Thelma
Weel--what wi' her face an' the auld _bonde's_ talk, I reflectit that I
couldna be a meen-ister as meen-isters go,--an' that I must e'en follow
oot the Testament's teachings according to ma own way of thinkin'.
First, I fancied I'd rough it abroad as a meesionary--then I remembered
the savages at hame, an' decided to attend to them before onything else.
Then my aunt's siller came in handy--in short, I'm just gaun to live on
as wee a handfu' o' the filthy lucre as I can, an' lay oot the rest on
the heathens o' London. An' it's as well to do't while I'm alive to see
to't mysel'--for I've often observed that if ye leave your warld's gear
to the poor when ye're deed, just for the gude reason that ye canna tak
it to the grave wi' ye,--it'll melt in a wonderfu' way through the hands
o' the 'secretaries' an' 'distributors' o' the fund, till there's
naething left for those ye meant to benefit. Ye maunna think I'm gaun to
do ony preachin' business down at East-end,--there's too much o' that
an' tract-givin' already. The puir soul whose wee hoosie I've rented
hadna tasted bit nor sup for three days--till I came an' startled her
into a greetin' fit by takin' her rooms an' payin' her in advance--eh!
mon, ye'd have thought I was a saint frae heaven if ye'd heard her
blessin' me,--an' a gude curate had called on her just before and had
given her a tract to dine on. Ye see, I maun mak mysel' a _friend_ to
the folk first, before I can do them gude--I maun get to the heart o'
their troubles--an' troubles are plentiful in that quarter,--I maun live
among them, an' be ane o' them. I wad mind ye that Christ Himsel' gave
sympathy to begin with,--he did the preachin' afterwards."
"What a good fellow you are, Mac!" said Errington, suddenly seeing his
raw Scotch friend with the perverse accent, in quite a new and heroic
light.
Macfarlane actually blushed. "Nonsense, not a bit o't!" he declared
quite nervously. "It's just pure selfishness, after a'--for I'm simply
enjoyin' mysel' the hale day long. Last nicht, I found a wee cripple o'
a laddie sittin' by himsel' in the gutter, munchin' a potato skin. I just
took him,--he starin' an' blinkin' like an owl at me,--and carried him
into my room. There I gave him a plate o' barley broth, an' finished him
up wi' a hunk o' gingerbread. Ma certes! Ye should ha' seen the rascal
laugh. 'Twas better than lookin' at a play from a ten-guinea box on the
grand tier!"
"By Jove, Sandy, you're a brick!" cried Lorimer, laughing to hide a very
different emotion--"I had no idea you were that sort of chap."
"Nor had I," said Macfarlane quite simply--"I never fashed mysel' wi'
thinkin' o' ither folks troubles at a'--I never even took into
conseederation the meanin' o' the Testament teachings till--I saw your
leddy wife, Errington." He paused a moment, then added gravely--"Yes--and
I've aften fancied she maun be a real live angel,--an' I've sought
always to turn my hand to something useful and worth the doin',--ever
since I met her."
"I'll tell her so," said poor Philip, his heart aching for his lost love
as he spoke, though he smiled. "It will give her pleasure to hear it."
Macfarlane blushed again like any awkward schoolboy.
"Oh, I dinna ken aboot that!" he said hurriedly. "She's just a grand
woman anyway." Then, bethinking himself of another subject, he asked,
"Have you heard o' the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy lately?"
Errington and Lorimer replied in the negative.
Macfarlane laughed--his eyes twinkled. "It's evident ye never read
police reports," he said--"Talk o' misters,--he's a pretty specimen!
He's been hunted out o' his place in Yorkshire for carryin' on
love-affairs wi' the women o' his congregation. One day he locked
himsel' in the vestry wi' the new-married wife o' one o' his preencipal
supporters--an' he had a grand time of it--till the husband came an'
dragged him oot an' thrashed him soundly. Then he left the
neighborhood--an' just th' ither day--he turned up in Glasgie."
Macfarlane paused and laughed again.
"Well?" said Lorimer, with some interest--"Did you meet him there?"
"That did I--but no to speak to him--he was for too weel lookit after to
need my services," and Macfarlane rubbed his great hands together with
an irrepressible chuckle. "There was a crowd o' hootin' laddies round
him, an' he was callin' on the heavens to bear witness to his purity.
His hat was off--an' he had a black eye--an' a' his coat was covered wi'
mud, an' a policeman was embracin' him vera affectionately by th' arm.
He was in charge for drunken, disorderly, an' indecent conduct--an' the
magistrate cam' down pretty hard on him. The case proved to be
exceptionally outrageous--so he's sentenced to a month's imprisonment
an' hard labor. Hard labor! Eh, mon! but that's fine! Fancy him at
work--at real work for the first time in a' his days! Gude Lord! I can
see him at it!"
"So he's come to that!" and Errington shrugged his shoulders with weary
contempt. "I thought he would. His career as a minister is ended, that's
one comfort!"
"Don't be too sure o' that!" said Sandy cautiously. "There's always
America, ye ken. He can mak' a holy martyr o' himsel' there! He may gain
as muckle a reputation as Henry Ward Beecher--ye canna ever tell what may
happen--'tis a queer warld!"
"Queer, indeed!" assented Lorimer as they all rose and left the
restaurant together. "If our present existence is the result of a
fortuitous conglomeration of atoms,--I think the atoms ought to have
been more careful what they were about, that's all I can say!"
They reached the open street, where Macfarlane shook hands and went his
way, promising to call on Errington as soon as Thelma should be again at
home.
"He's turned out quite a fine fellow," said Lorimer, when he had gone.
"I should never have thought he had so much in him. He has become a
philanthropist."
"I fancy he's better than an ordinary philanthropist," replied Philip.
"Philanthropists often talk a great deal and do nothing."
"Like members of Parliament," suggested Lorimer, with a smile.
"Exactly so. By-the-by--I've resigned my candidateship."
"Resigned? Why?"
"Oh, I'm sick of the thing! One has to be such a humbug to secure one's
votes. I had a wretched time yesterday,--speechifying and trying to
rouse up clodhoppers to the interests of their country,--and all the
time my darling at home was alone, and breaking her heart about me! By
Jove! if I'd only known! When I came back this morning to all this
misery--I told Neville to send in my resignation. I repeated the same
thing to him the last thing before I left the house."
"But you might have waited a day or two," said Lorimer wonderingly.
"You're such a fellow of impulse, Phil--"
"Well, I can't help it. I'm tired of politics. I began with a will,
fancying that every member of the house had his country's interests at
heart,--not a bit of it! They're all for themselves--most of them, at
any rate--they're not even sincere in their efforts to do good to the
population. And it's all very well to stick up for the aristocracy; but
why, in Heaven's name, can't some of the wealthiest among them do as
much as our old Mac is doing, for the outcast and miserable poor? I see
some real usefulness and good in _his_ work, and I'll help him in it
with a will--when--when Thelma comes back."
Thus talking, the two friends reached the Garrick Club, where they found
Beau Lovelace in the reading-room, turning over some new books with the
curious smiling air of one who believes there can be nothing original
under the sun, and that all literature is mere repetition. He greeted
them cheerfully.
"Come out of here," he said. "Come into a place where we can talk.
There's an old fellow over there who's ready to murder any member who
even whispers. We won't excite his angry passions. You know we're all
literature-mongers here,--we've each got our own little particular stall
where we sort our goods--our mouldy oranges, sour apples, and
indigestible nuts,--and we polish them up to look tempting to the
public. It's a great business, and we can't bear to be looked at while
we're turning our apples with the best side outwards, and boiling our
oranges to make them swell and seem big! We like to do our humbug in
silence and alone."
He led the way into the smoking-room--and there heard with much surprise
and a great deal of concern the story of Thelma's flight.
"Ingenuous boy!" he said kindly, clapping Philip on the shoulder. "How
could you be such a fool as to think that repeated visits to Violet
Vere, no matter on what business, would not bring the dogs of scandal
yelping about your heels! I wonder you didn't see how you were
compromising yourself!"
"He never told _me_ a word about it," interposed Lorimer, "or else I
should have given him a bit of my mind on the subject."
"Of course!" agreed Lovelace. "And--excuse me--why the devil didn't you
let your secretary manage his domestic squabbles by himself?"
"He's very much broken down," said Errington. "A hopeless, frail,
disappointed man. I thought I could serve him--"
"I see!" and Beau's eyes were bent on him with a very friendly look.
"You're a first-rate fellow, Errington,--but you shouldn't fly off so
readily on the rapid wings of impulse. Now I suppose you want to shoot
Lennox--that can't be done--not in England at any rate."
"It can't be done at all, anywhere," said Lorimer gravely. "He's dead."
Beau Lovelace started back in amazement. "Dead! You don't say so! Why,
he was dining last night at the Criterion--I saw him there."
Briefly they related the sudden accident that had occurred, and
described its fatal result.
"He died horribly!" said Philip in a low voice. "I haven't got over it
yet. That evil, tortured face of his haunts me."
Lovelace was only slightly shocked. He had known Lennox's life too well,
and had despised it too thoroughly, to feel much regret now it was thus
abruptly ended.
"Rather an unpleasant exit for such a fellow," he remarked. "Not
aesthetic at all. And so you were going to castigate him?"
"Look!" and Philip showed him the horsewhip; "I've been carrying this
thing about all day,--I wish I could drop it in the streets; but if I
did, some one would be sure to pick it up and return it to me."
"If it were a purse containing bank-notes you could drop it with the
positive certainty of never seeing it again," laughed Beau. "Here, hand
it over!" and he possessed himself of it. "I'll keep it till you come
back. You leave for Norway to-night, then?"
"Yes. If I can. But it's the winter season--and there'll be all manner
of difficulties. I'm afraid it's no easy matter to reach the Altenfjord
at this time of year."
"Why not use your yacht, and be independent of obstacles?" suggested
Lovelace.
"She's under repairs, worse luck!" sighed Philip despondingly. "She
won't be in sailing condition for another month. No--I must take my
chance--that's all. It's possible I may overtake Thelma at Hull--that's
my great hope."
"Well, don't be down in the mouth about it, my boy!" said Beau
sympathetically. "It'll all come right, depend upon it! Your wife's a
sweet, gentle, noble creature,--and when once she knows all about the
miserable mistake that has arisen, I don't know which will be greatest,
her happiness or her penitence, for having misunderstood the position.
Now let's have some coffee."
He ordered this refreshment from a passing waiter, and as he did so, a
gentleman, with hands clasped behind his back, and a suave smile on his
countenance, bowed to him with marked and peculiar courtesy as he
sauntered on his way through the room. Beau returned the salute with
equal politeness.
"That's Whipper," he explained with a smile, when the gentleman was out
of earshot. "The best and most generous of men! He's a critic--all