ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI. BY R. L. STEVENSON. IN ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt ; Thy fluttering heart with hope and terror moved. And perilous lands thou sawest, sounding shores And mountain dark. For thou with Tristram rode Thou hadst a booth in Samarcand, whereat In that clear air took life; in Arcady The haunted, land of song; and by the wells And, dancing, roll his eyes; these, where they fell Now things there are that, upon him who sees, What was this earth, child of the gods, to thee? Forth from thy dreamland thou, a dreamer, cam'st, And in thy mind the doings of the dead, A dweller on the beach till Argo come That came long since, a lingerer by the pool Or farthest Idaho, and where he dwelt, With all her pack, hunts screaming through the years: That, that was not Apollo, not the god. Cornhill Magazine. KITH AND KIN. 66 BY JESSIE FOTHERGILL, AUTHOR OF THE FIRST VIOLIN." CHAPTER IV. MEETING THE THIRD. THE morning of Monday was half over. Aglionby stood in the saleroom of the warehouse, which at the moment was empty. He had disposed satisfactorily of large amounts of goods already, and now for the first time he found a leisure moment, in which to take up a newspaper, and glance over it. It was the advanced Liberal journal of Irkford, the Daily Chronicle. In a conspicuous place at the head of a column, in the middle of the paper, was a letter to the editor, entitled, Education in Denominational Schools." This letter was signed," Pride of Science," as if with a defiant challenge to the rival" Pride of Ignorance." Aglionby's eyes gleamed as he glanced down the columns, and his most disagreeable smile stole over his face. The letter was from his own pen, and was not the first, by several, with which he had enriched the columns of that journal, on that and kindred topics. He was not aware, himself, of the attention which these letters had attracted. He knew that generally they called forth angry replies, accusing him of wishing to undermine the whole fabric of respectability; to explode the secure foundations of society, and cause anarchy to be crowned; and to these fulminations he delighted to reply with a pitiless, slashing acerbity; an intuitive stabbing of the weak points in his opponents' armor which must have made those enemies writhe. He had never yet paused to ask himself whether his course of action in the matter were noble or not. He detected abuses, and those abuses flourishing rankly under a system which he thoroughly disliked; and he hastened to expose them, and to hold up them and their perpetrators to ridicule; dangling them before such a public as chose to take an interest in his proceedings, and scourging them well, with whipping words and unsparing hand. His letter this morning was a pungent one. He had written it, on the Thursday night before, in a bitter mood, and the bitterness came out very clearly in the composition. He had made a point of investigating the proceedings and system at several denominational schools, and had collected some significant facts, which he had used with considerable cleverness to bring a good deal of discredit on the clerical and denominational party. "I shall be pelted to death for this, in tomorrow morning's issue," he reflected, looking cynically pleased. 'Holloa! Here's a leader on my precious effusion. What has it got to say?" 44 He had just begun to read, but was interrupted by a call of, "Mr. Aglionby !" He looked up, and saw one of the principals of the firm entering the room -and behind him another figure. Aglionby felt slightly bewildered, but not very much surprised, when he recognized the choleric-looking old gentleman of the Liberal Demonstration and the play, on Saturday afternoon and evening. "The third time of meeting!" he reflected."Kismet! The will of Allah ¡be done!" He stood silent, while his glance wandered beyond both the men, to the doorway, and the beyond which was visible through it. Blank space. Neither a hat with a brim, nor yet one without nothing but the remembrance of a pair of deep-set gray eyes, a pale face, and a steadfast-looking mouth. "Mr. Aglionby!" was repeated. "Yes," he answered, as he laid down his paper, and advanced a step. "I think you are at liberty just now. "There are no customers here at the moment," he replied. "Then be good enough to take this gentleman round the premises. He is interested in our arrangements, so you will explain them to him as clearly as you can, and give him all the information he desires." Then with a bland smile, Mr. Jenkinson, the senior partner of the firm of Jenkinson, Sharp and Company, excused himself on the plea of a pressing engagement at that very hour, from going farther with them, and they were left alone together. Aglionby, turning to the old gentle As you like I don't care, tered, still continuing to gaze at his guide. 64 Then come this way," said the latter, conscientiously carrying out his directions. The visitor followed him, and Aglionby explained everything to him very clearly, but very soon came to the conclusion that his trouble was wasted, for so absent-minded a man, he thought, he had never seen. Merely glancing at all the things he was shown, he kept his eyes still persistently fixed upon the face of his guide, occasionally giving utterance to a Humph!" when it appeared necessary to say something, but evidently feeling but scant interest in the vast stock and complicated business system of Messrs. Jenkinson and Sharp. At last they found themselves back in the saleroom. Aglionby remarked, "I think you have seen everything now." (This was entirely a figure of speech, for he was convinced that the strange old man had perceived little or nothing of it all.) "Do you wish to see Mr. Jenkinson again, or shall I show you out?" two slices of bread and butter, and a bottle of cold tea-his dinner. "Bob, just clear out, will you, and get your dinner somewhere else," said Aglionby good-naturedly. The lad raised a pale, delicately-sensitive face, smiled, and picking up his little bundle, departed. Now we are alone, observed Aglionby, propping himself up against a mountain of "goods," and sticking his hands into his pockets. The old gentleman seated himself on a solitary, wooden-bottomed chair, folded his hands on the top of his stout walkingstick, and said, "I wish to know your name." My name is Bernard Aglionby," replied Aglionby, lifting his head a little, with a gesture of unconscious pride. "I thought so!" burst from the old man's lips, as he struck his stick upon the ground; and Aglionby, gazing at him fixedly, felt a strange sensation stirring at his heart. A rush of vague recollections-memories strange and potent, partaking both of sweetness and bitterness, came surging up in his mind. Whose spirit was it that looked at him through those frosty blue eyes? The pause that followed the last words was a long one. Aglionby waited almost breathlessly for the next question. When it came it did not surprise him—now. "Did you ever hear of a place in Yorkshire, called Yoresett-in-Danesdale ?" Aglionby glanced at him keenly, searchingly, and saw that he was agitated. Then he replied, curtly enough, 'Yes." "Were you ever there?'' "You have? Well, here he is—I am he.' He tapped his broad chest with his strong forefinger, and a rush of color covered his face, while his eyes were fixed ever more intently and more eagerly upon the other's face. Aglionby looked at him, his own countenance, so strong a contrast to that of his companion, set in a gravity which amounted to sternness. There was no sarcasm in his eyes now, and no malice upon his lips. He bore little likeness to the halelooking old man, with his white hair, his ruddy, full face, and yet there was, as one looked at them, a something-a flavor of expression perhaps, a similarity in the way in which their lips closed one upon the other. "I am he," he said again. your grandfather, lad; I !'"' "I am soon as "I knew you must be, as you spoke of Yoresett and Scar Foot," said the other gravely. “Well?” "Well! Have you no word to say to me? The nearest relation you have in the world!" What should I have to say to you? Nothing agreeable, surely." And why not? What injury have I ever done you ?'' "That is an odd question," said Aglionby, shrugging his shoulders. "You turned my father out of doors, and disinherited him when he married my mother, and when you might have been reconciled with her, how did you treat her?" child she had borne in trouble and adversity-her only comfort, if a poor one. A grandson of yours-no!"' Aglionby the elder was quivering with wrath and emotion. He shook his stick menacingly within an inch of Bernard's face. The latter smiled slightly, drew his hands from his pockets, and folded his arms. "I suppose that is your view of the case, said the old man. "I say, that your father was my all-and that he broke my heart." "You look as if your heart had been broken long ago!" retorted Bernard sceptically. "He refused even for one instant to look at the woman whom I wished him to marry." Englishmen generally choose their wives for themselves, and my father just did what you had done before him, and what I have done after him," said Aglionby, quite convinced that he stated an undeniable fact. "What! You are married?" Stop, if you please. You are speaking of my mother. One whisper that savors of disrespect to her, and I leave you on the instant. Indeed, I must decline to discuss her at all with you, in any way." Mr. Aglionby chafed under this curb, but nothing in Bernard's expression encouraged him to continue the subject. He bit his lips, and drew his brows together, looking the young man over, from the crown of his sombre, shadowy locks, down to the arched in step of his long, slender foot. 66 66 66 Why are you called Bernard?" he asked. It is no name in our family." My mother's name was Bernarda; and her father's before her was Bernard; mine is the same." 66 And have you no other? No John, for instance, nor Roger, nor Ralph ?" "None but Bernard. "Why not John Bernard? It would have made a fine name!" "Then, when your mother-no, I'm not going to discuss her; don't be afraid-when she told you how she had decided your destiny for you-did you feel content with her decision?" "Perfectly-why not?" "Tell me what she said about me. Did she teach you to hate me ?" I was No. I remember it well. about six years old, and I was learning my lessons in my mother's room. She had been down-stairs, but presently came up again, looking pale and determined. She came up to me, and took me up in her strong arms, and kissed me often, and asked me if I would like to go away from her and live with some one else? I cried out, 'No.' Not if I had toys. and sweets, she said, and a pony, and a beautiful home! 'And you, mother,' I answered. 'No, not me, my boy.' I bawled out lustily that I would not go; and she kissed me with a kind of wild passion, and called me her lion-hearted boy. Afterward when I grew older, she told me all about your offer. She said you had sent a messenger to say that if she chose to give me up entirely to you for eleven months in the year, and during that time to hold no communication with me or with you-she might have what was left of me, for one-and she said she had sent you back the answer that you deserved. I say she did right. If I were begging my bread in the streets, I should say she had done right. His grandfather had been gazing intently at him as he spoke, drinking in, as it were, every word that he uttered. As Aglionby ceased, he drew a long sigh, and a strangely subdued look came over his face. He passed his hand across his eyes and said, in a low voice, as if communing with himself: 66 Ay! ay! such was my messagesuch was my message. Then," he added presently, looking up again, "since you are called after your mother and her people; since you have been delivered over into their hands, what have they done for you? Perhaps you were to proud to accept their assistance, eh ?" A gleam of hope, pleasure, and approval dawned in his eyes, and he look "I don't suppose John sounded well ed eagerly at Aglionby. |