“It is a fine old place,” remarked my companion, pausing because my own steps had come to a standstill.
I could not answer; he drew my arm into his, and we went on. Mr. Burton was growing to me in the shape of a friend, instead of a detective-officer.
That night I gave up my room to him, taking a hall-bedroom adjoining. After breakfast we went forth into the village, making our first call at the office. Mr. Argyll was there, looking thin and careworn. He said that he was glad to have me back, for he felt unfit for business, and must let the mantle of labor drop upon my shoulders hereafter.
There had been an implied understanding, although it had never been definitely agreed upon, that I was to become a partner in the law with my teacher, when I had been admitted to practice. He had no one associated with him in his large and lucrative business, and he was now getting of an age to feel like retiring from at least the drudgery of the profession. That he designed to offer me the place open for some candidate, I had not doubted, for he had said as much many times. This prospect was an unusually fair one for so young a person as myself; it had urged me to patient study, to eager, ambitious effort. For I rightly deemed that a respect for my habits of mental application and a faith in my as yet undeveloped talents, had decided Mr. Argyll to offer me the contemplated encouragement. This had been another reason for James’ dislike of me. He could not look favorably upon one who had, as it were, supplanted him. Instead of seeing that the fault lay in himself, and applying the remedy, he pursued the false course of considering me as a rival and an interloper. He, also, was a student in the office, and that he was a year behind me in his studies, and that, if he ever became a partner, it would be as a third member of the firm, was owing solely to his habitual indolence, which gave him a distaste for the dry details of a lawyer’s work. What he would have liked would be to have his examination shirked over, to be admitted on the strength of his uncle’s reputation, and then to be employed only in making brilliant oratorical efforts before the judge, jury and audience, after someone else had performed all the hard labor of the case, and placed his weapons ready at his hand.
If Mr. Argyll really intended to take the son of his old friend into the firm, instead of his nephew, it was simply on the prudent principles of business. I was to pass my examination on the first of November; this remark, then, which he made, as I observed how weary and unwell he looked, was not a surprise to me—it came only as a confirmation of my expectations.
At that moment James entered the office. There was a cloud on his brow, called up by his uncle’s words; he hardly took time to shake hands with me, before he said,
“How is it, uncle, if you are worried and overworked, that you do not tell me? I should have been glad to help you. But it seems I am of no possible account nowadays.”
Mr. Argyll smiled at this outbreak, as he would at the vexation of a child. A father could not be kinder to a son than he was to James; but to depend upon him for solid aid or comfort would be to lean upon a broken reed. The cloud upon the young man’s face grew thunderous when he perceived Mr. Burton; although, if I had not been looking straight in his eyes, I should not have noticed it, for it passed instantly, and he stepped forward with frank cordiality, extending his hand, and saying,
“We did not know you were to come up. Indeed, we did not expect Richard back so soon. Has anything transpired?”
“We hope that something will transpire, very soon,” answered the detective. “You are very anxious, I see—and no wonder.”
“No—no wonder! We are all of us perfectly absorbed—and, as for me, my heart bleeds for my friends, Mr. Burton.”
“And your friends’ hearts bleed for you.”
Mr. Burton had a peculiar voice, searching, though not loud; I was talking with Mr. Argyll, and yet I heard this reply without listening for it; I did not comprehend it, and indeed, I let it in at one ear and out at the other, for I was asking about Eleanor.
“She is better than we hoped for,” said the father, wiping the mist from his eyes which gathered at the mention of her name, “but, alas, Richard, that is not saying much. My girl never will be herself again. My pretty Eleanor will never be my sunshine anymore. Not that her mind is shaken—that remains only too acutely sensitive. But her heart is broken. I can see that—broken, past mending. She has not left her bed since Henry was carried away; the doctor assures me there is nothing dangerous about her illness—only the natural weakness of the system after intense suffering, the same as if she had endured great physical pain. He says she will rally presently.”
“If I could take her burden upon myself, I would ask no greater boon,” I said.
My voice must have been very full of the feeling within me, for it made Mr. Argyll give me a wondering look; I think it was the first time he had a suspicion of the hopeless passion I had cherished for his daughter.
“We must all bear our own troubles,” he said. “Poor Richard, I fear you have your own, like the rest of us.”
When I again noticed what was passing between the other two, James was
