Regardless of the rain, Mat walked slowly up and down the streets round Baregrove Square, peering every now and then, from afar off, through the misty shower, to see if the carriages were still drawn up at Mr. Thorpe's door. The ceremony of presenting the Testimonial was evidently a protracted one; for the vehicles were long kept waiting for their owners. The rain had passed away—the sun had reappeared—fresh clouds had gathered, and it was threatening a second shower, before the Deputation from the great Religious Society re-entered their vehicles and drove out of the square.
When they had quitted it, Mat advanced and knocked at Mr. Thorpe's door. The clouds rolled up darkly over the sun, and the first warning drops of the new shower began to fall, as the door opened.
The servant hesitated about admitting him. He had anticipated that this sort of obstacle would be thrown in his way at the outset, and had provided against it in his own mind beforehand. 'Tell your master,' he said, 'that his son is ill, and I've come to speak to him about it.'
This message was delivered, and had the desired effect. Mat was admitted into the drawing-room immediately.
The chairs occupied by the members of the Deputation had not been moved away—the handsome silver inkstand was on the table—the Address, beautifully written on the fairest white paper, lay by it. Mr. Thorpe stood before the fireplace, and bending over towards the table, mechanically examined, for the second time, the signatures attached to the Address, while his strange visitor was being ushered up stairs.
Mat's arrival had interrupted him just at the moment when he was going to Mrs. Thorpe's room, to describe to her the Presentation ceremony which she had not been well enough to attend. He had stopped immediately, and the faint smile that was on his face had vanished from it, when the news of his son's illness reached him through the servant. But the hectic flush of triumph and pleasure which his interview with the Deputation had called into his cheeks, still colored them as brightly as ever, when Matthew Grice entered the room.
'You have come, sir,' Mr. Thorpe began, 'to tell me—'
He hesitated, stammered out another word or two, then stopped. Something in the expression of the dark and strange face that he saw lowering at him under the black velvet skull-cap, suspended the words on his lips. In his present nervous, enfeebled state, any sudden emotions of doubt or surprise, no matter how slight and temporary in their nature, always proved too powerful for his self-control, and betrayed themselves in his speech and manner painfully.
Mat said not a word to break the ominous silence. Was he at that moment, in very truth, standing face to face with Arthur Carr? Could this man—so frail and meager, with the narrow chest, the drooping figure, the effeminate pink tinge on his wan wrinkled cheeks—be indeed the man who had driven Mary to that last refuge, where the brambles and weeds grew thick, and the foul mud-pools stagnated in the forgotten corner of the churchyard?
'You have come, sir,' resumed Mr. Thorpe, controlling himself by an effort which deepened the flush on his face, 'to tell me news of my son, which I am not entirely unprepared for. I heard from him yesterday; and, though it did not strike me at first, I noticed on referring to his letter afterwards, that it was not in his own handwriting. My nerves are not very strong, and they have been tried—pleasurably, most pleasurably tried—already this morning, by such testimonies of kindness and sympathy as it does not fall to the lot of many men to earn. May I beg you, if your news should be of an alarming nature (which God forbid!) to communicate it as gently—'
'My news is this,' Mat broke in: 'Your son's been hurt in the head, but he's got over the worst of it now. He lives with me; I like him; and I mean to take care of him till he gets on his legs again. That's my news about your son. But that's not all I've got to say. I bring you news of somebody else.'
'Will you take a seat, and be good enough to explain yourself?'
They sat down at opposite sides of the table, with the Testimonial and the Address lying between them. The shower outside was beginning to fall at its heaviest. The splashing noise of the rain and the sound of running footsteps, as the few foot passengers in the square made for shelter at the top of their speed, penetrated into the room during the pause of silence which ensued after they had taken their seats. Mr. Thorpe spoke first.
'May I inquire your name?' he said, in his lowest and calmest tones.
Mat did not seem to hear the question. He took up the Address from the table, looked at the list of signatures, and turned to Mr. Thorpe.
'I've been hearing about this,' he said. 'Are all them names there, the names of friends of yours?'
Mr. Thorpe looked a little astonished; but he answered after a moment's hesitation:
'Certainly; the most valued friends I have in the world.'
'Friends,' pursued Mat, reading to himself the introductory sentence in the address,
Mr. Thorpe began to look rather offended as well as rather astonished. 'Will you excuse me,' he said coldly, 'if I beg you to proceed to the business that has brought you here.'
Mat placed the Address on the table again, immediately in front of him; and took a pencil from a tray with writing materials in it, which stood near at hand. 'Friends
As the point of his pencil touched the paper of the Address, Mr. Thorpe started from his chair.
'What am I to understand, sir, by this conduct?' he began haughtily, stretching out his hand to possess himself of the Address.
Mat looked up with the serpent-glitter in his eyes, and the angry red tinge glowing in the scars on his cheek. 'Sit down,' he said, 'I'm not quick at writing. Sit down, and wait till I'm done.'
Mr. Thorpe's face began to look a little agitated. He took a step towards the fireplace, intending to ring the bell.
'Sit down, and wait,' Mat reiterated, in quick, fierce, quietly uttered tones of command, rising from his own chair, and pointing peremptorily to the seat just vacated by the master of the house.
A sudden doubt crossed Mr. Thorpe's mind, and made him pause before he touched the bell. Could this man be in his right senses? His actions were entirely unaccountable—his words and his way of uttering them were alike strange—his scarred, scowling face looked hardly human at that moment. Would it be well to summon help? No, worse than useless. Except the page, who was a mere boy, there were none but women servants in the house.
