Chapter Five.Aunt Grace Sows the Seed of Discontent.Laura Chester possessed what her aunt termed a bad habit.“You are so restless, my dear,” said that lady. “Why can’t you stay in your bed of a morning, and then come down at a Christian-like hour?”“Nine o’clock, aunt dear,” said the girl, smiling.“Well, say a quarter to, my dear, because that gives ample time to ring for the urn and make the tea, though nine is really a very nice hour. It is not right for a young lady to be racing downstairs before seven o’clock and dusting; and I do not really like for you to be going out for walks at such early hours.”“London is at its best before breakfast, aunt; everything looks so fresh and bright.”“What nonsense, my dear! Nothing of the kind. The steps are not cleaned, and there is nobody about but sweeps and dustmen, and milk carts.”“Oh yes, aunt dear,” cried Laura, merrily. “London is very busy then, and I wish I could get you to come. Covent Garden is lovely quite early with the flowers and fruit.”“My dear Laura, to hear you talk anyone would think your poor dear papa had been a greengrocer. Pray, do, my dear, try and give up the bad habit. I really don’t know what Isabel must think.”But the habit only grew stronger, and on the morning after her brother’s sudden call, Laura slipped out while cook was cleaning the steps and went off to Covent Garden to return with a bunch of roses and a basket of strawberries which had been picked that morning nine miles down the western road.The breakfast was ready, and she was giving the last touches to her arrangement of flowers and fruit upon the table when Isabel joined her, looking as fresh as the flowers in the little shallow bowl.“Oh, Laury, I am so ashamed at being so late,” she cried, after an affectionate kiss had been exchanged. “I was afraid I was last.”“Oh no, dear; auntie is not down,” said Laura, glancing at the clock. “She’ll be ten minutes yet.”“Is she always so punctual?”“Yes. She does not leave her room till the church clock begins to strike. She is very proud of being so exact.”“Is—is—”“Fred down? No, dear. There! don’t blush, goosey. I expect he was kept late last night, and he loses so much rest, that we never disturb him. He has his breakfast at all sorts of times, but it will be at nine this morning.”This was accompanied by an arch look.“Oh, how sweet the flowers are!” cried Isabel, turning away to hide the heightened colour in her cheeks.“Yes, dear,” said Laura, banteringly, “and life now is all roses and sweets, and the sky was never so blue, and the London sparrows’ ‘chiswick, chiswick’ sounds like the song of nightingales, doesn’t it? Heigho! I wish I were in love, and someone loved me, and put his arm round my waist and took me for walks along the primrose path of dalliance.”There was a light step behind her, two arms were passed about her waist, a soft, white chin rested upon her shoulder, and a rounded cheek was pressed to hers.“Don’t tease me, Laury darling,” was whispered. “I can’t help feeling all you say, and looking very weak and stupid now.”“Tease you, my own sweet!” cried Laura, swinging round to embrace in turn. “No, of course I won’t. It’s only my nasty envy, hatred and malice, because I can’t be as happy as you. There—and there—and there!”Three kisses, and Isabel started away.“Fred’s coming!” she whispered.“No. That’s auntie’s soft, pudgy step. Fred comes down thump, thump, like a wooden-legged man.”“Laury!”“Oh, well, he doesn’t notice where he’s going. He’s always thinking of operations and that sort of thing. Good-morning, aunt dear.”“Good-morning, Isabel, my child—morning, Laura.”“Aren’t you well, dear? You look so serious.”“Yes, Laura, I look serious. It’s a sad world.”The girls exchanged glances, and with melancholy mien the old lady rang the bell for breakfast, and then dropped into her seat with a weary sigh.“No letters, Laura?”“No, aunt dear. There’s a lovely rose instead.”“Thank you, Laura. Dear, dear! no one writes to me now. I don’t know why one should go on living when one grows old.”“Because Fred and I want you, dear,” cried Laura, merrily, “and Bel too. Put two more spoonfuls in the pot, aunt dear. A hot cup of tea will do you good.”“Nothing will ever do me good again,” sighed the old lady, shaking her head mournfully.“Oh yes, it will, dear; and Fred likes his tea strong.”“Yes, yes, very strong, my dear; and always preaches at me if I take it only just coloured. I sometimes think it’s because he thinks I cost too much.”“Now, auntie, how can you?” cried Laura. “Don’t you believe her, Bel.”“I do not,” said the girl, smiling. “Poor aunt is not well this morning.”“How can I be, my child, knowing as I do that my little bit of property is slowly wasting away, and—”“Here’s the urn, aunt,” cried Laura. “Shall I make the tea?”“Certainly not, my dear. Let me, pray, enjoy the last few privileges of my age while I am here. I do not mean in this house, Isabel, my child, but living out my last weary span.”“Auntie darling,” said Laura, tenderly, getting up as soon as the maid had placed tea-urn and covered dishes upon the table, “don’t be so miserable this morning now that dear Bel is here,” and she kissed the old lady lovingly.“How can I help it, my child? It is her being here makes me feel so bad.”“Oh, my dear Mrs Crane!” cried Isabel.“Worse and worse!” sobbed the old lady, melting into tears. “I did think you were softening to me, and would end by loving me and always calling me aunt—Mrs Crane!”“Aunt—auntie! There!” cried Isabel, running to her and kissing her. “But I think it is I who ought to complain.”“Yes, my dear, you ought.”“You shouldn’t say I make you bad.”“But you do, my dear. It’s all on your account. It’s dreadful, and I lay awake nearly all the night pitying you.”“Pitying me when I am so happy, auntie?” cried Isabel.“Ah, my child! you don’t know. All men are full of evil, but doctors are the worst of all.”“There, Bel; you are going to marry a horrid wretch,” cried Laura.“Don’t scoff, my dear,” continued the old lady. “It is too serious. They are always away from home—called at the most unearthly hours.”“Yes, to do good, auntie,” said Isabel, smiling.“And auntie won’t do good when she might Aunt, Isabel and I are dying for some tea.”“Yes, yes, my dear; I’ll pour it out directly.”“Wait a moment, aunt,” cried Laura. “I’ll go and ask Fred if he is coming down.”“Go and ask Fred, my dear? He is not at home.”“What!” cried the two girls in a breath.“He has not come back yet. I lay awake hour after hour listening, with my door a little way open—I can hear the latch-key then—but—he did not come.”Laura glanced at her visitor, and saw trouble coming in her face like a cloud. “Oh, well, aunt, dear, it is not the first time.”“No, my dear,” said the old lady, tightening her lips as she dropped a lump of sugar outside a cup; “it is not the first time by a long way, and I don’t like it.”“Neither does Fred, I’m sure, poor fellow!” cried Laura, helping the ham and eggs. “It is some serious case, Bel dear, and he’ll come back tired out for you to comfort him up. You’ll often have it to do, for, poor boy, he is called out a great deal.”At that moment Aunt Grace let the sugar-tongs fell with a clatter among the cups, and burst into a fit of sobbing.“Aunt dear!” cried Laura, jumping up to go to her side again; “what is the matter?”“I don’t like it, my dear. His being out like that.”“Well, Fred doesn’t either.”“Ah, but that’s it. He does, and it’s horrible; and I will not sit still and see him deceive this poor, dear lamb.”“Mrs Crane!” cried Isabel, sitting up flushed with indignation.“I can’t help it, my dear. I should be a wicked woman if I did not speak. I watched last night, and I saw her. One of those horridly handsome, fashionable-looking ladies, and she carried him off just as if she were leading him by a chain. I can’t help it! I had a presentiment then, and I’m obliged to speak. He hasn’t come back, and I felt he would not, and as sure as I’m alive he’ll never come back again.”“Aunt!” cried Laura, passionately. “Shame—Bel dear, don’t take any notice of her.”But her words had no effect. Isabel had risen with her face scarlet, then turning white as her lips parted to utter an indignant rebuke.No words came, and covering her face with her hand she hurried out of the room.“Auntie!” cried Laura, passionately. “See what you’ve done. You’re right. It’s quite time you made up your mind to die.”
Laura Chester possessed what her aunt termed a bad habit.
“You are so restless, my dear,” said that lady. “Why can’t you stay in your bed of a morning, and then come down at a Christian-like hour?”
“Nine o’clock, aunt dear,” said the girl, smiling.
“Well, say a quarter to, my dear, because that gives ample time to ring for the urn and make the tea, though nine is really a very nice hour. It is not right for a young lady to be racing downstairs before seven o’clock and dusting; and I do not really like for you to be going out for walks at such early hours.”
“London is at its best before breakfast, aunt; everything looks so fresh and bright.”
“What nonsense, my dear! Nothing of the kind. The steps are not cleaned, and there is nobody about but sweeps and dustmen, and milk carts.”
“Oh yes, aunt dear,” cried Laura, merrily. “London is very busy then, and I wish I could get you to come. Covent Garden is lovely quite early with the flowers and fruit.”
“My dear Laura, to hear you talk anyone would think your poor dear papa had been a greengrocer. Pray, do, my dear, try and give up the bad habit. I really don’t know what Isabel must think.”
But the habit only grew stronger, and on the morning after her brother’s sudden call, Laura slipped out while cook was cleaning the steps and went off to Covent Garden to return with a bunch of roses and a basket of strawberries which had been picked that morning nine miles down the western road.
The breakfast was ready, and she was giving the last touches to her arrangement of flowers and fruit upon the table when Isabel joined her, looking as fresh as the flowers in the little shallow bowl.
“Oh, Laury, I am so ashamed at being so late,” she cried, after an affectionate kiss had been exchanged. “I was afraid I was last.”
“Oh no, dear; auntie is not down,” said Laura, glancing at the clock. “She’ll be ten minutes yet.”
“Is she always so punctual?”
“Yes. She does not leave her room till the church clock begins to strike. She is very proud of being so exact.”
“Is—is—”
“Fred down? No, dear. There! don’t blush, goosey. I expect he was kept late last night, and he loses so much rest, that we never disturb him. He has his breakfast at all sorts of times, but it will be at nine this morning.”
This was accompanied by an arch look.
“Oh, how sweet the flowers are!” cried Isabel, turning away to hide the heightened colour in her cheeks.
“Yes, dear,” said Laura, banteringly, “and life now is all roses and sweets, and the sky was never so blue, and the London sparrows’ ‘chiswick, chiswick’ sounds like the song of nightingales, doesn’t it? Heigho! I wish I were in love, and someone loved me, and put his arm round my waist and took me for walks along the primrose path of dalliance.”
There was a light step behind her, two arms were passed about her waist, a soft, white chin rested upon her shoulder, and a rounded cheek was pressed to hers.
“Don’t tease me, Laury darling,” was whispered. “I can’t help feeling all you say, and looking very weak and stupid now.”
“Tease you, my own sweet!” cried Laura, swinging round to embrace in turn. “No, of course I won’t. It’s only my nasty envy, hatred and malice, because I can’t be as happy as you. There—and there—and there!”
Three kisses, and Isabel started away.
“Fred’s coming!” she whispered.
“No. That’s auntie’s soft, pudgy step. Fred comes down thump, thump, like a wooden-legged man.”
“Laury!”
“Oh, well, he doesn’t notice where he’s going. He’s always thinking of operations and that sort of thing. Good-morning, aunt dear.”
“Good-morning, Isabel, my child—morning, Laura.”
“Aren’t you well, dear? You look so serious.”
“Yes, Laura, I look serious. It’s a sad world.”
The girls exchanged glances, and with melancholy mien the old lady rang the bell for breakfast, and then dropped into her seat with a weary sigh.
“No letters, Laura?”
“No, aunt dear. There’s a lovely rose instead.”
“Thank you, Laura. Dear, dear! no one writes to me now. I don’t know why one should go on living when one grows old.”
“Because Fred and I want you, dear,” cried Laura, merrily, “and Bel too. Put two more spoonfuls in the pot, aunt dear. A hot cup of tea will do you good.”
“Nothing will ever do me good again,” sighed the old lady, shaking her head mournfully.
“Oh yes, it will, dear; and Fred likes his tea strong.”
“Yes, yes, very strong, my dear; and always preaches at me if I take it only just coloured. I sometimes think it’s because he thinks I cost too much.”
“Now, auntie, how can you?” cried Laura. “Don’t you believe her, Bel.”
“I do not,” said the girl, smiling. “Poor aunt is not well this morning.”
“How can I be, my child, knowing as I do that my little bit of property is slowly wasting away, and—”
“Here’s the urn, aunt,” cried Laura. “Shall I make the tea?”
“Certainly not, my dear. Let me, pray, enjoy the last few privileges of my age while I am here. I do not mean in this house, Isabel, my child, but living out my last weary span.”
“Auntie darling,” said Laura, tenderly, getting up as soon as the maid had placed tea-urn and covered dishes upon the table, “don’t be so miserable this morning now that dear Bel is here,” and she kissed the old lady lovingly.
“How can I help it, my child? It is her being here makes me feel so bad.”
“Oh, my dear Mrs Crane!” cried Isabel.
“Worse and worse!” sobbed the old lady, melting into tears. “I did think you were softening to me, and would end by loving me and always calling me aunt—Mrs Crane!”
“Aunt—auntie! There!” cried Isabel, running to her and kissing her. “But I think it is I who ought to complain.”
“Yes, my dear, you ought.”
“You shouldn’t say I make you bad.”
“But you do, my dear. It’s all on your account. It’s dreadful, and I lay awake nearly all the night pitying you.”
“Pitying me when I am so happy, auntie?” cried Isabel.
“Ah, my child! you don’t know. All men are full of evil, but doctors are the worst of all.”
“There, Bel; you are going to marry a horrid wretch,” cried Laura.
“Don’t scoff, my dear,” continued the old lady. “It is too serious. They are always away from home—called at the most unearthly hours.”
“Yes, to do good, auntie,” said Isabel, smiling.
“And auntie won’t do good when she might Aunt, Isabel and I are dying for some tea.”
“Yes, yes, my dear; I’ll pour it out directly.”
“Wait a moment, aunt,” cried Laura. “I’ll go and ask Fred if he is coming down.”
“Go and ask Fred, my dear? He is not at home.”
“What!” cried the two girls in a breath.
“He has not come back yet. I lay awake hour after hour listening, with my door a little way open—I can hear the latch-key then—but—he did not come.”
Laura glanced at her visitor, and saw trouble coming in her face like a cloud. “Oh, well, aunt, dear, it is not the first time.”
“No, my dear,” said the old lady, tightening her lips as she dropped a lump of sugar outside a cup; “it is not the first time by a long way, and I don’t like it.”
“Neither does Fred, I’m sure, poor fellow!” cried Laura, helping the ham and eggs. “It is some serious case, Bel dear, and he’ll come back tired out for you to comfort him up. You’ll often have it to do, for, poor boy, he is called out a great deal.”
At that moment Aunt Grace let the sugar-tongs fell with a clatter among the cups, and burst into a fit of sobbing.
“Aunt dear!” cried Laura, jumping up to go to her side again; “what is the matter?”
“I don’t like it, my dear. His being out like that.”
“Well, Fred doesn’t either.”
“Ah, but that’s it. He does, and it’s horrible; and I will not sit still and see him deceive this poor, dear lamb.”
“Mrs Crane!” cried Isabel, sitting up flushed with indignation.
“I can’t help it, my dear. I should be a wicked woman if I did not speak. I watched last night, and I saw her. One of those horridly handsome, fashionable-looking ladies, and she carried him off just as if she were leading him by a chain. I can’t help it! I had a presentiment then, and I’m obliged to speak. He hasn’t come back, and I felt he would not, and as sure as I’m alive he’ll never come back again.”
“Aunt!” cried Laura, passionately. “Shame—Bel dear, don’t take any notice of her.”
But her words had no effect. Isabel had risen with her face scarlet, then turning white as her lips parted to utter an indignant rebuke.
No words came, and covering her face with her hand she hurried out of the room.
“Auntie!” cried Laura, passionately. “See what you’ve done. You’re right. It’s quite time you made up your mind to die.”
Chapter Six.In Danger.As Chester turned and gazed in his patient’s face, he felt that all was over: and at that moment Paddy, startled by Marion’s excited words, rushed across and caught his arm.“Is he going?”“Yes,” cried Marion, passionately, “and he has been murdered. Rob, Rob, my own darling, don’t, don’t leave me here to this! Rob! I cannot bear it! Dr Chester! for pity’s sake! Oh, do something! Help!”“Hush! You are hindering me,” said Chester, sternly—himself once more. “The brandy! You—you—madam, use your fan rapidly. Is there no air to be got into this wretched prison? That’s right. Raise his head a little more. That’s better. Be calm, both of you. Everything depends upon that.”“But he is dying—he is dying!” wailed Marion.“Be silent, madam, and obey my orders,” whispered Chester, angrily, and the desperate fight went on. Desperate indeed it seemed to the doctor, and he fought as he had never fought before. But for some time every breath the poor fellow drew, feebly and painfully, seemed to her who watched him, with staring eyes, his very last.They were alone with him for quite an hour, before the old housekeeper came in, to grasp at once what was wrong, and hurry to the couch.“Oh, my child, why did you not ring for me?” she cried.“Hush! Silence!” said the doctor, sternly. “The paroxysm has exhausted itself. With perfect quiet he may yet live.”His hand was caught by Marion and passionately kissed, before she sank, half-fainting, in the old housekeeper’s arms.Paddy went in and out on tip-toe, his action suggesting always that he was doing something in silence for a wager; and twice over his brother came in as the hours slipped past, but only to be sternly ordered to go by the doctor, who was then alone with Marion and the wounded man.“But hang it all, sir!” he protested, “am I not to do what I like in my own house?”“No, not while I am in charge of my patient.”“But—”“Look here, sir, I will not be answerable for his life if you stay,” whispered Chester, sharply.The intruder bit his lips and glanced at Marion, then at the doctor and back. There was a world of meaning in his eyes, but Chester was too dreamy then to interpret it, and the man went away, but only for the far door to be re-opened and Paddy to make his appearance.Marion uttered a sign of annoyance, and hurried to meet him.“You must not stay, Paddy,” she whispered. “It is so important that Robert should be kept quiet.”“All right,” he said. “I didn’t want to come, but Jem sent me. He doesn’t like your being alone with the doctor.”An angry frown darkened Marion’s face.“Go,” she said firmly. “Paddy, I think he will live now.”“Thank God!” cried the young fellow, fervently. “But, I say, if I go I’m pretty sure that Jem will come himself. He as good as said so.”“Stop him, then, and tell him to go to his wife.”Paddy shrugged his shoulders.“You know what he is.”“Yes,” said Marion, bitterly, “I know what he is,” and she pointed towards the couch. “We know what he is. Now go.”“All right; but you want something. They’ve got some dinner or supper yonder; come and have a bit.”“No.”“Then I’ll have some sent in.”“I don’t want anything. Tell them to send something for the doctor.”But almost as she spoke the door was softly opened, and the old housekeeper appeared with a tray.One long dream, in a strangely protracted night, as it appeared to Chester—a night in which the world seemed to be halting during a singular delirium. Time stood still apparently for both nurse and doctor, who hardly left the room, but were waited on by the housekeeper and the two ladies, who came in and out softly, each offering to take Marion’s place; but she invariably refused.Nature grew stern at times towards the watchers at the wounded man’s side, and sometimes one, sometimes the other, sank suddenly into a deep sleep, during which, whether it were one hour or many, the other remained perfectly awake and watchful.And day after day, night after night, the dual fight went on—the fight with death and that with honour. There were times when Fred Chester seemed to be winning in both encounters, but as often he felt that his patient was slowly slipping away from him, as he himself was lapsing from all that he ought to have held dear.Everything was, in the latter case, against him. Forced into close contact with the woman who had so strangely influenced him from the first moment of their meeting, with her eyes constantly seeking his appealingly as the sufferer’s life rose and fell—flickering like the flame of an expiring candle, he felt that his position was too hard for man to bear. He owned himself weak, pitiful and contemptible, but as he struggled on he felt himself drifting hopelessly away, and that, come what might, he was to become this woman’s slave.One day was like that which followed, in its wild delirium and strangeness. Chester had almost lost count of the time which had elapsed, and grew startled at last as the feeling was impressed upon him that the precautions taken by those around had grown unnecessary and that if the door had stood open he would not now have attempted to escape. A strange thrall held him more than locks and bars, and he was ready to sacrifice everything to stay there by Marion’s side and fight the grim Shade till it was defeated and he had won her gratitude and love.The great trouble Chester had to fight was the succession of strange convulsive fits which attacked his patient, each of which seemed to have snapped the frail thread which held the wounded man to life; but as they passed off the flame flickered up again, and the struggle recommenced.At last came the day when, hopeless and despondent, Chester bent over to dress the wound, feeling that the struggle had been all in vain, and that his skill was far less than he had believed.The old housekeeper was waiting upon him, and Marion had, at his request, gone to the other end of the room.“You unnerve me,” he whispered.She looked at him reproachfully, and went away without a word, to seat herself with her arm on the side of a chair, her hand supporting her brow.As a rule, the sufferer had made no sign during the opening and rebandaging, but this time he winced sharply at every touch, and the old housekeeper looked up questioningly.“Is that a bad sign?” she whispered, with her face all drawn and ghastly with fear.“No; a sign of greater vitality,” said Chester, quickly, and the next minute he uttered a curious sibilation, for in removing the inner bandage, his fingers came in contact with something angular and hard, which he held up to the light and examined carefully.A quick, sharp breathing at his ear made him start round, to find that his every movement had been watched between the fingers of the hand which covered the watcher’s face, and she had hurried to his side.“Worse?” she whispered faintly, too much exhausted now to display the intense agony and excitement of the earlier days of their intercourse.“No,” he cried triumphantly. “Here is the cause—the enemy which has been fighting against us so long, and produced, I believe, those terrible convulsive attacks.”Marion looked at him wonderingly, and her lips parted, but no words came. He read the question, though, in her eyes.“I ought to have known, and found it out sooner,” Chester said bitterly, “and I feel that I am only a miserable pretender, after all. This piece of jagged lead, broken from the conical bullet by the explosion; it has remained behind causing all the trouble.”“Ah! Then he will recover now?”“Yes,” he said, as his eyes met hers; and if was some moments before they were withdrawn, both, in the pre-eminence of self at that moment, having taken no thought of the old housekeeper, who involuntarily made her presence known by uttering a deep sigh; and as Marion started and met her gaze, the old woman shook her head at her reproachfully.“Oh, my dear! my dear!” she said softly; “pray, pray think.”Marion’s brow contracted, and she walked slowly away, to take up her former position; while Chester winced and gave the old woman an angry look, as she now shook her head sadly at him.“No, doctor, no,” she said softly; “that could never be. Please think only of your patient and your position of trust.”“How dare you, woman!” he whispered angrily; for her words had gone home, and stung him more deeply than she could have realised.“Because I am not like an ordinary servant, doctor,” she said, meeting his eyes unflinchingly. “I nursed her when she was a little child, and I have watched over her ever since. Yes, she is very beautiful, but that could never be.”Chester bent over his patient with knitted brow and tightly-compressed lips, feeling the truth of the old woman’s words, and ready to repeat them again mentally—that could never be.His hands were busy with his task, and his brain was more active than ever, as he felt now that he had won this victory, and that the effort to bring the poor fellow back to life and strength would now be an easy one; little more than good nursing would suffice. Why, then, could he not win in that other fight? She was right; that could never be; and he seemed now to be suffering a rude awakening from the strange, dreamy time through which he had passed—awakening to the fact that he had lapsed into a faithless scoundrel, he who had believed himself all that was manly and true.An hour before, he had felt that nothing could drag him from Marion’s side. He loved her more than he could have believed possible, but it could never be. He was awake once more, and now that the peril was past he must go.“Hah!” he said softly, as he finished his task and the old housekeeper rose to bear away sponge, basin and towel, “head cooler, more susceptible of touch. A hard fight, but I win. An error of judgment? No; I did all possible. The probe revealed nothing. I saw no bullet, or I might have known.”Everything else had passed away for the moment in the pride of his satisfaction—the triumph of life over death—and he stood with one hand resting on the back of the couch, the other upon his left hip, as he bent over his patient, whose breath came softly, and there was a restful look in the thin white face.Then he started round, for there was a light touch upon his arm, and he was face to face with Marion once more, her head bent forward, her wild eyes searching his.“Is—is it true?” she whispered excitedly. “She told me as she went out—you did not speak.”“Yes; quite true,” cried Chester. “No wonder, poor fellow, that he made no advance. But there, we have won, and a day or two’s nursing will be all he wants. Now you can feel at rest.”“Feel—at rest?”“Of course; there is no disease. Weakness is the only trouble now.”“Weakness the only trouble now! Rob—Rob—my own dear boy!”She sank upon her knees, and as he saw her action, Chester tried to check her. But she gave him a reproachful glance, and passed her soft white arms about the patient’s head, but without touching him; and the loving kiss she breathed, as it were, upon his lips. Then she rose, sobbing gently, with all the strength of her mind and force of action seeming to have passed away, as with outstretched hands she caught at the nearest object to save herself from falling.That nearest object was Chester; and the next moment she was weeping in his arms.“You have given him back to me,” she sobbed, her voice little above a whisper. “You have saved him. How can I ever repay you for what you have done?”The minute before he had been strong; now as he felt the sobs rising from the labouring breast, and clasped her throbbing, palpitating form closer and—closer,—“Marion!”Her name—nothing more; but he felt her tremble in his arms and hang more heavily as her head sank slowly back, bringing her lips nearer his; and the next moment she uttered a low sigh, breathed in their lengthened kiss.“Out of what comedy is this, doctor?” said a harsh, familiar voice; and as they started angrily apart, Jem, as they called him, advanced quickly from the silently opened door, straight towards Marion, upon whom he fixed his fierce eyes, as he spoke to her companion. “French, I suppose—a translation. I congratulate you, doctor—both of you. It was so real—so passionately grand. And you,” he literally hissed now, “most loving sister!Pour passer le temps, of course. Theennuiof long nursing. Curse you!” he whispered savagely, as he stopped before her, and with a quick movement caught her by the wrist.The next moment he uttered a hoarse cry of rage, for, stung to madness by the brutal act, Chester sprang at him, forcing him back over the table before which he stood, while Marion was flung aside.
As Chester turned and gazed in his patient’s face, he felt that all was over: and at that moment Paddy, startled by Marion’s excited words, rushed across and caught his arm.
“Is he going?”
“Yes,” cried Marion, passionately, “and he has been murdered. Rob, Rob, my own darling, don’t, don’t leave me here to this! Rob! I cannot bear it! Dr Chester! for pity’s sake! Oh, do something! Help!”
“Hush! You are hindering me,” said Chester, sternly—himself once more. “The brandy! You—you—madam, use your fan rapidly. Is there no air to be got into this wretched prison? That’s right. Raise his head a little more. That’s better. Be calm, both of you. Everything depends upon that.”
“But he is dying—he is dying!” wailed Marion.
“Be silent, madam, and obey my orders,” whispered Chester, angrily, and the desperate fight went on. Desperate indeed it seemed to the doctor, and he fought as he had never fought before. But for some time every breath the poor fellow drew, feebly and painfully, seemed to her who watched him, with staring eyes, his very last.
They were alone with him for quite an hour, before the old housekeeper came in, to grasp at once what was wrong, and hurry to the couch.
“Oh, my child, why did you not ring for me?” she cried.
“Hush! Silence!” said the doctor, sternly. “The paroxysm has exhausted itself. With perfect quiet he may yet live.”
His hand was caught by Marion and passionately kissed, before she sank, half-fainting, in the old housekeeper’s arms.
Paddy went in and out on tip-toe, his action suggesting always that he was doing something in silence for a wager; and twice over his brother came in as the hours slipped past, but only to be sternly ordered to go by the doctor, who was then alone with Marion and the wounded man.
“But hang it all, sir!” he protested, “am I not to do what I like in my own house?”
“No, not while I am in charge of my patient.”
“But—”
“Look here, sir, I will not be answerable for his life if you stay,” whispered Chester, sharply.
The intruder bit his lips and glanced at Marion, then at the doctor and back. There was a world of meaning in his eyes, but Chester was too dreamy then to interpret it, and the man went away, but only for the far door to be re-opened and Paddy to make his appearance.
Marion uttered a sign of annoyance, and hurried to meet him.
“You must not stay, Paddy,” she whispered. “It is so important that Robert should be kept quiet.”
“All right,” he said. “I didn’t want to come, but Jem sent me. He doesn’t like your being alone with the doctor.”
An angry frown darkened Marion’s face.
“Go,” she said firmly. “Paddy, I think he will live now.”
“Thank God!” cried the young fellow, fervently. “But, I say, if I go I’m pretty sure that Jem will come himself. He as good as said so.”
“Stop him, then, and tell him to go to his wife.”
Paddy shrugged his shoulders.
“You know what he is.”
“Yes,” said Marion, bitterly, “I know what he is,” and she pointed towards the couch. “We know what he is. Now go.”
“All right; but you want something. They’ve got some dinner or supper yonder; come and have a bit.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll have some sent in.”
“I don’t want anything. Tell them to send something for the doctor.”
But almost as she spoke the door was softly opened, and the old housekeeper appeared with a tray.
One long dream, in a strangely protracted night, as it appeared to Chester—a night in which the world seemed to be halting during a singular delirium. Time stood still apparently for both nurse and doctor, who hardly left the room, but were waited on by the housekeeper and the two ladies, who came in and out softly, each offering to take Marion’s place; but she invariably refused.
Nature grew stern at times towards the watchers at the wounded man’s side, and sometimes one, sometimes the other, sank suddenly into a deep sleep, during which, whether it were one hour or many, the other remained perfectly awake and watchful.
And day after day, night after night, the dual fight went on—the fight with death and that with honour. There were times when Fred Chester seemed to be winning in both encounters, but as often he felt that his patient was slowly slipping away from him, as he himself was lapsing from all that he ought to have held dear.
Everything was, in the latter case, against him. Forced into close contact with the woman who had so strangely influenced him from the first moment of their meeting, with her eyes constantly seeking his appealingly as the sufferer’s life rose and fell—flickering like the flame of an expiring candle, he felt that his position was too hard for man to bear. He owned himself weak, pitiful and contemptible, but as he struggled on he felt himself drifting hopelessly away, and that, come what might, he was to become this woman’s slave.
One day was like that which followed, in its wild delirium and strangeness. Chester had almost lost count of the time which had elapsed, and grew startled at last as the feeling was impressed upon him that the precautions taken by those around had grown unnecessary and that if the door had stood open he would not now have attempted to escape. A strange thrall held him more than locks and bars, and he was ready to sacrifice everything to stay there by Marion’s side and fight the grim Shade till it was defeated and he had won her gratitude and love.
The great trouble Chester had to fight was the succession of strange convulsive fits which attacked his patient, each of which seemed to have snapped the frail thread which held the wounded man to life; but as they passed off the flame flickered up again, and the struggle recommenced.
At last came the day when, hopeless and despondent, Chester bent over to dress the wound, feeling that the struggle had been all in vain, and that his skill was far less than he had believed.
The old housekeeper was waiting upon him, and Marion had, at his request, gone to the other end of the room.
“You unnerve me,” he whispered.
She looked at him reproachfully, and went away without a word, to seat herself with her arm on the side of a chair, her hand supporting her brow.
As a rule, the sufferer had made no sign during the opening and rebandaging, but this time he winced sharply at every touch, and the old housekeeper looked up questioningly.
“Is that a bad sign?” she whispered, with her face all drawn and ghastly with fear.
“No; a sign of greater vitality,” said Chester, quickly, and the next minute he uttered a curious sibilation, for in removing the inner bandage, his fingers came in contact with something angular and hard, which he held up to the light and examined carefully.
A quick, sharp breathing at his ear made him start round, to find that his every movement had been watched between the fingers of the hand which covered the watcher’s face, and she had hurried to his side.
“Worse?” she whispered faintly, too much exhausted now to display the intense agony and excitement of the earlier days of their intercourse.
“No,” he cried triumphantly. “Here is the cause—the enemy which has been fighting against us so long, and produced, I believe, those terrible convulsive attacks.”
Marion looked at him wonderingly, and her lips parted, but no words came. He read the question, though, in her eyes.
“I ought to have known, and found it out sooner,” Chester said bitterly, “and I feel that I am only a miserable pretender, after all. This piece of jagged lead, broken from the conical bullet by the explosion; it has remained behind causing all the trouble.”
“Ah! Then he will recover now?”
“Yes,” he said, as his eyes met hers; and if was some moments before they were withdrawn, both, in the pre-eminence of self at that moment, having taken no thought of the old housekeeper, who involuntarily made her presence known by uttering a deep sigh; and as Marion started and met her gaze, the old woman shook her head at her reproachfully.
“Oh, my dear! my dear!” she said softly; “pray, pray think.”
Marion’s brow contracted, and she walked slowly away, to take up her former position; while Chester winced and gave the old woman an angry look, as she now shook her head sadly at him.
“No, doctor, no,” she said softly; “that could never be. Please think only of your patient and your position of trust.”
“How dare you, woman!” he whispered angrily; for her words had gone home, and stung him more deeply than she could have realised.
“Because I am not like an ordinary servant, doctor,” she said, meeting his eyes unflinchingly. “I nursed her when she was a little child, and I have watched over her ever since. Yes, she is very beautiful, but that could never be.”
Chester bent over his patient with knitted brow and tightly-compressed lips, feeling the truth of the old woman’s words, and ready to repeat them again mentally—that could never be.
His hands were busy with his task, and his brain was more active than ever, as he felt now that he had won this victory, and that the effort to bring the poor fellow back to life and strength would now be an easy one; little more than good nursing would suffice. Why, then, could he not win in that other fight? She was right; that could never be; and he seemed now to be suffering a rude awakening from the strange, dreamy time through which he had passed—awakening to the fact that he had lapsed into a faithless scoundrel, he who had believed himself all that was manly and true.
An hour before, he had felt that nothing could drag him from Marion’s side. He loved her more than he could have believed possible, but it could never be. He was awake once more, and now that the peril was past he must go.
“Hah!” he said softly, as he finished his task and the old housekeeper rose to bear away sponge, basin and towel, “head cooler, more susceptible of touch. A hard fight, but I win. An error of judgment? No; I did all possible. The probe revealed nothing. I saw no bullet, or I might have known.”
Everything else had passed away for the moment in the pride of his satisfaction—the triumph of life over death—and he stood with one hand resting on the back of the couch, the other upon his left hip, as he bent over his patient, whose breath came softly, and there was a restful look in the thin white face.
Then he started round, for there was a light touch upon his arm, and he was face to face with Marion once more, her head bent forward, her wild eyes searching his.
“Is—is it true?” she whispered excitedly. “She told me as she went out—you did not speak.”
“Yes; quite true,” cried Chester. “No wonder, poor fellow, that he made no advance. But there, we have won, and a day or two’s nursing will be all he wants. Now you can feel at rest.”
“Feel—at rest?”
“Of course; there is no disease. Weakness is the only trouble now.”
“Weakness the only trouble now! Rob—Rob—my own dear boy!”
She sank upon her knees, and as he saw her action, Chester tried to check her. But she gave him a reproachful glance, and passed her soft white arms about the patient’s head, but without touching him; and the loving kiss she breathed, as it were, upon his lips. Then she rose, sobbing gently, with all the strength of her mind and force of action seeming to have passed away, as with outstretched hands she caught at the nearest object to save herself from falling.
That nearest object was Chester; and the next moment she was weeping in his arms.
“You have given him back to me,” she sobbed, her voice little above a whisper. “You have saved him. How can I ever repay you for what you have done?”
The minute before he had been strong; now as he felt the sobs rising from the labouring breast, and clasped her throbbing, palpitating form closer and—closer,—“Marion!”
Her name—nothing more; but he felt her tremble in his arms and hang more heavily as her head sank slowly back, bringing her lips nearer his; and the next moment she uttered a low sigh, breathed in their lengthened kiss.
“Out of what comedy is this, doctor?” said a harsh, familiar voice; and as they started angrily apart, Jem, as they called him, advanced quickly from the silently opened door, straight towards Marion, upon whom he fixed his fierce eyes, as he spoke to her companion. “French, I suppose—a translation. I congratulate you, doctor—both of you. It was so real—so passionately grand. And you,” he literally hissed now, “most loving sister!Pour passer le temps, of course. Theennuiof long nursing. Curse you!” he whispered savagely, as he stopped before her, and with a quick movement caught her by the wrist.
The next moment he uttered a hoarse cry of rage, for, stung to madness by the brutal act, Chester sprang at him, forcing him back over the table before which he stood, while Marion was flung aside.
Chapter Seven.A Black Cloud Behind.“Where am I?”Head throbbing horribly, a nauseous taste in the mouth, throat constricted and painful upon an attempt to swallow, and a strange mental confusion which provoked the above question.The answer came at once.In a miserable, musty-smelling, four-wheeled cab, whose windows were drawn up, and so spattered with mud and the heavy rain which fell upon the roof that the gleam from the street lamps only produced a dim, hazy light within, as the vehicle jangled slowly along, with wheels and some loose piece of iron rattling loudly in concert with the beat of the horse’s feet.“Whatever am I doing here?” was Fred Chester’s next question.Lying back in the corner, in an awkward position, as if in a state of collapse, and only saved from subsiding into the bottom of the cab by his feet being propped up on the front cushion, the doctor kept perfectly still trying to think, but every retrogressive attempt gave the idea that he was gazing at a vast black cloud which completely shut out the past.He uttered a faint groan, for he felt startled; but after lying back listening to the beating rain and the jarring of the ill-fitting glasses, he recovered somewhat.“How absurd!” he muttered. “Where am I going? Ask the driver.”He drew up his legs and let his feet drop into the cab, as he tried to sit up, but the effort gave him the sensation of molten lead running from one of his temples to the other, and he lay perfectly still while the agonising pain passed slowly away, trying hard to think what had happened, but in vain. There was the black cloud before him mentally, though he could see the gleaming of a lamp he passed through the blurred panes of glass.At last, feeling more and more startled by his condition, he made a brave effort, raised himself upright, and reached out for the strap, so as to lower the front window; but at the first movement he was seized with a sickening giddiness, lurched forward, and thrust himself back to recline in the corner again till the molten lead had ceased to flow from side to side of his head.At last, very slowly and cautiously, bit by bit, he edged himself forward till his knees rested against the front cushion, and then, thrusting one hand into the left corner, he reached out for the strap, raised the window, and let it glide sharply and loudly down.“Hi! Cabby!” he cried hoarsely.“Right, sir!” came back, and the cab was drawn up by the kerb beneath the next street lamp.Then the driver got down and opened the door, to stand with the rain streaming off his waterproof hat and cape.“Mornin’, sir,” he said in a husky voice, closely following a chuckle. “Feel better now?”“No, I am horribly ill. Where am I?”“Why, here, sir,” said the man, chuckling. “My word, it’s a wet ’un outside.”“But what street’s this?”“Halkin Street, Belgrave Square, sir.”“What? But how came I in your cab?—I can’t remember.”“S’pose not, sir,” said the man, good-humouredly. “Does make yer feel a bit muzzy till yer’ve had another snooze. Shall I try and find one o’ the early purlers where the market-garden chaps goes?”“What? What do you mean?”“Drop o’ somethin’ to clear your head, sir—and keep some o’ the wet out o’ me.”“But—but I don’t understand you,” cried Chester, whose head still throbbed so that he dreaded losing his senses again.“Oh, it’s all right, sir. Have a drop o’ something; you’ll be better then.”“But how came I in your cab?”“Your friend and me put you there, sir.”“My friend?”“Yes, him as you’d been dining with, sir; on’y you don’t seem to ha’ heat much.”“My friend?”“Yes, sir; that’s right.”“Where was it?”“Pickydilly Circus; ’bout three hours ago.”“Yes—yes. Well?”“And he says, ‘Take care of him, kebby,’ he says, ‘and drive him home. Bad cham,’ he says, ‘and he ain’t used to it.’”“Then why didn’t you drive me home?” cried Chester, angrily.“S’elp me! I like that!—I did; and no one was sittin’ up for yer; I knocked and rung for ’bout arf an hour before the old chap shoved up the winder and began a-cussin’ and a-swearin’ at me awful.”“What old chap?” faltered Chester in his amaze.“Your old guv’nor, I s’pose; and he wouldn’t come down, and told me to drive you to the ‘oh no, we never mentions him!’ for you warn’t coming in there. Then he bangs down the winder, and I waited ten minutes for him to get cool, and then knocks and rings again. This time he shoves up the winder and swears he’d shoot at me if I warn’t off; and as I got set agen ’orspittles ever since I was there for two months, I got up on the box again and drove off, for there was a bobby coming up; and I’ve been driving you about ever since.”“Driving me about ever since?”“That’s so, sir. We’ve been round Belgrave Square about a dozen times, and I was just going to drive you back to our stables, where it ain’t quite so wet, when you downed the window.”“I can’t grasp it,” said Chester, hoarsely.“Oh, never you mind about that, sir; you’ll be all right soon. You see, beggin’ your pardon, you was precious tight, and your friend had all he could do to hold you up. ‘Just like a jelly, kebby,’ he says; and you was, sir. Your legs doubled up like a two-foot rule with a weak jynte.”“My friend!” cried Chester, snatching at that as something to cling to. “Who was that?”“That’s what I’m a-telling you, sir. Your friend—”“But what sort of a person was it?”“Big, stout young fellow, like a Lifeguardsman, but a real gent. Very jovial sort. ‘Take great keer of him, kebby,’ he says, and he tipped me a quid. ‘Help him up the steps when you get him home.’ ‘Right you are, sir,’ I says, as soon as I’d shut you up. ‘But wheer to?’ ‘Thirty-three Chrissal Square, Chelsea,’ he says, and there I drove you, and there you’d be, only your guv’nor cut up so rough.”“Chrissal Square, Chelsea?” cried Chester, eagerly.“That’s it, sir.”“Why didn’t he tell you Raybeck Square?”“Dunno, I’m sure, sir. That’s where all the doctors is.”“Yes, of course.”“Didn’t think you was bad enough, I s’pose, sir. And you ain’t. You on’y want a drop to clear your head a bit.”“Drive me to Raybeck Square, thirty-four, at once.”“Won’t you have a drop of something first, sir? Do you more good than going to a doctor’s, and me, too.”“No, no, absurd. But one moment. You said Piccadilly Circus?”“That’s right, sir.”“And my friend helped me into the cab, and paid you to drive me home?”“That’s it, sir. You’re getting it now—all by heart.”“A tall, stout gentleman?”“Well, not exactly that, sir. I don’t mean a fat ’un with a big weskit. A reg’lar strong-built un.”“I can’t grasp it,” muttered Chester. Then aloud,—“But why did he tell you to drive me to the wrong house?”“Bit on too, sir. Arter dinner. Did it for a lark, p’ra’ps.”“Drive me home,” said Chester, sinking back. “I can’t recollect a bit.”“Course you can’t, sir. Better have a hair o’ the dog as bit you.”“No, no. There, I’ll give you a glass of brandy when we get back.”“Suppose your guv’nor won’t let you in, sir?”“Nonsense, man. I have a latch-key.”“Wish I’d ha’ knowed it,” muttered the man, as he tried to close the door; “blessed if I wouldn’t ha’ picked your pocket of it and risked it I’d ha’ carried you into the passage, and chanced it. Blister the door, how it sticks!” he growled, as he banged it to, the jerk raising the glass, and it dropped down. “Chrissal Square, sir?”“No, no, Raybeck Square; and make haste out of the rain.”“Oh, I’m as wet as I can be, sir, and it don’t matter now,” grumbled the man, as he ascended to the box, and once more the maddening rattle and jangle began.Chester’s head was as blank as ever with regard to the past when the cab drew up at his home, but it was perfectly clear as to the present, and he was still hard at work trying to make out where he had been dining, with whom, and how it was possible for him to have so far forgotten himself as to have drunk till he was absolutely imbecile, when the man opened the door.“One moment; my latch-key. Yes; all right, I said I’d give you a glass of brandy.”“You did, sir, and welkum it’ll be as the flowers o’ May. Jump out quick, sir, and run up the steps, for it’s all one big shower bath.”“Can you leave your horse?”“Leave him, sir?” said the man, with a chuckle; “for a month. He’s got hoofs like hanchors. But I will hitch his nose-bag on, and let him see if he can find that there oat he was a-’untin’ for in the chaff last time he had it on.”The next minute Chester was inside, with his head throbbing; but he was not so giddy, and his first glance was at the hall clock, illumined by the half turned down gas.“Four o’clock,” he muttered. “How strange!”“May I come inside, sir? Horse’ll be all right if there don’t come a bobby prowling round. If he ain’t a fool he’ll be under someone’s doorway, for there ain’t likely to be no burgling a time like this.”“Shut the door, and come in here,” said Chester, shortly; and he led the way into his consulting-room, turned up the gas, and from a closet took a decanter and glass, filled the latter for the cabman, who was making a pool on the thick carpet, and then poured himself out a few drops from a small-stoppered bottle, added some water from a table filter, and tossed off the mixture.“Thank you, sir, and hope that there’ll do you as much good as this here’s done me a’ready. Didn’t know you was a doctor.”“Here’s a crown for you,” said Chester, taking the money from a little drawer.“Five bob! Oh, thank ye, sir,” said the man, with a grin. “Makes a fellow feel quite dry. Sorry for your carpet, sir. Good-mornin’. I don’t think I want another fare.”As the door was closed after the man, the potent drops Chester had taken began to have some effect, and it seemed as if the dawn was coming through the black cloud which separated him mentally from what had taken place overnight.“The man’s right,” he muttered. “I must sleep. Good heavens! What a state my brain is in!”“Is that you, Fred?”He started as if he had been stung, and the dawn brightened as he replied sharply—“Yes, aunt; all right. Go to bed. Why are you up?”There was no reply, and he turned the hall light nearly out again, and went into his consulting-room to serve the gas jet there the same, and sank into an easy-chair instead; but he had hardly allowed himself to sink back when he sprang up again, for there, in the open doorway, stood the grotesque figure of Aunt Grace, in broad-frilled, old-fashioned night-cap and dressing-gown, a flat candlestick in her hand, and a portentous frown upon her brow, as she walked straight to him, wincing sharply as one slippered foot was planted in the pool left by the cabman, but continuing her slow, important march till she was about a yard away from her nephew, when she stopped.“Why, aunt,” he cried, “what’s the matter? Surely you are not walking in your sleep!”“Matter?” she cried in a low, deep voice, full of the emotion which nearly choked her. “Oh, you vile, wicked, degraded boy! How dare you treat your poor sister and me like this?”“Pooh! Hush! Nonsense, old lady. It’s all right. I’ve been dining with a friend.”“With a friend!” she said, with cutting sarcasm.“Yes, at his club. There, I must have been unwell. I was a little overdone. What a terrible night.”“Terrible indeed, sir, when my nephew stoops to lie to me like that. A friend—at his club! Do you think me such a baby that I do not know you have been with that abandoned woman?”“Hush! Silence!” he whispered angrily. “For your dear, dead father’s and mother’s sake, sir, I will not be silenced.”“But you will arouse Laura.”“She wants no arousing. She is lying ill in bed, sleepless in her misery, sir, with her wretched brother staying out like this.”“Confound you for a silly old woman!” he cried angrily. “Is a man to live the life of a hermit? If I had been away to a patient till breakfast-time nobody would have said a word. Poor little Laury! But how absurd!”“Absurd, sir!” cried the old lady, who was scarlet with indignation. “Then I suppose it was absurd for poor Isabel Lee to have gone home broken-hearted because of your conduct.”“What!” he cried, springing up, with a glimmer of memory coming back. “Why, surely you two did not canvass my being out one night till the poor girl was so upset that she—that she—went back—yes, she was stopping here. Oh, aunt, your foolish, suspicious ways are disgraceful. What have you done?”“I done, you wretched boy? It’s what have you done? She was with us for a whole week after you had gone, fighting against me, and insisting that there was a reason for your being away, or that you had had an accident.”“Here, aunt, are you going to be ill?” he cried, catching at her wrist; but she snatched it away.“Don’t touch me, sir!” she cried. “Oh, Fred, Fred! I’d have given the world not to know that you were so wicked. And just when you were about to marry her, poor girl, to go away as you did.”“Goaway—as I did?” he faltered, gazing at her blankly.“Yes, I knew something was wrong when I saw that wretched woman’s face. I felt it; but I could not have believed you would be so base. A whole fortnight too; and to think that this was to have been your wedding-day!”He caught her by the shoulders, and she uttered a faint cry and dropped the candlestick, as he stood swaying to and fro, staring at the doorway, through which his sister hesitatingly passed, and came slowly toward him.“A fortnight!” he stammered—“Isabel gone!”“Yes, gone—gone for ever,” said Laura, sadly. “Oh, Fred, how could you?”“Stop! Don’t touch me,” he cried angrily. “Don’t speak to me. Let me try to think.”He threw his head back and shook it violently in his effort to clear it, but the confusion and mental darkness began to close in once more, while the throbbing in his brain grew agonising. It was as if his head were opening and shutting—letting the light in a little and then blotting it out; till he felt his senses reeling—the present mingling with the darkness of the past he strove so vainly to grasp.“I can’t think. Am I going mad?” he groaned, as he staggered to a chair.“Mad, indeed,” said his aunt, bitterly. “Come away, Laura, and leave him to his conscience. Better if it had been as you and poor Isabel thought—that he had met with some accident, and was dead.”She caught her niece by the arm, but Laura shook herself free and took a step or two towards where, in his utter despair, Chester sat bent down with his head resting in his hands. But he made no movement, and with a bitter sob she turned and followed her aunt from the room.
“Where am I?”
Head throbbing horribly, a nauseous taste in the mouth, throat constricted and painful upon an attempt to swallow, and a strange mental confusion which provoked the above question.
The answer came at once.
In a miserable, musty-smelling, four-wheeled cab, whose windows were drawn up, and so spattered with mud and the heavy rain which fell upon the roof that the gleam from the street lamps only produced a dim, hazy light within, as the vehicle jangled slowly along, with wheels and some loose piece of iron rattling loudly in concert with the beat of the horse’s feet.
“Whatever am I doing here?” was Fred Chester’s next question.
Lying back in the corner, in an awkward position, as if in a state of collapse, and only saved from subsiding into the bottom of the cab by his feet being propped up on the front cushion, the doctor kept perfectly still trying to think, but every retrogressive attempt gave the idea that he was gazing at a vast black cloud which completely shut out the past.
He uttered a faint groan, for he felt startled; but after lying back listening to the beating rain and the jarring of the ill-fitting glasses, he recovered somewhat.
“How absurd!” he muttered. “Where am I going? Ask the driver.”
He drew up his legs and let his feet drop into the cab, as he tried to sit up, but the effort gave him the sensation of molten lead running from one of his temples to the other, and he lay perfectly still while the agonising pain passed slowly away, trying hard to think what had happened, but in vain. There was the black cloud before him mentally, though he could see the gleaming of a lamp he passed through the blurred panes of glass.
At last, feeling more and more startled by his condition, he made a brave effort, raised himself upright, and reached out for the strap, so as to lower the front window; but at the first movement he was seized with a sickening giddiness, lurched forward, and thrust himself back to recline in the corner again till the molten lead had ceased to flow from side to side of his head.
At last, very slowly and cautiously, bit by bit, he edged himself forward till his knees rested against the front cushion, and then, thrusting one hand into the left corner, he reached out for the strap, raised the window, and let it glide sharply and loudly down.
“Hi! Cabby!” he cried hoarsely.
“Right, sir!” came back, and the cab was drawn up by the kerb beneath the next street lamp.
Then the driver got down and opened the door, to stand with the rain streaming off his waterproof hat and cape.
“Mornin’, sir,” he said in a husky voice, closely following a chuckle. “Feel better now?”
“No, I am horribly ill. Where am I?”
“Why, here, sir,” said the man, chuckling. “My word, it’s a wet ’un outside.”
“But what street’s this?”
“Halkin Street, Belgrave Square, sir.”
“What? But how came I in your cab?—I can’t remember.”
“S’pose not, sir,” said the man, good-humouredly. “Does make yer feel a bit muzzy till yer’ve had another snooze. Shall I try and find one o’ the early purlers where the market-garden chaps goes?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Drop o’ somethin’ to clear your head, sir—and keep some o’ the wet out o’ me.”
“But—but I don’t understand you,” cried Chester, whose head still throbbed so that he dreaded losing his senses again.
“Oh, it’s all right, sir. Have a drop o’ something; you’ll be better then.”
“But how came I in your cab?”
“Your friend and me put you there, sir.”
“My friend?”
“Yes, him as you’d been dining with, sir; on’y you don’t seem to ha’ heat much.”
“My friend?”
“Yes, sir; that’s right.”
“Where was it?”
“Pickydilly Circus; ’bout three hours ago.”
“Yes—yes. Well?”
“And he says, ‘Take care of him, kebby,’ he says, ‘and drive him home. Bad cham,’ he says, ‘and he ain’t used to it.’”
“Then why didn’t you drive me home?” cried Chester, angrily.
“S’elp me! I like that!—I did; and no one was sittin’ up for yer; I knocked and rung for ’bout arf an hour before the old chap shoved up the winder and began a-cussin’ and a-swearin’ at me awful.”
“What old chap?” faltered Chester in his amaze.
“Your old guv’nor, I s’pose; and he wouldn’t come down, and told me to drive you to the ‘oh no, we never mentions him!’ for you warn’t coming in there. Then he bangs down the winder, and I waited ten minutes for him to get cool, and then knocks and rings again. This time he shoves up the winder and swears he’d shoot at me if I warn’t off; and as I got set agen ’orspittles ever since I was there for two months, I got up on the box again and drove off, for there was a bobby coming up; and I’ve been driving you about ever since.”
“Driving me about ever since?”
“That’s so, sir. We’ve been round Belgrave Square about a dozen times, and I was just going to drive you back to our stables, where it ain’t quite so wet, when you downed the window.”
“I can’t grasp it,” said Chester, hoarsely.
“Oh, never you mind about that, sir; you’ll be all right soon. You see, beggin’ your pardon, you was precious tight, and your friend had all he could do to hold you up. ‘Just like a jelly, kebby,’ he says; and you was, sir. Your legs doubled up like a two-foot rule with a weak jynte.”
“My friend!” cried Chester, snatching at that as something to cling to. “Who was that?”
“That’s what I’m a-telling you, sir. Your friend—”
“But what sort of a person was it?”
“Big, stout young fellow, like a Lifeguardsman, but a real gent. Very jovial sort. ‘Take great keer of him, kebby,’ he says, and he tipped me a quid. ‘Help him up the steps when you get him home.’ ‘Right you are, sir,’ I says, as soon as I’d shut you up. ‘But wheer to?’ ‘Thirty-three Chrissal Square, Chelsea,’ he says, and there I drove you, and there you’d be, only your guv’nor cut up so rough.”
“Chrissal Square, Chelsea?” cried Chester, eagerly.
“That’s it, sir.”
“Why didn’t he tell you Raybeck Square?”
“Dunno, I’m sure, sir. That’s where all the doctors is.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Didn’t think you was bad enough, I s’pose, sir. And you ain’t. You on’y want a drop to clear your head a bit.”
“Drive me to Raybeck Square, thirty-four, at once.”
“Won’t you have a drop of something first, sir? Do you more good than going to a doctor’s, and me, too.”
“No, no, absurd. But one moment. You said Piccadilly Circus?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And my friend helped me into the cab, and paid you to drive me home?”
“That’s it, sir. You’re getting it now—all by heart.”
“A tall, stout gentleman?”
“Well, not exactly that, sir. I don’t mean a fat ’un with a big weskit. A reg’lar strong-built un.”
“I can’t grasp it,” muttered Chester. Then aloud,—“But why did he tell you to drive me to the wrong house?”
“Bit on too, sir. Arter dinner. Did it for a lark, p’ra’ps.”
“Drive me home,” said Chester, sinking back. “I can’t recollect a bit.”
“Course you can’t, sir. Better have a hair o’ the dog as bit you.”
“No, no. There, I’ll give you a glass of brandy when we get back.”
“Suppose your guv’nor won’t let you in, sir?”
“Nonsense, man. I have a latch-key.”
“Wish I’d ha’ knowed it,” muttered the man, as he tried to close the door; “blessed if I wouldn’t ha’ picked your pocket of it and risked it I’d ha’ carried you into the passage, and chanced it. Blister the door, how it sticks!” he growled, as he banged it to, the jerk raising the glass, and it dropped down. “Chrissal Square, sir?”
“No, no, Raybeck Square; and make haste out of the rain.”
“Oh, I’m as wet as I can be, sir, and it don’t matter now,” grumbled the man, as he ascended to the box, and once more the maddening rattle and jangle began.
Chester’s head was as blank as ever with regard to the past when the cab drew up at his home, but it was perfectly clear as to the present, and he was still hard at work trying to make out where he had been dining, with whom, and how it was possible for him to have so far forgotten himself as to have drunk till he was absolutely imbecile, when the man opened the door.
“One moment; my latch-key. Yes; all right, I said I’d give you a glass of brandy.”
“You did, sir, and welkum it’ll be as the flowers o’ May. Jump out quick, sir, and run up the steps, for it’s all one big shower bath.”
“Can you leave your horse?”
“Leave him, sir?” said the man, with a chuckle; “for a month. He’s got hoofs like hanchors. But I will hitch his nose-bag on, and let him see if he can find that there oat he was a-’untin’ for in the chaff last time he had it on.”
The next minute Chester was inside, with his head throbbing; but he was not so giddy, and his first glance was at the hall clock, illumined by the half turned down gas.
“Four o’clock,” he muttered. “How strange!”
“May I come inside, sir? Horse’ll be all right if there don’t come a bobby prowling round. If he ain’t a fool he’ll be under someone’s doorway, for there ain’t likely to be no burgling a time like this.”
“Shut the door, and come in here,” said Chester, shortly; and he led the way into his consulting-room, turned up the gas, and from a closet took a decanter and glass, filled the latter for the cabman, who was making a pool on the thick carpet, and then poured himself out a few drops from a small-stoppered bottle, added some water from a table filter, and tossed off the mixture.
“Thank you, sir, and hope that there’ll do you as much good as this here’s done me a’ready. Didn’t know you was a doctor.”
“Here’s a crown for you,” said Chester, taking the money from a little drawer.
“Five bob! Oh, thank ye, sir,” said the man, with a grin. “Makes a fellow feel quite dry. Sorry for your carpet, sir. Good-mornin’. I don’t think I want another fare.”
As the door was closed after the man, the potent drops Chester had taken began to have some effect, and it seemed as if the dawn was coming through the black cloud which separated him mentally from what had taken place overnight.
“The man’s right,” he muttered. “I must sleep. Good heavens! What a state my brain is in!”
“Is that you, Fred?”
He started as if he had been stung, and the dawn brightened as he replied sharply—
“Yes, aunt; all right. Go to bed. Why are you up?”
There was no reply, and he turned the hall light nearly out again, and went into his consulting-room to serve the gas jet there the same, and sank into an easy-chair instead; but he had hardly allowed himself to sink back when he sprang up again, for there, in the open doorway, stood the grotesque figure of Aunt Grace, in broad-frilled, old-fashioned night-cap and dressing-gown, a flat candlestick in her hand, and a portentous frown upon her brow, as she walked straight to him, wincing sharply as one slippered foot was planted in the pool left by the cabman, but continuing her slow, important march till she was about a yard away from her nephew, when she stopped.
“Why, aunt,” he cried, “what’s the matter? Surely you are not walking in your sleep!”
“Matter?” she cried in a low, deep voice, full of the emotion which nearly choked her. “Oh, you vile, wicked, degraded boy! How dare you treat your poor sister and me like this?”
“Pooh! Hush! Nonsense, old lady. It’s all right. I’ve been dining with a friend.”
“With a friend!” she said, with cutting sarcasm.
“Yes, at his club. There, I must have been unwell. I was a little overdone. What a terrible night.”
“Terrible indeed, sir, when my nephew stoops to lie to me like that. A friend—at his club! Do you think me such a baby that I do not know you have been with that abandoned woman?”
“Hush! Silence!” he whispered angrily. “For your dear, dead father’s and mother’s sake, sir, I will not be silenced.”
“But you will arouse Laura.”
“She wants no arousing. She is lying ill in bed, sleepless in her misery, sir, with her wretched brother staying out like this.”
“Confound you for a silly old woman!” he cried angrily. “Is a man to live the life of a hermit? If I had been away to a patient till breakfast-time nobody would have said a word. Poor little Laury! But how absurd!”
“Absurd, sir!” cried the old lady, who was scarlet with indignation. “Then I suppose it was absurd for poor Isabel Lee to have gone home broken-hearted because of your conduct.”
“What!” he cried, springing up, with a glimmer of memory coming back. “Why, surely you two did not canvass my being out one night till the poor girl was so upset that she—that she—went back—yes, she was stopping here. Oh, aunt, your foolish, suspicious ways are disgraceful. What have you done?”
“I done, you wretched boy? It’s what have you done? She was with us for a whole week after you had gone, fighting against me, and insisting that there was a reason for your being away, or that you had had an accident.”
“Here, aunt, are you going to be ill?” he cried, catching at her wrist; but she snatched it away.
“Don’t touch me, sir!” she cried. “Oh, Fred, Fred! I’d have given the world not to know that you were so wicked. And just when you were about to marry her, poor girl, to go away as you did.”
“Goaway—as I did?” he faltered, gazing at her blankly.
“Yes, I knew something was wrong when I saw that wretched woman’s face. I felt it; but I could not have believed you would be so base. A whole fortnight too; and to think that this was to have been your wedding-day!”
He caught her by the shoulders, and she uttered a faint cry and dropped the candlestick, as he stood swaying to and fro, staring at the doorway, through which his sister hesitatingly passed, and came slowly toward him.
“A fortnight!” he stammered—“Isabel gone!”
“Yes, gone—gone for ever,” said Laura, sadly. “Oh, Fred, how could you?”
“Stop! Don’t touch me,” he cried angrily. “Don’t speak to me. Let me try to think.”
He threw his head back and shook it violently in his effort to clear it, but the confusion and mental darkness began to close in once more, while the throbbing in his brain grew agonising. It was as if his head were opening and shutting—letting the light in a little and then blotting it out; till he felt his senses reeling—the present mingling with the darkness of the past he strove so vainly to grasp.
“I can’t think. Am I going mad?” he groaned, as he staggered to a chair.
“Mad, indeed,” said his aunt, bitterly. “Come away, Laura, and leave him to his conscience. Better if it had been as you and poor Isabel thought—that he had met with some accident, and was dead.”
She caught her niece by the arm, but Laura shook herself free and took a step or two towards where, in his utter despair, Chester sat bent down with his head resting in his hands. But he made no movement, and with a bitter sob she turned and followed her aunt from the room.
Chapter Eight.“Whither?”It was a good forty-eight hours before Chester could think clearly. His aunt had sternly avoided his room, and he had been dependent upon Laura, who attended him as he lay quite prostrated by the agonising pains in his head. She hardly spoke, but saw to his wants as a sisterly duty, and felt that silent reproach was better than words to one who had proved himself such a profligate.“I can’t understand it,” she said to herself again and again. “It is so unlike him. If he would only repent, poor Bel might forgive him—in time. No; I cannot speak to him yet.”She little thought how her brother blessed her for her silence, as he lay struggling to get behind that black curtain; but all in vain.He was sleeping heavily on the third night, when he suddenly woke up with the mental congestion gone. The pain had passed away, and his brain felt clear and bright once more.He remembered perfectly now. The scene with Marion after his triumphant declaration of all danger being past. Their embrace. The interruption by the coming of the saturnine head of the house, and the struggle, all came back vividly clear, and with photographic minuteness. He recalled, too, how in the encounter when he had forced his adversary back over the edge of the table, he felt that an effort was being made to get at some weapon.Then the great athletic brother came and separated them, remonstrating on the folly of the encounter at such a time.“How strange that I can remember it all so clearly now,” muttered Chester. “Yes, he said that it was over a dispute. He would not acknowledge the real cause, and she did not speak. The scoundrel; he had been persecuting her with his addresses. I see now; that must have been the cause of the first trouble. Her brother was defending her from him.”Then he recalled how the pair went away, and that the old housekeeper stayed, while Marion sat by the patient’s side, avoiding his gaze, and as if repenting that she had given way to her feelings.A tray was brought in by Paddy, so that the housekeeper should not leave the room; and he stopped, talking good-temperedly enough, for some little time, and almost playing the part of servant to them, till they had all partaken scantily of the excellent meal; but he did not have another opportunity of speaking to Marion alone.Chester lay for some minutes trembling then, for he had been growing excited by the recollections, and a strange dread had come over him that he was about to lose his memory again; but the adventures of that night came back, and he recalled the coming of Paddy once more. This time he brought in a tray with coffee and four cups, which he filled and handed to each of those present. Yes, Chester remembered how the housekeeper refused, and Paddy spoke—“Nonsense, old lady! take it; we can’t stand on ceremony now, you may have to be up for hours.”Then the old housekeeper took the cup, and the young man sugared his own coffee very liberally, and added plenty of cream.“Bad taste, doctor,” he said good-humouredly, “but I like it sweet. So you feel now that poor Bob will be all right?”“Yes, I have no doubt of it.”“Thanks to you,” said the young man, and he advanced and took Chester’s emptied cup, and then Marion’s, soon after leaving the room with the tray.Chester recalled feeling a little drowsy after this, and then in a dreamy way seeing Marion with her brow resting upon the patient’s pillow.No more—try how he would, Chester could recollect nothing else, but consideration filled up the gap. The elder brother, satisfied that the patient’s life was saved, was desirous of ridding the house of the doctor’s presence, the more so now that he had discovered the relations which had sprung up between him and Marion.“The scoundrel!” thought Chester. “That must have been it: he was pursuing her, and the brother was shot down in defending his sister.”Chester shivered now, and his brain grew hot, as he saw clearly enough all that remained. The cups had been prepared, two of them containing a drug, and Paddy had taken care that they should go to those for whom they were intended. It was all plain enough. Paddy was working in his brother’s interest, and he was the big friend who had taken him first to the Circus, and then placed him in another cab, with instructions to the man.“Well,” muttered Chester, “I see my way now, and I am not going to sit down calmly over the matter. I must—I will see her again.”Then he trembled, and the hot burning sensation came once more. But it passed off, and he felt that he must be calm and wait till he had another long sleep, when he hoped to be quite restored.He lay trying now to forget all that had passed, so as to rest for a while; but sleep would not come, and he could do nothing but dwell upon his adventures at that mysterious house. It was so strange. The servants had evidently been sent away, so that they might know nothing of what threatened for long enough to prove a murder. He wanted to know of none other cause for the quarrel. His patient must have been shot down while defending his sister from some insult offered by the clever, overbearing, unprincipled scoundrel who seemed to lord it over all.And as Chester lay thinking, an intense desire came over him to learn more of the family who had literally imprisoned him, and kept him there all those days. When there, it had seemed for the most part like some romantic dream; and as he lay now at home thinking, the vague intangibility of those nights and days appeared to him more fanciful and strange than ever; so much so, that there were moments when he was ready to ask himself whether, after all, it was not the result of imagination.He recalled all the actors in the little social drama—the men whom he had seen on the first night, and who dropped out of sight afterwards; the two ladies—the wives of the brothers—both quiet, startled-looking women, of the type that would be seen exhibiting the latest fashions at some race, at Lord’s, or at a meeting of the Four-in-Hand Club, and evidently slaves of their husbands—and he recalled now how the wife of the elder brother seemed to hold her lord in dread.“There’s something more about that place than one knows,” Chester thought to himself as he turned from side to side, “and I cannot—I will not, sit down and patiently bear such treatment. To-morrow I’ll go and demand an explanation. I have a good excuse,” he said half aloud and with a bitter laugh; “there is my promised fee, and—Pish!” he exclaimed savagely. “If I am to prove a scoundrel, I will be an honest one. I will ferret out who and what they are. I behaved like a child in not having some explanation earlier—in yielding passively as I did without reason—no, not without reason. I could not help it. Heaven help me! I will—I must see her again. It is fate!”He jumped up in bed, for a sudden thought now sent a chill of horror through him, as for the first time the drugging which had taken place showed itself in another light.“To get rid of me,” he muttered, as the great drops of sweat gathered on his face, “and—the last thing I remember—Marion—her head fallen upon the couch beside her brother, helpless now to protect her—drugged, insensible, at the mercy of that villain; and I here without stirring or raising a hand.”Some little time later, feeling weak and faint, he was standing in the hall reaching down his hat, and for a moment he had a feeling of compunction. Isabel—his sister—what would they think of his strange, base infatuation?“What they will,” he said between his teeth. “Placed in such circumstances, no man could be master of himself. I must save her, even if we never meet again;” and the door closed after him loudly, as, half mad now with excitement, Marion’s eyes seeming to lure him on, he stepped out into the darkness of the night.“Whither?” he muttered, as he hurried across the Square. “Heaven help me! it is my fate.”
It was a good forty-eight hours before Chester could think clearly. His aunt had sternly avoided his room, and he had been dependent upon Laura, who attended him as he lay quite prostrated by the agonising pains in his head. She hardly spoke, but saw to his wants as a sisterly duty, and felt that silent reproach was better than words to one who had proved himself such a profligate.
“I can’t understand it,” she said to herself again and again. “It is so unlike him. If he would only repent, poor Bel might forgive him—in time. No; I cannot speak to him yet.”
She little thought how her brother blessed her for her silence, as he lay struggling to get behind that black curtain; but all in vain.
He was sleeping heavily on the third night, when he suddenly woke up with the mental congestion gone. The pain had passed away, and his brain felt clear and bright once more.
He remembered perfectly now. The scene with Marion after his triumphant declaration of all danger being past. Their embrace. The interruption by the coming of the saturnine head of the house, and the struggle, all came back vividly clear, and with photographic minuteness. He recalled, too, how in the encounter when he had forced his adversary back over the edge of the table, he felt that an effort was being made to get at some weapon.
Then the great athletic brother came and separated them, remonstrating on the folly of the encounter at such a time.
“How strange that I can remember it all so clearly now,” muttered Chester. “Yes, he said that it was over a dispute. He would not acknowledge the real cause, and she did not speak. The scoundrel; he had been persecuting her with his addresses. I see now; that must have been the cause of the first trouble. Her brother was defending her from him.”
Then he recalled how the pair went away, and that the old housekeeper stayed, while Marion sat by the patient’s side, avoiding his gaze, and as if repenting that she had given way to her feelings.
A tray was brought in by Paddy, so that the housekeeper should not leave the room; and he stopped, talking good-temperedly enough, for some little time, and almost playing the part of servant to them, till they had all partaken scantily of the excellent meal; but he did not have another opportunity of speaking to Marion alone.
Chester lay for some minutes trembling then, for he had been growing excited by the recollections, and a strange dread had come over him that he was about to lose his memory again; but the adventures of that night came back, and he recalled the coming of Paddy once more. This time he brought in a tray with coffee and four cups, which he filled and handed to each of those present. Yes, Chester remembered how the housekeeper refused, and Paddy spoke—
“Nonsense, old lady! take it; we can’t stand on ceremony now, you may have to be up for hours.”
Then the old housekeeper took the cup, and the young man sugared his own coffee very liberally, and added plenty of cream.
“Bad taste, doctor,” he said good-humouredly, “but I like it sweet. So you feel now that poor Bob will be all right?”
“Yes, I have no doubt of it.”
“Thanks to you,” said the young man, and he advanced and took Chester’s emptied cup, and then Marion’s, soon after leaving the room with the tray.
Chester recalled feeling a little drowsy after this, and then in a dreamy way seeing Marion with her brow resting upon the patient’s pillow.
No more—try how he would, Chester could recollect nothing else, but consideration filled up the gap. The elder brother, satisfied that the patient’s life was saved, was desirous of ridding the house of the doctor’s presence, the more so now that he had discovered the relations which had sprung up between him and Marion.
“The scoundrel!” thought Chester. “That must have been it: he was pursuing her, and the brother was shot down in defending his sister.”
Chester shivered now, and his brain grew hot, as he saw clearly enough all that remained. The cups had been prepared, two of them containing a drug, and Paddy had taken care that they should go to those for whom they were intended. It was all plain enough. Paddy was working in his brother’s interest, and he was the big friend who had taken him first to the Circus, and then placed him in another cab, with instructions to the man.
“Well,” muttered Chester, “I see my way now, and I am not going to sit down calmly over the matter. I must—I will see her again.”
Then he trembled, and the hot burning sensation came once more. But it passed off, and he felt that he must be calm and wait till he had another long sleep, when he hoped to be quite restored.
He lay trying now to forget all that had passed, so as to rest for a while; but sleep would not come, and he could do nothing but dwell upon his adventures at that mysterious house. It was so strange. The servants had evidently been sent away, so that they might know nothing of what threatened for long enough to prove a murder. He wanted to know of none other cause for the quarrel. His patient must have been shot down while defending his sister from some insult offered by the clever, overbearing, unprincipled scoundrel who seemed to lord it over all.
And as Chester lay thinking, an intense desire came over him to learn more of the family who had literally imprisoned him, and kept him there all those days. When there, it had seemed for the most part like some romantic dream; and as he lay now at home thinking, the vague intangibility of those nights and days appeared to him more fanciful and strange than ever; so much so, that there were moments when he was ready to ask himself whether, after all, it was not the result of imagination.
He recalled all the actors in the little social drama—the men whom he had seen on the first night, and who dropped out of sight afterwards; the two ladies—the wives of the brothers—both quiet, startled-looking women, of the type that would be seen exhibiting the latest fashions at some race, at Lord’s, or at a meeting of the Four-in-Hand Club, and evidently slaves of their husbands—and he recalled now how the wife of the elder brother seemed to hold her lord in dread.
“There’s something more about that place than one knows,” Chester thought to himself as he turned from side to side, “and I cannot—I will not, sit down and patiently bear such treatment. To-morrow I’ll go and demand an explanation. I have a good excuse,” he said half aloud and with a bitter laugh; “there is my promised fee, and—Pish!” he exclaimed savagely. “If I am to prove a scoundrel, I will be an honest one. I will ferret out who and what they are. I behaved like a child in not having some explanation earlier—in yielding passively as I did without reason—no, not without reason. I could not help it. Heaven help me! I will—I must see her again. It is fate!”
He jumped up in bed, for a sudden thought now sent a chill of horror through him, as for the first time the drugging which had taken place showed itself in another light.
“To get rid of me,” he muttered, as the great drops of sweat gathered on his face, “and—the last thing I remember—Marion—her head fallen upon the couch beside her brother, helpless now to protect her—drugged, insensible, at the mercy of that villain; and I here without stirring or raising a hand.”
Some little time later, feeling weak and faint, he was standing in the hall reaching down his hat, and for a moment he had a feeling of compunction. Isabel—his sister—what would they think of his strange, base infatuation?
“What they will,” he said between his teeth. “Placed in such circumstances, no man could be master of himself. I must save her, even if we never meet again;” and the door closed after him loudly, as, half mad now with excitement, Marion’s eyes seeming to lure him on, he stepped out into the darkness of the night.
“Whither?” he muttered, as he hurried across the Square. “Heaven help me! it is my fate.”
Chapter Nine.A Blacker Cloud In Front.The nearest church clock was striking three as Chester passed into the great west-end artery, which was almost deserted, and he had been walking rapidly, under the influence of his strange excitement, for some minutes before, clear as his head was now, he found himself brought up short by a mental cloud as black and dense as that from which he had suffered when he began to recover from the influence of the drug he had taken.But there was this difference: the dense obscurity then was relating to the past—this was connected with the future.“Good heavens!” he muttered. “Whatever he gave me must be acting still; I am half delirious. I am no longer master of my actions. Why am I here? What am I going to do?—To try to save her, for she is at his mercy. But how?”He stopped short, literally aghast at the horror which encompassed him as he felt that he was utterly helpless.How was he to save Marion? How take the place of the brother who had defended her and fallen? Where was she?In the great wilderness of houses which made up the overgrown city in which he dwelt, where was the one he sought?Utterly dazed, he stood trying to think out in which direction it lay, and moment by moment his feeling of utter helplessness increased.He had not taken the slightest note of the direction in which the carriage was driven that night, for he had sat listening to his excited companion, half wondering at the way in which he was influenced by her presence.The carriage, he did remember, was driven very fast, but it must have been at least a quarter of an hour before it was drawn up at the kerb before the old-fashioned mansion.Yes, he did note that old-fashioned mansion, in a wide street, too—it must have been a wide street to have allowed for so great a distance between the kerb and the two steps up from the pavement; and the house stood back, too, some distance.That was something, but a chill of despair came over him as he felt that these features applied to thousands of houses.Still, it was old-fashioned, and the hall was wide, just such a house as he would find in Bloomsbury.“Or Westminster,” he muttered. “But the cabman was told to drive to Chelsea. A blind to confuse me, on the chance that I did not notice when I was brought there that night.“Bloomsbury or Westminster,” he said to himself; “and chance or instinct may help me,” he mused, as, feeble as was the clue, he felt that it was something to act upon, something to give him work that might deaden the wild excitement. He set off at once in the direction of the old-fashioned, grim-looking streets half a mile east of where he had stood thinking, ending by taking a passing cab, for he felt faint and bathed in a cold perspiration, and being driven slowly through street and square till long after daylight, and then home, sick at heart in the despondent feeling which came over him.“It’s hopeless—impossible,” he said to himself, as he wearily let himself in with his latch-key, while the cabman drove slowly off, saying—“Not bad, as things go. Talk about seeing life, I think we kebbies do. Why, that chap must be about cracked.”As Chester threw his overcoat on a chair in the hall, a slight rustling on the stairs took his attention.“Watched!” he said to himself, while turning into his consulting-room, feeling convinced that either Laura or his aunt had been listening for his return.“They must think me mad,” he said, and after a pause, “are they right?”He was calmer now, and his mind running in this direction, he could not help feeling there was a strange dash of insanity mingled with his actions since the night when he was called out, and that this last act of hunting through the streets for a house of whose location he was utterly ignorant seemed nearly the culminating point.“Yes, the height of folly,” he said softly. “I must try and devise some means of finding her. Chance may help me. I can do no more now.”He rose with the intention of going up to his bedroom, but the sun was now shining brightly, and he opened the shutters before returning to his seat to try and think out some clue which he could follow up.The light which flooded the room seemed to brighten his intellect, and in spite of the use to which he had put the latter part of the past night, his head felt cool and clear.“Let’s look the position fairly in the face,” he said to himself. “After all, I have done Isabel no substantial wrong; I was not a free agent. I could not return; and that course is open, to go to her and to her people, frankly explain, and make up to her by my future for the weak lapse of which I have been guilty. For what are these people to me?”He sat back with his brow knit, feeling, though, that such a course was impossible—that he could not go and humble himself before his betrothed, and that it would be an act of base and cruel hypocrisy to resume their old relations when his heart seemed to have but one desire—to see Marion again.“No, it is impossible!” he cried angrily. “It was not love. I never could have loved her. Heaven help me! What shall I do? Some clue—some clue!”He started mentally again from the moment when he was called down to see his visitor, and he seemed to see her once more, standing close by the table—just there! Then he once more entered the brougham with her and tried to get some gleam of the direction they took, but he could only recall that the horses were standing with their heads toward the east. No more. The result was precisely the same as it had been at other times, utterly negative. He had thought of nothing but his companion till they reached the house, and he had not even the clue of the family name.Then a thought struck him, and he brightened up. Those moments when, after his vain search for the bullet, he had dressed the wound. She had prepared bandages for him, and with eager fingers now he thrust his hand into his breast-pocket for his pocket-book, opened it, and took out a closely-folded, very fine cambric handkerchief, deeply stained with blood. She had given it to him, and he held it to the wound for a few minutes, while a bandage was torn, and had afterwards thrust it into his breast, only in his ecstasy to later on, unseen, take it out, carefully fold it, and place it in one of the pockets of his little Russia case.His hands trembled as he opened it out and examined the corners, the fourth showing, carefully embroidered, the letters M.E.C.He had hoped for the full name in marking ink, and with a faint sigh he refolded the delicate piece of fabric, and replaced it in his pocket-book, to sit thinking once more, with the new cloud growing blacker.There was one way, he thought—the police. Some shrewd officer might make something out of this narrative and trace the house; but he felt that it was doubtful, and shrank from laying bare a mystery which he felt sure Marion was eager to keep hidden. Finally he came to the conclusion that he would know no rest until he had discovered the place of his strange imprisonment himself, and in despair, to relieve the pressure of his brain, he turned to the writing-table, which was pretty well covered with letters from patients, complaining that they had come up to find him away; from others asking him to make appointments; and again others of a tendency which showed him that he was injuring his practice.Lastly, he picked up a letter which he had put aside, unwilling to open it; and he held it for some minutes, gazing straight before him, thinking deeply, and seeming to lack the resolution to read.At last with a sigh he tore it open.It was from Isabel’s mother, telling him that her child was heart-broken, and asking him to give some explanation of the cruel treatment to which they had been subjected.“Let them think the truth,” he cried passionately as he tore the letter into tiny fragments. “Let them think me half mad, I cannot—I dare not write.”There were two or three packets on the table, even then, and he winced as he turned them over. One was a bundle of proofs of an article he had written for a medical paper; the next was a carefully-sealed box, registered, and he threw it into a drawer with an angry ejaculation. It was from a jeweller, and contained a pearl bracelet he had bought as a present for his betrothed.The other was also a box that had come by post, registered, and it was heavy. He did not know what that was; he had ordered no other present, and his curiosity being excited, he cut the green tape, tore off the great seals, and was in the act of opening the cartridge paper in which it was folded, when he stopped and snatched up the tape to which the sealing-wax adhered.There were three seals, two the coarse splotches of common wax used by postal authorities; the other was fine and had been sealed with arms and crest, but a drop from the coarse postal wax had half covered it and Chester could make nothing of the sender.The box within was fastened down with brads, and he forced it open with some curiosity, to find a heavy packet of what seemed to be short, thick pieces of pipe, and with a vague idea that they were connected with some surgical instrument sent to him from the maker on trial, he pushed it aside impatiently, and threw himself back in his chair.The next minute the thought occurred to him that a surgical instrument maker would not seal the packet with armorial bearings, and he would have sent some communication, so, catching up the box, he drew out the carefully-done-up packet within, tore it open, and then let his hands fall on the table, for the contents were rouleaux of sovereigns, all bright and fresh from the mint, the number written upon the packet—“210 pounds.” Two hundred guineas—the fee promised to him for his services.“Gentlemanly and honourable in this, after all,” he said to himself; and he eagerly searched the papers to see if there was a note.None, and with an ejaculation of disappointment he unlocked the table drawer, thrust in the rouleaux, locked them up, and then caught up the pieces of green tape again, to examine the blurred red seal.“Eureka!” he muttered; “then here is the clue.” He carefully cut off the seal and placed it in his pocket-book, after satisfying himself that the crest over the shield of armorial bearings was a mailed arm bent, the elbow only being clear. With this to guide him, he went to a book-case, and took down a Peerage, in the faint hope of finding the arms of some great family there; and he was still vainly searching when the servant knocked at the door to tell him that breakfast was ready.Laura and his aunt were waiting in the dining-room, and their salute was a formal “Good-morning,” after which the breakfast was partaken of in silence, and he rose to go back to his room.“Will you see your patients this morning, Frederick?” said his aunt, as he reached the door.He looked back at her sharply, and then glanced at his sister, who was watching him too.“No,” he said sharply. “I have important business—I am going out.”“But—”Chester closed the door and hurried to his room. He knew what was about to be said, and he was in such an intense state of irritation, that he could not trust himself to reply, but took hat and coat directly, went out, and jumping into the first cab was driven to his club, where he spent the morning in the library, examining books on landed gentry, peerages, baronetages, everything he could find relating to armorial bearings, and finding crest after crest of mailed arms holding swords, daggers, spears, flowers, plumes, hearts, and arrows, but nothing which quite answered to the seal.After a hasty lunch he went out to resume his search for the house, and for the next fortnight this was his life, seeking, and seeking in vain, for he found hundreds, each of which might very well have been that which he sought, till one afternoon he was walking down formal old streets of gloomy mansions, when his eyes lit upon a house, one of fifty almost alike, double-fronted with a broad entrance, and exactly what he felt the place must be that he sought. He had passed it a dozen times before, but it had never impressed him, and with a strange feeling of elation, as he noted its gloomy aspect, uncleaned windows, and air of neglect, he grew certain that he had made the discovery at last.The next thing was to note the number and examine a Directory, and walking rapidly on without daring to look for fear of being observed, he went to the end of the street, crossed over, and returned, read the half-obliterated number on the time-worn door as he rapidly passed, and once more had himself driven to his club.“Found at last,” he muttered, as he opened the great Directory and found the number, and name, “Westcott.”Not much, but something within him made him feel that he was right, and he closed the book, drawing a deep breath, and went straight to the great grim street.He had made no plans, but had determined upon a bold attack as the likeliest way of obtaining entrance. The old housekeeper would answer the door, and threats, cajoling, or bribery he was determined should be his pass-key, for see Marion and be assured of her safety he would, even, he told himself, if he had to use force.For one moment only he hesitated before he plunged into the lion’s jaws, as it were—should he speak to a policeman and tell him how to act if he did not soon return?“No,” he said; “it would be too cowardly, and I might injure her.”The next minute he had given a heavy peal on knocker and bell, listened to the hollow echoes raised within the forbidding place, and stood waiting for the opening of the door.
The nearest church clock was striking three as Chester passed into the great west-end artery, which was almost deserted, and he had been walking rapidly, under the influence of his strange excitement, for some minutes before, clear as his head was now, he found himself brought up short by a mental cloud as black and dense as that from which he had suffered when he began to recover from the influence of the drug he had taken.
But there was this difference: the dense obscurity then was relating to the past—this was connected with the future.
“Good heavens!” he muttered. “Whatever he gave me must be acting still; I am half delirious. I am no longer master of my actions. Why am I here? What am I going to do?—To try to save her, for she is at his mercy. But how?”
He stopped short, literally aghast at the horror which encompassed him as he felt that he was utterly helpless.
How was he to save Marion? How take the place of the brother who had defended her and fallen? Where was she?
In the great wilderness of houses which made up the overgrown city in which he dwelt, where was the one he sought?
Utterly dazed, he stood trying to think out in which direction it lay, and moment by moment his feeling of utter helplessness increased.
He had not taken the slightest note of the direction in which the carriage was driven that night, for he had sat listening to his excited companion, half wondering at the way in which he was influenced by her presence.
The carriage, he did remember, was driven very fast, but it must have been at least a quarter of an hour before it was drawn up at the kerb before the old-fashioned mansion.
Yes, he did note that old-fashioned mansion, in a wide street, too—it must have been a wide street to have allowed for so great a distance between the kerb and the two steps up from the pavement; and the house stood back, too, some distance.
That was something, but a chill of despair came over him as he felt that these features applied to thousands of houses.
Still, it was old-fashioned, and the hall was wide, just such a house as he would find in Bloomsbury.
“Or Westminster,” he muttered. “But the cabman was told to drive to Chelsea. A blind to confuse me, on the chance that I did not notice when I was brought there that night.
“Bloomsbury or Westminster,” he said to himself; “and chance or instinct may help me,” he mused, as, feeble as was the clue, he felt that it was something to act upon, something to give him work that might deaden the wild excitement. He set off at once in the direction of the old-fashioned, grim-looking streets half a mile east of where he had stood thinking, ending by taking a passing cab, for he felt faint and bathed in a cold perspiration, and being driven slowly through street and square till long after daylight, and then home, sick at heart in the despondent feeling which came over him.
“It’s hopeless—impossible,” he said to himself, as he wearily let himself in with his latch-key, while the cabman drove slowly off, saying—
“Not bad, as things go. Talk about seeing life, I think we kebbies do. Why, that chap must be about cracked.”
As Chester threw his overcoat on a chair in the hall, a slight rustling on the stairs took his attention.
“Watched!” he said to himself, while turning into his consulting-room, feeling convinced that either Laura or his aunt had been listening for his return.
“They must think me mad,” he said, and after a pause, “are they right?”
He was calmer now, and his mind running in this direction, he could not help feeling there was a strange dash of insanity mingled with his actions since the night when he was called out, and that this last act of hunting through the streets for a house of whose location he was utterly ignorant seemed nearly the culminating point.
“Yes, the height of folly,” he said softly. “I must try and devise some means of finding her. Chance may help me. I can do no more now.”
He rose with the intention of going up to his bedroom, but the sun was now shining brightly, and he opened the shutters before returning to his seat to try and think out some clue which he could follow up.
The light which flooded the room seemed to brighten his intellect, and in spite of the use to which he had put the latter part of the past night, his head felt cool and clear.
“Let’s look the position fairly in the face,” he said to himself. “After all, I have done Isabel no substantial wrong; I was not a free agent. I could not return; and that course is open, to go to her and to her people, frankly explain, and make up to her by my future for the weak lapse of which I have been guilty. For what are these people to me?”
He sat back with his brow knit, feeling, though, that such a course was impossible—that he could not go and humble himself before his betrothed, and that it would be an act of base and cruel hypocrisy to resume their old relations when his heart seemed to have but one desire—to see Marion again.
“No, it is impossible!” he cried angrily. “It was not love. I never could have loved her. Heaven help me! What shall I do? Some clue—some clue!”
He started mentally again from the moment when he was called down to see his visitor, and he seemed to see her once more, standing close by the table—just there! Then he once more entered the brougham with her and tried to get some gleam of the direction they took, but he could only recall that the horses were standing with their heads toward the east. No more. The result was precisely the same as it had been at other times, utterly negative. He had thought of nothing but his companion till they reached the house, and he had not even the clue of the family name.
Then a thought struck him, and he brightened up. Those moments when, after his vain search for the bullet, he had dressed the wound. She had prepared bandages for him, and with eager fingers now he thrust his hand into his breast-pocket for his pocket-book, opened it, and took out a closely-folded, very fine cambric handkerchief, deeply stained with blood. She had given it to him, and he held it to the wound for a few minutes, while a bandage was torn, and had afterwards thrust it into his breast, only in his ecstasy to later on, unseen, take it out, carefully fold it, and place it in one of the pockets of his little Russia case.
His hands trembled as he opened it out and examined the corners, the fourth showing, carefully embroidered, the letters M.E.C.
He had hoped for the full name in marking ink, and with a faint sigh he refolded the delicate piece of fabric, and replaced it in his pocket-book, to sit thinking once more, with the new cloud growing blacker.
There was one way, he thought—the police. Some shrewd officer might make something out of this narrative and trace the house; but he felt that it was doubtful, and shrank from laying bare a mystery which he felt sure Marion was eager to keep hidden. Finally he came to the conclusion that he would know no rest until he had discovered the place of his strange imprisonment himself, and in despair, to relieve the pressure of his brain, he turned to the writing-table, which was pretty well covered with letters from patients, complaining that they had come up to find him away; from others asking him to make appointments; and again others of a tendency which showed him that he was injuring his practice.
Lastly, he picked up a letter which he had put aside, unwilling to open it; and he held it for some minutes, gazing straight before him, thinking deeply, and seeming to lack the resolution to read.
At last with a sigh he tore it open.
It was from Isabel’s mother, telling him that her child was heart-broken, and asking him to give some explanation of the cruel treatment to which they had been subjected.
“Let them think the truth,” he cried passionately as he tore the letter into tiny fragments. “Let them think me half mad, I cannot—I dare not write.”
There were two or three packets on the table, even then, and he winced as he turned them over. One was a bundle of proofs of an article he had written for a medical paper; the next was a carefully-sealed box, registered, and he threw it into a drawer with an angry ejaculation. It was from a jeweller, and contained a pearl bracelet he had bought as a present for his betrothed.
The other was also a box that had come by post, registered, and it was heavy. He did not know what that was; he had ordered no other present, and his curiosity being excited, he cut the green tape, tore off the great seals, and was in the act of opening the cartridge paper in which it was folded, when he stopped and snatched up the tape to which the sealing-wax adhered.
There were three seals, two the coarse splotches of common wax used by postal authorities; the other was fine and had been sealed with arms and crest, but a drop from the coarse postal wax had half covered it and Chester could make nothing of the sender.
The box within was fastened down with brads, and he forced it open with some curiosity, to find a heavy packet of what seemed to be short, thick pieces of pipe, and with a vague idea that they were connected with some surgical instrument sent to him from the maker on trial, he pushed it aside impatiently, and threw himself back in his chair.
The next minute the thought occurred to him that a surgical instrument maker would not seal the packet with armorial bearings, and he would have sent some communication, so, catching up the box, he drew out the carefully-done-up packet within, tore it open, and then let his hands fall on the table, for the contents were rouleaux of sovereigns, all bright and fresh from the mint, the number written upon the packet—“210 pounds.” Two hundred guineas—the fee promised to him for his services.
“Gentlemanly and honourable in this, after all,” he said to himself; and he eagerly searched the papers to see if there was a note.
None, and with an ejaculation of disappointment he unlocked the table drawer, thrust in the rouleaux, locked them up, and then caught up the pieces of green tape again, to examine the blurred red seal.
“Eureka!” he muttered; “then here is the clue.” He carefully cut off the seal and placed it in his pocket-book, after satisfying himself that the crest over the shield of armorial bearings was a mailed arm bent, the elbow only being clear. With this to guide him, he went to a book-case, and took down a Peerage, in the faint hope of finding the arms of some great family there; and he was still vainly searching when the servant knocked at the door to tell him that breakfast was ready.
Laura and his aunt were waiting in the dining-room, and their salute was a formal “Good-morning,” after which the breakfast was partaken of in silence, and he rose to go back to his room.
“Will you see your patients this morning, Frederick?” said his aunt, as he reached the door.
He looked back at her sharply, and then glanced at his sister, who was watching him too.
“No,” he said sharply. “I have important business—I am going out.”
“But—”
Chester closed the door and hurried to his room. He knew what was about to be said, and he was in such an intense state of irritation, that he could not trust himself to reply, but took hat and coat directly, went out, and jumping into the first cab was driven to his club, where he spent the morning in the library, examining books on landed gentry, peerages, baronetages, everything he could find relating to armorial bearings, and finding crest after crest of mailed arms holding swords, daggers, spears, flowers, plumes, hearts, and arrows, but nothing which quite answered to the seal.
After a hasty lunch he went out to resume his search for the house, and for the next fortnight this was his life, seeking, and seeking in vain, for he found hundreds, each of which might very well have been that which he sought, till one afternoon he was walking down formal old streets of gloomy mansions, when his eyes lit upon a house, one of fifty almost alike, double-fronted with a broad entrance, and exactly what he felt the place must be that he sought. He had passed it a dozen times before, but it had never impressed him, and with a strange feeling of elation, as he noted its gloomy aspect, uncleaned windows, and air of neglect, he grew certain that he had made the discovery at last.
The next thing was to note the number and examine a Directory, and walking rapidly on without daring to look for fear of being observed, he went to the end of the street, crossed over, and returned, read the half-obliterated number on the time-worn door as he rapidly passed, and once more had himself driven to his club.
“Found at last,” he muttered, as he opened the great Directory and found the number, and name, “Westcott.”
Not much, but something within him made him feel that he was right, and he closed the book, drawing a deep breath, and went straight to the great grim street.
He had made no plans, but had determined upon a bold attack as the likeliest way of obtaining entrance. The old housekeeper would answer the door, and threats, cajoling, or bribery he was determined should be his pass-key, for see Marion and be assured of her safety he would, even, he told himself, if he had to use force.
For one moment only he hesitated before he plunged into the lion’s jaws, as it were—should he speak to a policeman and tell him how to act if he did not soon return?
“No,” he said; “it would be too cowardly, and I might injure her.”
The next minute he had given a heavy peal on knocker and bell, listened to the hollow echoes raised within the forbidding place, and stood waiting for the opening of the door.