e
house, which he had entered almost by a burglary, and where at any
moment he might be scandalously challenged.

He moved at once, his hat still in his hand, to the door of his father's
room, opened it, and entered. Mr. Nicholson sat in the same place and
posture as on that last Sunday morning; only he was older, and greyer,
and sterner; and as he now glanced up and caught the eye of his son, a
strange commotion and a dark flush sprang into his face.

"Father," said John steadily, and even cheerfully, for this was a moment
against which he was long ago prepared, "Father, here I am, and here is
the money that I took from you. I have come back to ask your
forgiveness, and to stay Christmas with you and the children."

"Keep your money," said the father, "and go!"

"Father!" cried John; "for God's sake don't receive me this way. I've
come for----"

"Understand me," interrupted Mr. Nicholson; "you are no son of mine; and
in the sight of God, I wash my hands of you. One last thing I will tell
you; one warning I will give you: all is discovered, and you are being
hunted for your crimes; if you are still at large it is thanks to me;
but I have done all that I mean to do; and from this time forth I would
not raise one finger--not one finger--to save you from the gallows! And
now," with a low voice of absolute authority, and a single weighty
gesture of the finger, "and now--go!"

CHAPTER VI

THE HOUSE AT MURRAYFIELD

How John passed the evening, in what windy confusion of mind, in what
squalls of anger and lulls of sick collapse, in what pacing of streets
and plunging into public-houses, it would profit little to relate. His
misery, if it were not progressive, yet tended in no way to diminish;
for in proportion as grief and indignation abated, fear began to take
their place. At first, his father's menacing words lay by in some safe
drawer of memory, biding their hour. At first, John was all thwarted
affection and blighted hope; next bludgeoned vanity raised its head
again, with twenty mortal gashes; and the father was disowned even as he
had disowned the son. What was this regular course of life, that John
should have admired it? what were these clock-work virtues, from which
love was absent? Kindness was the test, kindness the aim and soul; and
judged by such a standard, the discarded prodigal--now rapidly drowning
his sorrows and his reason in successive drams--was a creature of a
lovelier morality than his