Father and son sat together in the dining-room, smoking their after-dinner cigars, and speaking very little, as their custom was when together. With its snow-white table-cloth set off by the glass and cut flowers and the rich purple of the old port in the decanter; with its picture-hung walls, its massive mahogany sideboard gleaming with silver, amid which displayed itself opulently a huge salver presented to Matthew Lanyon, Esquire, by his fellow-townsmen on the completion of his third year of mayoralty; with its great red-shaded lamp suspended over the table, and its dark marble fireplace,—the room had an air of warmth and generous comfort that spoke of a long continuance of worldly ease. In his younger days Matthew Lanyon had roved about the world, picking up much knowledge of men in new lands where life was rude, and a little money wherewith to start a career when he returned to civilisation. His return was speedier than either himself or his friends had anticipated. The latter beheld him married to a sweet flower-like girl whom he had met not long before in Australia; but more than this they did not learn. He was not given to offering information as to his doings, and there was that suggestion of haughtiness behind his frank young smile which forbade questioning. He was there; his wife was there. The friends must accept both on their merits. He had served his articles as a solicitor before leaving England. He turned to his profession for maintenance and bought a share in a cousin's practice in Ayresford. He was to have made his fortune, gone away again with his young wife into the wide world, and seen all the wonders that it held. But as in the case of many other young dreams, it seemed otherwise to the gods. Wealth had come quickly, and he had added gradually to his little home until it had become a great house, and his cousin had died, and his wife had died, and in Ayresford he had lived all the time, married and widowed, and now the longing for change had gone, and in Ayresford he hoped that he himself would die, in the home endeared to him by so many memories, in the bed consecrated by the pale sweet shadow of her who even now seemed to lie by his side.

Wealth had come, yet much of it had gone; how, no man knew but himself and one other; he had toiled hard to win it, was toiling hard at sixty to win it back. And how strenuously he toiled, again no man knew; least of all his son.

The desultory talk had drooped. Suddenly Matthew Lanyon plunged his hand in the breast pocket of his dress-coat and drew out an old-fashioned miniature, which, after regarding it for a few moments, he handed to Sylvester.

“I've been rummaging about to-day and found this. Perhaps you'd like to have it.”

“My mother!” said Sylvester.

It was a portrait, on ivory, of a singularly sweet face, possessing the tender, unearthly purity of one of Lorenzo di Credi's Madonnas, executed when the original was very young, a few months, in fact, before Sylvester was born.

“A very good likeness,” said Matthew.

“I shall be glad to keep it,” replied the son, putting it into his pocket.

“I thought you would,” assented the elder.

“It will be a companion to my miniature of Constance,” said Sylvester.

And then silence came again; for memories crowded into the minds of each that they knew not how to speak of. Yet each knew that the other was thinking of his dead wife and wished that he could burst the strange bonds of reserve that held him and speak out that which was in his heart.

“It's a devil of a muddle, isn't it?” said Matthew at last.

“What?”

“The cosmos. And the more one tries to establish order, the worse confounded becomes the confusion. The high gods seem to have given it up as a bad job.”

“That reminds me,” said Sylvester, with a laugh. “I found Billings to-day having a glorious drunk on champagne. For a man earning twenty-five shillings a week, with a large family to support and a wife half dying of pneumonia, I thought it rather strong.”

Matthew rose from his chair, his brows bent and his eyes kindling with sudden anger.

“The damned hound! What did you do with him?”

“I took him outside so as not to disturb his wife and then I kicked him until he was sober,” replied Sylvester, grimly. “I wonder who could have sent the champagne.”

“Some silly fool,” said Matthew, nursing his wrath.

“Yet nearer to heaven than most of us,” said Sylvester, knocking the ash off his cigar.

“Rubbish!” said Matthew. “Besides, silly fools don't go to heaven. There's no place for 'em.”

“I don't think Billings will rob his wife again,” remarked Sylvester.

“Well, you can send him up to me in the morning.”

“I think he'd sooner have another kicking,” laughed Sylvester.

A picture rose before him of the reprobate cringing before his father, wriggling at each sentence as at a whip lash, and going away with two more bottles of wine that would burn his dirty hands like hot bricks. He laughed, but Matthew thrust both hands in his pockets and stood with feet apart on the hearth-rug.

“Did you ever hear of such a mean skunk?”

“You will never fathom the depth of human meanness, father, if you live to be a hundred.”

“I thank you for the compliment, Syl,” replied the old man, drily, “but I happen to think otherwise. May you never live to know it as I do.”

“Mr. Usher, sir,” said the servant, suddenly throwing open the door.

Matthew started, and glanced instinctively at his son. Sylvester, who had been struck by an unusual note of emotion in his father's voice, was looking at him curiously. So their eyes met in a mutual sensitive glance, and Matthew flushed slightly beneath his tanned and care-lined skin.

“Confound Usher!” muttered Sylvester, irritably.

An elderly man of about Matthew's age appeared, white-bearded, gold-spectacled, wearing a tightly buttoned frock-coat. He was of heavy build and had loose lips and dull watery eyes, the lids faintly rimmed with blood-red. He came forward into the room with extended hand.

“My dear friend, how are you this evening?” he said with a curious deliberation, as if he had duly sucked each word before he spat it out. “And, Sylvester, my dear lad, how are you? I have been very unwell to-day, and the weather has increased my sufferings. You notice that there is a wheezing in my bronchial tubes. Yet I thought I must come to see you this evening in spite of the weather. I said to Olivia, 'It is a duty, and I must fulfil it.'”

“Pray sit down, Usher,” said Matthew, politely. “Let me pass you the port.”

“A little port wine would be very good for me. I cannot afford port wine, Matthew, like you, or I should drink it habitually. I should think this was very expensive.”

He smacked his loose lips and held the glass up to the light.

“It is a sound wine,” said Matthew.

“If you would not put too high a price on it,” said the other, in his monotonous voice, “perhaps I might buy some from you. What would you charge?”

“In the market it would fetch about a hundred and eighty shillings a dozen,” said Sylvester, savagely.

But his father raised a hand in courteous deprecation.

“I am not a wine-merchant, Usher, and am not in the habit of retailing my cellar. But if you'd accept a dozen, I should be very pleased to send it round to you.”

“I will accept it with great pleasure,” said Usher, blandly. “It would hurt your feelings if I refused your generosity. Have you ever remarked how generous your father is, Sylvester?”

The young man moved impatiently in his chair. He could never understand the almost lifelong intimacy that existed between his father and this old man, Usher, whom he held in cordial detestation. So he said nothing, while the guest took a fresh sip of wine, and rolled it appreciatively over his tongue.

“Your father and I were young men together in Australia, Sylvester,” he remarked. “Youth is a glorious time, and its friendships last. I never forget my old friends.”

“The sentiment does you credit, Usher,” said Matthew.

The servant entered with the London evening paper just sent from the railway bookstall. Usher held out a large soft hand for it, and the servant retired.

“I want to see what has happened in the Trevelyan divorce case,” he said, unfolding the paper. “I have followed it closely.”

A cause celebre was setting England whispering and sniggering, and there were many like Usher who scanned the columns of the newspapers that evening in pleased anticipation. But Sylvester expressed his distaste.

“How can you read it? The air is reeking sufficiently with the nastiness already.”

“I am interested,” replied Usher. “I think nothing human alien to me. Nil humani, as we used to say at school. I remember my classics. I have a very good memory. Here it is. The jury found Mrs. Trevelyan guilty of adultery with the co-respondent. Damages £5000 and costs. The judge pronounced a decree nisi; the husband to have custody of the children. I pity the poor woman.”

“I don't,” said Sylvester, shortly. “Such women are better dead.”

“No doubt you are right,” returned Usher. “The sacred principles of morality ought to be upheld at any cost. I have always upheld morality. What do you think, Matthew?” The old man looked steadily at his finger nails and replied in a dispassionate voice,—

“One never knows what lies behind.” Sylvester rose and shrugged his shoulders.

“Wantonness and baseness lie behind. I have no patience with misplaced sympathy in such cases. Here is this woman you are reading about,—she betrayed her husband, deserted her children. She deserves no pity.”

Usher waggled his head indulgently.

“I am a Christian man,” he said, “and I have a tender heart. I have always had a tender heart, Matthew.”

Sylvester laughed and threw the end of his cigar into the fire. He was half ashamed of having been betrayed into a display of deep feeling before one whom he considered a shallow egotist.

“Well, I haven't,” he said. “I'm going up to the drawing-room. Perhaps you'll join me.”

He nodded to his father and left the room. Matthew edged his chair further from the fire, and wiped his lips and brow with his handkerchief.

“You are getting too warm,” said Usher.

“The room is hot. When you have finished your wine, we may as well follow Sylvester.”

Usher poured out another glass.

“I am very comfortable,” he said. “I always am here. You must be proud to have a son with such sentiments as Sylvester.”

Matthew rose abruptly from his seat, clenched his hands by his side, and bit a quivering lip. Evidently he was mastering something.

“Drink your wine and come upstairs,” he said.

The other looked at him askance and hesitated. Then yielding, as it were, to compulsion, he gulped down the contents of his glass and rose with watery eyes.

“It was a sin to do that,” he said with a sigh. “You always were an unreasonable fellow, Matthew. I only said I was glad that Sylvester held such opinions. Most young men nowadays are shockingly lax in their principles.” Matthew did not reply, but with cold, imperturbable face opened the door for him to pass out. Usher hung back.

“I must speak to you about my son Roderick. Business before pleasure. It has been my constant rule in life.”

“What has Roderick been doing now?” asked Matthew, closing the door again.

“He is bringing my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave again,” replied Usher. “My son and your son—what a difference, Matthew! 'Tis sharper than—”

“Rubbish! What's the matter, man?”

“A serpents tooth, to have a thankless child. I dislike being interrupted. Matthew, Roderick has gone to the Jews. The bills have fallen due. They won't renew, and if they are not paid, they'll put him in prison. I cannot have my son in prison.”

“Get him out, then,” replied Matthew. “I can't do more for him than I do. I promised, years ago, that what Sylvester had, Roderick should have, and, by Heaven! I've kept my promise. I can't do more. You can't draw blood from a stone.”

“As if any one ever wanted to. Proverbs are foolish. I never make use of proverbs. I think you must take up those bills.”

“And if I don't?”

Usher shrugged his shoulders and, sitting down again, refilled his glass and held it up to the light. Matthew stood on the hearth-rug, his hands behind him, and regarded him impassively.

“I gave you Roderick's quarterly allowance only a short while ago. What has he done with it?”

“I do not know,” said Usher, impressively, turning his dull venerable face towards him. “He has nearly ruined me already.”

“Have you brought his letters with you?”

“I burned his letters. It is imprudent to keep compromising letters. But I have made out a statement of affairs.”

Usher took from his pocket a double sheet of foolscap, smoothed it out and examined it deliberately, then handed it to Matthew. The latter glanced through the statement. His lips quivered for a moment.

“This is practically fraud,” he said. “A magistrate might commit on it, a jury find a verdict of guilty, and then—”

“His dear mother's memory,” said Usher, wagging his head solemnly.

Matthew involuntarily clenched the paper tight in his hand.

“Damn you!” he said. Then he repeated it. “Damn you!”

But Usher stretched out a deprecating hand and spoke in tones of gentle reproach.

“You must be calm, my dear friend. I am always calm. I have never said a word in all my life that I have had cause to regret. Not even this morning, when Olivia with great carelessness destroyed a new book-plate. And it was a very valuable book-plate. It belonged to Hugh, the first Earl of Lawford, of Edward III.'s creation.”

“Are you aware that your own son is in danger of penal servitude?” asked Matthew, sharply.

“Why, of course. Is not that my reason for coming to you? I put the matter into your hands, as lawyer and friend and second father to my erring boy, and I am content. Yes, I am content, for I have trust in you. Shall we go up now and join the ladies?” Matthew bit the end off another cigar and lighted it. Then, as if his guest had made the most natural and relevant proposal in the world, he said with a courtesy not devoid of grimness,—“My sister is not feeling very well this evening, and the young folks might be happier alone together, so perhaps we'll not go upstairs. And as this affair of Roderick's will give me some thinking, you'll excuse me if I leave you shortly.”

“You are right,” replied Usher, rising ponderously. “The night air is not good for me. I suffer much from my bronchial tubes. I must have some one fitter than Olivia to nurse me. Servants are never grateful for the bounties one heaps on them. If only Miss Defries would look upon Roderick as favourably as she does upon Sylvester, how happily things could be arranged.”

There was not a spark of cunning or rearward thought in his dim, unspeculative eyes. Yet Matthew felt a sudden pang of suspicion at his last words, and scanned his face intently. Was it the first hint of some scheme long maturing in his dull yet tenacious brain, or the mere surface fancy of the egotist? He could not tell, although he flattered himself that he knew the man's soul as a priest his breviary,—every line and phrase, every thumb-mark and dog's ear.

“I think the less said about Roderick for some time, the better,” he remarked, ringing the bell. Then before the servant came, he said suddenly,—

“But, by Heaven! this is the last time. Understand that. Once more, and I break down the whole structure though it kill me—carry the war into your quarters and tell Roderick all.”

Usher's face was shadowed by a faint smile.

“My dear friend, Roderick has known all his life. I could never leave my son in ignorance. I gave him the best training.”

The servant appeared. Usher extended his hand, which the other touched mechanically, and in another moment was gone, leaving Matthew staring incredulously, conscious of utter dismay.

“Is he lying?” he asked himself, a short while later, as he paced the library, whither he had betaken himself with the moneylending document. “Can the boy be such a blackguard? He must be lying.” But how base the lie was in reality, even he could not surmise.

The boy was a man of forty now, yet Matthew had watched and paid for every step upward and downward in his career. He remembered him a handsome and wayward child, a wild lad, a young man brilliant in promise, yet unstable as water, excelling in naught. He had seen him by turns poet, painter, journalist, social reformer, musical critic, dramatist, always obtaining successes of estimation, always floating iridescent and futile as froth on the waves of literary and artistic London. What Roderick was doing now, he did not know. For some time past he had heard little of him. Now he had come to light again somewhat luridly. A foolish friend had backed bills under false representations. The Jews were pressing, the friend recalcitrant. It was a criminal matter. If he were guilty of this, why not of that knowledge of which his father boasted so cynically? Matthew's face grew worn and hard. He unlocked a safe, drew therefrom a small padlocked ledger, and sitting down at his desk began to pore over its contents. Roderick must be saved this time at any cost, for his mother's sake, as Usher had remarked. At the reminiscence Matthew reiterated his execration.

After long, anxious thought, he made a rough calculation on a scrap of paper, and leaning back in his chair regarded it until something dim, like tears, came across his vision.

“My poor Syl,” he said, “I have to rob you—for your own happiness.”

And at that moment, just outside the door stood Sylvester and Ella bidding each other good-night. The full glow of the hall lamp shone down upon her radiant young face, as he held both her hands in his, and made a glinting aureole of her hair. Suddenly he laughed awkwardly and kissed her; with a half-mirthful, half-reproachful “Oh, you shouldn't!” she snatched away her hands and ran up the stairs. He stood and watched the last gleam of her skirts disappear and then entered his father's room.

Matthew closed his ledger and looked up with one of his rare smiles.

“Going, Syl?”

“Yes. I 've been sent for, as usual. It's all very well for me to work at this ungodly hour. I'm a medical man, and I'm young. But I don't like to see you at it. You 're overdoing it, father.”

“Nonsense!” replied Matthew, cheerily; “I'm as strong as a horse and younger than you are. Besides, I was only amusing myself, like the king in his counting-house, counting out my money.”

He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and stretched himself contentedly in his chair.

“Usher kept me a long time,” he continued, “telling me one of his interminable yarns—a dormir debout, as the French say.”

“I can't think how you stand him,” said Sylvester.

“Oh, you can stand a devil of a lot if you try,” said the old man, laughing. “Have some whisky before you go?”

But Syl pleaded urgency, went out for hat and coat, and returned ready for departure. His father accompanied him to the front door.

“By the way, Syl,” he said, “do you really think so hardly of the woman who sins, or was it only that Usher made you contradictious?”

“I think a woman must be pure and chaste. If she falls, she falls for ever. Why do you ask?”

“I only wanted to know if you were genuine.”

“It is the most sacred of my convictions,” said Sylvester, gravely.

The two men shook hands, and the door closed behind Sylvester. The father listened to his quick footsteps crunching the gravel until the sound died away. Then he turned and sighed.

“My poor lad, God help you,” he said.