COMING TO A STANDSTILL.
Mr. Harcourt Talboys in a prim, square, red-brick mansion, a mile of a little village called Grange Heath, in Dorsetshire. The prim, square, red-brick in the center of prim, square grounds, large to be called a park, too large to be called anything else—so neither the house the had any name, and the was Squire Talboys'.
Perhaps Mr. Harcourt Talboys was the last person in this world with it was possible to the homely, hearty, old English title of squire. He neither farmed. He had crimson, pink, or top-boots in his life. A wind and a cloudy sky were of to him, so long as they did not in any way with his own comforts; and he only for the of the as it the of rents which he for the upon his estate. He was a man of about fifty years of age, tall, straight, and angular, with a square, face, light eyes, and dark hair, from either ear across a crown, and thus to his some to that of a terrier—a sharp, uncompromising, hard-headed terrier—a not to be taken in by the dog-stealer who himself in his profession.
Nobody upon what is called the of Harcourt Talboys. He was like his own square-built, northern-fronted, house. There were no in his into which one for from his hard daylight. He was all daylight. He looked at in the same of sunlight, and would see no that might the of facts, them to beauty. I do not know if I what I mean, when I say that there were no in his character—that his mind ran in lines, to the right or the left to off their angles. With him right was right, and was wrong. He had in his merciless, life the idea that might the of or the of right. He had off his only son his only son had him, and he was to off his only at five minutes' notice for the same reason.
If this square-built, hard-headed man be of such a as vanity, he was of his hardness. He was of that of intellect, which him the that he was. He was of that which no of love or had been to from its purpose. He was of the negative of a nature which had the of the affections, or the which may be of that very weakness.
If he had his son's marriage, and the of his own making, himself and George, his had been more powerful than his regret, and had him to it. Indeed, as it at the that such a man as this have been vain, I have little that was the center from which all the lines in the of Mr. Harcourt Talboys. I say Junius Brutus was vain, and the of awe-stricken Rome when he ordered his son off for execution. Harcourt Talboys would have sent George from his presence the of the lictors, and his own agony. Heaven only how this hard man may have the himself and his only son, or how much the more terrible the might have been by that self-conceit which the torture.
"My son did me an by marrying the of a pauper," Mr. Talboys would answer to any one who had the to speak to him about George, "and from that hour I had no longer a son. I wish him no ill. He is to me. I am sorry for him, as I am sorry for his mother who died years ago. If you talk to me of him as you would talk of the dead, I shall be to you. If you speak of him as you would speak of the living, I must to listen."
I that Harcourt Talboys himself upon the Roman of this speech, and that he would like to have a toga, and himself in its folds, as he his upon George's intercessor. George in his own person any to his father's verdict. He his father well to know that the case was hopeless.
"If I to him, he will my with the inside, and it with my name and the date of its arrival," the man would say, "and call in the house to that it had not moved him to one or one thought. He will to his to his day. I say, if the truth was known, he is that his only son has him and him the opportunity of his Roman virtues."
George had answered his wife thus when she and her father had him to ask from Harcourt Talboys.
"No my darling," he would say, conclusively. "It's very hard, perhaps, to be poor, but we will it. We won't go with to the father, and ask him to give us food and shelter, only to be in long, Johnsonian sentences, and a example for the of the neighborhood. No, my one; it is easy to starve, but it is difficult to stoop."
Perhaps Mrs. George did not agree very to the of these two propositions. She had no great for starving, and she when the bottles of champagne, with Cliquot's and Moet's upon their corks, were for ale, by a from the nearest beer-shop. George had been to his own and a helping hand with that of his wife, who had no idea of her or a secret.
"I were always rich," she used to say, peevishly. "Girls always want to dragoons; and always want to dragoons; and hotel-keepers to dragoons; and to be by dragoons. Who have that a would drink ale, bird's-eye tobacco, and let his wife wear a bonnet?"
If there were any selfish in such speeches as these, George Talboys had it. He had loved and in his wife from the to the last hour of his married life. The love that is not is only a after all; for when Cupid takes the from his it is a that he is preparing to spread his for a flight. George the hour in which he had by Lieutenant Maldon's daughter, and she might have changed, the image which had him then, and unchanging, her in his heart.
Robert Audley left Southampton by a train which started daybreak, and Wareham station early in the day. He a vehicle at Wareham to take him over to Grange Heath.
The had upon the ground, and the day was clear and frosty, every object in the in against the cold sky. The horses' upon the ice-bound road, the iron shoes on the ground that was almost as iron as themselves. The day some to the man to Robert was going. Like him, it was sharp, frigid, and uncompromising: like him, it was to and to the power of sunshine. It would accept no but such January as would light up the bleak, country without it; and thus Harcourt Talboys, who took the of every truth, and to the world that there had been, and be, any other side.
Robert Audley's him as the vehicle stopped at a stern-looking fence, and the driver to open a iron gate which with a noise and was by a great iron tooth, planted in the ground, which at the of the gate as if it wanted to bite.
This iron gate opened into a of straight-limbed fir-trees, that in and their winter in the very teeth of the breeze. A carriage-drive ran these trees across a lawn to a square red-brick mansion, every window of which and in the January as if it had been that moment by some housemaid.
I don't know Junius Brutus was a in his own house, but among other of his Roman virtues, Mr. Talboys owned an to disorder, and was the terror of every in his establishment.
The and the of steps in the sunlight, the garden walks were so that they gave a sandy, to the place, one of red hair. The lawn was with dark, of a which in that looked like problems in algebra; and the of steps leading to the square half-glass door of the was with dark-green the same evergreens.
"If the man is anything like his house," Robert thought, "I don't wonder that George and he parted."
At the end of a the carriage-drive a (it would have been to a in any other man's grounds) and ran the of the house. The at the steps, them, and a brass-handled bell, which to its socket, with an angry, snap, as if it had been by the touch of the man's hand.
A man in black and a jacket, which was fresh from the hands of the laundress, opened the door. Mr. Talboys was at home. Would the send in his card?
Robert waited in the while his card was taken to the master of the house.
The was large and lofty, with stone. The panels of the with the same which was on every object and without the red-bricked mansion.
Some people are so weak-minded as to affect pictures and statues. Mr. Harcourt Talboys was too practical to in any fancies. A and an umbrella-stand were the only of his entrance-hall.
Robert Audley looked at these while his name was being submitted to George's father.
The linen-jacketed returned presently. He was a square, pale-faced man of almost forty, and had the of having every to which is subject.
"If you will step this way, sir," he said, "Mr. Talboys will see you, although he is at breakfast. He me to that in Dorsetshire was with his hour."
This was as a to Mr. Robert Audley. It had, however, very small upon the barrister. He his in of himself and else.
"I don't to Dorsetshire," he said. "Mr. Talboys might have that, if he'd done me the to his powers of ratiocination. Drive on, my friend."
The man looked at Robert Audley with a of horror, and opening one of the doors, the way into a large dining-room with the of an which is meant to be ate in, but in; and at top of a table which would have eighteen Robert Mr. Harcourt Talboys.
Mr. Talboys was in a dressing-gown of cloth, about his with a girdle. It was a looking garment, and was the nearest approach to the to be the range of modern costume. He a waistcoat, a cravat, and a shirt collar. The cold of his was almost the same as the cold of his eyes, and the of his was the of his complexion.
Robert Audley had not to Harcourt Talboys at all like George in his manners or disposition, but he had to see some family the father and the son. There was none. It would have been to any one more George than the author of his existence. Robert at the he from Mr. Talboys when he saw the of it. Such a man have otherwise.
There was a second person in the large room, toward Robert after Harcourt Talboys, how to proceed. This second person was a lady, who sat at the last of a range of four windows, with some needlework, the which is called plain work, and with a large basket, with and flannels, by her.
The whole length of the room this lady from Robert, but he see that she was young, and that she was like George Talboys.
"His sister!" he in that one moment, which he to away from the master of the house toward the female at the window. "His sister, no doubt. He was of her, I know. Surely, she is not as to his fate?"
The lady rose from her seat, her work, which was large and awkward, from her as she did so, and a of cotton, which rolled away upon the the of the Turkey carpet.
"Sit down, Clara," said the hard voice of Mr. Talboys.
That did not appear to address his daughter, had his been toward her when she rose. It as if he had it by some social to himself; it seemed, as his were to observe, as if he had in the of his head.
"Sit down, Clara," he repeated, "and keep your in your workbox."
The lady at this reproof, and to look for the cotton. Mr. Robert Audley, who was by the presence of the master of the house, on the carpet, the reel, and it to its owner; Harcourt Talboys at the with an of astonishment.
"Perhaps, Mr. ——, Mr. Robert Audley!" he said, looking at the card which he his and thumb, "perhaps when you have looking for of cotton, you will be good to tell me to what I the of this visit?"
He his well-shaped hand with a which might have been in the John Kemble; and the servant, the gesture, a red-morocco chair.
The was so slow and solemn, that Robert had at that something was about to be done; but the truth upon him at last, and he into the chair.
"You may remain, Wilson," said Mr. Talboys, as the was about to withdraw; "Mr. Audley would like coffee."
Robert had nothing that morning, but he at the long of table-cloth, the tea and coffee equipage, the splendor, and the very little of any entertainment, and he Mr. Talboys' invitation.
"Mr. Audley will not take coffee, Wilson," said the master of the house. "You may go."
The man and retired, opening and the door as as if he were taking a in doing it at all, or as if the respect to Mr. Talboys his walking through the like a in a German story.
Mr. Harcourt Talboys sat with his on his visitor, his on the red-morocco arms of his chair, and his finger-tips joined. It was the in which, had he been Junius Brutus, he would have sat at the trial of his son. Had Robert Audley been easily to be embarrassed, Mr. Talboys might have succeeded in making him so: as he would have sat with perfect upon an open his cigar, he was not at all upon this occasion. The father's a very small thing to him when he of the possible of the son's disappearance.
"I to you some time since, Mr. Talboys," he said quietly, when he saw that he was to open the conversation.
Harcourt Talboys bowed. He that it was of his son that Robert came to speak. Heaven that his was the of a man, than the which Robert it. He across his finger-tips at his visitor. The trial had begun, and Junius Brutus was himself.
"I your communication, Mr. Audley," he said. "It is among other letters: it was answered."
"That your son."
There was a little noise at the window where the lady sat, as Robert said this: he looked at her almost instantaneously, but she did not to have stirred. She was not working, but she was perfectly quiet.
"She's as as her father, I expect, though she is like George," Mr. Audley.
"If your the person who was once my son, perhaps, sir," said Harcourt Talboys, "I must ask you to that I have no longer a son."
"You have no to me of that, Mr. Talboys," answered Robert, gravely; "I it only too well. I have to that you have no longer a son. I have to think that he is dead."
It may be that Mr. Talboys' to a of as Robert said this; but he only his and his gently.
"No," he said, "no, I you, no."
"I that George Talboys died in the month of September."
The girl who had been as Clara, sat with work upon her lap, and her hands together on her work, and when Robert spoke of his friend's death. He not see her face, for she was seated at some from him, and with her to the window.
"No, no, I you," Mr. Talboys, "you labor under a sad mistake."
"You that I am in your son dead?" asked Robert.
"Most certainly," Mr. Talboys, with a smile, of the of wisdom. "Most certainly, my dear sir. The was a very trick, no doubt, but it was not to me. You must permit me to this a little than you, Mr. Audley, and you must also permit me to you of three things. In the place, your friend is not dead. In the second place, he is out of the way for the purpose of me, of with my as a—as a man who was once his father, and of my forgiveness. In the third place, he will not obtain that forgiveness, long he may to keep out of the way; and he would therefore act by returning to his ordinary and without delay."
"Then you him to himself from all who know him, for the purpose of—"
"For the purpose of me," Mr. Talboys, who, taking a upon his own vanity, every event in life from that one center, and to look at it from any other point of view. "For the purpose of me. He the of my character; to a he was with me, and that all at my decision, or moving me from the purpose of my life, would fail. He therefore means; he has out of the way in order to me, and when after time he that he has not me, he will return to his old haunts. When he so," said Mr. Talboys, to sublimity, "I will him. Yes, sir, I will him. I shall say to him: You have to me, and I have you that I am not to be deceived; you have to me, and I have you that I am not to be frightened; you did not in my generosity, I will you that I can be generous."
Harcourt Talboys delivered himself of these superb with a manner, that they had been long ago.
Robert Audley as he them.
"Heaven that you may have an opportunity of saying this to your son, sir," he answered sadly. "I am very to that you are to him, but I that you will see him again upon this earth. I have a great to say to you upon this—this sad subject, Mr. Talboys; but I would say it to you alone," he added, at the lady in the window.
"My my ideas upon this subject, Mr. Audley," said Harcourt Talboys; "there is no why she should not all you have to say. Miss Clara Talboys, Mr. Robert Audley," he added, his hand majestically.
The lady her in of Robert's bow.
"Let her it," he thought. "If she has so little as to no upon such a subject, let her the I have to tell."
There was a minutes' pause, which Robert took some papers from his pocket; among them the document which he had after George's disappearance.
"I shall all your attention, Mr. Talboys," he said, "for that which I have to to you is of a very painful nature. Your son was my very dear friend—dear to me for many reasons. Perhaps most of all dear, I had him and been with him through the great trouble of his life; and he alone in the world—cast off by you who should have been his best friend, of the only woman he had loved."
"The of a pauper," Mr. Talboys remarked, parenthetically.
"Had he died in his bed, as I sometimes he would," Robert Audley, "of a heart, I should have for him very sincerely, though I had closed his with my own hands, and had him in his resting-place. I should have for my old schoolfellow, and for the who had been dear to me. But this would have been a very small one to that which I now, believing, as I do only too firmly, that my friend has been murdered."
"Murdered!"
The father and the word. The father's to a of hue; the daughter's upon her hands, and was again the interview.
"Mr. Audley, you are mad!" Harcourt Talboys; "you are mad, or else you are by your friend to play upon my feelings. I against this as a conspiracy, and I—I my of the person who was once my son!"
He was himself again as he said this. The had been a one, but its had been momentary.
"It is from my wish to you unnecessarily, sir," answered Robert. "Heaven that you may be right and I wrong. I pray for it, but I cannot think it—I cannot it. I come to you for advice. I will to you and the which have my suspicions. If you say those are and I am to submit to your judgment. I will England; and I my search for the wanting to—to my fears. If you say go on, I will go on."
Nothing be more to the of Mr. Harcourt Talboys than this appeal. He himself to to all that Robert might have to say, and to him to the of his power.
He some upon this last assurance, the value of his with an that was as as his itself.
Robert Audley his chair nearer to that of Mr. Talboys, and a account of all that had to George from the time of his in England to the hour of his disappearance, as well as all that had since his in any way upon that particular subject. Harcourt Talboys with attention, now and then the to ask some of question. Clara Talboys once her from her hands.
The hands of the clock pointed to a past eleven when Robert his story. The clock twelve as he finished.
He had the names of his uncle and his uncle's wife in the in which they had been concerned.
"Now, sir," he said, when the had been told, "I your decision. You have my for to this terrible conclusion. In what manner do these you?"
"They don't in any way turn me from my previous opinion," answered Mr. Harcourt Talboys, with the of an man. "I still think, as I before, that my son is alive, and that his is a against myself. I to the of that conspiracy."
"And you tell me to stop?" asked Robert, solemnly.
"I tell you only this: If you go on, you go on for your own satisfaction, not for mine. I see nothing in what you have told me to me for the safety of—your friend."
"So be it, then!" Robert, suddenly; "from this moment I wash my hands of this business. From this moment the purpose of my life shall be to it."
He rose as he spoke, and took his from the table on which he had it. He looked at Clara Talboys. Her had since she had her upon her hands. "Good morning, Mr. Talboys," he said, gravely. "God that you are right. God that I am wrong. But I a day will come when you will have to your the of your only son."
He to Mr. Harcourt Talboys and to the lady, was by her hands.
He for a moment looking at Miss Talboys, that she would look up, that she would make some sign, or some to him.
Mr. Talboys for the servant, who Robert off to the hall-door with the of manner which would have been in perfect had he been leading him to execution.
"She is like her father," Mr. Audley, as he for the last time at the head. "Poor George, you had need of one friend in this world, for you have had very to love you."
