CHAPTER I.

‘_1st Friend._ Well, you’ve tried it: is your problem solved?

_2d Friend._ I have lived so long in the dark, I do not know.

_1st Friend._ Out, into the wind and sunshine then, and try!’

What is the difference, save in size, between one manufacturing town and another? How will you say, reader, on the first view, where this town lies to which I am about to lead you? You shall have heard no word of the language of its people, seen none of its customs, only had a quick bird’s-eye view of it, with its long chimneys and its canopy of smoke, its blackened grass and dingy trees. Not to make the survey tedious, let me say that it is no English town, but a German one. Let us not linger longer than is needful in its streets; here is a sloping road that leads to the railway station; and here, after ascending the hill, we are within the great noisy arena.

Amidst the crowd of hurrying passengers and phlegmatic officials, one figure stood perfectly still on the platform, waiting quietly, and looking composedly around him with quick, observant eyes. Whether a German, an Englishman, or even a Frenchman, the casual observer would have found it hard to say until he spoke, and then the accent would have betrayed the Englishman.

He was much changed. The two years of absence, the better outward circumstances, the habit of authority, the necessity of accommodating himself to a life new and strange to him, together with whatever inward thoughts might have had their part in moulding and shaping his mind--all these had had their influence. He was still Myles Heywood; but between him and himself of two years ago there was just the difference that there is between the reflective man and the passionate child.

As he stood waiting, a little round, quick-looking fair-haired German man came up to him and began to talk to him.

‘Now, Mr. Heywood, you have finished your business in the town?’

‘Yes, Herr Sternefeld; I am, as you may see, waiting for the train to Eisendorf.’

‘How goes all there? The old man is in rather feeble health, I hear.’

‘Yes. He has not been strong this summer. He thinks he will be better when the cooler weather comes.’

‘Ah!’ said the little German, ‘and still he keeps grinding away at the business?’

‘Yes,’ said Myles, rather indifferently; ‘or rather, I do. He leaves it pretty much to me at present.’

‘Yes, to be sure,’ said Herr Sternefeld, with a somewhat significant nod and smile. And there’s your train. Herr Süsmeyer will be glad to see you back again. _Au revoir!_’

He bustled away, and Myles, stepping forward to take his place in the Eisendorf train, soon forgot him.

From the great manufacturing town of ----feld, the home of turbulent spirits and birthplace of social democracy, to the mining and manufacturing village of Eisendorf, was some three quarters of an hour’s railway journey. The way was so thickly set with factories, houses, great collieries, and other evidences of manufacturing industry, that scarcely had these been left behind, and a strip of green grass and some distant hills been allowed a chance of showing themselves in a purer air, than they too were swamped, as it were. More collieries, more great buildings, cranes, hoists, and a canal, became dominant in the landscape, while the train rolled into Eisendorf.

Myles got out of the train, and left the station. Going quickly in the September evening through the busy main street, he presently turned aside and went down a kind of alley, at the end of which light and trees were visible. It was the way into a restauration and _Biergarten_, much frequented by the middle and better class of Eisendorf. Here, on almost every evening in the week, music was to be heard, and here, beneath the trees, one might sit and take one’s supper.

This was apparently Myles’s intention, for he walked through the lighted garden, seated himself at one of the tables, and gave an order to a waiter, who presently returned bearing a dish, a table-cloth, and all the other paraphernalia of a supper.

Myles did not spend a long time over this meal. The table was soon clear again, with the exception of the indispensable bottle of yellow wine, and the accompanying green glass. He leaned his elbows upon the table before him and stared dreamily forward across the garden, beyond the groups of merry guests--young men and girls, and whole families, with _Vater_ and _Mutter_ in full amplitude; he seemed to see none of them. The band in the orchestra, fifty yards away, were playing soft strains; the lamps twinkled with a mild, pleasant brightness; the trees above them looked ink-black by contrast. The sky beyond was like a vault of violet crystal, and the lamp-like stars beamed out mildly here and there. The breeze rustled gently now and then, but it was a very gentle breeze, with nothing of the storm in its breath. All around was the hum of laughter and talk, and the murmur of flirtation; now and then the clanking of spurs and the rattling of swords as the company was reinforced ever and anon by fresh specimens of the inevitable lieutenant; it was all very pleasant, very calm and peaceful. Myles, somewhat languid after a long day’s business in the de-oxygenised atmosphere of the offices and warehouses of a large town, felt, at the moment, perfectly neutral; neither glad nor sorry, but content, so far as he was anything, to sit still, with his arms on the table, taking an occasional drink of his pleasant, if not strong, straw-coloured Neckar wine, and listening to the whispers of the band, as one instrument after another died away in the final bars of a little serenade of Haydn’s. He would have been content to stay there for an indefinite time, for Myles had arrived at that mental state in which a man finds it easiest and pleasantest to go on doing the same thing. Whether the thing were work or idlenesss was almost immaterial to him, when he had once begun it. It was the effort of turning his attention from one thing to another which brought mental pain and inconvenience. All day he had wrought hard, and asked nothing better than to continue doing so. So long as he could go on, he was almost at ease. But when the work was over--when the offices were closed, and men had finished their toil, and were going home to ‘play them’--to use an idiom of his own native dialect--then it was that despondency seized him; then it was that he felt a sudden blank, an emptiness, a sense of being lost and unprovided for; then it was that the effort to find some other pastime, something else with which to fill his thoughts, was a dull pang which he dreaded continually. It was this feeling of desolation that kept him sitting up till all hours of the night, with book and dictionary open before him, studying or reading until his eyelids fell over his weary eyes, and he could go upstairs, certain that he would fall asleep as soon as he tumbled into bed. It was this which made him dread to awaken in the night watches, or to lie awake with nothing to do; this that, as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning, made him rise instantly and begin to do something. He had got an unconquerable horror of those hours of silent thought and meditation which had once been a joy and a privilege to him, as they are and must be to all robust, properly ripening minds.

It was for this reason that, being tired with his work, soothed with eating and drinking, and pervaded by a feeling of quiet calm and contentment unusual with him, he felt reluctant to move, and sat on, his handsome bronzed face set in a gravity that amounted to solemnity, and a fixed listlessness in his dark and brilliant eyes. Soon, he knew, the transient pause would be over--for the contentment was abnormal--soon the aching sense of desolation and unrest would return, and he would have to awake again.

Very soon, indeed, the spell was broken. A party of young men, strolling through the gardens, saw him, greeted him, and sat down beside him. They began to talk--persisted in drawing his attention to this girl and that girl, and in asking him if he had heard this piece of gossip or the other.

They were well-conditioned, kind-hearted young fellows enough; they had liked him, and had treated him with friendliness ever since his advent amongst them, and they continued to seek his company, in spite of his unvarying sedateness and gravity. Myles, in these latter days, was courtesy itself to all who merited courtesy; if Adrienne Blisset could have heard the yea, yea and nay, nay of his daily communication at present, she would have been quite unable to accuse him of being ‘scornful’ or ‘disdainful,’ as she once had done. What she might have felt about the little air of proud, absent, patient indifference, who shall say?

Despite absence and indifference, Myles was very well liked amongst the better sort of the young men of Eisendorf. They were of various nationalities; chiefly, however, German, Dutch, and English, with a sprinkling of French. They were all engaged in commercial pursuits, with the exception of one or two young professional men, and an occasional ‘lieutenant’--that much-laughed-at, much-abused equivalent of the English curate. It was known--Myles had never attempted to make any secret of it--that he had left a workman’s situation in an English town, to come and be the overlooker at Herr Süsmeyer’s works--that since then he had rapidly risen to the post of manager and headman; that Herr Süsmeyer had greatly attached himself to him; and it was thought more than probable that Herr Süsmeyer’s son, Julius, would never abandon his favourite occupation of travelling in foreign lands, and that when Herr Süsmeyer had provided for the said Julius, he would most likely retire, and leave his business in the hands of Myles Heywood, who--so every one agreed--was quite the most proper person to succeed to it.

Myles happened to know better--to know that Julius Süsmeyer was even then on his way home, with every intention of devoting himself to the career of a merchant, but, at Herr Süsmeyer’s request, he had not named the fact.

He sat, this evening, listening to the talk and jesting of the others for some little time, and then rose.

‘Why are you going?’ cried one of them. ‘Why not stay here? The evening has only just began. It’s only nine o’clock. I expect we shall have some dancing in the _Saal_ when the concert is over.’

‘Thanks,’ said Myles, with a gleaming smile which lighted up his dark face; ‘dancing is not in my line, as you know.’

‘No,’ said a young Englishman, laughing. ‘One would almost as soon expect to see old Michel Angelo’s Juliano de Medici step from his pedestal and begin to dance, as you, Heywood.... Now that I look at you,’ he added, thoughtfully, putting his head on one side, ‘there is a likeness actually; at least about the nose and mouth. Look here! If you were to put your hand across your face so----’

‘And twist my other arm into a commanding position--thus--you would see a man in the attitude of Michel Angelo’s ‘Pensiero’ Medici, and that would be all. Good night!’

‘Odd fish, Heywood!’ murmured his countryman, shaking his head. ‘I wonder if he was ever less solemn than he is now.’

The object of that speculation took his way out of the gardens and the town, walking northwards, along a road leading to that suburb in which lived most of the more wealthy and distinguished inhabitants of Eisendorf. He walked for half an hour or more, till he arrived at the house of Herr Süsmeyer, the largest and pleasantest of all these residences. He went up the dark garden walk, and pulled the bell; soon the great door was thrown open, and he was in the presence of his chief, a delicate, kindly-looking old man, with a gouty foot laid up on a stool before him, and a crutched stick leaning against the table which stood hard by his easy-chair. The table was covered with books and papers; a reading-lamp cast a softened light over the page which the old man was reading. He was quite alone; there was perfect rest and perfect stillness around him.

He glanced up over his spectacles, and laid down his book, as if well satisfied when he found who his visitor was.

‘So late!’ said he. ‘I had hardly expected to see you to-night, after your long day’s work. What business in ----feld?’

Myles entered into details as to the business he had done, with an incidental disquisition upon the state of trade in general at that time. Then the conversation drifted off into other channels.

‘Your holiday-time will soon be here,’ observed Herr Süsmeyer; ‘you mean to spend it in Berlin, I think you said?’

‘I shall go to Berlin, amongst other places,’ said Myles, who had assumed the very attitude which the young Englishman had wished him to take, and who sat, his hand half across his face, looking out, through the open window, into the darkness of the garden. ‘I suppose I shall wander from one place to another. I do not much care where I go. You know it is your doing, sir, that I am going at all.’

‘I wonder that you should go to Berlin, from one town to another. I should have thought the green woods and fresh air of Thüringen, or----’

Myles shook his head.

‘No; I don’t care about the country. It is dull.’

‘Or to England, to see your friends?’

The young man started.

‘No--oh, certainly not,’ said he. ‘The last place I should wish to go to. No, Herr Süsmeyer; with your introductions and through your kindness, I shall meet with friends in Berlin and other places, and shall see a great deal that is interesting, and which I have long wished to see. I shall come back here refreshed and ready for work again, until your son----’

‘We can talk about that when Julius arrives. Time enough, time enough! I hate changes,’ said Herr Süsmeyer. ‘Meanwhile, I have had very good news to-day--excellent news.’

‘Indeed!’

‘Yes; a letter from Sebastian Mallory.’

‘Ah! Is he coming, then?’

‘He is coming--yes, but not alone,’ said Herr Süsmeyer, a smile of much satisfaction playing upon his face. He will bring his bride with him. What do you think of that? He says I must see her. But you say nothing; you did not know?’

‘His bride!’ repeated Myles, in a low voice. ‘No, I did not know. But--when does he come?’

‘In a few days. They are already at Cologne. They will travel through Düsseldorf and ----feld, and come here for two nights only. Then they are going on. It is their wedding tour. I have already given orders,’ continued the old man, ‘to receive them. I must make much of my friend Sebastian. It is as if a child of my own brought his bride to see me. I have ordered the guest-chambers to be prepared, which have not been used since the death of my blessed Amalie, my wife.’

Thus the good old man prosed on, with childlike pleasure in the prospect of meeting ‘his’ Sebastian again, and of seeing his bride, so engrossed in the anticipation that he did not even look at his listener, who sat still, composed and pale, hearing distinctly all that was said, and occupied, he too, in picturing the scene: how Sebastian Mallory would lead forward his bride, who would be glad that his old friends were pleased to welcome her. Myles could exactly realise how she would go up to good old Herr Süsmeyer with both hands held out, and eyes shining with happiness, and he--perhaps he need not be there at all; but, at any rate, if he only kept sufficiently in the background he would not be observed, and he could bear his pain alone. This stroke had been long delayed, but it had come at last--as he knew it must. Those words he had heard spoken in the Thanshope Park had held good. Why there had been so long an interval he could not tell; he had often wondered, had many a time sought the papers through with sickening anxiety, and had never yet seen what he expected and dreaded to see. But at last all uncertainty was over. He could never doubt again: and now, he thought to himself, life would be much easier to live, for he had too much sense to bewail his lot when he knew what it was; it was uncertainty which was so wearing, and no doubt it was uncertainty which had caused all his mental pain and distress. Now, certainly, things would be better.

Thus consoling himself, he rose to take his leave of Herr Süsmeyer, who shook hands with him, and thanked him for calling, and said.

‘You know, you too must see Mr. Mallory. He will wish to see you; indeed, he says so in this letter.’

‘Yes, I shall see him, of course,’ said Myles.

Then he went away--walked back to town to his lodgings; found his lamp burning, and his books open as he had left them; said to himself,

‘Now, at last, I can study with a mind at ease,’ and straightway prepared to do so.

In vain! Echoes from a life that he had tried to believe lived out thronged in his mind, and resounded there. Faces seemed to flash past him and voices to ring in his ears. All sorts of scenes vividly recurred to his mind: always he and she were together; always there was exquisite delight mingling with his pain, till he recalled the scene in which Frederick Spenceley had come scowling through the committee-room, in the great distress. It was after that that his life had become so intolerable to him. His thoughts wandered off to the Spenceleys in general. Of course he had heard of the great failure; of Mr. Spenceley’s suicide; of Fred’s dishonourable flight. What was the wretched fellow doing now? he wondered. And there had been others: a good, homely-looking mother, who seemed ill at ease under her greatness; and a daughter--he remembered her too--the most beautiful girl in Thanshope, so every one had said, and Myles also had been compelled to give her his meed of admiration when he saw her, day after day, working with Adrienne Blisset. He had often thought what a contrast they formed--like a beautiful crimson rose and a white violet: the one with her fair hair and delicate, pale face; the other with dusky locks and great dark eyes, the rich colour that came and went, the vivid life in every movement, the splendid attire. Yes, he remembered her--she was most beautiful; but to him a violet was more exquisite and precious than the most gorgeous rose, and it seemed other people shared the same opinion.