Seeing us, he shouted again and waved his stick, and from the light of his eves and his gallant bearing, and the spring of his step across the heathery turf, we knew instinctively that trouble had come upon him. He always rose to meet it with that look and air. It was the old Norse blood in his veins, I suppose. So, one imagines, must those godless old Pirates have sprung to their feet when the North wind, loosed as a hawk from the leash, struck at the beaked prow.
We heard his quick step on the rickety stair, and the next moment he was between us, breathing a little hard, but laughing.
He stood for awhile beside my mother without speaking, both of them gazing at the distant hills among which, as my mother had explained, things had happened long ago. And maybe, "over there," their memories met and looked upon each other with kind eyes.
"Do you remember," said my father, "we climbed up here--it was the first walk we took together after coming here. We discussed our plans for the future, how we would retrieve our fortunes."
"And the future," answered my mother, "has a way of making plans for us instead."
"It would seem so," replied my father, with a laugh. "I am an unlucky beggar, Maggie. I dropped all your money as well as my own down that wretched mine."
"It was the will--it was Fate, or whatever you call it," said my mother. "You could not help that, Luke."
"If only that damned pump hadn't jambed," said my father.
"Do you remember that Mrs. Tharand?" asked my mother.
"Yes, what of her?"
"A worldly woman, I always thought her. She called on me the morning we were leaving; I don't think you saw her. 'I've been through more worries than you would think, to look at me,' she said to me, laughing. I've always remembered her words: 'and of all the troubles that come to us in this world, believe me, Mrs. Kelver, money troubles are the easiest to bear.'"
"I wish I could think so," said my father.
"She rather irritated me at the time," continued my mother. "I thought it one of those commonplaces with which we console ourselves for other people's misfortunes. But now I know she spoke the truth."
There was silence between them for awhile. Then said my father in a cheery tone:
"I've broken with old Hasluck."
"I thought you would be compelled to sooner or later," answered my mother.
"Hasluck," exclaimed my father, with sudden vehemence, "is little better than a thief; I told him so."
"What did he say?" asked my mother.
"Laughed, and said that was better than some people."
My father laughed himself.
I wish to do the memory of Noel Hasluck no injustice. Ever was he a kind friend to me; not only then, but in later years, when, having come to learn that kindness is rarer in the world than I had dreamt, I was glad of it. Added to which, if only for Barbara's sake, I would prefer to write of him throughout in terms of praise. Yet even were his good-tempered, thick-skinned ghost (and unless it were good-tempered and thick-skinned it would be no true ghost of old Noel Hasluck) to be reading over my shoulder the words as I write them down, I think it would agree with me--I do not think it would be offended with me (for ever in his life he was an admirer and a lover of the Truth, being one of those good fighters capable of respecting even his foe, his enemy, against whom from ten to four, occasionally a little later, he fought right valiantly) for saying that of all the men who go down into the City each day in a cab or 'bus or train, he was perhaps one of the most unprincipled: and whether that be saying much or little I leave to those with more knowledge to decide.
To do others, as it was his conviction, right or wrong, that they would do him if ever he gave them half a chance, was his notion of "business;" and in most of his transactions he was successful. "I play a game," he would argue, "where cheating is the rule. Nine out of every ten men round the table are sharpers like myself, and the tenth man is a fool who has no business to be there. We prey upon each other, and the cutest of us is the winner."
"But the innocent people, lured by your fine promises," I ventured once to suggest to him, "the widows and the orphans?"
"My dear lad," he said, with a laugh, laying his fat hand upon my shoulder, "I remember one of your widows writing me a pathetic letter about some shares she had taken in a Silver Company of mine. Lord knows where the mine is now--somewhere in Spain, I think. It looked as though all her savings were gone. She had an only son, and it was nearly all they possessed in the world, etc., etc.--you know the sort of thing. Well, I did what I've often been numskull enough to do in similar cases, wrote and offered to buy her out at par. A week later she answered, thanking me, but saying it did not matter. There had occurred a momentary rise, and she had sold out at a profit--to her own brother-in-law, as I discovered, happening to come across the transfers. You can find widows and orphans round the Monte Carlo card tables, if you like to look for them; they are no more deserving of consideration than the rest of the crowd. Besides, if it comes to that, I'm an orphan myself;" and he laughed again, one of his deep, hearty, honest laughs. No one ever possessed a laugh more suggestive in its every cadence of simple, transparent honesty. He used to say himself it was worth thousands to him.
Better from the Moralists' point of view had such a man been an out-and-out rogue. Then might one have pointed, crying: "Behold:
