Mr. Rutland did not feel well this
morning. As he dressed, a sense of faintness troubled him, the result, perhaps,
of very hot weather in these days of spring. After breakfast he reclined
languidly in the study, trying to read. There was no absolute necessity for his
going forth; but at eleven he drove into the town to sit with his brother
magistrates, preferring the tedium of the court to lonely idleness at home.
His age was about five-and-forty, and to a
casual eye he seemed in good health; but certain lines upon his countenance
denoted a habit of melancholy musing, and his voice suggested the same. The
townspeople, regarding his wealth and social influence, his apparent domestic
peace and life of leisure, judged him an enviable man. Mr. Rutland saw himself
in a very different light, and to-day he suffered especially from the
despondence which had weighed upon him for many years.
Born to easy circumstances, he had married at
three-and-twenty; six children had been born to him, all daughters, but only
three of them survived, the youngest a girl of fifteen. His wife was a woman of
narrow mind and strong will; she ruled him in every detail of his life --
unobtrusively, suavely, without suspecting for a moment that the yoke galled
him, or anticipating the possibility of conflict between his purpose and hers.
Mrs. Rutland belonged to a county family, and valued above all things her local
prestige: when she went to
All his acquaintances spoke well of him. One or
two old friends regretted the lack of energy which frustrated his natural
abilities, and wondered that a man so well read, so interesting in private
talk, should be content to lead such a humdrum existence. But as to the
amiability and generosity of his character opinions never differed. As a
magistrate, he enjoyed a reputation for leniency, and the town scamps whom he
could not but commit to jail counted on Mr. Rutland's compassion when they came
out again.
This morning, when he entered the court, a case
of assault was being heard. Evidently a paltry matter. The prisoner, a stranger
in the town, had obtained work at house-painting, and while thus occupied, an
hour or two ago, had got into a quarrel with a loafing fellow, who accused him
of some trade irregularity. Losing patience under insult, he knocked the man
down, and was forthwith given into the charge of a constable who stood by. Mr.
Rutland observed the prisoner, and at once felt a peculiar interest in him face
and bearing spoke strongly on the man's behalf; he looked superior to his
position, and, though uncomfortable in the present circumstances, was neither
shamefaced nor impudent. Aged forty or more, he had a clear brown skin, a
bright intelligent eye, and a strong upright figure.
'What's his name?' inquired Mr. Rutland, in an
undertone, of his neighbour on the bench.
'Henry Goodeve.'
'Goodeve -- Goodeve ----'
Mr. Rutland reflected with a puzzled
countenance, and again scrutinised the prisoner. At that moment Goodeve's voice
was heard in answer to a question. Mr. Rutland listened intently, and his
features betrayed some strange thought.
A trivial fine was imposed, whereupon the
prisoner declared that he had neither money nor money's worth -- unless it were
the clothing he stood in. He had arrived in the town only yesterday, all but
penniless, and this morning had found work. The statement was made with a
half-amused air. Moreover, the man's speech made proof that he was no ordinary
artisan; his tongue, though not particularly refined, smacked of gentle
breeding.
'I shall pay for him,' said Mr. Rutland
privately. 'And I must have a word with him out of court.'
The prisoner's case was allowed to stand over
for half an hour. Led, at Mr. Rutland's direction, into a private room, Goodeve
saw, to his surprise, that one of the magistrates wished to speak with him.
'May I ask,' began the kindly looking
gentleman, 'whether you were at school at Brockhurst?'
'I was,' answered Goodeve with a smile, gazing
steadily into the questioner's face. 'I left in '62.'
'The year before I did. Have you no
recollection of me?'
'I'm afraid I haven't. And yet ----'
'My name is
The other slapped his thigh, and broke into
words of delighted recognition. Thirty years ago these men were chums
inseparable at a boarding-school of good repute. They came from different
counties, and did not know each other's kinsfolk; Harry Goodeve was the son of
a struggling shopkeeper, and had little to hope for save from his own efforts;
while Dick Rutland saw the path of life smooth and pleasant before him. At
fifteen Goodeve was put into an office, where he idled and played pranks; at
sixteen he went to sea, and from that day to this he had been a cheery vagabond
on the face of the earth.
'You must come to my house,' said Mr. Rutland
after a few minutes' talk. 'It happens that I am quite alone for a few days; my
wife and daughters are in
'What about my fine?'
'Pooh! We'll soon settle that.'
When his Worship reached home he found the
vagabond stretched at full length on a shady part of the lawn; a gardener, in
doubt as to his assertions, had kept an eye upon the man.
'Is there a pond or stream anywhere about
here,' Goodeve asked, 'where a fellow could have a plunge?'
'Well, no. But if you don't despise an ordinary
bath ----'
'Not at all, when I can do no better.'
They sat down together to luncheon; a strange
contrast as to their clothing, but in other respects no unsuitable companions.
Goodeve betrayed not the least embarrassment amid these luxurious surroundings:
he ate and drank with hearty appetite, and talked merrily of old days. His
host, seeming to throw off a burden of care, astonished the domestic in
attendance no less by his boyish gaiety than by his intimacy with so strange a
guest. As yet, nothing was said of intervening years: they lived again in their
schooltime, discussed the masters, roared over ancient jokes, revived the great
days of cricket and football. Goodeve began to ask what had become of this,
that, and the other fellow they were now alone, and could speak more freely.
'Gubbins disappeared,' said Mr. Rutland. 'His
father was mixed up in a disagreeable affair, and I'm afraid the poor chap
----'
'Ah!' cried the other, 'I met him in New
'Heavens!'
'And Potts -- Toady Potts, not Sammy. I came
across him in
'How have you travelled so much?' asked Mr.
Rutland. 'As a sailor?'
'Generally working my passage, but not always.
On land I've been a bit of everything. I'm a good carpenter -- you remember, I
had the knack at school -- and I reckon myself no bad hand at plumbing. I've
done a little tailoring now and then. I've gained glory as a scene-painter, and
made shift to live by taking photographs. It's only in
'What a life!' murmured the listener, staring
before him.
'Oh, not so bad ----'
'You misunderstand me. I mean, what a glorious
life! I envy you, Goodeve; with heart and soul I envy you!'
'You do? Well, I can't quite understand that
either. A man who has a house like this; free to come and go as the humour
takes him ----'
'Free!' cried the host. 'Don't judge by
appearances. You ought to know the world better. There's no man living who is
more a slave than I am.'
His voice quivered into silence, and he seemed
to reprove himself for indiscretion.
'Come out into the garden, old fellow. Light
another cigar, and put some in your pocket.'
This afternoon there was a garden-party at a
house in the neighbourhood, and Mr. Rutland had promised to attend it. By
failing to do so he would excite surprise, and cause no little disappointment
to the people who counted his presence an honour. But time stole on; he felt
ever more reluctant to leave his entertaining companion for the wearisome
society of his neighbours; at length he said to himself deliberately that go he
would not. Let Mrs. Rutland express her astonishment when she heard of the
neglect. 'But, my dear Richard, surely it was rather ----' He shut his ears
against the voice, and listened only to Good eve.
'-- The next day we sighted the Horn. I forgot
all my hardships. Do you remember how we used to talk of it at school-going
round the Horn? I thought of you then; I did indeed.'
At seven o'clock, when the sun was setting and
the air had grown cool, Mr. Rutland rose and stretched himself.
'There's the first dinner-bell. Hours have gone
like minutes.'
'All the same, I'm pretty hungry,' laughed
Goodeve.
'Why, so am I; the first time I've had an
appetite for years. It's the sea air. What a life! What a life! Of course,
you'll stay here over-night. Your coming was a godsend. I feel young again. I
begin to see things ----'
He broke off and walked with his head down,
musing.
After dinner -- a meal of scandalous
informality -- they went into the library, and Goodeve began to run his eye
along the shelves.
'Why, you seem to have nothing here but books
of travel. I can't make you out,
What, indeed? In the days of love-making
They opened a great atlas, and Mr. Rutland
followed his friend's voyaging from land to land. Their heads together, and
talking with the completest familiarity, they were as boys again. Thus had they
sat many a time on the school benches, the map before them, and schemed
expeditions of discovery. In those days Dick Rutland was the more sanguine, the
more energetic, conscious of possessing wherewithal to travel: Harry Goodeve
merely dreamed and desired. Now, with thirty years of subsequent life behind
them, Mr. Rutland, the prosperous man, the local magnate, felt his heart burn
within him as he heard Goodeve tell of joys and perils which put a circle round
the globe.
'Ah, you have lived!' he exclaimed at length,
starting up and moving excitedly about the room. 'It is you who have been the
rich man; I, a miserable pauper! The Arabs have a proverb, "Travel is
conquest." You have conquered the world, whilst I have been crouched in my
petty corner, playing at life. I go down yonder, and sit in a big chair, and
look as wise as an owl, and send poor devils to prison: this is the utmost I
have attained to. You have been living among men, working, suffering, enjoying
like a man, and every day learning something new. Good God! it maddens me to
look back on these thirty years, and contrast my vegetable existence with such
a life as yours. Can you imagine the sort of people I have to do with? Men and
women who wear a certain kind of costume in the morning, and a different kind
at night, and who know nothing more important than the change from one to the
other. We attend meetings about local option, and you -- you are fighting a
hurricane in mid ocean, or landing in some new port, with a new world before
you.'
'Hang it, man!' shouted the other with a great
laugh, 'it's not too late. You're no older than I am.
Mr. Rutland stared at him with fascinated eyes.
'Yes -- yes,' he said slowly and under his
breath. 'I might see something of the world yet.'
He moved again to the atlas, and turned to the
map of
'That's one of the things I most wish to see --
the river Amazon.'
'Little more than a fortnight's voyage,'
replied Goodeve mirthfully.
'A fortnight! Yes. A fortnight.'
Mr. Rutland spoke as one in a dream. His finger
trembled as it marked the course of the great river.
'Go to
Again Mr. Rutland stood and stared at his
guest.
'Why not? You mean the expense of going as a
passenger? What's that to me? Say you will go, and ----'
He paused, his hand in the air, and seemed to
be fronting a vast enterprise. However ludicrous the obstacles in another's
sight, to Mr. Rutland they meant nothing less than the crushing habits of a
lifetime.
'I'll go fast enough,' said Goodeve, seeming to
sniff the
'We might do more than just go to
His voice quivered and his eyes flashed.
Goodeve watched him with a smile of sympathy.
'Will you travel with me, Harry, as far and as
long as I like?'
'Of course I will! When can you be ready to
start?'
Mr. Rutland fell into a reverie. He was silent
for more than five minutes, then drew a deep breath, and said gravely ----
'To-day is Wednesday. I will be ready to leave
home on Saturday morning.'
'We must look up the steam-boats.'
'Yes; but whether there is a ship or not, I
shall leave home on Saturday morning, and join you where you like. Stay with me
one more day. I shall be busy, but I want to have you near. On Friday you shall
go, and on Saturday we meet again at Liverpool, or
They sat talking till late in the night, and,
among other things, it was arranged that Goodeve should next day change his
rude clothing for a garb more suitable to Mr. Rutland's guest. He was in no way
troubled by a sense of obligation. Thirty years of adventurous life had taught
him to regard things with simplicity and directness: if a wealthy man chose to
relieve his friend of all worldly cares, why should the friend make any
difficulty? Goodeve was a bluff, plain-spoken, honest fellow, quite incapable
of scheming for his own advantage. The fine points of his character appealed to
Mr. Rutland as strongly as in the days gone by. Rough living, labour, and the
companionship of his inferiors had not debased him; what he lacked in
refinement of manner was abundantly compensated by his sincerity, good-nature,
and freshness of mind. Mr. Rutland's circumstances appeared to him in a
humorous light; he suspected that the poor fellow lived under female tyranny,
and to Goodeve such a state of things was inexplicable. He enjoyed the thought
of releasing his old comrade from this sorry fix, and the joke was all the
better if, as he suspected,
That, indeed, was his Worship's project.
Knowing the uselessness of an attempt to sleep, Mr. Rutland sat up all night,
busy with multifarious concerns: arranging papers, writing letters, reviewing
his personal, domestic, and public affairs. The suddenness with which he had
taken his resolve, the firmness with which he held to it, seemed to him a
manifestation of destiny; for, like all contemplative and irresolute men, he
had a vein of philosophic superstition. He knew that his purpose must be put
into effect at once; Goodeve's arrival in the absence of Mrs. Rutland was a
coincidence which, the more he thought of it made him the more eager to depart.
His wife and daughters were to return on Saturday evening. He would leave a
mere note, saying that he had just left home with a friend, and might be away
for a day or two. Later, but before she had had time to grow uneasy, Mrs.
Rutland should receive the full explanation.
There was no serious obstacle whatever in the way
of his proposed flight. He could easily commit to his solicitors the care of
all such matters as Mrs. Rutland would be unable to deal with. His departure
need not make the smallest change in the life of his family. The mother and
daughters would pursue their course as methodically, as respectably, as ever.
In pecuniary affairs Mrs. Rutland had always held an independent position; she
was better fitted to manage everything of the kind than her husband. It would
cost him no severe pang to be long away from his children, for they belonged to
their mother rather than to him; the one who had loved him best was dead. Yes;
by Saturday morning he might so have ordered everything in his control as to
feel entirely free. A boyish rapture in the thought of what was before him made
him regardless of the wonder, the censure, the gossip he was leaving behind.
About the hour of sunrise he was overcome with
exhaustion -- not a feeling of wholesome weariness, not a desire for sleep; but
an oppressive faintness, like that which troubled him yesterday morning. He
explained it, naturally enough, as the result of unwonted excitement. A drop of
brandy seemed to do him good, and he lay down; but no sleep came to him.
Through the day he pursued his business, though
languidly; the weather was again very warm, and it seemed to overpower him.
'I shall soon pick up on the sea,' he remarked
to Goodeve at luncheon, after confessing that he hadn't been 'quite the thing'
lately. 'It's just what I need. I have lived sluggishly -- foregone all custom
of exercise, as Hamlet says. If I went on like this, I should smoulder out at
fifty or so.'
'As likely as not,' assented the other
genially.
Again they passed a long evening together, with
the big atlas open; and again Mr. Rutland worked himself into a fever of
anticipation. When he went to bed his eyes looked very large and prominent, and
his cheeks were burning. For an hour or two he tossed in misery of
sleeplessness, then fell into fearful dreams of storm and wreck, which harassed
him until day.
On the Friday morning Goodeve departed. He had
learnt that a steamer would leave Southampton on Monday for
It rained a little to-day, and Mr. Rutland
enjoyed the coolness. He thought with some apprehension of the climate for
which he was setting forth, but reassured himself with the certainty that a
fortnight on shipboard would quite re-establish him in health and vigour. There
was nothing really the matter with him; of course not. His mind had affected
his body; that was all. Then, if
When he did return he would no longer be
the same man. His wife would know by then that her reign was over.
He had now transacted all his business, and the
hours dragged. There was a letter from Mrs. Rutland speaking of her return
to-morrow, and requiring his attention to a score of vexatious trivialities; he
laughed, and threw it aside. In the afternoon, feeling incapable of the least
exertion, he lay on the couch in his study; his heart was beating rapidly, and
he tried to calm the mental agitation which disturbed it, but every hour seemed
to intensify his excitement. He dreaded the long evening and night, and wished
himself already at
At dinner he ate only a little soup. There was
no disguising from himself that he felt seriously unwell, and the dread of
being unable to start in the morning kept him miserably agitated. From table he
went again into the study, and sat down in an armchair with a newspaper. As his
body lay back he drew a deep sigh.
Shortly after ten o'clock the butler wished to
speak with Mr. Rutland; he knocked at the study door, and entered. But on
drawing near he saw that his master had fallen asleep.
An hour later he again entered the room. Mr.
Rutland had not moved, and the servant, regarding him more closely, became
aware of something strange in his appearance. He bent to listen. Mr. Rutland
was not breathing.
And next day, at
(English Illustrated Magazine, 1896)
(Provided by Mitsuharu Matsuoka, Nagoya
University, Japan,
on 1 November 1997.)