AN AFFECTIONATE SON.

Press, Volume LIII, Issue 9305, 4 January 1896, Page 10

AN AFFECTIONATE SON.

The name on the card was Maddox, but at the first sound of his voice I recognised the man shown into the office as Sydney Carstairs. He didn't notice mc, he was too eager to get audience of Mr Maciver, %vho managed the firm's advertising. We do a good deal in that way, and I've no doubt that Maddox's card had been sent up a good many times before our Mr Maciver would grant an interview. So I leaned back and listened while my old schoolfellow let loose the flood of his eloquence.

"The Lamp of Truth," he said "is a publication which is almost of unique value to sucli a firm as yours. We have only just begun, but we have a great future before us. We spare no expanse to make our paper attractive to readers in all parts of the country. We have a weekly sermon by the Rev. T. Bagg3 Calshott, the famous preacher of the Balls Pond Tabernacle ; Lucy Markham, the well-known novelist, writes a serial story for us, and we have each week a poetical contribution from Catherine Herbert, the talented authoress of the " Rainbow of Hope." With these attractions we shall go in hundreds of thousands of Christian households throughout the land, and shall form a simply unrivalled medium for such high ela~s advertisers as yourselves." Our Mr Maciver turned an amused face towards mc. I knew very well that Mi Maddox had boon admitted in order that I might have an object lesson. I was new to the business, and had to be taught all branches of it. 80 he stopped the full tide of Mr Maddox's eloquence by the remorseless question— "What present circulation do you guarantee ?" While poor Sydney was delivering himself of an entirely evasive reply, I had timo to observe him closely. He was the last man I should ever have expected to see figuring as an advertising canvasser, and I knew already enough of these people to see that my old friend belonged distinctly to the lower varieties of that interesting genius. His hat alono wa3 enough to show the hardest pinch of poverty. He had been such a dandy at Oxford ! Mr Maciver had tossed the Lamp of Truth contemptuously aside, but Carstairs tried a second chance. " Tho Footlights," he said, speaking as fast as he could, for fear he might not be allowed to finish, " has a splendid circulation, not only with the profession, but also among the large and increasing class who are deeply interested in the drama. Actors are especially fond of savory additions to their dishes. There are some, I believe, who almost live upon pickles, and as a medium for your unrivalled products—"

But our Mr Maciver had amused himself enough, and signified pretty plainly that there was no business to be done and that Sydney might retire. The poor man's briskness vanished. He seemed as it were, to resume a look of settled disappointment as he slowly turned to the door. "Dormy," I called out, "dearme, Dormy •—' Aliquando bonus dormitat Homcrus. ,n Sydney Carstairs had once made this particular false quantity, and so earned himself more than one nickname. He looked round at the sound of the* old appellation and saw mc. He turned very red and let fall the papers he was carrying. "Mr Maciver," I said, "this is an old friend of mine ; we must do something for him. Something good. A whole page and a aeries, you know." Mr Maciver looked rather disgusted at this unbusinesslike procedure, but commenced an examination of the two journals. Sydney, meanwhile, seemed very awkward and ill at ease, and assured mc several times that he had hot expected to see mc; that he did not know that I took an active interest in the business, and so on. He approved faintly of the choice Mr Maciver had made, which preferred the " Footlights " to the " Lamp of Truth." "Neither is a really good medium," Sydney said, with sudden frankness, "but you are doing it to oblige mc, and the " Lamp of Truth" expects the heaviest lying;" and he departed, looking several degrees less unhappy* but not before I had arranged to meet him again. j A day or two later Sydney dined with mc, and we talked for a long time over old days and old friends. It was at my place in the country, and we'sat out of doors after dinner and smoked. As the twilight deepened Sydney became more confidential and a little more cheerful.

"I daresay," he said, "you were surprised enough to sco mc trotting round to tout for advertisements. It i 3 not a grand position for a banker's son. But I daresay you know the bank failed and my father died suddenly, and there was nothing left for mc. I had been called to the bar, but had never seen a brief, and did not even expect to sec one. I tried journalism—tried very hard, very hard indeed—but I suppose I wasn't clever enough ; at any rate, I could not make it pay, and so I drifted into what I'm. doing now. Sometimes I don't do so badly." Sydney was silent, and I quite tmderstood that those times did not come very often.

"I'm awfully obligod to you," he burst out again, " for helping mc. An order from a firm liko yours is worth something. I've shown it all round, and I've got Condensed Cocoa on the strength of it, and I've half a promise from Black's, the soap people. Why, when I went back to Footlights office with your order in my hand, they nearly fell on my neck for joy."

To change the subject I turned back to the old days, and reminded Carstairs of a school holiday I had spent at his father's house.

"I had a very jolly time of it," I said. " I used to ride races across your father's park with your sister Mabel, and once her horse ran away, and your mother was terribly frightened."

Carstairs sighed. "Poor Mab is dead, and the park was sold for building sites." Then he added as an after thoucht, " But wouldn't you like to go down and see my mother some time ? She is living at Kew. When tho crash came and all our furniture was sold, we saved enough to furnish a tiny cottage. There was a little money settled on her, and she manages on that. There's a young lady who lives with her. The diningroom will just seat four, and my mother has often asked mc to bring a friend, and, as a rule, I haven't anyone. The friends I have now are not exactly salonfaliig, as they say in Germany. My mother would bo sure to recognise you."

Sydney's prediction was completely fulfilled when I went down with him a week later to the tiny cottage he had spoken of. Mrs Carstairs recognised mc at once, and reminded mc of several things which had happened during my stay at her house. But I certainly should not have known her again, though I had a clear mental image of the lady I had known before. But time had not dealt gently with Mrs Carstairs ; the comely, cheerful matron of my remembrance had become an old lady with furrowed cheeks, bent shoulders, and white hair. The only other guest was a young lady whom Mrs Carstairs called Lucy, and Sydney Miss Hilton. She was quite a pretty young lady not in her first youth, and I divined at once that Mrs Carstairs had formed plans in which her son and Miss Hilton were greatly interested. Sydney looked very different from the shabby being who had been bo •xceedingly deferential to our clerk. His

dress clothes were faultless, and he had an orchid in his buttonhole. He expressed himself with considerable decision on many points, and I noticed that the younger as well U3 the elder lady listened to what he said with a great deal of attention. Mrs Carstairs contrived that a good deal of her son's conversation was directed to Miss

Hilton, and after dinner she manoeuvred them botli into the little patch of garden, while she sat in the verandah and talked to mc. I suppose Crastairs had foreseen this. and had guessed what would be the subject of his mother's conversation, for on the way down he had given mc a caution. "My mother," he had said, with some confusion, " isn't aware at all of what I am doing for a living. I've told her that lam connected with the Press, and she hasn't any idea of the precise nature of the connection. Please don't enlighten her." So I was not altogether surprised when Mrs Carstairs asked mc if I had ever had any connection with journalism. The negative reply that was expected served as

a starting point for the proud mother. " Sydney writes a great deal, I balieve," she said ; " in fact, it's his only real occupation. Hi 3 practice at the bar amounts to nothing. He has never told you, I suppose, the papers that he's connected with ! "

"I have never heard him allude to himself as contributor to any particular organ," I replied; "but then, you know, I have hardly seen him for a great many years."

"It would be all the same, I expect, if you had seen him every day," the old lady returned very quickly. "Sydney is very reticent about press matters, though he's frankness itself in other things. And I suppose he is quite right to be discreet. He always says that the anonymity of writers for tho daily or weekly press ought to be most carefully maintained. We can never

get him to admit the authorship of a single article. For a long time we didn't even know what paper he was permanently connected with." " But you know now ? " I queried. " Yes ; we found it out by accident—Miss Hilton and myself. We had been talking politics one evening, and the next day we found everything we had said in a leader — much better expressed, of course—and when we taxed him with having written the article ho couldn't deny it. And do you know what paper it was ? " I shook my head. " The Times," said the old lady impressively. " And now we've got so far that we can tell which articles are his. Sometimes there isn't anything by him, and then, you know, I think the paper is very dull," she added with a little laugh. " How do you tell your son's writing?'' I asked. "Oh," she replied, "there are a lot of little signs that we know. There are certain words he is very fond of using, and, and —I can't explain it, but thero are lots of little

things. Lucy and I always read the paper, and we each of us settle in our mind which is his, and in almost every case when we come to compare notes we find we agree perfectly. So you see," she concluded with a lively nod. She was silent for a few

moments, watching the two who were pacing about in the little garden, but she soon returned to the subject.

"It's a great responsibility," she said, "to write for a journal liko the Times, and lam sure my son feels it. Sometimes he seems quite absent minded, and—and almost as if he had too much to think of. And sometimes he doesn't come down to see us

for weeks and weeks. Hois too busy, he says."

Mrs Carstairs then began to question mc about myself, but the fact that; I had been married only a few months before rolled the conversation back to the favourite topic.

'•I wish Sydney would marry," she said ; " but he always tells mc that he hasn't time, and he doesn't like being pressed on the subject."

The return of the pair from outside made the conversation general, and before very

long Carstairs declared that he was obliged to leave. We drove back together in a hansom. Carstairs was silent and depressed. He seemed to be relapsing into the weary mood of the underpaid drudge.

" Did my mother say much about mc ?" he queried timidly.

I told him the substance of the conversation. "She thinks that you write for the Times," I said.

He shook his head sadly. " And I let her think so—in fact, I've encouraged the idea. Poor soul! If she saw mc going about my work day after day, waiting for hours in offices, hanging round doors, in the hope of getting a word in with the big man as he comes out, and not only with firms like yours, but with small people—dirty, greasy, illiterate tradespeople, who, all the same, look down on mo and snub mc at times, and are offensively familiar at others

—if she saw this going on when sho thinks I am meditating on deep affairs of State, I am afraid it would almost break her heart. I lead a dog's life, and my worst fear is that my mother may come to know of it. You may think it is very wrong of mc to let her deceive herself bo, but I can't help it."

" Wouldn't it be better to let her knowhow things are ?" I asked.

"I can't tell her the truth; I can't tell her that I'm deep down in the mud and that r shall always stick there. It's not my fault," he went on in passionate tones, " that lam where I am? I tried my best. I worked early and late, and covered reams of paper, but 'twas all of no use. I was determined to do something for my poor mother—to give her some of the luxuries which she was always used to. I meant to do a great deal, and I've done just nothing

—absolutely nothing. lam too miserably poor to help her in any way. Tho only pleasure I can give her is to let her think that lam prosperous and happy. And even that is hard. I can't manage at times to keep a decent coat to wear when I go down to see her."

He buried his face in his hands and groaned audibly. I tried to cheer him up by the hope of brighter daj-s, but he refused to be comforted. With an attempt at jocularity, I said :—

" You'll be lucky in time, perhaps. A rich wife is being saved up for you somewhere."

He looked up suddenly. " Did my mother say anything about that ?"

" She'd like you to be married," I said. He sighed profoundly. "She wants mc to marry Miss Hilton," he replied, "who will have some money by-and-byo—not that she imagines I need it."

"Well," I said, "why don't you? She struck mc as a very charming young lady, and evidently fond of you."

He was silent a few moments, and then he said, in alow voice :

" The fact is I am married already, and I have two small children to provide for. That's another secret I have to keep. My wife is not a lady—she doesn't even pretend to be."

. My curiosity was excited, and I couldn't help showing it.

"She was a waitress," he said, "at a cheap restaurant in the city. Steak and kidney pudding for 7d —that sort of thing. She was very pretty and quiet, and I was solitary. I had given up any hopes of succeeding at anything, and I fell in love with

the waitress. I couldn't help it. It is not good for man to be alone, I suppose. At any rate we are married ; there are two children to look after, and there'll be another before long. My mother-in-law lives with us," he

went on with an air of stolid resignation, "and looks after things. She is a good manageress but her temper gets tjie better of her sometimes, and when I am unlucky and can't bring any money in, she —well, she doesn't do much to console mc." Before we parted I asked him if I could help him financially a little. •' You know," I said, " there's a profit on pickles and we don't sell our jams at cost price. I can always spare a little money. Won't you let mc help you now and then ? " He thanked he heartily but declined the offer.

[ "I'll bear it in mind as a last resource," jhe said : " but I don't want to begin borrowing little sums. I should never be able to pay them back, and it might become a habit. Leave mc what poor shreds of self-respect I have got left." I had thought of doing something more than occasionally advancing small sums, but I saw he had misunderstood mc, and I did not press my offer farther. I determined to bear the matter in mind, and to see if I could find any better opening for my old schoolfellow. But nothing occurred for some time ; I had plenty to think of, and the idea of helping Carstairs receded more and more into the background. But I got my wife to call at tho cottage in Kew. She liked Mrs Carstairs very much, and took her and Miss Hilton sometimes for a drive through Richmond Park. They were invited, too, to some of the milder functions at our house. Mrs Carstairs's conversation was always full of her son's supposed contributions to the Times. She showed us some of these, and claimed our admiration. One afternoon, after five o'clock tea, she consulted mc, in a carefully contrived tete-a-tete, as to the probable remuneration. "Sydney does three or four leaders a week for the Times. What do you think they would pay him ?" She looked at mc inquiringly. I disclaimed all knowledge, but thought £1000 a year would be something like it. "That's what I should have said," the old lady rejoined, evidently pleased at my views concurring with her own. "And then, of course, Sydney writes for other papers. I've been thinking of this, because he has been very economical lately in one or two little things. Cabs, for example. He never comes in a cab, and even when it rains he won't let us send out to fetch one. He says he

prefers the railways. And once, when I

know the train ho was coming by and met him at the station, I actually saw him get out of a third class carriage—fancy that for Sydney !—a carriage full of the most dreadful looking people. Now you know he

wouldn't have done that without some

reason. Can you guess what that was ?'» and she looked mc right in the face with a smile on her lips.

I could guess easily enough, but it was not my duty to shatter the dear old lady's illusions. So I murmured vaguely something about the democratic tendencies of the age —many people of the best position always travelled third class; one or two peers, I have been told, ahvays did so, &c.

"Or perhaps," I suggested, as an afterthought, " he was studying the manner and customs of the working classes, preparatory to writing some article ?"

I felt rather ashamed of the plausibility of this suggestion. Mrs Carstairs shook her head in vigorous dissent.

" No," she said ; "Sydney doesn't condescend to that style of journalism. Politic g — la haute politique —and literature form hi a department. And the democratic tendencies of the age are not the reason either. Sydney isn't democratic any more than I am. Quite the reverse. There's one bit of Latin that I know, because I've heard him quote it so often when he was a young man— Odi pro. fanum vulgus et arceo. I know that's in Horace, and I know what it means. No, I'm sure that it is for a special motive that ho has become so penurious lately. He wants to save money for some very particular purpose, and I know what that purpose is."

I was evidently expected to be curious, and I satisfied expectation.

"I can speak to you," the old lady went on—" speak to you as an old friend. You know, when the creditors came down on us and things were sold, there were dividends paid. I don't know exactly how many or what they amounted to, but I am afraid they didn't come to twenty shillings in the pound. And that's what Sydney's saving for—to pay everybody everything. lam sure Of it. When the crash came I remem. ber his telling mc that that was what he was going to do. He's never said anything about it since, and I had quite forgotten all about it, and I was puzzled by his penurious* ness, till all of a sudden I remembered what he had said, and then everything was clear. I knew that he was patiently accumulating till he had got quite enough to pay off everything with interest—l'm sure he'd want to pay interest as well—and that he'd come forward and call the creditors and pay off everything, and then come to mc and say,

• Mother, I've cleared our good name from reproach. Now lam a free man, and I can marry the girl of my choice'"—and she looked across to Miss Hilton, who was chatting with my wife at a little distance. "And I think you will find," she went on, dropping her voice to a whisper, " that it won't be very long before all this takes place. I have reasons for thinking so."

I was weak enough to say something indefinite about this paying off of old debts being very rare. " And it's very noble conduct," I said, "but "

" You think it a little Quixotic," the old lady replied quickly; "perhaps I do, too. But there would be no use trying to persuade Sydney—he couldn't be got to take the business view of the subject."

Our tete-a-tete was interrupted, and the theme of conversation changed. But before we left the old lady pressed mc very earnestly to dine at Kew on a certain date she named.

"It's my birthday, you know," she said, "and Sydney is sure to be there. We haven't seen him for a long time ; we can hardly expect to see much of him now that a general election is going on, but I'm sure he'll be there then. He has never missed my birthday yet." I promised to be of the party, and the evident pleasure which my acceptance gave was painfully significant. I could see that the old lady was quite sure in her own mind that that evening was the time fixed for the scene which was to mark the triumphant issue of her son's strange lapse into penuriousness. Only the day before the evening of the dinner Carstairs called at our offices and contrived, not without difficulty, to get admitted to my sanctum. He looked even shabbier than he had done when I saw him first. Things were going very badly with him, he said. The Footlights had been sold to a man who did his own canvassing, and the Lamp of Truth had gone out entirely. "Condensed Cocoa gave them a short ord;r," Carstah-s said, " and when that came to an end the paper died. But I haven't come to talk about that," he added, after a short pause, " but to ask you to lend mc a few pounds. I know I refused when you offered before, but perhaps yon won't mind that."

"Of course not," I said. "Dear mc, Dormy, don't make a fuss about a trifle."

"It's for to-morrow's dinner," he said. " I've always kept up my mother's birthday. I always managed it all right, bat this year I can't. My dress suit isn't—isn't available

and I want to take a few flowers and some little trifle." He named a small sum, and I handed over

the money. "I don't know when I'll pay you back," he said; " perhaps never, for things arc getting worse and worse with mc." I met him the next day at the station at Kew. He was irreproachably attired, and carried a big bouquet of choice flowers. His looks were gloomy. " I don't know," he said, "if this was all to be done over again whether I would do it. But I've kept up appearances so long that I must go on doing so to the end. It would be cruel to undeceive my poor mother now." . He shook off all outward signs of depression before he reached the house, and responded warmly to his mother's effusive welcome. He talked a good deal during dinner, and interested the ladies Avith gossip of tho great world, gained, as I guessed, by a careful preliminary perusal of the society journals. Mention was made of the approaching marriage of an ox-Cabinet Minister, and the ladies were curiou- about the bride. " Is she so very good looking ? " Mrs Carstairs asked. "You've seen her scores of times, of course ?" " Not lately," Sydney said, with a hurried glance at mc. Then he added, " But she was quite the belle of last season." Mrs Carstairs looked gravely at her son. " You mustn't let yourself drop out of society," she said, "not even for a general election." After dinner the evening was very warm, anil v.'c all sat out in the little garden. After a time music was suggested, and Miss Hilton agreed to play a sonatina. " It's your favourite, Sydney," his mother said, "and you must turn over the leaves, and we'll stay out here and have a little chat." As soon as the other two had passed into the drawingroom Mrs Carstairs opened fire on mc with— " Wasn't it a beautiful bouquet that Sydney brought mc? It must have cost a sreat deal," and she looked at mc significantly. I knew what was passing in her mind. She meant to say, "The self imposed task is over, the period of penury is gone, and the revelation will soon be made."

I was so sure that this was passing in her mind that I hastened to change the subject. But she soon got back to the favourite topic. " Don't you think poor Sydney looks a little fatigued ?" and without waiting for a reply she went on :—" He has had to work so hard, you know. But what a triumph it is for him to have overthrown the Government ! It is really he who has done it, you know. Everybody says it is all due to the Times. But I hope there won't be another general election just yet." I acquiesced vaguely in the wish. "You know," sho went on, "when Sydney was a boy and did so well at school, I used to be very ambitious for him. I used to think he would enter Parliament like his father, and that lie might win a great position there—'The applause of listening

senates to command,' you know and all that

sort of thing, and it was a great disappointment to mo when that was all put aside. But now I ask you, isn't the journalist, who, by the mere force of his pen, can mould public opinion, who can remain unknown, or at least almost unknown, and can overturn one Ministry and dictate a policy to another; isn't that man much greater than a mere member of Parliament, who 13 expected to vote as he is told ? How many of our public men are there whose influence is half as great as Sydney's ?"

Mrs Carstairs spoke vehemently, her eyes flashed, a tinge of pale pink coloured her thin, worn cheeks.

We were interrupted by a disturbance in the draw ing-room. The sonatina had ceased, and there was the sound of loud, angry voices. We found two unexpected visitors. One was a stoutish woman with a red face, apparently about fifty ; the other was about half that age, and with a very fair share of good looks, in spite of evident signs of weakness and indifferent health. She carried a diminutive baby. Both were shabbily dressed, though the younger woman had made some ineffectual attempts at finery. The elder woman was brandishing Sydney's bouquet and screaming wildly at Miss Hilton.

" What 'aye you got to do with another woman's 'usband, I'd liko to know ? Sixteen shillings and sixpence he give for them flowers. I seen him. Sixteen shillings and sixpence, and his poor children crying because they haven't had enough to eat, poor little dears, and his lawful wife as he promised to love and cherish hardly able to stand with her baby not six weeks old, and not a penny has he brought into the home for the last month, and I may toil and moil and he can dress himself up as if he was the lord of the land, and chuck his money away as if his pockets were stuffed with bank notes—him that can't earn 10s a week, and can't find nobody to trust him with half-a-crown ! Him a canvasser, indeed ! Why, he had much better stop in the shop than wear out his boot leather when he can't do nothing a'cause of his being so shabby. Why, they turn him out of any respectable place. And my daughter, as might have married a plumber's young man who has now got a shop of his own, and makes his £4 a week regular !"

This is only a sample of the lady's oratory. She said a good deal more, while the younger woman sat down and attended to the claims of the baby, who had begun to cry.

We all remained speechless while the tirade was being delivered. Miss Hilton, very pale, stood clutching the piano, and gazins - alternately, now at Sydney and now at the woman with the baby. Mrs Carstairs stood in wide eyed astonishment, not comprehending the scene or what she was hearing.

" Sydney," she said at last, turning to her son, "what does this mean? Who are these people ?"

He had been standing motionless with downcast head, but at his mother's appeal he came forward, and 'with an air of forced calmness said—

" Mother, this lady is my mother-in-law, Mrs Thomson, and this is my wife, and this is my youngest child. There are two others. Your ideas about mc need slight correction. I don't write for the Times, nor for anything else. It is true that lam connected with the press, but I am only a canvasser, and a canvasser for some of the poorest and meanest papers that ever were printed. On the whole, I am a little superior in rank to the man whom you see carrying boards in the street. I earn very little money, and sometimes none at aIL I couldn't get on without Mrs Thomson, who has just been expressing her views so powerfully, though perhaps a trifle incoherently. She keeps a shop, where we sell bottles of lemonade ,and sweets and marbles and penny weekly newspapers. And sometimes we do badly, and then we don't have enough to eat, and sometimes we do better, and then we have shrimps for tea. And, mother "

He stopped, a sort of spasm seemed to check his utterance, and to run like a wave through his whole body. Then crying—

"My God !My God ! I can't bear it!" he fell on the sofa and buried his head in the cushions. The poor mother tottered to his side. " My poor Sydney," she said, softly, "my poor, poor boy !" Miss Hilton was the next to speak.

" Don't you think," she said, turning to mc, "that there are too many of us here? Perhaps Mrs Thompson and the new Mrs Carstair3 would like to retire."

Mrs Thompson followed her daughter out of the drawing-room, but her tongue was not to be silenced. She felt bound to explain the order of events ; she had seen the address on a letter her son-in-law had written ; she had watched, and had seen him gotoacoffee house and emerge in evening dress ; she had followed him to Covent Garden, and wit nesseel the purchase of the bouquet, and then she had gone home and shut up the shop and had come down by train, bringing her daughter with her. She expressed her determination to take Sydney back with her, but a bank note astonished her into silence and compliance with my views, which were that she should leave at once. An empty cab happened to be passing and received tho party. But before that Miss Hilton had a short colloquy with Sydney's wife.

"So," she said, in a harsh tone, "3-ou arc his wife, and that's his baby ! Does he ever beat you, I wonder ?" The woman looked astonished. " Oh, no, miss !" she said ; " he's a good 'usband, and he does what he can when he has the means. Only I don't hold with him buying flowers when his children haven't got enough to eat."

" I don't believe he's a good husband," Miss Hilton replied. " He's a treacherous coward. But if he beats you, you deserve it. It is yon that keep him down in the gutter—you and your precious parcel of babies."

The poor woman was frightoned at the young lady's violent tone, and shrank away in a corner of the cab. But she was unwilling to leave without her husband, and Mrs Thompson took the same view of the position. They had, however, grasped the fact that Sydney was v» ith his mother, and they were persuaded to drive off. After the sound of the wheels had d : ed away Miss Hilton, with a hasty good night, rushed off to her own room. When I got back to the drawing-room Sydney hadn't moved from the sofa. The failure of the well-meant effort at deception which he had maintained so long was the cruellest blow fortune had dealt him, and it broke him down completely. He was sobbing liko a child, and his mother, sitting by his side, was trying to comfort him in the same way that she had soothed his infant troubles, with tender caresses and only half articulate words. She waved mc a mute farewell with her disengaged hand, and I left tho house.

I never saw her again. My wife called twice at the little cottage at Kew, but the mistress was not to be seen. A third visit after some lapse of time found the house untenanted and empty, and inquiries in the neighbourhood elicited nothing.

But nearly two years later I was introduced to a Mrs Malcolm, a newly married lady, in whom I recognised the former Miss Hilton. From her I learned that Mrs Carstairs had been dead for some time.

"Sho never got over that night," the young lady said; "all her life clung round those illusions as to her son's career, and the revelation killed her. She tried to put a good face on the matter; she went over to see the children once or twice, and when the baby had measles the two grandmothers made a great fuss about him, and became almost friendly. But she could never really reconcile herself to the state of things; the little shop where they sold lemonade and sweets, and horrible little papers, and Sydney, shabby, penniless, almost despairing—all this was too much for her. She died. Pneumonia, the medical certificate called it."

Mrs Malcolm was silent for a few moments, and then began again— " Do you think you will ever see Sydney again—Mr Carstairs I should say ?" I expressed my doubts. "If you do," Mrs Malcolm said, 'i.-give him a message from mc." She hesitated and looked down. " You know there were two of us who had illusions. Tell him I forgive him, and wish him well."

Mrs Malcolm's message had to wait nearly three years to get delivered. Then one day I had a visit from Carstairs. He came to repay mc the £10 he had borrowed for his mother's birthday dinner, and explained why he had not seen mo before.

"I've been living in the Midlands, and then I wanted to come with the money in my hand."

I gave Mrs Malcolm's message, but I could see that tho mischief he had done in deceiving that lady had never occupied a prominent position in his thoughts.

" Then you know of my mother's death,' he said. "It was sudden at the last, and I suppose it was what people would call a happy release. There was nothing for her to live for when I had turned out a failure. Her mind was a little disturbed some weeks before she died, and there were times when she seemed to forget all about that terrible evening, and to think of mo in the old way. Then she died,- and it was I who killed her." He was silent for a moment and then said

—"It's the saddest thing in life that some men seem doomed to break the hearts of those they love best."

To change the dolorous direction of his thoughts I asked if he was doing better in business.

' * Yes," he replied gravely, '' things are not so bad as they were. I work for a good paper and get a regular salary. I secured Condensed Cocoa and two of the soap people. We are not so. poor as we were ; mother left us all she could leave, and it makes things easier, and Mrs Thompson is really very good now. My eldest daughter, too, is a great comfort; we are all so proud of her she is so good and does so well at school."

Since that interview I have never seen Carstairs to speak to or heard of him. But I caught sight of him coming out of Charing Cross Station; he looked grey and bent premature old age had plainly set its mark upon him. A very sweet looking child of about eleven years of age was with him. They had evidently had a day in the country together, for his boots were dusty, and she held in her hand a bunch of wild flowers, the other hand clasped his, and as I watched them slowly crossing Trafalgar Square, I was pleased to think that Destiny, which had meted out such hard measure to my old school fellow, had sent consolation for his latter years in the guise of that graceful child.