christian vellacott soon descended the dingy stairs and joined the westward-wending throng in the strand. in the midst of the crowd he was alone, as townsmen soon learn to be. the passing faces, the roar of traffic, and the thousand human possibilities of interest around him in no way disturbed his thoughts. in his busy brain the traffic of thought, passing and repassing, crossing and recrossing, went on unaffected by outward things. a modern poet has confessed that his muse loves the pavement—a bold confession, but most certainly true. why does talent gravitate to cities? because there it works its best—because friction necessarily produces brilliancy. nature is a great deceiver; she draws us on to admire her insinuating charms, and in the contemplation of them we lose our energy.

christian had been born and bred in cities. the din and roar of life was to him what the voice of the sea is to the sailor. in the midst of crowded humanity he was in his element, and as he walked rapidly along he made his way dexterously through the narrow places without thinking of it. while meditating deeply he was by no means absorbed. in his active life there had been no time for thoughts beyond the present, no leisure for dreaming. he could not afford to be absent-minded. numbers of men are so situated. their minds are required at all moments, in full working order, clear and rapid—ready, shoes on feet and staff in hand, to go whithersoever they may be called.

although he was going to the saddest home that ever hung like a mill-stone round a young neck, christian wasted no time. the glory of the western sky lay ruddily over the river as he emerged from the small streets behind chelsea and faced the broad placid stream. presently he stopped opposite the door of a small red-brick house, which formed the corner of a little terrace facing the river and a quiet street running inland from it.

with a latch-key he admitted himself noiselessly—almost surreptitiously. once inside he closed the door without unnecessary sound and stood for some moments in the dark little entrance-hall, apparently listening.

presently a voice broke the silence of the house. a querulous, high-pitched voice, quavering with the palsy of extreme age. the sound of it was no new thing for christian vellacott. to-night his lips gave a little twist of pain as he heard it. the door of the room on the ground floor was open, and he could hear the words distinctly enough.

“you know, mrs. strawd, we have a nephew, but he is always gadding about, i am sure; he has been a terrible affliction to us. a frothy, good-for-nothing boy—that is what he is. we have not set eyes on him for a month or more. why, i almost forget his name!”

“christian, that is his name—a most inappropriate one, i am sure,” chimed in another voice, almost identical in tone. “why walter should have given him such a name i cannot tell. ah! sister judith, things are different from what they used to be when we were younger!”

the frothy one outside the door seemed in no great degree impressed by these impartial views upon himself, though the pained look was still upon his lips as he turned to hang up his hat.

“he's coming home to-night, though, miss judith,” said another voice, in a coaxing, wheedling tone, such as one uses towards petulant children. “he's coming home to-night, sure enough!” it was a pleasant voice, with a strong, capable ring about it. one instinctively felt that the possessor of it was a woman to be relied upon at a crisis.

“is he now—is he now?” said the first speaker reflectively. “well, i am sure it is time he did. we will just give him a lesson, eh, sister hester?—we will give him a lesson, shall we not?”

at this moment the door opened, and a little woman, quiet though somewhat anxious looking, came out. she evinced no surprise at the sight of the good-for-nothing nephew in the dimly-lighted passage, greeting him in a low voice.

“how have they been to-day, nurse?” he asked.

“oh, they have been well enough, master christian,” was the reply, in a cheerful undertone.

“aunt judith has 'most got rid of her cold. but they've been very trying, sir—just like children, as wilful as could be—the same question over and over again till i was fit to cry. they are quieter now, but—but it's you they're abusing now, master chris!”

the young fellow looked down into the little woman's face. his eyes were sympathetic enough, but he said nothing. with a little nod and a suppressed sigh he turned away from her. he laid his hand upon the door and then stopped.

“as soon as you have brought up tea,” he said, looking back, “i will take them for the evening, and you can have your rest as usual.”

from the room came, at intervals, the ring of silver, as if some one were moving the spoons and forks from the table. christian waited until these sounds had ceased before he entered.

“good evening, aunt judith. good evening, aunt hester,” he said cheerily.

they were exactly alike, these two old ladies; the same marvellously wrinkled features and silver hair; voluminous caps and white woollen shawls identical. with exaggerated marks of respect he kissed each by turn on her withered cheek.

“may i sit down, aunt judith?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer drew a chair towards the fireplace, where a small fire burnt though it was the month of august.

“yes, nephew vellacott, you may take a seat,” replied aunt judith with chill severity, “and you may also tell us where you have been during the last four weeks.”

poor old human wreck! only ten hours earlier her nephew had bid her farewell for the day. christian began an explanation in a weary, mechanical way, like an actor tired of the part assigned to him, but the old ladies would not listen. aunt hester interrupted him promptly.

“your shallow excuses are wasted on us, nephew vellacott. you have doubtless been away, enjoying yourself and leaving us—us who support you and deprive ourselves in order to keep a decent coat upon your back—leaving us to the mercy of all the thieves in london. and tell us, pray—what are we to do for spoons and forks to-night?”

“what?” exclaimed christian with perfunctory interest, “have the spoons gone—?” he almost said “again,” but checked himself in time. he turned to look at the table, which had been carefully denuded of every piece of silver.

“there, you see!” quavered aunt judith triumphantly; and the two old ladies rubbed their hands, nodded their palsied old heads at each other, and chuckled in utter delight at their nephew's discomfiture, until aunt judith was attacked by a violent fit of coughing, which seemed to be tearing her to pieces. christian watched her with the ready keenness of a sick-nurse.

“how did it occur?” he asked, when the old lady had recovered.

“there, you see,” remarked aunt hester, with the precise intonation of her accomplice.

“i am sure!” panted aunt judith triumphantly.

“i am sure!” echoed aunt hester.

they allowed their nephew's remorse full scope, and then proceeded laboriously to extract the missing articles from the side of aunt judith's arm-chair. this farce was rehearsed every night, nearly word for word. a pleasant recreation for an intellectual man, assuredly. the only relief to the monotony was the occasional loss of a spoon in the crevice between the arm and the seat of aunt judith's chair. then followed such a fumbling and a “dear me-ing” until the worthless nephew was perforce called to the rescue, to fish and probe with a paper-knife till the lost treasure was recovered.

“we only wished, nephew vellacott, to show you what might have happened during your unconscionable absence. servants are only too ready to talk to the first comer of their mistresses' wealth and position. they have no discrimination.” said aunt judith in a reproving tone. the old ladies were very fond of boasting of their wealth and position, whereas, in reality, their nephew was the only barrier between them and the workhouse.

“well, aunt judith,” replied christian patiently, “i will try and stay at home more in future. but you know it is time i was doing something to earn my own livelihood now. i cannot exist on your kindness all my life!”

he had learnt to humour these two silly old women. during the two years which had just passed he had gradually recognised the utter futility of endeavouring to make them realise the true state of their affairs. they spoke grandiloquently of the family solicitor: a man who had been in his grave for nearly a quarter of a century. it was simply impossible to instil into their minds any fact whatever, and such facts as had established themselves there were permanent. they belonged to another generation, and their mode of thought was a remnant of a forgotten and unsatisfactory period. to them napoleon the first was a living man, queen victoria unheard of. the decay of their minds had been slow, and it had been christian vellacott's painful task to watch its steady progress. day by day he had followed the gradual failing of each sense and power.

there is something pathetic about the decay of a mind which has been driven to death by constant work, but there is a compensating thought to alleviate the sadness. it may rattle and grow loose, like some worn-out engine, where the friction presses; but it will work till it collapses totally, and some of the work achieved is good and permanent. it is bound to be so. infinitely sadder is the sight of a mind which is falling to pieces by reason of the rust that has eaten into its very core. for rust must needs mean idleness—and no human intellect need be idle. so it had been with these two old ladies. born in a wofully unintellectual age, they had never left a certain groove in life. when their brother married christian vellacott's grandmother, they had left his house in honiton to go and live in bodmin upon a limited but sufficient income. these “sufficient incomes” are a curse; they do not allow of charity and make no call for labour.

when christian vellacott arrived in england, an orphan with no great wealth, he made it his first duty to visit the only living relations he possessed. he was just in time to save them, literally, from starvation. it was obvious that he could not make a literary livelihood in bodmin, so he made a home for the two old wrecks of humanity in london. their means, like their minds, were simply exhausted. aunt judith was ninety-three; aunt hester ninety-one. during that vast blank (for blank it was, so far as their lives were concerned) stretching away back into a perspective of time which few around them could gauge—they had never been separated for one day. like two apples they had grown side by side, until their very contact had engendered disease—a slow, deadly, creeping rot, finding its source at the point of contact, reaching its goal at the heart of each. they had existed thus with terrible longevity—lived a mere animal life of sleeping and eating, such as hundreds of women are living around us now.

“of course, you must learn to make your daily bread, nephew vellacott!” answered aunt hester. “the desire does you credit; but you should be careful into what society you go without us. girls are very designing, and many a one would like to marry a nephew of mine—eh, judith?”

“yes, that they would,” replied the old lady. “the minxes know that they might do worse than catch the nephew of judith and hester vellacott!”

“look at us,” continued aunt hester, drawing up her shrunken old form with a touch of pride. “look at us? we have always avoided marriage, and we are very nice and happy, i am sure!”

she waited for a confirmation of this bold statement, but christian was not listening. he was leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees, gazing into the fire. he was recalling the conversation which had passed in the little room in the strand. could he leave these two helpless old creatures. could he get away from it all for a little time—away from the maddening prattle of unguided tongues, from the dread monotony of hopeless watching? he knew that he was wasting his manhood, neglecting his intellectual opportunities, and endangering his career; but his course of duty was marked out with terrible distinctness. he never saw the pathos of it, as a woman would have seen it, gathering perhaps some slight alleviation from the sight. it never entered his thoughts to complain, and he never conceived the idea of drawing comparisons between his position and that of other young men who, instead of being slaves to their relatives, made very good use of them. he merely went on doing his obvious duty and striving not to look forward too eagerly to a release at some future period.

fortunately, mrs. strawd was not long in bringing in the simple evening meal; and the attention of the old ladies was at once turned to the mystery hidden beneath the dish-cover. what was it, and would there be enough for nephew vellacott?

deftly, christian poured out the tea. two cups very weak and one stronger. then two thin slices of crustless bread had to be buttered. this operation required great judgment and impartiality.

“excuse me, nephew vellacott!” said aunt judith, with dangerous severity. “is that first slice intended for aunt hester? it appears to me that the butter is very thick—much thicker than on the second, which is doubtless intended for me!”

“do you think so, aunt judith?” asked christian in a voice purposely loud in order to drown aunt hester's remonstrance. “then i will take a little off!” he passed the knife harmlessly over the faulty slice, and laid the two side by side upon a plate. then the old ladies promptly held a survey on them—that declared to be more heavily buttered being awarded to aunt judith in recognition of her seniority.

with similar fruitful topics of conversation the meal was pleasantly despatched. the turn of dick and mick followed thereon. dick, the property of aunt judith, was a canary of thoughtful temperament. the part he played in the domestic economy of the small household was a contemplative rather than an active one. mick, aunt hester's bird, was of a more lively nature. he had, as a rule, something to say upon all subjects—and said it.

now aunt hester, in her inmost heart, loved a silent bird, and secretly coveted dick, but as mick was her property, and dick the silent was owned by aunt judith, she never lost an opportunity of enlarging upon the stupidity and uselessness of silent birds. aunt judith, on the other hand, admired a lively and talkative canary; consequently she was weighed down with the conviction that her sister's bird was the superior article. altogether, birds as a topic of conversation were best avoided. dick and mick were housed in cages of similar build—indeed, most things were strictly in duplicate in the whole household. every evening christian brought the cages, and aunt judith and aunt hester carefully placed within the wires a small piece of bread-and-butter, which nurse strawd as carefully removed, untouched, the next morning.

when the birds' wants had been attended to, it was christian's duty to settle the old ladies comfortably in their respective arm-chairs. this he did tenderly and cleverly as a woman, but it was not a pleasant sight to look upon. the man, with his lean, strong face, long jaw, and prominent chin, was so obviously out of place. these peaceful duties were never meant for such as he. his somewhat closely-set eyes were not such as wax tender over drowning flies, for even in repose they were somewhat direct and stern in their gaze. in fact, christian vellacott was so visibly created for strife and the forefront of life's battle, that it was almost painful to see him fulfilling a more peaceful avocation.

as a rule he devoted himself to the amusement of his aged relatives for an hour or so; but this evening he sat down to the piano at once, with the deliberate intention of playing them off to sleep. ten o'clock was their hour for retiring, and before that they would not move, although they dozed in their chairs.

he was no mean musician, this big west-countryman, with a true ear and a touch peculiarly light and tender for a man. he played gently and drowsily for some time, half forgetting that he was not alone in the room. presently he turned round, letting his fingers rest on the keys. aunt judith was asleep, and aunt hester made a sign for him to go on playing. five minutes more, gradually toned down till the very sounds seemed to fall asleep, and aunt hester was peacefully slumbering. silently the player rose, and crossing the room, he resumed his seat at the table from which the white cloth had not yet been removed. pen, ink, and paper were within reach, and in a few minutes he had written the following note:—

“dear sidney,—may i retract the letter i wrote yesterday and accept your invitation? i have been requested to take a holiday, and, rather than offend the powers that be, have given in. i can think of no happier way of spending it than in seeing you all again and recalling the jolly old prague days. with kind regards, yours ever,

“christian vellacott.”

he folded the note and slipped it into an envelope, which he addressed to “sidney carew, esq., st. mary western, dorset.” then he slipped noiselessly out of the room and upstairs to where mrs. strawd had a small sitting-room of her own. the little woman heard his footstep on the old creaking stairs, and opened the door of her room before he reached it.

“if i went away for three weeks,” he said, “could you do without me?”

“of course i could,” replied the little woman readily. “just you go away and take a holiday, master christian. you need it sorely, that i know. you do indeed. we shall get on splendidly without you. i'll just have my sister to come and stay, same as i did when you had to go to the paris house of parliament.”

“i have not had much of a holiday, you see, for two years now!”

“of course you haven't, and you want it. it's only human nature—and you a young man that ought to be in the open air all day. for an old woman like me it's different. we're made differently by the good god on purpose, i think.”

“well, then, if your sister comes it must be understood, nurse, that i make the same arrangement with her as exists with you. she must simply be a duplicate of you—you understand?”

the little woman laughed, lightly enough.

“oh, yes, master christian, that is all right. but you need not have troubled about that. she never would have thought of such a thing as wages, i'm sure!”

“no,” replied he gravely, “i know she would not, but it will be better, i think, to have it understood beforehand. gratitude is a very nice thing to work for, but some work is worth more than gratitude. if you are going out for your walk, perhaps you will post this letter.”

before christian went to bed that night he held a candle close to the mirror and looked long and hard at his own reflection. there were dark streaks under his eyes, his small mouth was drawn and dry, his lips colourless. at each temple the bone stood out rather prominently, and the skin was brilliant in its whiteness and reflected the light of the candle. he felt his own pulse. it was beating, at one moment fast and irregular, at the next it was hardly perceptible.

“yes!” he muttered, with a professional nod—in his training as a journalist he had learnt a little of many sciences—“yes, old bodery was right.”