The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 21

“You wrote the article in this morning’s paper?” he demanded.

“You are young Mr. Naseby? I published it,” replied the editor, rising.

“My father is an old man,” said Richard; and then with an outburst, “And a damned sight finer fellow than either you or Dalton!” He stopped and swallowed; he was determined that all should go with regularity. “I have but one question to put to you, sir,” he resumed. “Granted that my father was misinformed, would it not have been more decent to withhold the letter and communicate with him in private?”

“Believe me,” returned the editor, “that alternative was not open to me. Mr. Naseby told me in a note that he had sent his letter to three other journals, and in fact threatened me with what he called exposure if I kept it back from mine. I am really concerned at what has happened; I sympathise and approve of your emotion, young gentleman; but the attack on Mr. Dalton was gross, very gross, and I had no choice but to offer him my columns to reply. Party has its duties, sir,” added the 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 – all about my father, will you not?”

Dick helped her to get her sketching traps together; and when all was ready, she gave Dick her hand and a frank return of pressure.

“You are my father’s friend,” she said; “we shall be great friends too. You must come and see me soon.”

Then she was gone down the hillside at a run; and Dick stood by himself in a state of some bewilderment and even distress. There were elements of laughter in the business; but the black dress, and the face that belonged to it, and the hand that he had held in his, inclined him to a serious view. What was he, under the circumstances, called upon to do? Perhaps to avoid the girl? Well, he would think about that. Perhaps to break the truth to her? Why, ten to one, such was her infatuation, he would fail. Perhaps to keep up the illusion, to colour the raw facts; to help her to false ideas, while yet not plainly stating falsehoods? Well, he would see about that; he would also see about avoiding the girl. He saw about this last so well, that the next afternoon beheld him on his way to visit her.

In the meantime the girl had gone straight home, light as a bird, tremulous with joy, to the little cottage where she lived alone with a maiden aunt; and to that lady, a grim, sixty years old Scotswoman, with a nodding head, communicated news of her encounter and invitation.

“A friend of his?” cried the aunt. “What like is he? What did ye say was his name?”

She was dead silent, and stared at the old woman darkling. Then very slowly, “I said he was my father’s friend; I have invited him to my house, and come he shall,” she said; and with that she walked off to her room, where she sat staring at the wall all the evening. Miss M’Glashan, for that was the aunt’s name, read a large bible in the kitchen with some of the joys of martyrdom.

It was perhaps half-past three when Dick presented himself, rather scrupulously dressed, before the cottage door; he knocked, and a voice bade him enter. The kitchen, which opened directly off the garden, was somewhat darkened by foliage; but he could see her as she approached from the far end to meet him. This second sight of her surprised him. Her strong black brows spoke of temper easily aroused and hard to quiet; her mouth was small, nervous, and weak; there was something dangerous and sulky underlying, in her nature, much that was honest, compassionate, and even noble.

“My father’s name,” she said, “has made you very welcome.”

And she gave him her hand with a sort of curtsey. It was a pretty greeting, although somewhat mannered; and Dick felt himself among the gods. She led him through the kitchen to a parlour, and presented him to Miss M’Glashan.