“The President’s Message. We have been expecting it most anxiously for some days.”
“Not I. I really forget who is President, and I am sure I did not know that he was going to issue a message. I suppose that it is all moonshine and verbiage, as usual?”
“I see you retain your old Tory notions, Mr. Berry,” said Mr. Vernon. “We used to battle over them in Lipthwaite, you will remember. Do you recollect contending that the barren platitudes we call a speech from the throne were better than the well-reasoned and eloquent essay which a republican president addresses to the people?”
“I dare say that I did. I know that I should take the same side, if I cared enough about politics to discuss such matters now.”
“Now, my dear sir? Why, politics now have a commanding interest, a grand importance which they have never had before. Every event has its significance, and all events are tending to bring on a great and mighty change, a regeneration of mankind.”
“Mankind wants regenerating, badly enough, but I don’t suppose it will be done by Presidents’ Messages and newspaper gabble. However, if such things amuse you, you are right enough to look after them. I shall not interrupt your studies very long, but I shall be glad of a little conversation with you.”
“Nothing disagreeable, I hope,” said Mr. Vernon, with sincerity, and looking keenly at Mr. Berry.
“We are both of us too old to be afraid of disagreeable subjects,” said Berry, who was in no mood to make allowances for the selfishness of his companion.
“The less time we have before us, the more pleasantly we should try to occupy it,” said the other. “That is one of the pieces of wisdom which my white hairs have taught me. But, of course, if you feel that there is anything I ought to hear—though I would much rather it were put into writing—”
“I have been a lawyer, Mr. Vernon, and we write when we do not mean to come to the point. I shall not detain you long, and I cannot write what I wish to say.”
With a wistful look at the paper, which Mr. Vernon knew would be called for in less than an hour, he begged Mr. Berry to proceed.
“I shall make no apologies to you, Mr. Vernon,” said Berry, “for bringing a painful subject before you, for I am certain that as a father you will feel that none are needed.”
“Painful,” and “a father.” The first word was a good deal stronger than “disagreeable,” and the second called up a still more unpleasant train of recollections in the mind of Mr. Vernon. How he wished that he had gone out for the walk which he had always intended to take after his breakfast. But there he was, and there was no escape for him.
“None of my children ill?” he said.
“I suppose that, if so, it would hardly have been left to me to inform you.”
“Nay, I did not know. Canonbury is a good way from my daughter Beatrice’s, and Laura is still, I suppose, in some part of France. To tell you the truth, I do not see either of them quite so often as when we were all at Hermit Hut. But I am glad to hear you say that nothing is the matter.”
“I said nothing of the kind, Mr. Vernon,” said Berry, whose manner, formerly so genial, had become incisive and unpleasant. “Ill-health is not the worst thing that can come upon us.”
“In my mind, the very worst, except perhaps poverty. I hope that, as a professional man, you do not come to tell me of any pecuniary misfortune.”
And Archibald Vernon thought, uncomfortably, of the regularly paid rent for his very comfortable board and lodging, and that a quarter would be due in a short time.
“No, sir. But I come to tell you of something that should affect you more than either of the misfortunes which you have mentioned. When I have told you, I shall leave it to you to act as you may think your duty dictates.”
“To act” was another phrase that grated upon Vernon’s organisation, but he had sufficient reliance upon his own powers of self-conviction to assure himself that it must indeed be a powerful cause that should drive him to any action more distasteful than writing a letter, or perhaps entering a series of protests in his private diary. So he listened with the composure which we feel when we have our destiny in our own hands.
It must be allowed that the tone of his companion was not one calculated to overcome the passive resistance of Mr. Vernon.
“You are a thinking man, Mr. Vernon,” said Berry, almost sneeringly, “and, therefore, I address myself to your head, and not to your heart.”
The speech was abrupt and offensive, and Vernon felt it, and said with some dignity:
“You will deliver your business in your own way, Mr. Berry. I trust that it may be less disagreeable than the manner in which you seem inclined to open it.”
“I dare say that it will excuse any defect in manner, sir. I am too old to be very fastidious, and you are not, I take it, much my junior.”
“I am unaware that we are ever too old to be courteous, Mr. Berry.”
Mr. Berry looked at him for a moment, and might have intended to make a more harsh reply. But, after a pause, he said:
“Mr. Vernon, when you were in Lipthwaite, I had some opportunity of observing the mode in which you educated your children. I have a perfect recollection of having more than once made you aware that I did not think your system—if it deserved the name—was a proper one, or that it would be attended with happy results. I recollect, also, that though you were always prepared to debate the affairs of Europe, or of Madagascar, or any other place, with the utmost fulness, you showed a touchy impatience at hearing a word upon matters that really concerned you. On one occasion, the last, you met me with an answer that prevented my ever alluding to the topic again.”
“It is years ago, Mr. Berry, and I do not remember the circumstance, but it was not unna-
