LITMIR.BIZ

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scribe, kindling, as one who should propose a sentiment; “and the attack was gross.”

      Richard stood for half a minute digesting the answer; and then the god of fair play came uppermost in his heart, and, murmuring “Good morning,” he made his escape into the street.

      His horse was not hurried on the way home, and he was late for breakfast. The Squire was standing with his back to the fire in a state bordering on apoplexy, his fingers violently knitted under his coat-tails. As Richard came in, he opened and shut his mouth like a cod-fish, and his eyes protruded.

      “Have you seen that, sir?” he cried, nodding towards the paper.

      “Yes, sir,” said Richard.

      “Oh, you’ve read it, have you?”

      “Yes; I have read it,” replied Richard, looking at his foot.

      “Well,” demanded the old gentleman, “and what have you to say to it, sir?”

      “You seem to have been misinformed,” said Dick.

      “Well? What then? Is your mind so sterile, sir? Have you not a word of comment? no proposal?”

      “I fear, sir, you must apologise to Mr. Dalton. It would be more handsome, indeed it would be only just, and a free acknowledgment would go far – ” Richard paused, no language appearing delicate enough to suit the case.

      “That is a suggestion which should have come from me, sir,” roared the father. “It is out of place upon your lips. It is not the thought of a loyal son. Why, sir, if my father had been plunged in such deplorable circumstances, I should have thrashed the editor of that vile sheet within an inch of his life. I should have thrashed the man, sir. It would have been the action of an ass; but it would have shown that I had the blood and the natural affections of a man. Son? You are no son, no son of mine, sir!”

      “Sir!” said Dick.

      “I’ll tell you what you are, sir,” pursued the Squire. “You’re a Benthamite. I disown you. Your mother would have died for shame; there was no modern cant about your mother; she thought – she said to me, sir – I’m glad she’s in her grave, Dick Naseby. Misinformed! Misinformed, sir? Have you no loyalty, no spring, no natural affections? Are you clockwork, hey? Away! This is no place for you. Away!” (Waving his hands in the air.) “Go away! Leave me!”

      At this moment Dick beat a retreat in a disarray of nerves, a whistling and clamour of his own arteries, and in short in such a final bodily disorder as made him alike incapable of speech or hearing. And in the midst of all this turmoil, a sense of unpardonable injustice remained graven in his memory.

      CHAPTER III

      IN THE ADMIRAL’S NAME

      There was no return to the subject. Dick and his father were henceforth on terms of coldness. The upright old gentleman grew more upright when he met his son, buckrammed with immortal anger; he asked after Dick’s health, and discussed the weather and the crops with an appalling courtesy; his pronunciation was point-de-vice, his voice was distant, distinct, and sometimes almost trembling with suppressed indignation.

      As for Dick, it seemed to him as if his life had come abruptly to an end. He came out of his theories and clevernesses; his premature man-of-the-worldness, on which he had prided himself on his travels, “shrank like a thing ashamed” before this real sorrow. Pride, wounded honour, pity and respect tussled together daily in his heart; and now he was within an ace of throwing himself upon his father’s mercy, and now of slipping forth at night and coming back no more to Naseby House. He suffered from the sight of his father, nay, even from the neighbourhood of this familiar valley, where every corner had its legend, and he was besieged with memories of childhood. If he fled into a new land, and among none but strangers, he might escape his destiny, who knew? and begin again light-heartedly. From that chief peak of the hills, that now and then, like an uplifted finger, shone in an arrow of sunlight through the broken clouds, the shepherd in clear weather might perceive the shining of the sea. There, he thought, was hope. But his heart failed him when he saw the Squire; and he remained. His fate was not that of the voyager by sea and land; he was to travel in the spirit, and begin his journey sooner than he supposed.

      For it chanced one day that his walk led him into a portion of the uplands which was almost unknown to him. Scrambling through some rough woods, he came out upon a moorland reaching towards the hills. A few lofty Scots firs grew hard by upon a knoll; a clear fountain near the foot of the knoll sent up a miniature streamlet which meandered in the heather. A shower had just skimmed by, but now the sun shone brightly, and the air smelt of the pines and the grass. On a stone under the trees sat a young lady sketching. We have learned to think of women in a sort of symbolic transfiguration, based on clothes; and one of the readiest ways in which we conceive our mistress is as a composite thing, principally petticoats. But humanity has triumphed over clothes; the look, the touch of a dress has become alive; and the woman who stitched herself into these material integuments has now permeated right through and gone out to the tip of her skirt. It was only a black dress that caught Dick Naseby’s eye; but it took possession of his mind, and all other thoughts departed. He drew near, and the girl turned round. Her face startled him; it was a face he wanted; and he took it in at once like breathing air.

      “I beg your pardon,” he said, taking off his hat, “you are sketching.”

      “Oh!” she exclaimed, “for my own amusement. I despise the thing.”

      “Ten to one you do yourself injustice,” returned Dick. “Besides, it’s a freemasonry. I sketch myself, and you know what that implies.”

      “No. What?” she asked.

      “Two things,” he answered. “First, that I am no very difficult critic; and second, that I have a right to see your picture.”

      She covered the block with both her hands. “Oh, no,” she said; “I am ashamed.”

      “Indeed, I might give you a hint,” said Dick. “Although no artist myself, I have known many; in Paris I had many for friends, and used to prowl among studios.”

      “In Paris?” she cried, with a leap of light into her eyes. “Did you ever meet Mr. Van Tromp?”

      “I? Yes. Why, you’re not the Admiral’s daughter, are you?”

      “The Admiral? Do they call him that?” she cried. “Oh, how nice, how nice of them! It is the younger men who call him so, is it not?”

      “Yes,” said Dick, somewhat heavily.

      “You can understand now,” she said, with an unspeakable accent of contented and noble-minded pride, “why it is I do not choose to show my sketch. Van Tromp’s daughter! The Admiral’s daughter! I delight in that name. The Admiral! And so you know my father?”

      “Well,” said Dick, “I met him often; we were even intimate. He may have mentioned my name – Naseby.”

      “He writes so little. He is so busy, so devoted to his art! I have had a half wish,” she added, laughing, “that my father was a plainer man whom I could help – to whom I could be a credit; but only sometimes, you know, and with only half my heart. For a great painter! You have seen his works?”

      “I have seen some of them,” returned Dick; “they – they are very nice.”

      She laughed aloud. “Nice?” she repeated. “I see you don’t care much for art.”

      “Not much,” he admitted; “but I know that many people are glad to buy Mr. Van Tromp’s pictures.”

      “Call him the Admiral!” she cried. “It sounds kindly and familiar; and I like to think that he is appreciated and looked up to by young painters. He has not always been appreciated; he had a cruel life for many years; and when I think” – there were tears in her eyes – “when I think of that, I feel inclined to be a fool,” she broke off. “And now I shall go home. You have filled me full of happiness; for think, Mr. Naseby, I have not seen my father since I was six years old; and yet he is in my thoughts all day! You must come and call on me; my aunt will be delighted, I am sure; and then you will tell me all

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