Hunted Down: The Detective Stories of Charles Dickens, Page 2

gentleman had indefinitely conveyed to me some suspicion that hewanted to sneer at him. He recalled me to my guard by presenting thattrim pathway up his head, with its internal ‘Not on the grass, if youplease—the gravel.’

  ‘You knew him, Mr. Slinkton.’

  ‘Only by reputation. To have known him as an acquaintance or as afriend, is an honour I should have sought if he had remained in society,though I might never have had the good fortune to attain it, being a manof far inferior mark. He was scarcely above thirty, I suppose?’

  ‘About thirty.’

  ‘Ah!’ he sighed in his former consoling way. ‘What creatures we are! Tobreak up, Mr. Sampson, and become incapable of business at that time oflife!—Any reason assigned for the melancholy fact?’

  (‘Humph!’ thought I, as I looked at him. ‘But I WON’T go up the track,and I WILL go on the grass.’)

  ‘What reason have you heard assigned, Mr. Slinkton?’ I asked,point-blank.

  ‘Most likely a false one. You know what Rumour is, Mr. Sampson. I neverrepeat what I hear; it is the only way of paring the nails and shavingthe head of Rumour. But when _you_ ask me what reason I have heardassigned for Mr. Meltham’s passing away from among men, it is anotherthing. I am not gratifying idle gossip then. I was told, Mr. Sampson,that Mr. Meltham had relinquished all his avocations and all hisprospects, because he was, in fact, broken-hearted. A disappointedattachment I heard,—though it hardly seems probable, in the case of a manso distinguished and so attractive.’

  ‘Attractions and distinctions are no armour against death,’ said I.

  ‘O, she died? Pray pardon me. I did not hear that. That, indeed, makesit very, very sad. Poor Mr. Meltham! She died? Ah, dear me!Lamentable, lamentable!’

  I still thought his pity was not quite genuine, and I still suspected anunaccountable sneer under all this, until he said, as we were parted,like the other knots of talkers, by the announcement of dinner:

  ‘Mr. Sampson, you are surprised to see me so moved on behalf of a manwhom I have never known. I am not so disinterested as you may suppose.I have suffered, and recently too, from death myself. I have lost one oftwo charming nieces, who were my constant companions. She diedyoung—barely three-and-twenty; and even her remaining sister is far fromstrong. The world is a grave!’

  He said this with deep feeling, and I felt reproached for the coldness ofmy manner. Coldness and distrust had been engendered in me, I knew, bymy bad experiences; they were not natural to me; and I often thought howmuch I had lost in life, losing trustfulness, and how little I hadgained, gaining hard caution. This state of mind being habitual to me, Itroubled myself more about this conversation than I might have troubledmyself about a greater matter. I listened to his talk at dinner, andobserved how readily other men responded to it, and with what a gracefulinstinct he adapted his subjects to the knowledge and habits of those hetalked with. As, in talking with me, he had easily started the subject Imight be supposed to understand best, and to be the most interested in,so, in talking with others, he guided himself by the same rule. Thecompany was of a varied character; but he was not at fault, that I coulddiscover, with any member of it. He knew just as much of each man’spursuit as made him agreeable to that man in reference to it, and just aslittle as made it natural in him to seek modestly for information whenthe theme was broached.

  As he talked and talked—but really not too much, for the rest of usseemed to force it upon him—I became quite angry with myself. I took hisface to pieces in my mind, like a watch, and examined it in detail. Icould not say much against any of his features separately; I could sayeven less against them when they were put together. ‘Then is it notmonstrous,’ I asked myself, ‘that because a man happens to part his hairstraight up the middle of his head, I should permit myself to suspect,and even to detest him?’

  (I may stop to remark that this was no proof of my sense. An observer ofmen who finds himself steadily repelled by some apparently trifling thingin a stranger is right to give it great weight. It may be the clue tothe whole mystery. A hair or two will show where a lion is hidden. Avery little key will open a very heavy door.)

  I took my part in the conversation with him after a time, and we got onremarkably well. In the drawing-room I asked the host how long he hadknown Mr. Slinkton. He answered, not many months; he had met him at thehouse of a celebrated painter then present, who had known him well whenhe was travelling with his nieces in Italy for their health. His plansin life being broken by the death of one of them, he was reading with theintention of going back to college as a matter of form, taking hisdegree, and going into orders. I could not but argue with myself thathere was the true explanation of his interest in poor Meltham, and that Ihad been almost brutal in my distrust on that simple head.