Chapter 9

As the train drew up at the platform, one passenger only, a young man of about eight or nine and twenty, stepped out and stood for a few moments looking about him as if in some uncertainty. He was, in fact, debating with himself as to whether he would, after all, pay the chance visit he had gone there to make.

He had not gone by invitation other than was conveyed in the words: "Don't forget to look me up, if you chance to be anywhere in our neighbourhood, Meredith," spoken by a young fellow between whom and himself there had been some degree of intimacy at the University, as the two parted to go their different ways. The usual words, not generally estimated above their value; and the idea of acting upon them had not occurred to Allan Meredith until he found himself stranded for some hours at the junction, and, turning over the leaves of Bradshaw, came upon the name of Middleford, and remembered that it was Laurence Verschoyle's place. Finding that it was not more than five or six miles from the junction, and that the train was just starting, he had, on the impulse of the moment, taken a ticket and jumped in.

He stood for another moment or two still hesitating, little imagining the influence his decision would have on his future life, and unable to account for his irresolution--a state of mind so unusual with him. He presently shook himself free of the feeling, and decided, since he had got so far, that he would go on. He inquired the way of the porter, who had been curiously eyeing him, and, leaving his bag at the station, set forth for the Priory.

As he walked along the not very interesting country road, his thoughts reverted again to the man he was going to see. What had become of him since they had parted three years previously--Verschoyle, the first favourite of his set, who, with his good intellect, brilliant, witty, and versatile, had seemed capable of almost any mental feat? True, he had done nothing beyond give the impression that he could do a great deal if he chose; "and," thought Allan Meredith, "carry home a sheaf of bills, I expect. He ought to have been the moneyed man, and I the one obliged to keep to the grindstone, perhaps. I don't know; the very necessity for doing something may have given him the kind of impetus he needed--to say nothing of having to keep up the prestige of an ancient name, which must be some spur to a man."

He had reached the cross-roads, and was recalling the somewhat vague directions the porter had given him. "Straight on till you come to a finger-post that seems to point back to the station, but doesn't; take that road, sir--the Priory lane, it's called--until you come to a swing gate, leading into a field; cross that, keeping the footpath to the left, mind you, till you see a stile; get over that, go through the lodge gates right opposite--though it isn't a lodge now, and there ain't no gates, only posts--and up an avenue, where all the trees have been cut down, and there you are. The old place you'll see before you is the Priory."

Time and weather had effaced whatever information the sign-post had once afforded, and there was nothing for it but to take the direction in which it pointed.

He walked slowly on, speculating as to what sort of welcome he was likely to receive from Verschoyle's people. How little he knew about them. Frank to effusiveness in some directions, Verschoyle could be reticent enough in others, and rarely alluded to his family. That he was an only son, and, at his father's death, had inherited but the wreck of a once large property, Allan knew. He had also heard that the widowed mother was still living.

What was Verschoyle doing?--living upon the small property, farming the land; or had he, as he had sometimes talked of doing, gone in for literature, and carried his wares to the London market? At that time his wares had appeared to Allan Meredith likely to be worth a great deal; but, with his three years' added knowledge and experience, he was now inclined to estimate them somewhat differently. Verschoyle's intellect had, indeed, revealed itself chiefly by fitful flashes, brilliant and dazzling enough in their effect at the moment, but leaving no lasting impression of very high powers; and this, with his mercurial temperament, might render his success in the future doubtful.

Allan Meredith had proceeded some distance, and was beginning to think that he must have passed the swing gate without noticing it, when, on turning a bend in the lane, he saw a young girl walking in advance. He quickened his steps a little in order to overtake her, and make inquiry as to whether he was going in the right direction, noting, meanwhile, her general appearance so far as to infer that she was a farmer's daughter; or, rather, as he thought with a half smile, what a farmer's daughter is conventionally supposed to be like. Thick leather shoes, a plainly made gown of some light grey stuff, and short enough for country walking; a large brown straw hat, with neither flower nor feather to adorn it; and ungloved hands, in the one swinging by her side a strap buckled round two or three tattered-looking books. After a moment or two, he recognised something more. Taking note of the firm, light step, the carriage of the head, the perfect ease and freedom of the tall, graceful figure, he mentally ejaculated: "A lady; aye, and with some individuality of her own, too!"

His step had evidently not been heard on the soft, springy turf, and he was fast lessening the distance between them, some curiosity now mingling with his desire for information, when she turned out of the lane and passed through a swing gate. Here she paused for a moment, looking back, and their eyes met.

Yes; just such a face as he, a dreamer of dreams, had sometimes pictured to himself, but hardly hoped to see in the world of reality. A face too grave and troubled for her years--she looked barely eighteen--but how beautiful with its clear, steadfast eyes and general expression so simple, frank, girlish, and, at the same time, so intelligent and thoughtful! She was regarding him with a surprised, questioning look, which reminded him that he was gazing too pertinaciously.

A little consciously he lifted his hat and asked: "Can you direct me to the Priory?"

"The Priory?" she repeated in a low voice, her eyes fixed more intently upon him, and her hand tightening on the gate.

"Mr. Verschoyle's place. I was directed at the railway station, but do not feel sure that----"

"Whom do you want to see there?" she put in abruptly--almost ungraciously.

Nor was the tone assumed; this was not the girl to affect the brusquerie of unconventionality any more than the suavity of conventionality--it was rather that of one in deep anxiety, and unaccustomed to veil her thoughts.

"Mr. Verschoyle," he replied.

"On--business?"--the expression of dread, or whatever it was, deepening in her face, white now to the lips; as, on the impulse of the moment, she pressed back the gate as though to bar the way.

"No," he murmured. To have brought such a look to such a face!

She still eyed him with the same unquiet scrutiny, as though debating something in her mind; then hurriedly asked: "But why? Where do you come from?"

He might very well have asked what interest his relations with Verschoyle could have for her; but he felt that there was some grave reason underlying her anxiety, and was not inclined to take offence. Moreover, there was no necessity for mystery on his side; and, therefore, he might as well reply openly and directly to her question.

"From Grayminster. My name is Meredith."

"Are you a friend of his? Mr. Verschoyle is my brother"; still a little hesitatingly, and, as it were, on the defensive.

He raised his hat again. "We were at Wadham together, Miss Verschoyle, and, chancing to be in this neighbourhood, I thought I would look him up for half an hour's talk over old times."

The colour came into her cheeks and a smile to her beautiful lips, although both faded too quickly. "I remember your name now, Mr. Meredith. I have often heard my brother speak of you," moving aside for him to pass through the gate as she added: "If you will come with me, I will show you the way."

He bowed, passing quickly through to her side. His indecision had entirely vanished now, and a visit to the Priory seemed the most desirable thing in the world. To think of Verschoyle not mentioning that he had a sister--and such a sister!

"I fear I must have seemed terribly rude when you first spoke to me, Mr. Meredith," she said, looking up into his face with a smile, as they proceeded along the path that skirted the field. "The truth is, I was afraid--that is, I thought you were--someone else," flushing with the consciousness that she was saying more than she had meant to say.

He hastened to assure her that it had been quite evident no discourtesy was intended; mentally, the while, congratulating himself upon not being "someone else," then quietly changed the subject. "I have not seen your brother since we left Oxford, Miss Verschoyle. Your only brother, is he not?"

"Yes; and I am his only sister. My mother, Laurence, and I live at the Priory."

"Mrs. Verschoyle is well, I hope?" with suddenly developed interest in everything that concerned her.

"My mother is not worse, I am glad to say, than she has been the last five years. She is always an invalid." Had not Laurence told him that much?

"Was it anxiety about her mother's health that had brought that look to her face?" he was thinking. "No; it must be something more than, or at any rate different from, the kind of trouble which might spring from such a cause."

He murmured a few words of sympathy; her clear eyes turned to meet his, with how different an expression from that he had first seen in them! There was even a little girlish fun in them, as she asked:--

"What kind of place do you imagine the Priory to be, Mr. Meredith?"

"Well, one naturally attaches a little mediæval romance to the idea of a Priory"; adding, after a moment's reflection--there were certainly no signs of prosperity about her--"and it ought to be somewhat dilapidated, I suppose--in the picturesque stage of decay. It must be difficult to keep those old places in thorough repair."

"Very," she replied, her face shadowing. Then, with a side glance at him and again attempting a jesting tone, she went on: "Difficult, too, as it crumbles away, to find room for ancient retainers, old pictures, heirlooms, and the rest of it. Now prepare your mind, Mr. Meredith, when we turn this next bend--There is the Priory!"

He was prepared now to see some dilapidated old place, but hardly for that which met his view. The Priory! That desolate-looking remnant of a building, standing forlornly against the summer sky! Portions of the walls, some high, some low, and all of great thickness, still remained here and there, indicating the plan of the old Priory; but, at this distance, even these seemed to form part of the surrounding brickfields. By no effort of the imagination could the inhabited part of the building be supposed to be the abode of prosperous people. All was desolation and decay, without picturesqueness. Even the aspect of the grounds about it, which might once have lent their aid as a setting to the picture, seemed now only to accentuate the fallen fortunes of the house. Every acre of the ground about it, once of some extent and beautifully wooded, had been sold piecemeal--the greater part for brickfields. On the side they were approaching there seemed no redeeming feature in the dismal scene. No; not likely to be spacious reception-rooms, nor offices for an army of ancient retainers there! Courtesy itself was dumb!

"The Verschoyles have not much left to be proud of, you see, Mr. Meredith. We are not invaded by picnic parties and artists in search of the picturesque; but you see the worst of it from this side."

At that moment the figure of a man was seen emerging from some side entrance, and hurriedly making his way towards the ruins, in an opposite direction from that whence they were approaching.

"Laurence!"--hurriedly calling out, as he seemed to take no heed: "A friend to see you."

He turned; seemed to hesitate a moment; then came slowly towards them. As he drew nearer, and recognised who the visitor was, he hastened his steps, his whole face brightening. "Meredith!" he ejaculated, in a tone of relief. "Where have you sprung from? How are you, old fellow? Quite an age since I saw you last."

Allan Meredith grasped the hand extended towards him, all the more heartily, perhaps, because it was the hand of Miss Verschoyle's brother, as he explained, "I was at the junction, and being so near, thought I would look you up."

"Glad to see you, old fellow. You know this is my sister?"

"Yes; Miss Verschoyle was good enough to show me the way."

She turned to leave them with the words: "Dinner will be ready in an hour, Laurence."

"All right!"

Meredith had time now to notice that there was the same expression of dread in the brother's face he had seen in the sister's, but with a difference. In her face it was simply fear; in his it was this and something worse. Unlike his sister, looking straight at you in her trouble, his eyes were either downcast or averted: shifting uneasily from one object to another. The whole man was changed--it seemed demoralized--since Meredith had last seen him. His very figure had lost its elasticity, and become slouching and cowering.

"What have you been doing with yourself the last three years?" asked Meredith.

"Oh, all sorts of things; going to the bad, chiefly. Not much opportunity for doing that or anything else here, you may think," noticing the direction which the other's eyes took. "No; I have gone farther afield. Spent two years in London; tried my hand at all sorts of things, and failed. I am a failure all round."

"Nonsense, man; if you take that tone you may be."

"There is no other tone to take, now," moodily.

"Give up in that way, with your abilities, and the world before you!"

"It seems easy enough to you, I dare say. It did to me before I tried. There is no need for you to put your theories to the test, or you might find that men occasionally fail, even though they have hands and brains to work with. Some have to go down, and I'm one of them--that's all!"

"That is not Miss Verschoyle's creed, I think?"

"My sister! She has been telling you about the wretched teaching business, I suppose? She, at any rate, is not cursed with the family pride. I can't endure to see her go about giving lessons to the clodhoppers round here. Does no end of drudgery about the house, too."

It had come to this: the sister was working for both; and Verschoyle did not even see what his allowing her to do so meant! "What kind of pride was this?" thought Meredith, his tone showing, perhaps, a little of what was in his mind, as he gravely replied:--

"I can quite understand your objecting to that. You must let your friends use what interests they have to get you into something, Verschoyle."

"It would be of no use; at any rate, until----no necessity for going into that," moodily kicking a stone across the path. What he wanted just then was money, and this was not the man to whom he could turn for that, with his talk about setting to work. How could he say to this man that he had squandered the last remnant of the small property which had come to him; and that they were liable to be turned out of the old home, such as it was, at any moment now--his invalid mother, and the sister who had striven so hard to keep things together--unless he could obtain money to stave off matters, at any rate for a time? Pressure was now being brought to bear upon him, and threats used that, unless he paid off the sum of five hundred pounds--a sum there seemed no possibility of procuring--charges of fraudulent borrowing would be brought against him which he might find it difficult to combat in a court of law; and he was living from hour to hour in fear of arrest.

The Priory itself, and everything it contained of any value, to the last family portrait that hung upon the walls, had been either mortgaged or sold. If a few heirlooms, in the way of carved furniture--a cabinet or what not--had been allowed still to remain, it was to, as long as possible, keep the knowledge of the worst from his mother and sister.

He had, in the first few moments of their meeting, hurriedly speculated as to whether anything could be made out of the other's chance visit; but his hopes, if they amounted to that, had very quickly died as he remembered the past. There had been nothing large-handed or generous, according to his interpretation of the words, in Meredith. He had shown no inclination to part with his money without a _quid pro quô_, and lived as though he had not a pound to spare, instead of an income of some ten or twelve thousand a year. He had lost his father in his early boyhood, and the property, carefully nursed for him during a long minority, had largely increased.

That, like many who spend little upon themselves, Meredith could be even lavishly generous to others, and that there was none to whom one in need could so safely turn for help, Verschoyle did not suspect. He would have been not a little surprised could he have known that many a man had to thank Meredith for help given just at the right moment, and given so quietly that none but the two most concerned were in the secret. Meredith, in fact, cared nothing for the luxuries of life. Capable of doing his share in the world's work, steadily exercising his best faculties, and mentally and physically invigorated by the process, he was almost unable to comprehend a man such as Verschoyle had come to be.

"No; it would be of no use," summed up Verschoyle, eyeing him askance. "If I began to tell him about being in need of a few hundreds, he would want to know the whole story; and it would be no good trying to throw dust in his eyes. I wonder what he would do if I told him point-blank that I am liable to be hauled off to gaol at any moment for lack of five hundred pounds? Button up his pockets and scurry off without waiting to test the Priory hospitality, perhaps; or, worse still, begin to preach."

Seeing that the other was disinclined to be communicative, Meredith changed the subject, introducing any topic he could think of which he thought might interest him. In vain. Both felt that they were farther apart than when they had last met. There was, in fact, a barrier between them which neither knew how to remove. Engrossed in his own reflections, Verschoyle did not keep up the first semblance of bonhomie; a little, indeed, resenting Meredith's efforts in one direction, since he did not seem likely to make any in another of more importance.

Both men were equally relieved when a ruddy-cheeked servant-maid appeared at the door, and informed them that dinner would be ready in ten minutes now. Verschoyle led the way into the house, showed Meredith to a room, and then availed himself of the opportunity to say a few hurried words to his sister.

"Remember, Madge: there's no necessity for offering him a bed. Only a chance visit; that means nothing; and, therefore, dinner is quite enough. How have you contrived it?"

"Oh, pretty well. No need for pretence. He must know by the general aspect of things how it is with us."

"Well, give the mother a hint not to press the hospitalities."

"He would not care to remain if she did, I should think; there is nothing to attract him here"; adding, with a little surprise, "but I should have thought you would have been glad to welcome anyone, dull as you find it, Laurence."

"If I were not in such straits I might. You know I am at my wits' end just now; liable to be seized at any moment for that wretched debt."

He had given it the name of debt to her, and she had not the slightest suspicion that it was anything worse.

At that moment Allan Meredith entered the room, which not even the shabby furniture and appurtenances of the dinner table could render mean looking, with its noble proportions, oak ceiling, carved, high chimney-piece, and oriel window. There was not sufficient carpet even for the fashion--only, indeed, one large old Turkey rug; and that was spread in the recess of the window, where were, also, a finely-carved, high-backed, well cushioned chair, small work and writing tables, and two or three other last relics of better days, devoted to the use of the invalid; a gentle, suffering-looking woman, with traces of great beauty in her thin, worn face.

Meredith was introduced to her by her daughter, with a tone and look which showed she felt that she had still something to be proud of. Her pride in, and loving care of, her mother was, indeed, evident enough. Even his eyes could see how much more thought had been expended upon the invalid's toilet than upon her daughter's, of which the most that could be said was that it was neat as any village girl's might be.

Mrs. Verschoyle received the stranger with the simple courtesy of good breeding. There was no allusion by word or look to the altered fortunes of the house; no attempt at explanation; but a simple, earnest welcome which had its full effect upon Allan Meredith. He noticed, too, at the table that no apologies were made for the dinner, until the contemptuous shrug of the shoulders which Laurence gave as he glanced from the dish of curried mutton at one end to the remainder of the same joint that served as the roast at the other, called forth the reply:

"It is the best I could do, Laurence. There was no time to send into the town, and I hoped that Mr. Meredith might have sufficient appetite after his walk, perhaps, to be able to dine on what we have"; apologizing to her brother, as she had not felt it to be necessary to apologize to their guest.

"That am I, Miss Verschoyle," he said, determined that she should see no lack of appreciation on his side. "I have eaten only a biscuit since eight o'clock this morning"; going on to explain what had brought him to the neighbourhood. "I had got a little out of condition from overwork, and----"

"Overwork!" put in Laurence. "Of what kind?"

"Oh, you know I used to have a fancy for comparing evidence, and latterly I have plodded a little too closely in getting at some I wanted," speaking a little hesitatingly and awkwardly in his desire to avoid seeming to pose. "I needed change of scene and more out-of-door exercise. It happened that a final settlement had, just now, to be made about a small property my father had in this county, and I thought it would be an object, or at any rate give me the change of scene they talked about, to go and look after the sale myself."

"I did not know you owned property in this direction, Meredith."

"It was of very little importance; only a small farm; but there was some competition for it, on account of its joining Lord Drayltown's property. He wanted to take it into his park."

"Did you let him have it?"

"No; it was not so much a question of money with me, and the tenant who had held it so long, and done his best for the house and land, had, I considered, the first claim. He and I settled it together without much law. He is the possessor of the farm, and I have brought away a roll of notes; that's about all."

"I suppose a small farm does not fetch much in these days," said Verschoyle.

"This would have fetched more had I allowed them to bid one against the other; three or four instead of two thousand, I was told."

"Two thousand would seem a pretty good haul to some people. Notes, do you say?"

"Partly; and partly in cheques," replied Meredith, looking a little surprised.