st time
certain weak points in the situation; partly it was that his private
care became too clamorous, and he could not keep on further. He went
away quite abruptly, and went downstairs to his study, and shut himself
in there; and the moment he had closed the door, all this amusement
floated away, and the vulture gripped at him, beak and talons digging
into his very soul. Good God! what was he to do? He covered his face
with his hands, and turned round and round mentally in that darkness to
see if anywhere there might be a gleam of light; but none was visible
east or west. A hundred pounds, only a hundred pounds; a bagatelle, a
thing that to many men was as small an affair as a stray sixpence; and
here was this man, as good, so to speak, as any--well educated, full of
gifts and accomplishments, well born, well connected, not a prodigal nor
open sinner, losing himself in the very blackness of darkness, feeling
that a kind of moral extinction was the only prospect before him, for
want of this little sum. It seemed incredible even to himself, as he sat
and brooded over it. Somehow, surely, there must be a way of
deliverance. He looked piteously about him in his solitude, appealing to
the very blank walls to save him. What could they do? His few books, his
faded old furniture, would scarcely realize a hundred pounds if they
were sold to-morrow. All his friends had been wearied out, all natural
resources had failed. James might any day have sent the money, but he
had not done so--just this special time, when it was so hard to get it,
James, too, had failed; and the hours of this night were stealing away
like thieves, so swift and so noiseless, to be followed by the others;
and Cotsdean, poor soul, his faithful retainer, would be broken and
ruined. To do Mr. May justice, if it had been only himself who could be
ruined, he would have felt it less; but it went to his very heart to
think of poor Cotsdean, who had trusted in him so entirely, and to whom,
indeed, he had been very kind in his day. Strife and discord had bee