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CHAPTER VI

ANYWHERE, ANYWHERE OUT OF THE WORLD

When they returned to Lansdowne Cottage they found the old man had not yet come in, so they walked down to the beach to look for him. After a brief search they found him, sitting upon a heap of pebbles, reading a newspaper and eating filberts. The little boy was at some distance from his grandfather, digging in the sand with a wooden spade. The crape round the old man’s shabby hat, and the child’s poor little black frock, went to George’s heart. Go where he would he met fresh confirmation of this great grief of his life. His wife was dead.

“Mr. Maldon,” he said, as he approached his father-in-law.

The old man looked up, and, dropping his newspaper, rose from the pebbles with a ceremonious bow. His faded light hair was tinged with gray; he had a pinched hook nose; watery blue eyes, and an irresolute-looking mouth; he wore his shabby dress with an affectation of foppish gentility; an eye-glass dangled over his closely buttoned-up waistcoat, and he carried a cane in his ungloved hand.

“Great Heaven!” cried George, “don’t you know me?”

Mr. Maldon started and colored violently, with something of a frightened look, as he recognized his son-in-law.

“My dear boy,” he said, “I did not; for the first moment I did not. That beard makes such a difference. You find the beard makes a great difference, do you not, sir?” he said, appealing to Robert.

“Great heavens!” exclaimed George Talboys, “is this the way you welcome me? I come to England to find my wife dead within a week of my touching land, and you begin to chatter to me about my beard—you, her father!”

“True! true!” muttered the old man, wiping his bloodshot eyes; “a sad shock, a sad shock, my dear George. If you’d only been here a week earlier.”

“If I had,” cried George, in an outburst of grief and passion, “I scarcely think that I would have let her die. I would have disputed for her with death. I would! I would! Oh God! why did not the Argus go down with every soul on board her before I came to see this day?”

He began to walk up and down the beach, his father-in-law looking helplessly at him, rubbing his feeble eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’ve a strong notion that that old man didn’t treat his daughter too well,” thought Robert, as he watched the half-pay lieutenant. “He seems, for some reason or other, to be half afraid of George.”

While the agitated young man walked up and down in a fever of regret and despair, the child ran to his grandfather, and clung about the tails of his coat.

“Come home, grandpa, come home,” he said. “I’m tired.”

George Talboys turned at the sound of the babyish voice, and looked long and earnestly at the boy.

He had his father’s brown eyes and dark hair.

“My darling! my darling!” said George, taking the child in his arms, “I am your father, come across the sea to find you. Will you love me?”

The little fellow pushed him away. “I don’t know you,” he said. “I love grandpa and Mrs. Monks at Southampton.”

“Georgey has a temper of his own, sir,” said the old man. “He has been spoiled.”

They walked slowly back to the cottage, and once more George Talboys told the history of that desertion which had seemed so cruel. He told, too, of the twenty thousand pounds banked by him the day before. He had not the heart to ask any questions about the past, and his father-in-law only told him that a few months after his departure they had gone from the place where George left them to live at Southampton, where Helen got a few pupils for the piano, and where they managed pretty well till her health failed, and she fell into the decline of which she died. Like most sad stories it was a very brief one.

“The boy seems fond of you, Mr. Maldon,” said George, after a pause.

“Yes, yes,” answered the old man, smoothing the child’s curling hair; “yes. Georgey is very fond of his grandfather.”