“A letter,—a long letter from Alfred,” said Layton's wife, as she knocked at his door on the following morning. “It has been lying for four days at the office in Coleraine. Only think, Herbert, and I fretting and fretting over his silence.”

“Is he well?” asked he, half gruffly.

“Quite well, and so happy; in the midst of kind friends, and enjoying himself, as he says he thought impossible when absent from his home. Pray read it, Herbert. It will do you infinite good to see how cheerfully he writes.”

“No, no; it is enough that I know the boy is well. As to being happy, it is the affair of an hour, or a day, with the luckiest of us.”

“There are so many kind messages to you, and so many anxious inquiries about the laboratory. But you must read them. And then there is a bank order he insists upon your having. Poor fellow! the first money he has ever earned—”

“How much is it, Grace?” asked he, eagerly.

“It is for twenty pounds, Herbert,” said she, in a faltering accent, which, even weak as it was, vibrated with something like reproach.

“Never could it be more welcome,” said he, carelessly. “It was thoughtful, too, of the boy; just as if he had known all that has happened here.” And with this he opened the door, taking hurriedly from her hand the letter and the money-order. “No; not this. I do not want his letter,” said he, handing it back to her, while he muttered over the lines of the bank check. “Why did he not say,—or order?” said he, half angrily. “This necessitates my going to Coleraine myself to receive it. It seems that I was overrating his thoughtfulness, after all.”

“Oh, Herbert!” said she, pressing both her hands over her heart, as though an acute pain shot through it.

“I meant what I have said,” said he, roughly; “he might have bethought him what are twelve weary miles of road to one like me, as well as that my clothes are not such as suit appearance in the streets of a town. It was not thoughtful of him, Grace.”

“The poor dear boy's first few pounds; all that he could call his own—”

“I know that,” broke he in, harshly; “and in what other way could they have afforded him a tithe of the pleasure? It was a wise selfishness suggested the act; that is all you can say of it.”

“Oh, but let me read you how gracefully and delicately he has done it, Herbert; how mindful he was not to wound one sentiment—”

“'Pay to Herbert Layton, Esquire,'” read he, half aloud, and not heeding her speech. “He ought to have added 'M. D.'; it is as 'the doctor' they should know me down here. Well, it has come right opportunely, at all events. I believe I was the owner of some fifteen shillings in the world.”

A deep, tremulous sigh was all her answer.

“Fifteen and ninepence,” muttered he, as he counted over the pieces in his hand. “Great must be the self-reliance of the man who, with such a sum for all his worldly wealth, insults his patrons and resigns his office,—eh, Grace?”

There was in his tone a blended mockery and seriousness that he often used, and which, by the impossibility of answering, always distressed her greatly.

“It is clear you do not think so,” said he, harshly. “It is evident you take the vulgar view of the incident, and condemn the act as one dictated by ill temper and mere resentment. The world is always more merciful than one's own fireside, and the world will justify me.”

“When you have satisfied your own conscience, Herbert—”

“I'll take good care to make no such appeal,” broke he in. “Besides,” added he, with a bitter levity, “men like myself have not one, but fifty consciences. Their after-dinner conscience is not their waking one next morning; their conscience in the turmoil and bustle of life is not their conscience as they lie out there on the white rocks, listening to the lazy plash of the waves. Not to say that, after forty, every man's conscience grows casuistical,—somewhat the worse for wear, like himself.”

It was one of Layton's pastimes to sport thus with the feelings of his poor wife, uttering at random sentiments that he well knew must pain her deeply; and there were days when this spirit of annoyance overbore his reason and mastered all his self-control.

“What pleasant little sketches Alfred gives of his travelling acquaintances!” said she, opening the letter, and almost asking to be invited to read it.

“These things have no value from one as untried in life as he is,” broke he in, rudely. “One only learns to decipher character by the time the world has become very wearisome. Does he tell you how he likes his task? How does he fancy bear-leading?”

“He praises Lord Agincourt very much. He calls him a fine, generous boy, with many most attaching qualities.”

“They are nearly all such in that class in very early life, but, as Swift says, the world is full of promising princes and bad kings.”

“Lord Agincourt would appear to be very much attached to Alfred.”

“So much the worse; such friendships interfere with the work of tuition, and they never endure after it is over. To be sure, now and then a tutor is remembered, and if he has shown himself discreet about his pupil's misdeeds, reserved as to his shortcomings, and only moderately rebukeful as to his faults, such virtue is often rewarded with a bishopric. What have we here, Grace? Is not that a row-boat rounding the point yonder, and heading into the bay?”

So rare an event might well have caused astonishment; for since the place had been deserted by the fishermen, the landlocked waters of the little cove had never seen the track of a boat.

“Who can it be?” continued he; “I see a round hat in the stern-sheets. Look, he is pointing where they are to land him, quite close to our door here.” Stimulated by an irrepressible curiosity, Herbert arose and walked out; but scarcely had he reached the strand when he was met by Colonel Karstairs.

“I could n't trust my gouty ankles down that precipice, doctor,” cried he out; “and although anything but a good sailor, I came round here by water. What a charming spot you have here, when one does reach it!”

“It is pretty; and it is better,—it is solitary,” said Layton, coldly; for somehow he could not avoid connecting the Colonel with a scene very painful to his memory.

“I don't think I ever saw anything more beautiful,” said Karstairs, as he gazed around him. “The wild, fantastic outlines of those rocks, the variegated colors of the heath blossom, the golden strand, and the cottage itself, make up a fairy scene.”

“Let me show you the interior, though it dispel the illusion,” said Layton, as he moved towards the door.

“I hope my visit is not inconvenient,” said Karstairs, as he entered and took a seat; “and I hope, besides, when you hear the object of it, you will, at least, forgive me.” He waited for a reply of some sort, but Layton only bowed his head stiffly, and suffered him to continue: “I am a sorry diplomatist, doctor, and have not the vaguest idea of how to approach a point of any difficulty; but what brought me here this morning was simply this: you sent that letter”—here he drew one from his pocket, and handed it to Layton—“to our friend the rector.”

“Yes; it is my hand, and I left it myself at the parsonage.”

“Well, now, Millar has shown it to no one but myself,—indeed, he placed it in my hands after reading it; consequently, its contents are unknown save to our two selves; there can, therefore, be no difficulty in your withdrawing it. You must see that the terms you have employed towards him are not such as—are not civil, I mean; in fact, they are not fair. He is an excellent fellow, and sincerely your friend, besides. Now, don't let a bit of temper get the mastery over better feeling, nor do not, out of a momentary pique, throw up your appointment. None of us, nowadays, can afford to quarrel with his bread-and-butter; and though you are certainly clever enough and skilful enough not to regard such an humble place as this, yet, remember, you had a score of competitors when you looked for it. Not to say that we all only desire to know how to be of service to you, to make your residence amongst us agreeable, and—and all that sort of thing, which you can understand far better than I can say it!” Nor, to do the worthy Colonel justice, was this a very difficult matter, seeing that, in his extreme confusion and embarrassment, he stammered and stuttered at every word, while, to increase his difficulty, the manner of Layton was cold and almost stately.

“Am I to suppose, sir,” said he, at length, “that you are here on the part of Dr. Millar?”

“No, no; nothing of the kind. Millar knows, of course, the step I have taken; perhaps he concurs in it; indeed, I 'm sure he does. He is your sincere well-wisher, doctor,—a man who really wants to be your friend.”

“Too much honor,” said Layton, haughtily. “Not to say how arduous the task of him who would protect a man against himself; and such I opine to be the assumed object here.”

“I 'm sure, if I had as much as suspected how you would have taken my interference,” said the Colonel, more hurt by Layton's tone than by his mere words, “I 'd have spared myself my mission.”

“You had no right to have anticipated it, sir. It was very natural for you to augur favorably of any intervention by a colonel,—a C.B., with other glorious distinctions—in regard to a poor dispensary doctor, plodding the world wearily, with a salary less than a butler's. You had only to look down the cliff, and see the humble cottage where he lived, to calculate what amount of resistance could such a man offer to any proposal that promised him bread.”

“I must say, I wish you would not mistake me,” broke in Karstairs, with warmth.

“I am not stating anything with reference to you, sir; only with respect to those judgments the world at large would pronounce upon me.”

“Am I to conclude, then,” said the Colonel, rising, and evidently in anger,—“am I to conclude, then, that this is your deliberate act, that you wish to abide by this letter, that you see nothing to recall nor retract in its contents?”

Layton bowed an assent

“This is too bad—too bad,” muttered the Colonel, as he fumbled for his gloves, and dropped them twice over in his confusion. “I know well enough where the sting lies: you are angry with Ogden; you suspect that he has been meddling. Well, it's no affair of mine; you are the best judge. Not but a little prudence might have shown you that Ogden was a dangerous man to offend,—a very dangerous man; but of course you know best. I have only to ask pardon for obtruding my advice unasked, a stupid act always, but I 'm right sorry for it.”

“I am very grateful for the intention, sir,” said Layton, with dignity.

“That 's all I can claim,” muttered the Colonel, whose confusion increased every moment. “It was a fool's errand, and ends as it ought. Good-bye!”

Layton arose and opened the door with a respectful air.

Karstairs offered his hand, and, as he grasped the other's warmly, said, “I wish you would let me talk this over with your wife, Layton.”

The doctor drew haughtily back, and, with a cold stare of astonishment, said: “I have addressed you by your title, sir; I have mine. At all events, there is nothing in your station nor in my own to warrant this familiarity.”

“You are quite right,—perfectly right,—and I ask pardon.”

It was a liberty never to be repeated, and the bronzed weatherbeaten face of the old soldier became crimson with shame as he bowed deeply and passed out.

Layton walked punctiliously at his side till he reached the boat, neither uttering a word; and thus they parted. Layton stood for a moment gazing after the boat. Perhaps he thought that Karstairs would turn his head again towards the shore; perhaps—who knows?—he hoped it. At all events, the old Colonel never once looked back, and the boat soon rounded the point and was lost to view.

There are men so combative in their natures that their highest enjoyment is derived from conflict with the world,—men whose self-esteem is never developed till they see themselves attacking or attacked. Layton was one of this unhappy number, and it was with a sort of bastard heroism that he strolled back to the cottage, proud in the thought of how he stood, alone and friendless, undeterred by the enmity of men of a certain influence and station.

He was soon in his laboratory and at work, the reaction imparting a great impulse to his energy. He set to work with unwonted vigor and determination. Chemical investigation has its good and evil days,—its periods when all goes well, experiments succeed, tests answer, and results respond to what was looked for; and others when disturbing causes intervene, gases escape, and retorts smash. This was one of the former; and the subtle essence long sought after by Layton, so eagerly desired, and half despaired of, seemed at last almost within reach. A certain salt, an ingredient very difficult of preparation, was, however, wanting to his further progress, and it was necessary that he should provide himself with it ere he advanced any further. To obtain this without any adulterating admixture and in all purity was essential to success; and he determined to set out immediately for Dublin, where he could himself assist in its preparation.

“What good luck it was, Grace,” said he, as he entered the room where she sat awaiting dinner for him,—“what good luck that the boy should have sent us this money! I must go up to Dublin to-morrow, and without it I must have given up the journey.”

“To Dublin!” said she, in a half-frightened voice, for she dreaded—not without reason—the temptations he would be exposed to when accidentally lifted above his usual poverty.

“Ay, girl; I want a certain 'cyanuret' of which you have never heard, nor can help me to any knowledge of, but which a Dublin chemist that I know of will assist me to procure; and with this salt I purpose to make myself a name and reputation that even Mr. Ogden will not dare to dispute. I shall, I hope, have discovered what will render disease painless, and deprive operation of all its old terrors. If my calculations be just, a new era will dawn upon medical science, and the physician come to the sick man as a true comforter. My discovery, too, is no empyric accident for which I can give no reason, nor assign no cause, but the result of patient investigation, based upon true knowledge. My appeal will be to the men of science, not to popular judgments. I ask no favor; I seek no patronage. Herbert Layton would be little likely to find either; but we shall see if the name will not soar above both favor and patronage, and rank with the great discoverers, or, better again, with the great benefactors of mankind.”

Vainglorious and presumptuous as this speech was,—uttered, too, in a tone boastful as the words themselves,—it was the mood which Layton's wife loved to see him indulge. If for nothing else than it was the reverse of the sardonic and bitter raillery he often practised,—a spirit of scoff in which he inveighed against the world and himself,—it possessed for her an indescribable charm. It represented her husband, besides, in what she loved to think his true character,—that of a noble, enthusiastic man, eagerly bent upon benefiting his fellows. To her thinking, there was nothing of vanity,—no overweening conceit in all these foreshadowings of future fame; nay, if anything, he understated the claims he would establish upon the world's gratitude.

With what eager delight, then, did she listen! how enchanting were the rich tones of his voice as he thus declaimed!

“How it cheers my heart, Herbert, when I hear you speak thus! how bright everything looks when you throw such sunlight around you!”

“'Is this the debauchee,—is this the fellow we have been reading of in the reports from Scotland Yard? Methinks I hear them whispering to each other. Ay, and that haughty University, ashamed of its old injustice, will stoop to share the lustre of the man it once expelled.”

“Oh, think of the other and the better part of your triumph!” cried she, eagerly.

“The best part of all will be the vengeance on those who have wronged me. What will these calumniators say when it is a nation does homage to my success?”

“There are higher and better rewards than such feelings,” said she, half reproachfully.

“How little you know of it!” said he, in his tone of accustomed bitterness. “The really high and great rewards of England are given to wealth, to political intrigue, to legal success. It's your banker, your orator, or your scheming barrister, who win the great prizes in our State Lottery. Find out some secret by which life can be restored to the drowned, convert an atmosphere of pestilence into an air of health and vigor, discover how an avalanche may be arrested in its fall, and, if you be an Englishman, you can do nothing better with your knowledge than sell it to a company, and make it marketable through shareholders. Philanthropy can be quoted on 'Change like a Welsh tin-mine or a patent fuel company; and if you could raise the dead, make a 'limited liability' scheme of it before you tell the world your secret.”

“Oh, Herbert, it was not thus you were wont to speak.”

“No, Grace,” said he, in a tone of gentle, sorrowful meaning; “but there is no such misanthrope as the man who despises himself.” And with this he hastened to his room and locked the door. It was while carelessly and recklessly he scattered the harsh words by which he grieved her most that he now and then struck some chord that vibrated with a pang of almost anguish within him, uttering aloud some speech which from another he would have resented with a blow. Still, as the criminal is oftentimes driven to confess the guilt whose secret burden is too heavy for his heart, preferring even the execration of mankind to the terrible isolation of secrecy, so did he feel a sort of melancholy satisfaction in discovering how humbly and meanly he appeared before himself.

“A poor man's pack is soon made, Grace,” said he, with a sad smile, as he entered the room, where she was busily engaged in the little preparations for his journey.

“Tom, don't go! don't go! don't!” screamed out the parrot, wildly.

“Only listen to the creature,” said he; “he 's at his warnings again. I wish he would condescend to be more explanatory and less oracular.”

She only smiled, without replying.

“Not but he was right once, Grace,” said Layton, gravely. “You remember how he counselled me against that visit to the Rectory.”

“Don't! don't!” croaked out the bird, in a low, guttural voice.

“You are too dictatorial, doctor, even for a vice-provost. I will go.”

“All wrong! all wrong!” croaked the parrot.

“By Jove! he has half shaken my resolution,” said Layton, as he sat down and drew his hand across his brow. “I wish any one would explain to me why it is that he who has all his life resented advice as insult, should be the slave of his belief in omens.” This was uttered in a half-soliloquy, and he went on: “I can go back to at least a dozen events wherein I have had to rue or to rejoice in this faith.”

“I too would say, Don't go, Herbert,” said she, languidly.

“How foolish all this is!” said be, rising; “don't you know the old Spanish proverb, Grace, 'Good luck often sends us a message, but very rarely calls at the door herself?' meaning that we must not ask Fortune to aid us without our contributing some effort of our own. I will go, Grace. Yes, I will go. No more auguries, doctor,” said he, throwing a handkerchief playfully over the bird and then withdrawing it,—a measure that never failed to enforce silence. “This time, at least,” said he, “I mean to be my own oracle.”