never went so far as to have any talk with himself on the subject.
Fanshawe had rooms in London, where he appeared generally for a portion
of the season. He had been in the habit of meeting Tom Heriot in
Leicestershire for the hunting, just as he was in the habit of meeting
certain other kinds of men, periodically, in other places. By means of
thus dividing his year, and keeping to the regular routine of change, of
which men without any duties make a kind of fantastic duty for
themselves, his acquaintance was simply unlimited. He knew all kinds of
people, and most of the people whom he knew, he knew intimately. This
was how Tom Heriot and he had become friends--friends by accident as it
were, by the mere fact of meeting year after year in the same place,
doing the same thing at the same moment. They had been intimates, but no
more friends than this implies, at the moment when Tom, by Fanshawe’s
side, was struck by the stroke of that grim unsuspected Death which
hovers about the hunting-field. It was Fanshawe who helped to lift him,
to disengage him from his fallen horse, and carry him to the bed which
turned out to be his death-bed. And the two nights of watching which
followed made Fanshawe something like Tom Heriot’s brother, made him the
benefactor of Tom Heriot’s family, the object of their warmest
gratitude, and connected for ever with poor Tom’s name and memory.
Nothing could be more real than this connexion, and yet nothing could
be more accidental or arbitrary.
The position was quite false, for he knew in reality but little of Tom;
and yet it was perfectly natural and true, for he had been to Tom in his
hour of need all that a brother could have been; and to Tom’s father and
sister this stranger was no more a stranger; he was a son, a brother,
“Tom’s dearest friend.” And it seemed only natural to both parties that
Fanshawe should accompany the mournful _cortége_ to Pitcomlie--and that
he who had watched Tom so tenderly should help to lay him in his grave,
should support his fellow-watchers, and do what he could to console his
friend’s family.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account