle. The Master of St. Bede's walked on silently for some minutes, waiting for his friend to speak. They had been schoolfellows together in the early days of their career, and had formed one of those strange, apparently anomalous friendships, which unite the most diverse types of men. Robert Mervyn had been the popular leader of his ' set.' His powerful physique, though somewhat uncouth and ill-proportioned, rendered him a powerful champion of the weak and opponent of the strong. He was, moreover, a tender-hearted and honest fellow, slow to take offence, and a favourite alike in school and playground. At seven years of age Anthony had made his first appearance upon the scene, a shy, reserved little lad, with an inordinate love of study, and a stern disinclination to ' chum ' with anybody, old or young.

In consequence, things went badly with him during his first term there. The younger boys understood none of his unsociable, silent ways, and the elder ones were inclined to make sport of him for the benefit of the community. But this state of things was checked at the outset by the powerful championship of Robert Mervyn. He was then a lad of seventeen, completing his last year at school ; a kindly feeling of pity and interest drew him towards the little stranger, and a bond of practical sympathy grew up between the two. Anthony did not become less studious nor less reserved, but he accepted his surroundings in a happier spirit, and prepared to make the best of them. Beneath the strange, shy manner lay a depth of feeling unrevealed. Robert Mervyn, who knew more of his protege than anyone else, saw at times a flash of spirit in the lad's blue eyes, which betrayed some latent passion, but such occasions were very rare.

For the most part Anthony spoke but little, and went about his daily tasks with zeal and energy, content in play-hours to join with a half-hearted interest in the games, or, better still, to wander away by his hero's side, making quaint, laconic answer to his varied tales and talk. No one knew what strange, long thoughts the child was thinking, as he sat day by day over his books or gazing straight before him with wide and questioning eyes. He absorbed everything with avidity that came in his way. Languages gave him some trouble, but mathe matics were his delight. One day, towards the end of the summer term, Robert Mervyn seized him by the arm and said suddenly : ' I say, little one, you'll have to do without me soon, you know ; but you will be able to fight your own battles now like a man, and you won't be put upon by the bigger chaps.

And I shall get the governor to ask you down to stay with me in the holidays, when I come back from college, you know.' He looked down and saw an expression of utter dismay and incredulity in the boy's upturned face. ' You are going away,' he repeated slowly, ' and never coming back at all ?' ' Of course not. Why, don't you see, you stupid ! that I'm getting much too old for this sort of life ? I'm going to college now with a lot of older chaps, and I'm going to work for my degree ; and then — oh ! well, I don't know quite what I shall do after that, but I mean to do something worth the doing, any way. And when you're a big fellow like me, you'll come to college too, and I will look after you a bit, and introduce you to all my friends (for by that time I shall know everybody) ; and you must really talk a little more, and not live with your nose in a book all day long.

It isn't polite, for one thing, and I can't take a creature about the world who is all brain, without any body to stand on. Oh ! come now, I say, Tony, don't do that ! What on earth will all the other fellows think of you ?' For Anthony had flung himself down in the playground, where they were alone, in a storm of passionate weeping. Angry remon strance and soothing promises were alike unavail ing to stem the full tide of this first unexpected woe. The elder boy bent over him in real dis tress. ' I never thought you cared so much, old chap,' he said presently, as Anthony raised him self, a pathetic and woebegone little figure, with sullen, tear-stained eyes. Then the child clenched his fists with a sudden desperate meaning, and broke out stormily : ' I always cared, but I didn't talk. Other chaps talk, and don't care like me.

And now you are going away, and I will never care for anything again as long as I live. Don't touch me ! I will hate you. I tell you I won't care !' And with these words Anthony Graeme awoke from his childhood and began to play a new and independent part on the stage of his tiny world. ' He would not care !' So he whispered to himself at night after his hero had departed, with his head buried deep in the bedclothes, his whole frame shaken with des perate sobs. What was the use of having a hero, and being content and happy in his presence, when the light was to be suddenly withdrawn ? Better never have a hero ! He would have no more, he told himself, as he rose again in the morning with a white, determined little face, and trotted into his place in the schoolroom, to all appearance ab sorbed in his work.

The other boys chaffed him as usual ; the tutors looked curiously at his tell tale eyes, but he had no word or sign for any of them. He did his work, went out, and played with the rest, but of the wall of cold determination growing up within him no one about him knew. The months passed by, and Robert Mervyn, living his new life in the richer environment of a college career, had still a thought to spare for Anthony. 'Poor little beggar!' he said to himself, when letters reached him from time to time — coldly cor rect little letters, for the most part, filled with dry comments upon his own individual work and the progress of the school. ' He has shut himself up again, the rum little chap !' said Robert. ' I hope those other fellows don't worry him.' And in the holidays, true to his word, he got an invitation from the kindly old squire, his father, for his protege.

After much preparation, received at the hands of a careful mother, Anthony set out upon the long journey from his Highland home. That was the beginning of several visits inter changed between these two houses, in all respects so diverse. Anthony's father was a Scotch minister, of Puritan descent, of stern theology, and severe ethical code ; the mother, a shrewd and homely woman, loving her two children with strong but undemonstrative affection, and very ambitious for her son. The Mervyns' establishment formed a sharp contrast to the orderly regime of the Highland manse. There were six of them in family — boys and girls— a cheery, home-loving circle, blessed with the boon of sensible parents and happy circumstances, free from pecuniary cares. It was a new world to Anthony ; under the spell of its genial influence he grew less sensitive and absorbed ; the friendship, at first so unequal, gradually ripened into a real sympathetic camara derie, built up upon the ruins of a hero-worship which was no more.

The changing course of years served but to foster the intimacy, and to draw the thread of their lives together into almost parallel paths. Robert became a tutor in the University, where his student-days were spent, and thither, in due course, Anthony followed him. Years did not tend to lessen the difference between the two. The gift of life was essentially a boon to Robert Mervyn ; it had brought him success and honour able years ; he loved his work and his surroundings, and the greetings of his fellow-men. The subjective aspect of things did not greatly occupy his intelligence, and introspective analysis was not his forte ; but he was a man of widely human sympathies, liberal in thought, and earnest in action. His powerful frame and massive head, with its beaming dark eyes and ready smile, intensified the contrast between himself and his younger comrade.

At twenty, Anthony Graeme was slight and delicate in appearance, with a gravity of demeanour rarely disturbed. His intellect was marked by a restless and critical spirit of inquiry, with a strongly sceptical bias, which was not, how ever, characterized by much originality of thought or impulse. He weighed, analyzed, sifted all that came in his way, and — came to no conclusion. It was all tentative, experimental : enthusiasm was an unknown quantity in his system ; art and poetry, save when either could be made sub servient to his purpose, awoke in him no response. Such, in the opening years of his existence, were the character and purpose of Anthony Graeme, until the calm, unimpassioned nature began to stir beneath the touch of a strange new feeling, hitherto asleep. Winifred Mervyn was the youngest of the family, a merry -eyed, roguish creature who had played tricks upon the solemn little visitor in by gone days, and who had now grown into a comely maiden, endowed with a keen sense of the ridicu lous and an immoderate love of fun.

Anthony, once again in the long vacation the Mervyns' welcome guest, found this dark-eyed damsel by no means the least attractive feature in the pretty Devonshire home. Her very unconventionality had a charm for him. Unconsciously, he yielded to a new and softening influence which became apparent in his life. Why should he not marry her ? The question gradually became of portentous moment in his eyes. He knew very well that, at the present moment, such a course would be a folly, but the glamour of desire had come upon him, disturbing the usually practical and even tenor of his thought, and he saw himself shortly occupying an honoured and lucrative position, to which the companionship of Winifred Mervyn would give an additional charm. For the first time in his life Anthony forgot to analyze ; he lived on dreamily from day to day in a placid, unspoken content.

And at last, on one fair summer morning, it happened that he and the girl who had wrought this change in him found themselves alone upon the moor. The crisis of his youth had come to Anthony ; he turned and faced it with all his natural strength of determination, and fired with a joyous, irrational hope. Before them the level breadth of moorland stretched away towards the blue horizon in patches of brown and gray ; the air was astir with the myriad life of the summer ; earthward the buzz and murmur of living creatures made gentle music which floated upwards, mingling with the more articulate cadence of the lark's imperishable song. At that moment the shell of absolute tranquillity which had so long enveloped the young man's life fell away before his eyes ; he was nearer to the great heart of the universe than he had ever been before ; some faint dawning perception of the beautiful stole in upon his awakening soul and steeped him in its ecstasy.

Surely existence was in itself a joy. He rejoiced in his youth with a new-born sense of power and energy. And then he spoke, his words, usually so slow and prudent, falling from him in rapid utterance ; but not for long. An elfish laugh had broken in upon his speech with mocking jest and incredulity. A sudden sense of wounded pride and disappointment drove the words from his lips, and in a few moments he was standing alone again upon the moorland with only the memory of a dream. What evil genius had possessed him to speak at all ? What unutterable folly had he not com mitted ? A great bitterness filled his soul as he remained there in the same spot, motionless, with straining gaze fixed upon the clear blue ether, seeing nothing but the spectre of his own dismay, for Nature had drawn down her veil before his eyes for ever ; he stood as an alien and an outcast in the universal scheme of things.

He was hardly thinking, as he stood there — the swift emotions of one little hour had banished thought — and when some time later a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder and a familiar voice struck cheerily upon his ear, he looked up with a blank expression of inquiry. ' Why, Anthony, old chap, we have been hunt ing everywhere for you ! Why, what on earth is the matter ? What has happened, Anthony ?' But there was no answer, only a strange, sullen look of defiance in the lad's blue eyes. ' Dear old chap,' said Robert gently, with the bright, winning smile which was his own peculiar charm, ' do rouse up a bit and come with us. I have found a new fungus which I want to show you and Winifred ' ' Leave me alone !' said Anthony fiercely. And his friend, in speechless dismay and wonder, left him there alone.

Then the lad, awakening roughly to the practical issues of the situation, flung himself face down wards upon the moor. He began to think, and the remembrance of his school-days came back upon him. Had he not suffered then through his own fault and folly, and had he not resolved never so to err again ? And now a similar weakness had involved him in deeper suffering, and his whole soul rose up in desperate revolt. With cheek pressed hard against a mossy stone, he set him self to analyze the situation, and to fight out anew the old-world problem of the relations of pleasure and pain. He fought it out with resolute deter mination ; the ' taint of subjectivity' still clinging to him narrowed his grasp of the circumstances, and plunged him still deeper into the slough of egoism whence for a few brief moments he had emerged.

It seemed to him that he had strayed in a wrong direction after a fancied good, and experience had suddenly revealed his error. He had sought love, and had found pain ; he had fed his emotions on a foolish hope, and the result was bitterness, and strife, and failure. But he would do so no more. Love was a mistake and a folly ; emotion was the curse of the reasonable soul ; never again should such enchantment disturb the even balance of his intellectual sphere ; hence forth those pleasures should alone delight him which were as far as possible independent of his fellow-men. The self-centred, contemplative life was certainly the highest goal of humanity, as the ancient philosophy of Hellas had affirmed ; in it, therefore, he would live and be contented, apart from the stirring desires and interests of the ordinary world.