“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