To describe the blank which fell upon the successful man as he went briskly up through the woods, which in his heart he called his own, reflecting upon his success and how he had won it all unaided, his happy selection of a house, his still happier luck in a wife, and saw the pair of limp young figures without interest in anything, vaguely standing about in front of the colonnade, would be too much for words. They stood a little apart, Archie with his hands in his pockets, Marion drawing lines in the ground with the end of her parasol. They were not even looking at “the view.” The air of caring for nothing, finding no interest in anything, was so strong in them both that they might have been taken as impersonations of ennui, that most hopeless of all the immoralities. They did not know what to do with themselves—they would never know what to do with themselves, Rowland thought in despair. They would stand about his life as they were doing about the vacant space in front of the house, empty, indifferent, uninterested. Going wrong, he said to himself (heaven forgive him!) was almost better than that—anything is better than nullity, the state of doing and being nothing. The outline of them{v.1-22222} against the light struck him as he came up to them like a dull blow.

“Well,” he said, “what have you been doing since I saw you last?”

“Nothing,” said Marion, with a slight look up at him, and a yawn, “for there is nothing to do.”

“No—thing,” said Archie with hesitation and a less assured, more anxious look. He wanted to speak to his father about those puppies, if he could only venture: but he did not dare.

“You might have explored the woods,” said Rowland, “or gone down to the loch, or taken a boat, or rambled up the hill—there’s a hundred things to do.”

“The woods are very damp: I would have spoiled my shoes: and the hills very craggy: it would have torn my frock: and Archie, he is too lazy to row a boat, and too grumpy to speak. Will it soon be time to go back to Glasgow? You might have taken me with you, papa.”

“It is a pity I did not: for there was company at the Manse, and I have an invitation for you.”

“Oh papa!”

Archie too looked up with a certain lightning of his preoccupied face.

“Yes—if you are not too fine for it. It is to go to some place that is called the Burn, to a lady whose name is Miss Eliza, who has a number of nieces and nephews, and something always going on, tennis, or boating, or dancing.”

“Oh, papa!” Marion’s eyes shone; but presently a{v.1-22323} little cloud came over her. “I have not had much chance of learning tennis. The MacColls can play, they’ve got a nice ground of their own—they have just everything! But there’s no club you can get into out of the Sauchiehall Road, and you want shoes and things. I never was in the way of learning.” A little furtive moisture glistened in Marion’s eyes.

“I could let you see the way,” said Archie.

“Oh yes, laddies learn everything,” said his sister with an offended air; and then she perceived that she had been guilty of an unauthorised word. “I mean young gentlemen,” she cried.

“For heaven’s sake, whatever you mean, don’t say that,” said Rowland hastily. “However it is not a desert, as you thought: there is balm in Gilead. When you come back and settle down, you must make friends with Miss Eliza.”

“Is she a lady, papa? I would not, not for anything, make friends out of our own sphere.”

Rowland laughed loud and long. He said, “I am glad you have such an exalted idea of your sphere; but how about the MacColls?”

“I am not meaning,” said Marion, with dignity, “to keep up with the MacColls. They’re just acquaintances, not to call friends. They never even ask me to their grandest parties. If they were friends, they would have let me learn tennies and all that. I have always meant to let them know that when my papa came home, they were not good enough for me.”

“Well—perhaps it’s legitimate—if they thought you not good enough for their grand parties, and no question{v.1-22424} of friendship in the matter. But you, Archie, you’ve got some friends?”

“Yes,” said the lad with hesitation. He had no friend whom he would not have sacrificed on the altar of the puppies. “There are some of the students—but I perhaps will have little chance of seeing them after——”

“If you please,” said Sandy, the groom, who had been loitering near, “will I put in the horse? for yonder’s the steamer leaving the loch head, and she’ll sune be here.”

“Never mind the horse: we’ll walk,” said Rowland, at which Marion gave him a look of wonder and reproach. Walk! a dog-cart was not much, but it was always a more dignified thing than to think a young lady like herself capable of walking like a common person to the pier.

“And, sir,” said Sandy, “about the little dougs—Rankin would be glad to know.”

“The little dougs?”

“The young gentleman will have tell’t ye. It’s Rankin’s little dougs that are kent for a grand breed—and there’s aye somebody wanting them. He would like to ken one way or anither afore the young gentleman goes away.”

“It’s some little terriers,” said Archie, coming forward a step, “we were looking at them. They’re very bonnie little beasts. I thought that maybe—there would be watch-dogs wanted about the house—or—just for the fun of them—they’re—fine little things. I—I—thought it might be—a good thing.{v.1-22525}”

Rowland looked severely at his son as he stammered and hesitated. He replied coldly, “If you want the dogs, I suppose that is enough.” He waved his hand to Sandy, dismissing him. “Now Marion, are you ready, for your walk?”

Marion pouted and protested that she was sure she could not walk so far, but Rowland was inflexible. “It will be something to do,” he said grimly. And with a troubled countenance and trembling limbs Archie followed.

A more beautiful walk could scarcely have been conceived. Here and there, as they descended the hill, they came out upon an open space where the lovely loch, with the great range of hills at the head lying full in the western sun, stretched out before them. Its surface glistened with gleams of reflection, repeating everything from the white scattered houses on its banks to the whiter clouds that goated on the surface of the sky. A boat or two, between the dazzling atmosphere above and the still more dazzling reflection below, lay like a thing beatified. Woods and hills and shining water—there was nothing wanting to the perfection of the scene. “Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile:” and troubled—troubled, full of care—wanting for something wherever he is.

The successful man marched along with his head high, his pretty little daughter running with her short steps by his side, the house of his choice behind him, the wife of his choice awaiting him, and so well off, able to do whatever he pleased, the admiring, curious people said. Whatever he pleased! yes, to buy furni{v.1-22626}ture of the rarest description, horses and carriages, even Rosmore itself, if he could by any means procure that it should be brought to market; but not with all his wealth able to expand the little vulgar nature of the girl, or open the disturbed heart of the boy beside him. Poor rich man! to whom his wealth could give no pleasure while this constant irritation gnawed at his heart.

He took them back to Sauchiehall Road, not exhilarated by their day’s outing; and while Marion recovered her fatigue and began really to enjoy Rosmore in describing its grandeur to her aunt, he took Archie aside for a few brief words. “What was that about the dogs?” he said. “Did you pay for them, or have they to be paid for, or what did the groom mean? I won’t have any familiarity with the grooms. Why should I be consulted as if you couldn’t settle such a matter for yourself?”

“I never wanted you to be consulted,” said the boy, retiring within himself.

“What did it mean then? Remember I consider you old enough to take the responsibility of your own actions. If you want anything, get it: if I don’t approve, I’ll let you know my opinion. If I find you spending too much, I’ll put a stop to it. But I am not to be consulted about every trifle as if you were a child.”

Archie was so struck with the irony of this address as applied to himself, that his wounded feelings and strained temper burst out into a harsh laugh. “As for spending,” he said, “much or little, you may set your mind at rest, for I’ve nothing to spend.{v.1-22727}”

Rowland took out his pocket-book with a look of doubt, glancing from Archie to Mrs. Brown. “You must have your allowance of course,” he said. “You’ve had it, I suppose, for years past?”

“A shilling a week or sometimes half-a-crown,” said Archie, prolonging the laugh which was the only witness of emotion his boyish pride and shyness permitted him to indulge in. “But I’m not asking you for money,” he said harshly. The puppies flitted in vision before his eyes, and counselled a softer tone, but he could not, in spite of the puppies, put forward a finger to touch the crisp piece of paper which his father held out to him.

“I’ll see about that,” said Rowland. “Here, in the meantime.”

“I am not wanting your money.”

“You young ass! take what I give you. I’ll see that you have at your command in future, a proper sum.—Here!” Rowland, who was much out of temper too, flung the note at the boy, who let it drop upon the floor. “And try to behave like a gentleman,” he said, exasperated, “and not like a sullen dog, as you’re doing now.”

He did not mean to be so severe. He was tired and sick of it all, as he said to himself as he hurried away. The boy was not true, he was not genuine, not frank nor open. The father was very angry, disappointed: yet in the dark, as he walked back to the hotel, there gleamed somehow upon him, he did not know how, a reflection, a gleam from poor Mary’s blue eyes, that had so long been hidden in the grave.{v.1-22828}

Meanwhile, the party in Mrs. Brown’s parlour had been disturbed by a sense of something sulphurous in the air, and by the flutter of the piece of paper which had been thrown at Archie like a blow. All demand for explanation or possibility of interference had been stopped by the rapid leave-taking and departure of Rowland. “Are you not going to stay to your supper? and me prepared the table for you, and everything ready!” Mrs. Brown had said in great disappointment and dismay; but Rowland had not yielded. He had letters to write, he said, that unanswerable reason for everything. When the sound of his quick steps had died out upon the pavement, Mrs. Brown came back with a blank countenance into the parlour, where Archie still sat with the bit of white crisp paper at his feet.

“There’s been some quarrel atween you,” she said. “Tell me no lees: you’ve been setting up your face to your father, that’s just a gentleman and far above ye, as ye whiles do to me.”

“I tell no lies,” said the boy.

“That means ye just acknowledge to it, ye thrawn, vexatious callant? What’s that bit of paper lying at your feet?”

“Its of no consequence,” said Archie.

“But it is of consequence when I say so. Give it to me!”

“I will not touch it,” said the boy.

“Then I’ll touch it!” She stooped suddenly with a nimbleness for which Archie was unprepared and snatched the paper.{v.1-22929}

Then she gave a loud scream. “Preserve us a’! It’s nae less than a twenty-pound note. Lord, laddie, what did you say to him that he’s given you a twenty-pound note?”

“Give me the note!” said Archie hoarsely, holding out his hand.

“Atweel and I’ll do nothing of the kind. What was it for? Twenty pound! to the like of you that never had twenty pence! Archie Rowland, what is the meaning of this? It’s a thing I will no put up with to have notes (nots Mrs. Brown called them) lying about my carpet and naebody condescending to lift them up.”

“Let him be, aunty,” said Marion; “he’s in one of his ill keys; he was real disagreeable to-day, and would do nothing. I have had just a very dismal day because he would never rouse himself up.”

“He may rouse himself or not as he likes,” said Jane; “but I’ve gotten possession of the not, and I’ll just keep it till I find out what it’s for.”

“It’s my note,” said Archie.

“And ye leave it lying at your feet! Twenty pounds! that would put pith into many a man’s arm, and courage in his heart. Besides, what would ye do with all that siller? I’ll give ye a shilling or twa, and I’ll just put it by. Your father must be clean gyte to put the like o’ that in the power of a callant like you.—Come ben to your supper. I’ll wager ye havena had a decent bite nor sup the haill day.”

“I’m wanting no supper. I’m wanting my note,” Archie said.{v.1-23030}

“Ye can have the one but no the other. The table’s a’ set and ready. Come in, ye fool, and take your supper. We’ll no wait for you, neither Mey nor me.”

Archie sat by himself with his head in his hands for some moments after they had gone away. Mrs. Brown had carried the lamp with her, but it was not dark. The days are long in June, and the soft visionary light, which was neither night nor day, came through the bars of the Venetian blinds, making the little shabby room faintly visible. He was tired, he was even hungry, but he would not stoop to the degradation of owning it, now that he had said he would have no supper. This added to the general sum of wretchedness in Archie’s mind. It had all ended so miserably, the day which began so well. He was aware that he had been a fool. He had been tempted with the puppies—which even now, when he thought of them, tempted him still, filling him with a sort of forlorn pleasure in the recollection, and making him feel how silly it was to have let his “not” be taken from him—though he knew he had no money to pay for them. And then he had not had the courage to tell his father that he wanted them. Surely he who had bought May so many things would have given this little gratification to Archie, had he gone rightly about it. But he had been a fool. What was he always but a fool? He had got himself into several scrapes because he had not had the courage to ask anything from Aunty Jane. And now when he had gotten the opportunity—the note that was his own, that nobody else had any right to, to think that he had let that{v.1-23131} be taken out of his hand! He would never get a penny of it, Archie knew; yes, a shilling perhaps, or maybe half-a-crown, like a little bairn. And what good were they to him, when he had twenty pounds—twenty whole pounds of his own—to get the little dogs with, and many another luxury besides, and pay up his subscriptions to his clubs, which were always in arrears, and maybe treat some of the lads to a dinner without having to account for every penny? But he had let it be taken from him, and farewell to the doggies and everything else that was pleasant. Oh what a fool he was, what a fool! He went up to his room, and tumbled as he was upon his bed, in his best clothes, though he was hungry, and smelt the supper, and wanted it, with all his vigorous young appetite. Happily for Archie, in this painful complication of circumstances, it was not very long before he fell asleep.

Next morning Mrs. Brown received Rowland in the parlour above. “I am wanting to speak to you, Jims,” she said, “you’re no used to the charge of young folk, and I maun speak out my mind. Ye mayna take it well of me, but at any rate I will have delivered my soul.”

“Well,” said Rowland, “I hope that will be for your comfort, however little it may be for mine.”

“It will be for baith our goods, if ye will take my advice. Jims, what was that you threw at Archie last night before you went away?”

“Did I throw it at him? That was a curious thing to do; but I don’t suppose it was intentional on my part.{v.1-23232}”

“What was it, Jims? Answer me that.”

“And may I ask what it matters to you, whatever it was?”

“It matters a great deal to me. I have been like a mother to him, and I’ll no have the laddie to be led away. I know very well what it was. It was an English note, and I’ve got it here. Eh, Jims Rowland, knowing the world as ye must know it, how daur ye put the means of evil in that boy’s innocent hands!”

“This is very strange,” said Rowland, “to be brought to book because I give my son a little money.”

“Do ye ca’ twenty pounds a little money! My patience! a sma’ fortune,” said Mrs. Brown.

“My dear Jane, this is one of the things, unfortunately, that we have made a great mistake about. My boy should have been accustomed to a little freedom, a little money of his own. It is all very unfortunate. He will be plunged into spending money when he is quite unacquainted with the use of it. It is the very worst thing.”

“And that’s a’ my faut ye’ll be thinking,” said Jane, grimly.

“I don’t say it is your fault. It is my fault as much as yours. I thought of securing them kindness and motherly care. I should have remembered there was something more necessary. You have been very kind to them, Jane.”

“Kind!” the good woman flushed with a high angry colour; “Kind! that’s a bonny word to use to me. A{v.1-23333} stranger’s kind that says a pleasant word. The first person in the street that’s taken with their winnin’ ways is kind, if you please. But me! that has given them a’ the love of my heart, that has been a mother to them and mair——!”

“I beg your pardon,” said Rowland, “I am very much obliged to you: I know you have been all that.”

“A mother, and mair,” said Mrs. Brown. “No mony mothers would have done for them what I’ve done, watching every step they took, that ye might find them good bairns, no spendthrifts, nor wasters of your substance, but knowing the value of money, and using their discretion. I’ve given him the siller for his clubs and things, for I’m told that’s the fashion now-a-days, and he’s aye had a shilling in his pouch for an occasion. If he had been my own I would never have held him with half as tight a hand, for he would have been making his week’s wages if he had been a son of mine, and wouldna have been depending upon either you or me.”

“That’s just the pity of it,” said Rowland. “He has fallen between two stools, neither a working lad nor a gentleman’s son. That proves, Jane, we have both been in the wrong, and I, more than you, for I should have known better. We have made a terrible mistake.”

“I’ve made nae mistake,” said Mrs. Brown. The tears were near which would soon choke her voice, and she spoke quickly to get out as much as she could before the storm came. “You may be in the{v.1-23434} wrang, Maister Rowland, but I’m no in the wrang. I’ve just acted on principle from beginning to end, to save him from the temptation of riches. They’re a great temptation. If he had been learned to dash his way about like young MacColl, or the most of the lads that have had a father before them, what would ye have said to me? You will see that laddie dashing about a’ Glesco in his phaeton, or whatever ye ca’t; and his grandmother was just a howdie in the High Street, nae mair. Would ye have likit that, Jims Rowland? folk saying ‘set a beggar on horseback,’ and a’ the rest, to a son of yours, and calling to mind the stock he came of, that was just working folk, though aye respectable. I’m no the one to bring up a lad to that. If ye had wanted him made a prodigal o’, ye should have pit him in other hands. I’ve just keeped him in his right place. And ye tell me it’s a mistake, and my fault and terrible wrong. Lord forgive ye, Jims Rowland! How dare ye say it’s a mistake to me, that has been a mother to them—and mair!”

Rowland, like other men, was made very uncomfortable by the sight of the woman crying, but he held his ground. “I am very sorry to seem ungrateful, Jane. I am not ungrateful. You’ve given them a happy childhood, which is everything. But we must try a different system now. I can’t have a young man stumbling and stammering before me, as if he had something on his conscience. I am not going to watch every step he takes. He must learn to take steps on his own account, and understand that he’s a respon{v.1-23535}sible creature. If you have taken his money from him——”

Mrs. Brown jumped up as if she had received a blow. She rushed to the door of the room, which she flung open, calling upon “Archie! Archie!” in a voice broken by angry sobs. The lad came stumbling downstairs not knowing what was wrong, and appeared with his still somewhat sullen face, asking “What’s the matter?” in a tone which was half-alarmed and half-defiant. She seized him by the arm and dragged him into the room, then flying to a little desk, opened it, flinging back the lid, and seizing the unfortunate bit of paper, flung it again in Archie’s face. “Hae;” she said, “there it’s till ye. Me taken his money? Me that have just done everything for them, and never thought of mysel’. Me! taken his money!” Mrs. Brown’s voice rose to a shriek, and then she fell into a chair and burst into a more renewed and violent passion of tears.

“What have ye been saying to her to make her like that?” said Archie, turning to his father. “I was not wanting your money, and if she put it away it was no harm. Her take your money! She cares nothing for money but to get things for May and me. Aunty,” he said, going up to her, putting his hand on her shoulder, “I’ll just put a notice in the Herald to-morrow. If he is my father, I’ll not be dependent upon him. What right has he to fling his dirty money in a man’s face, and come into this house like a wild beast and make you cry. He made his{v.1-23636} money himself, and he can spend it himself. I’ll make what I want for mysel’.”

But oh the puppies, barking with their ridiculous noses in his hand, sprawling over old Rankin’s bed! They suddenly came before Archie’s mental vision, and made his voice waver. No such luxuries as Rankin’s puppies could be in the lot of a poor young clerk in an office, making perhaps a pound a week—and he the great railway man’s son that was rolling in wealth!—a sense of the great injustice of it made Archie’s voice harsh. Who should all that money be for but for him? And the rich father, the hoped for incarnation of wealth, was there scolding about a miserable note, accusing Aunty Jane of having taken the money! The lad went and stood at the back of her chair, putting himself on her side, defying the other who thought so much of his filthy siller! Let him keep his siller! he had made it himself and he could spend it on himself. Archie for his part would do the same. But as he uttered these noble sentiments, an almost overwhelming sense of the wickedness of it, of the cruelty of the unjust father, and of the unimaginable wrong to himself flooded Archie’s mind. He could have cried too with anger and the intolerable sense of wrong.

Rowland stood for a minute or two contemplating the scene, and then he burst into a laugh. The climax was too ridiculous, he said to himself, for any serious feeling. And yet it was not a pleasant climax to come to, after so many years.{v.1-23737}