Chapter Ten.The Bookworm at Home.As Chester waited for an answer to his summons the thought of the awkwardness of his position struck him, but he was strung up and determined to go on with his quest at all hazards. At the end of a minute there was no reply, and he knocked and rang again, with the hope rising that he was on the right tack at last, for the silence accorded with the mystery of the place he sought.It was not until he had roused the echoes within the house for the third time that he heard the rattle of a chain being taken down; then the door was opened slowly, and Chester’s heart sank as he found himself face to face with a dim-eyed, sleepy-looking old man, thin, stooping, and untidy of aspect, in his long, dusty dressing-gown and slippers. He was wearing an old-fashioned pair of round glass, silver-rimmed spectacles, whose ends were secured by a piece of black ribbon; and these he pushed up on his forehead as he turned his head side-wise and peered at the visitor.“I’m afraid you knocked before, sir,” he said in a quiet, dreamy tone.“Yes—yes. I ought not to have come in this unceremonious way.”“Pray do not apologise,” said the old gentleman, mildly. “I was busy reading, and did not hear.”He pushed his glasses a little higher and smiled in a pleasant, benevolent fashion, while at the first glance Chester saw that he was quite off the scent. For he gazed past the old man into the great hall whose walls were covered with book-shelves, while parcels and piles of volumes were heaped up in every available corner.“I see that I have made a mistake,” said Chester, hastily.“Indeed?”“I have come to the wrong house. I am very sorry. I am trying to find some people here.”“Yes? Well, houses are very much alike. Will you step in? I can perhaps help you. I think I have a Directory somewhere—somewhere, if I can lay my hand upon it, for I seldom use such a work, and I have so many books.”The old gentleman, whose appearance branded him as a dreamy, absorbed bookworm, drew back, and Chester involuntarily entered the hall, to note that with the book-cases away it would be such a place as he had visited; but while that was magnificently furnished, and pervaded by the soft glow of electric light, here all was dust and mouldering knowledge, the entrance suggesting that the rest of the house must be the same.“Pray come in,” said the old man, after closing the door; and he led the way into what had been intended for a large dining-room, but had been turned by its occupant into a library, packed with books from floor to ceiling; piles were upon the tables and chairs, and heaps here and there upon the dusty old Turkey carpet.“Directory—Directory,” said the old man, looking slowly round. “Books, books, books, but not the one we want.”“You seem to have a large and valuable library,” Chester ventured to observe.“Eh? Yes, I suppose so. The work of a long life, sir. But very dusty all over the house. What did you say was the name of the people you wanted?”“I—that is,” stammered Chester, confusedly, “I do not know their name. Some patients whom I want to find out.”“Are you a doctor, sir?” said the old man, looking at his visitor with a benevolent smile. “Grand profession. I should have liked to have been a doctor. But is not that a very vague description? Names are so useful for distinguishing one person, place, or thing, from another. But it was in this street, you say?”“Well—er—no, I am not sure,” said Chester, hurriedly.“Dear me! that is rather perplexing,” said the old man, taking off his spectacles and beginning to wipe them upon the tail of his dressing-gown. “But,” he added, as if relieved, “the Directory would be of no use if you do not know the name.”“None whatever,” said Chester, who was smarting with the thought that this pleasant old gentleman must take him for a lunatic. “Pray forgive me for troubling you in this unceremonious way.”“Oh, not at all, my dear sir, not at all. I have so few visitors, though,” he added, “as you see I am surrounded by old friends.”“The same style of house—the same sort of hall,” thought Chester, as he went out after a few more words had been exchanged. “Could it have been in this street?”He looked up sharply at a heavy-faced butler and a tall, smart, powdered-headed footman, who were standing at the door of the next house, doing nothing, with the air of two men whose employers were out.Chester looked eagerly at them and passed by, but the door was nearly closed, and he could not see inside.His sharp look was returned with interest, the two men evidently expecting him to come up the steps and address them, but he went on for a short distance in an undecided way, thinking deeply, and trying hard to see through the mental mist which shut him in. But a short time before he had felt convinced that he had found the house and been disappointed; now he felt quite as sure that the mansion where the two servants were standing must be the place. He had no special reason for coming to the conclusion, but all the same a curious feeling of attraction made him slacken his pace, angry and annoyed the while that he had not stopped and spoken to the men.“Great heavens! What a vacillating moral coward I have grown,” he said to himself. “What would have been easier?”He said this but felt that the task was terribly hard, for it seemed such a childish thing to do—to go about asking folk if that was the house where some people lived who had fetched him to attend a man who had been shot, and kept him a prisoner for days and days before drugging him and having him shut up in a cab to be driven about in the middle of the night.“Why, if I could explain all this to them,” he said to himself at last, “they’d think I was a harmless kind of madman, troubled with memories of the Arabian Nights Entertainments, which I was trying to drag into everyday life like a Barber’s hundredth brother, or a one-eyed Calendar. Come, come, old fellow,” he continued, as he mentally apostrophised himself; “go back home and prescribe for yourself, and then begin to show someone that you have been suffering from a strange mental vagary, brought about by over-excitement. She will believe it in time, and all may come right again. Ah! how like.”He started and hurried after an open carriage in which two ladies were seated. He only saw the profile of one of them very slightly, and her back as she passed, but there was a turn of the figure—a particularly graceful air, as she leaned forward to give some instruction to the coachman—which struck him as being exactly similar to attitudes he had seen Marion assume again and again when attending upon her brother.He jumped into a cab and told the man to follow the victoria, with the result that the latter came to a standstill in front of one of the fashionable West-End drapery establishments.Chester was close up as the lady alighted, and he sprang out excitedly to go and speak to her.There was every opportunity, for the carriage drove on with her companion, and she crossed the pavement alone, to walk a few steps alone in front of the great plate-glass window, gazing carelessly in at the various costumes displayed.“A woman after all,” he said to himself, bitterly annoyed at what he considered her frivolity in thinking of dress at a time when her brother was in all probability suffering still.“But it is their nature, or the result of their education,” he said the next minute, as he went close up behind her, and saw her face reflected clearly in the long series of mirrors at the back.
As Chester waited for an answer to his summons the thought of the awkwardness of his position struck him, but he was strung up and determined to go on with his quest at all hazards. At the end of a minute there was no reply, and he knocked and rang again, with the hope rising that he was on the right tack at last, for the silence accorded with the mystery of the place he sought.
It was not until he had roused the echoes within the house for the third time that he heard the rattle of a chain being taken down; then the door was opened slowly, and Chester’s heart sank as he found himself face to face with a dim-eyed, sleepy-looking old man, thin, stooping, and untidy of aspect, in his long, dusty dressing-gown and slippers. He was wearing an old-fashioned pair of round glass, silver-rimmed spectacles, whose ends were secured by a piece of black ribbon; and these he pushed up on his forehead as he turned his head side-wise and peered at the visitor.
“I’m afraid you knocked before, sir,” he said in a quiet, dreamy tone.
“Yes—yes. I ought not to have come in this unceremonious way.”
“Pray do not apologise,” said the old gentleman, mildly. “I was busy reading, and did not hear.”
He pushed his glasses a little higher and smiled in a pleasant, benevolent fashion, while at the first glance Chester saw that he was quite off the scent. For he gazed past the old man into the great hall whose walls were covered with book-shelves, while parcels and piles of volumes were heaped up in every available corner.
“I see that I have made a mistake,” said Chester, hastily.
“Indeed?”
“I have come to the wrong house. I am very sorry. I am trying to find some people here.”
“Yes? Well, houses are very much alike. Will you step in? I can perhaps help you. I think I have a Directory somewhere—somewhere, if I can lay my hand upon it, for I seldom use such a work, and I have so many books.”
The old gentleman, whose appearance branded him as a dreamy, absorbed bookworm, drew back, and Chester involuntarily entered the hall, to note that with the book-cases away it would be such a place as he had visited; but while that was magnificently furnished, and pervaded by the soft glow of electric light, here all was dust and mouldering knowledge, the entrance suggesting that the rest of the house must be the same.
“Pray come in,” said the old man, after closing the door; and he led the way into what had been intended for a large dining-room, but had been turned by its occupant into a library, packed with books from floor to ceiling; piles were upon the tables and chairs, and heaps here and there upon the dusty old Turkey carpet.
“Directory—Directory,” said the old man, looking slowly round. “Books, books, books, but not the one we want.”
“You seem to have a large and valuable library,” Chester ventured to observe.
“Eh? Yes, I suppose so. The work of a long life, sir. But very dusty all over the house. What did you say was the name of the people you wanted?”
“I—that is,” stammered Chester, confusedly, “I do not know their name. Some patients whom I want to find out.”
“Are you a doctor, sir?” said the old man, looking at his visitor with a benevolent smile. “Grand profession. I should have liked to have been a doctor. But is not that a very vague description? Names are so useful for distinguishing one person, place, or thing, from another. But it was in this street, you say?”
“Well—er—no, I am not sure,” said Chester, hurriedly.
“Dear me! that is rather perplexing,” said the old man, taking off his spectacles and beginning to wipe them upon the tail of his dressing-gown. “But,” he added, as if relieved, “the Directory would be of no use if you do not know the name.”
“None whatever,” said Chester, who was smarting with the thought that this pleasant old gentleman must take him for a lunatic. “Pray forgive me for troubling you in this unceremonious way.”
“Oh, not at all, my dear sir, not at all. I have so few visitors, though,” he added, “as you see I am surrounded by old friends.”
“The same style of house—the same sort of hall,” thought Chester, as he went out after a few more words had been exchanged. “Could it have been in this street?”
He looked up sharply at a heavy-faced butler and a tall, smart, powdered-headed footman, who were standing at the door of the next house, doing nothing, with the air of two men whose employers were out.
Chester looked eagerly at them and passed by, but the door was nearly closed, and he could not see inside.
His sharp look was returned with interest, the two men evidently expecting him to come up the steps and address them, but he went on for a short distance in an undecided way, thinking deeply, and trying hard to see through the mental mist which shut him in. But a short time before he had felt convinced that he had found the house and been disappointed; now he felt quite as sure that the mansion where the two servants were standing must be the place. He had no special reason for coming to the conclusion, but all the same a curious feeling of attraction made him slacken his pace, angry and annoyed the while that he had not stopped and spoken to the men.
“Great heavens! What a vacillating moral coward I have grown,” he said to himself. “What would have been easier?”
He said this but felt that the task was terribly hard, for it seemed such a childish thing to do—to go about asking folk if that was the house where some people lived who had fetched him to attend a man who had been shot, and kept him a prisoner for days and days before drugging him and having him shut up in a cab to be driven about in the middle of the night.
“Why, if I could explain all this to them,” he said to himself at last, “they’d think I was a harmless kind of madman, troubled with memories of the Arabian Nights Entertainments, which I was trying to drag into everyday life like a Barber’s hundredth brother, or a one-eyed Calendar. Come, come, old fellow,” he continued, as he mentally apostrophised himself; “go back home and prescribe for yourself, and then begin to show someone that you have been suffering from a strange mental vagary, brought about by over-excitement. She will believe it in time, and all may come right again. Ah! how like.”
He started and hurried after an open carriage in which two ladies were seated. He only saw the profile of one of them very slightly, and her back as she passed, but there was a turn of the figure—a particularly graceful air, as she leaned forward to give some instruction to the coachman—which struck him as being exactly similar to attitudes he had seen Marion assume again and again when attending upon her brother.
He jumped into a cab and told the man to follow the victoria, with the result that the latter came to a standstill in front of one of the fashionable West-End drapery establishments.
Chester was close up as the lady alighted, and he sprang out excitedly to go and speak to her.
There was every opportunity, for the carriage drove on with her companion, and she crossed the pavement alone, to walk a few steps alone in front of the great plate-glass window, gazing carelessly in at the various costumes displayed.
“A woman after all,” he said to himself, bitterly annoyed at what he considered her frivolity in thinking of dress at a time when her brother was in all probability suffering still.
“But it is their nature, or the result of their education,” he said the next minute, as he went close up behind her, and saw her face reflected clearly in the long series of mirrors at the back.
Chapter Eleven.Mr Roach Lowers Himself.“Bah!” ejaculated Chester in his rage and despair, as he swung round and hurried away. “Fool, idiot! No more like her than that miserable flower-seller is. Am I suffering from the shock of the drug they gave me? Well, if I am, she must be found all the same, for I cannot go on like this and live!”He hurried along, without heeding which way he went, and as if by instinct made for his own house, reached it, started as if in surprise, and then turned to enter, but altered his mind after a pause, and drew the door to, after which he walked swiftly away in the direction of Westminster.For the meeting had raised thoughts which he felt that he would only obliterate by plunging once more into the mazes of his wild search.He was not long in reaching the old street which had so taken up his attention before, and he looked long and attentively at the mansion adjoining that occupied by the collector. The contrast was curious, the one with bright, well-curtained windows, the door glistening in its fresh graining and varnish, the other dim, unpainted, looking as if it were quite unoccupied, the very steps as if they had not been cleaned for years.Chester went and studied a Directory, and with the name Clareborough upon his lips, he determined, after passing through the street two or three times, to risk making a call.“Why should I mind?” he muttered. “If I am wrong, I have only made a mistake.”He walked on till he reached the house, perfectly unconscious that the footman was standing a little back from one of the narrow windows, and after having his attention drawn to the vacillating, rather haggard personage who had been taking so much interest in the house, was ready to look upon him with suspicion.“Begging letter dodges, or something to sell,” said the footman to himself, as the visitors’ bell was rung, and after waiting a sufficient time to suggest that he had come from downstairs, the fellow opened the door, to receive Chester with a calm stare.“Mr Clareborough in?”“Not at home, sir.”“Mr Robert is, of course?”“Out of town, sir.”“Well, I must see somebody,” said Chester, who had been checked for the moment by the announcement that Mr Robert was out of town, but encouraged by the fact that two shots went home. “Ask Mr Paddy if he will see me.”The nickname made the footman raise his eyebrows, but he replied coolly—“Not at home, sir.”“Well, then, one of the ladies.”“On the Continent, sir.”“Tut, tut, how tiresome!” cried Chester, impatiently. “Look here, my man; how is Mr Robert?”“Quite well, thank you, sir,” said the man, superciliously.Chester stared at the man. He had evidently been schooled what to say, and for the moment the visitor hesitated, but recovering hissang-froidthe next moment, he said—“Rather strange that, after so serious an accident.”At that moment the butler came forward from the back of the hall, pulling the door a little more open, and Chester drew a deep breath full of satisfaction, as he caught sight of one of the statues and a chair, on the back of which was emblazoned the same crest as he had seen upon the seal.“What is it, Orthur,” said the butler in a deep, mellow voice suggestive of port wine.“Gentleman asking to see Mr Robert, sir.”“Yes, I particularly wish to see him,” said Chester. “I am the medical man who attended him after his accident.”“I beg pardon, sir.”“I say I am the medical man who attended him after his late accident, and I wish to see my patient again.”The butler glared at the speaker in a heavy, solemn way, and then turned slowly to his subordinate, who raised his eyebrows and drew down the corners of his lips.“I beg pardon, sir,” said the butler, turning his eyes again on the visitor, who was beginning to lose temper. “There is a Mr Robert here—Mr Robert Clareborough. You must mean some other gentleman. Our Mr Robert is quite well, and on the Continent just now.”“Impossible!” cried Chester, angrily. “Look here, my man, take this for yourself and my card in to Mr Robert. Say I beg that he will give me a few minutes’ conversation.”The butler glanced at the card and the coin held out, but took neither.“Beg pardon, sir. I told you that Mr Robert is on the Continent.”“Yes; and I tell you that you are not speaking the truth. Do as I tell you. I will wait till he sees me.”Chester took a couple of steps forward as he spoke, with the intention of entering the hall, but the butler stood firm, and the footman closed up to his side, the pair effectually barring the way. Chester stopped, feeling that he could do no more, for the servants must have been instructed to deny everybody to him. He thought, too, of his position; he had attended his patient and retained the heavy fee paid him, having, had he so wished, been debarred from returning it by his ignorance of the sender’s address.While he was musing the butler said haughtily—“If you like to leave your card, sir, I’ll lay it on the ’all table, and if one of the gentlemen wishes to see you, I daresay he’ll write or call.”“No,” said Chester, irritably. “Tell Mr Robert that I came, and—no, say nothing; I daresay I can find Mr Robert Clareborough at his club, or I shall meet him somewhere else.”He turned upon his heel, and walked sharply away, satisfied now that he had found the house, and feeling more eager than ever to obtain an interview with his patient, who would, he felt sure, have his sister by his side.The thought of her position sent the hot blood coursing to the doctor’s head, and a chill of horror and anxiety ran through him once more. But he felt that he must wait a little longer and devise some way of obtaining speech with Marion, life being unendurable till he had seen her once again.“New dodge, Mr Roach, sir?” said the footman, when Chester had disappeared.“I don’t quite know what to make of it, Orthur,” replied the butler, solemnly. “It does seem like a new way of raising the wind. It ain’t books nor engravings.”“What about being Mr Robert’s medical man, though. What do you make of that?”“Well, Orthur, putting that and that together—his quick, jerky, excited way, and his fierce-looking eyes, and his ignorance of Society etiquette as to strangers calling, and wanting to see everybody, just as if he was one of the oldest friends of the family—I should say that he’s one of those chaps who get a few names o’ people out o’ Directories, and then goes and calls.”“For swindling and picking up anything as is not out of his reach, sir, or about money?”“Well, say a bit touched in the head, Orthur.” The butler put his hand to his throat to try whether the tie of his white cravat was in its place, and looked up the street and down, acts imitated exactly by his lieutenant, and for some minutes nothing more was said. Then the footman in very respectful tones—“Ever try your ’and, Mr Roach, sir, at any of those gambling shops abroad?”“Well, once or twice, Orthur,” said the butler, relaxing a little to his junior. “I was with a young nobleman out at Homburg and Baden and one or two other places.”“And how did you get on, sir?”“Oh, I made a few louis, Orthur, and I should have made more if we had stopped, I daresay.”“Lor’! How I should like to have a bit of a try there, sir,” said the footman, eagerly.“You would, Orthur, eh? You mean it?”“Mean it, sir? I should just think I should. That’s what Mr Robert’s after now, I’ll bet; and look at the money, Mr Dennis—Mr Paddy—pockets over his flutters there, let alone over every race and event coming off. Ah, it’s fine to be them.”“Well, yes, Orthur, my good lad, I suppose they do pretty well. You see, if I or you were disposed to put a sov’rin or two on the next event—”“Half-a-crown’s ’bout my figure, sir.”“Ah, well, say half-a-crown, Orthur; it may turn up a pound, or two pound, or three pound. It might even be a fiver. But with them when they win, it’s hundreds or thousands.”“Ah!” ejaculated the footman, smacking his lips.“By the way, there’s Newmarket coming again next week.”“Yes, sir; got anything on?”“Well, no, not yet, Orthur; perhaps I may.”“Do, sir, and I will, too. Mr Roach, sir,” whispered the young man behind his hand, as the butler turned upon him with a look of reproof for his assumption, “Black Pepper, sir.”“What, my good boy! Why, that horse is at fifty to one.”“That’s it, sir; and I’m going half-a-crown on him.”“Better keep it in your pocket, my lad,” said the butler, blandly.“No, sir; I think not. I’ve got the tip.”“Eh?” said the butler, eagerly. “Where from?”“I heered Mr Paddy tell Mr James, sir, that it was a sure thing, and Mr James gave him gold out of his cash-box in the lib’ry—little rolls out of that big tin box of his. I didn’t hear no more, but that was quite enough for me.”“Eh? Yes,” said the butler, dropping his superior way of speaking to whisper confidentially, “it will do for me too, Orthur. I’ll give you half-a-sovereign to put on at the same time. Let me see, Orthur, we’re not very busy this afternoon, and I shall be about to answer the door. Come down to the pantry, and I’ll give you the money, and you can go and make the bets before they get to a different price.”“All right, sir, I will,” said the footman excitedly. “Beg pardon, sir,” he continued, as the door closed and they stood together in the elaborately-furnished hall. “Yes, Orthur, what is it?”“Could you oblige me with half-a-crown, sir, till I get my wages?”“Humph! Well, my lad, I do make it a rule never to lend money, but seeing that it is you, Orthur, a lad that I can trust—”“Oh, yes, sir, you may trust me.”“I will let you have the money.”“Thank ye, sir, and I’ll go at once.”
“Bah!” ejaculated Chester in his rage and despair, as he swung round and hurried away. “Fool, idiot! No more like her than that miserable flower-seller is. Am I suffering from the shock of the drug they gave me? Well, if I am, she must be found all the same, for I cannot go on like this and live!”
He hurried along, without heeding which way he went, and as if by instinct made for his own house, reached it, started as if in surprise, and then turned to enter, but altered his mind after a pause, and drew the door to, after which he walked swiftly away in the direction of Westminster.
For the meeting had raised thoughts which he felt that he would only obliterate by plunging once more into the mazes of his wild search.
He was not long in reaching the old street which had so taken up his attention before, and he looked long and attentively at the mansion adjoining that occupied by the collector. The contrast was curious, the one with bright, well-curtained windows, the door glistening in its fresh graining and varnish, the other dim, unpainted, looking as if it were quite unoccupied, the very steps as if they had not been cleaned for years.
Chester went and studied a Directory, and with the name Clareborough upon his lips, he determined, after passing through the street two or three times, to risk making a call.
“Why should I mind?” he muttered. “If I am wrong, I have only made a mistake.”
He walked on till he reached the house, perfectly unconscious that the footman was standing a little back from one of the narrow windows, and after having his attention drawn to the vacillating, rather haggard personage who had been taking so much interest in the house, was ready to look upon him with suspicion.
“Begging letter dodges, or something to sell,” said the footman to himself, as the visitors’ bell was rung, and after waiting a sufficient time to suggest that he had come from downstairs, the fellow opened the door, to receive Chester with a calm stare.
“Mr Clareborough in?”
“Not at home, sir.”
“Mr Robert is, of course?”
“Out of town, sir.”
“Well, I must see somebody,” said Chester, who had been checked for the moment by the announcement that Mr Robert was out of town, but encouraged by the fact that two shots went home. “Ask Mr Paddy if he will see me.”
The nickname made the footman raise his eyebrows, but he replied coolly—
“Not at home, sir.”
“Well, then, one of the ladies.”
“On the Continent, sir.”
“Tut, tut, how tiresome!” cried Chester, impatiently. “Look here, my man; how is Mr Robert?”
“Quite well, thank you, sir,” said the man, superciliously.
Chester stared at the man. He had evidently been schooled what to say, and for the moment the visitor hesitated, but recovering hissang-froidthe next moment, he said—
“Rather strange that, after so serious an accident.”
At that moment the butler came forward from the back of the hall, pulling the door a little more open, and Chester drew a deep breath full of satisfaction, as he caught sight of one of the statues and a chair, on the back of which was emblazoned the same crest as he had seen upon the seal.
“What is it, Orthur,” said the butler in a deep, mellow voice suggestive of port wine.
“Gentleman asking to see Mr Robert, sir.”
“Yes, I particularly wish to see him,” said Chester. “I am the medical man who attended him after his accident.”
“I beg pardon, sir.”
“I say I am the medical man who attended him after his late accident, and I wish to see my patient again.”
The butler glared at the speaker in a heavy, solemn way, and then turned slowly to his subordinate, who raised his eyebrows and drew down the corners of his lips.
“I beg pardon, sir,” said the butler, turning his eyes again on the visitor, who was beginning to lose temper. “There is a Mr Robert here—Mr Robert Clareborough. You must mean some other gentleman. Our Mr Robert is quite well, and on the Continent just now.”
“Impossible!” cried Chester, angrily. “Look here, my man, take this for yourself and my card in to Mr Robert. Say I beg that he will give me a few minutes’ conversation.”
The butler glanced at the card and the coin held out, but took neither.
“Beg pardon, sir. I told you that Mr Robert is on the Continent.”
“Yes; and I tell you that you are not speaking the truth. Do as I tell you. I will wait till he sees me.”
Chester took a couple of steps forward as he spoke, with the intention of entering the hall, but the butler stood firm, and the footman closed up to his side, the pair effectually barring the way. Chester stopped, feeling that he could do no more, for the servants must have been instructed to deny everybody to him. He thought, too, of his position; he had attended his patient and retained the heavy fee paid him, having, had he so wished, been debarred from returning it by his ignorance of the sender’s address.
While he was musing the butler said haughtily—
“If you like to leave your card, sir, I’ll lay it on the ’all table, and if one of the gentlemen wishes to see you, I daresay he’ll write or call.”
“No,” said Chester, irritably. “Tell Mr Robert that I came, and—no, say nothing; I daresay I can find Mr Robert Clareborough at his club, or I shall meet him somewhere else.”
He turned upon his heel, and walked sharply away, satisfied now that he had found the house, and feeling more eager than ever to obtain an interview with his patient, who would, he felt sure, have his sister by his side.
The thought of her position sent the hot blood coursing to the doctor’s head, and a chill of horror and anxiety ran through him once more. But he felt that he must wait a little longer and devise some way of obtaining speech with Marion, life being unendurable till he had seen her once again.
“New dodge, Mr Roach, sir?” said the footman, when Chester had disappeared.
“I don’t quite know what to make of it, Orthur,” replied the butler, solemnly. “It does seem like a new way of raising the wind. It ain’t books nor engravings.”
“What about being Mr Robert’s medical man, though. What do you make of that?”
“Well, Orthur, putting that and that together—his quick, jerky, excited way, and his fierce-looking eyes, and his ignorance of Society etiquette as to strangers calling, and wanting to see everybody, just as if he was one of the oldest friends of the family—I should say that he’s one of those chaps who get a few names o’ people out o’ Directories, and then goes and calls.”
“For swindling and picking up anything as is not out of his reach, sir, or about money?”
“Well, say a bit touched in the head, Orthur.” The butler put his hand to his throat to try whether the tie of his white cravat was in its place, and looked up the street and down, acts imitated exactly by his lieutenant, and for some minutes nothing more was said. Then the footman in very respectful tones—
“Ever try your ’and, Mr Roach, sir, at any of those gambling shops abroad?”
“Well, once or twice, Orthur,” said the butler, relaxing a little to his junior. “I was with a young nobleman out at Homburg and Baden and one or two other places.”
“And how did you get on, sir?”
“Oh, I made a few louis, Orthur, and I should have made more if we had stopped, I daresay.”
“Lor’! How I should like to have a bit of a try there, sir,” said the footman, eagerly.
“You would, Orthur, eh? You mean it?”
“Mean it, sir? I should just think I should. That’s what Mr Robert’s after now, I’ll bet; and look at the money, Mr Dennis—Mr Paddy—pockets over his flutters there, let alone over every race and event coming off. Ah, it’s fine to be them.”
“Well, yes, Orthur, my good lad, I suppose they do pretty well. You see, if I or you were disposed to put a sov’rin or two on the next event—”
“Half-a-crown’s ’bout my figure, sir.”
“Ah, well, say half-a-crown, Orthur; it may turn up a pound, or two pound, or three pound. It might even be a fiver. But with them when they win, it’s hundreds or thousands.”
“Ah!” ejaculated the footman, smacking his lips.
“By the way, there’s Newmarket coming again next week.”
“Yes, sir; got anything on?”
“Well, no, not yet, Orthur; perhaps I may.”
“Do, sir, and I will, too. Mr Roach, sir,” whispered the young man behind his hand, as the butler turned upon him with a look of reproof for his assumption, “Black Pepper, sir.”
“What, my good boy! Why, that horse is at fifty to one.”
“That’s it, sir; and I’m going half-a-crown on him.”
“Better keep it in your pocket, my lad,” said the butler, blandly.
“No, sir; I think not. I’ve got the tip.”
“Eh?” said the butler, eagerly. “Where from?”
“I heered Mr Paddy tell Mr James, sir, that it was a sure thing, and Mr James gave him gold out of his cash-box in the lib’ry—little rolls out of that big tin box of his. I didn’t hear no more, but that was quite enough for me.”
“Eh? Yes,” said the butler, dropping his superior way of speaking to whisper confidentially, “it will do for me too, Orthur. I’ll give you half-a-sovereign to put on at the same time. Let me see, Orthur, we’re not very busy this afternoon, and I shall be about to answer the door. Come down to the pantry, and I’ll give you the money, and you can go and make the bets before they get to a different price.”
“All right, sir, I will,” said the footman excitedly. “Beg pardon, sir,” he continued, as the door closed and they stood together in the elaborately-furnished hall. “Yes, Orthur, what is it?”
“Could you oblige me with half-a-crown, sir, till I get my wages?”
“Humph! Well, my lad, I do make it a rule never to lend money, but seeing that it is you, Orthur, a lad that I can trust—”
“Oh, yes, sir, you may trust me.”
“I will let you have the money.”
“Thank ye, sir, and I’ll go at once.”
Chapter Twelve.A Fatal Attraction.“You, Isabel dear!” cried Laura one day, as the visitor whom she had looked upon as a sister was shown into the room.“Yes, dear, I felt obliged to come. Don’t, pray don’t be ashamed of me and think me weak,” pleaded the poor girl, as they embraced and then sat down together upon the couch.“How can you say such things!” cried Laura, warmly, as she passed her arm about her friend’s waist.“Because I feel that I deserve it, dear. I know how weak and foolish I am. I have been watching for an hour till I saw him go out.”“You have been watching, Bel?”“Yes, dear; from a brougham with the blinds partly drawn down. We are in town now. Papa says I must have a change, and we are staying here for a few days before they take me over to Paris. Laura dear, I was obliged to come. Don’t betray me, please, to anyone. They would be so angry if they knew, and say that I was shameless. I suppose I am, dear, but I hope you can sympathise with me a little.”“Not a little, Bel dear,” cried Laura, warmly, and Isabel flung her arms about her friend’s neck, buried her face in her breast and sobbed violently for a few minutes before she raised her thin white face and said quite calmly, with a piteous smile on her lip—“There, I told you how weak I was. I feel so much better now. I would have given anything for days and days to cry like that, but I could not. My head has been hot, and my brain seemed dry and burnt up. Now I can talk. But tell me, is—is he likely to come back?”“No,” said Laura, shaking her head. “He will not be back till night, and even if he did return he would not come here, but go straight to his room and shut himself in.”“Has—has he told you anything?”“No, dear; he hardly ever speaks either to me or aunt. He did say that he was kept away to attend an important patient.”“Yes, yes, of course. That must be it.”Laura was silent. Aunt Grace had sown a seed in her heart which had begun to grow rapidly, in spite of her sisterly efforts to check it as a noxious weed.“Well, why don’t you speak?” cried the visitor, sharply.“Because I have nothing to say.”Isabel flushed up, and Laura stared at her, wondering whether this was the placid, gentle girl whom she had known so long.“Then why have you nothing to say?” cried Isabel, angrily. “He is your brother, and if all the world is turning against him, is it not your duty to defend—to try and find excuses for his conduct?”“Isabel!”“Well, I mean what I say. It is quite enough that I turn against him and that everything between us is at an end. I hate him now, for he has used me cruelly, and it seems to have changed my nature; but I cannot forget the past, and would not be malignant and cruel too.”Laura took the hand that was resigned to her, and the pair sat in silence for some minutes.Isabel’s lips moved several times, as if she were about to speak, but no words came, till, with a desperate effort, she said in a husky whisper—“Have you seen her, Laura?”“I? No!” cried the girl, who was startled by the question.“But you know she is beautiful, and rich, and aristocratic?”“I only know what aunt has said, dear; but if she were the most beautiful woman that ever breathed, it is no excuse for Fred treating you as he did.”“I don’t know,” said Isabel, sadly. “He is wise and clever, while I have often felt that it was more than I could expect for a man like him to care for me, so simple and homely as I am.”“Fred ought to have been only too proud to have won such a girl,” cried Laura, sharply, but her visitor shook her head.“It was only a brief fancy of his, dear, and as soon as the right woman came across his path he forgot me. Well, I am patient if I am not proud, for I cannot resent it, dear, only try to bear it, for I loved him very dearly; but it is very hard for the little romance of one’s poor homely life to be so soon brought to an end.”“It was cruel—cruel in the extreme,” cried Laura, angrily. “I would not have believed that my brother, whom I almost worshipped, could have behaved so ill.”“These things are a mystery,” said Isabel, gently; “and perhaps it is better that it should have happened now than later on when we were married. But tell me about him, dear. Has he settled down to seeing his patients again? You wrote to me saying that he was neglecting everything.”“So he is, nearly everything, now. Bel dear, I will not be so hard upon him any more. You must be right, that he cannot help himself, or he would never have behaved so ill. He must be mad.”Isabel clung to her with a startled look in her eyes.“It is the only way in which I can account for the change,” continued Laura, “for I will not believe what Aunt Grace says, that all men are bad at heart. If they are, women must be as wicked too.”Isabel shivered slightly.“Tell me about what he does now.”“I can’t, dear,” cried Laura, piteously. “I seem to know so little. Only that he goes out soon after breakfast, and does not come back till dinner-time, and so wet sometimes that he must have been walking about the streets for hours.”Isabel sighed.“I’ve tried—oh, how I’ve tried!—to win his confidence; but he says nothing, only turns away, and goes out. It is just as if he had lost something of which he is always in search, and every day he grows more moody and strange.”“Then he is ill—mentally ill,” cried Isabel, excitedly. “I knew that there must be some excuse for his strange behaviour. Laura dear, my heart has misgiven me from the first. It is all so directly opposed to his nature and character. I will not believe that he could be so false to everything that he has said to me.”Laura was silent again, and Isabel’s careworn face flushed once more.“You are not sisterly and true,” she cried. “The world is censorious enough without those who are nearest and dearest to us turning away and becoming our enemies.”“I am not Fred’s enemy, Bel,” said Laura, gently.“Then why are you so hard against him?”“Because I feel that by his conduct he has put us all to shame.”“Yes, all to shame—all to shame, my dear,” cried Aunt Grace, who had entered the room unnoticed. “It’s a wicked, wicked world; but it’s very good of you to come and see us, my dear, heart-broken as we are. You have come to stop a few days, of course?”“I? Oh, no no, no. We are staying in town,” said Isabel, hurriedly, “and I must go directly.”“I am sorry to hear that,” said Aunt Grace in rather an offended tone. “I did not think you would turn away from us in our trouble, Isabel; I thought better of you.”“I turn away from you and Laura, Aunt Grace? Oh no, no, no.”“I’m glad to hear it, my dear, because if you would stay we should be very glad.”“Oh, auntie!” whispered Laura, “impossible.”“It is not impossible, Laura,” cried the old lady; “and I beg that you will not interfere. Isabel, my child, I shall be very glad indeed if you will stay, and you need not be at all afraid of meeting that dissolute, dissipated young man.”“Mrs Crane”—began Isabel, agitatedly, but she was interrupted at once.“No, no, no, my dear; pray don’t apologise and make excuses. Laura and I would be very pleased, and we see nothing whatever of Frederick now from breakfast-time to dinner. I don’t know where he spends his days, but he is after no good.”“Aunt dear, I really must interfere once more,” cried Laura, warmly. “It is, as I said, impossible for Isabel to stoop to meet Fred again; and as to staying in the house—my dear aunt, of what can you be thinking?”“That we are beginning to live in evil times, Laura,” cried the old lady, indignantly, “when little girls so far forget the respect due to their elders as to speak as you did just now. I ought to be the best judge, miss, of what is correct, if you please.”“Pray say no more, Mrs Crane,” cried Isabel, earnestly. “I must go back to the hotel where we are staying. It would indeed be impossible for me to visit here now.”“Oh, very well, my dear, very well,” cried the old lady, drawing herself up. “I can see very plainly that you have allowed yourself to be impressed by what Laura has said. Young people will hold together, and think that they are wiser than their elders. There is one comfort, though, for us old folk: you all find out your mistake.”“Good-bye, dear Mrs Crane,” said Isabel, advancing with open hands.“Good-day, Miss Lee,” said the old lady, frigidly, as she held out her fingers limply.But Isabel did not take them. She laid her hands upon her shoulders, and, with tears in her eyes, kissed her affectionately twice.There was magic in the touch, for in an instant she was snatched to the old lady’s breast and kissed passionately again and again.“Oh, my dear, my dear!” was sobbed; “I didn’t think I was such an ill-tempered, wicked old woman. Pray, pray forgive me. I don’t know what comes to me sometimes. And you in such sorrow and pain! Oh, that wicked, miserable, faithless boy! Something will come upon him some day like a judgment.”“Oh no, no, no!” cried Isabel, wildly. “Don’t—pray don’t say that.”“But I have said it, my dear. Ah, well, I won’t think it, then, any more, for I don’t see what greater judgment could fall upon him than losing you.”Isabel could not trust herself to speak, but hurried out of the room and downstairs with Laura.“Don’t speak to me, dear; let me go now,” whispered the poor girl, faintly. “I am weak and ill, and can bear no more now. I ought not to have come, but the impulse was too strong. Good-bye, dear sister, good-bye!”The two girls were locked in a loving embrace, and then, with Isabel turning sick with dread, they sprang apart, for there was the rattle of a latch-key at the door, it was thrown open, and Chester strode in.He stood for a few moments aghast, as he saw Isabel recoil from him. Then, drawing down her veil, she tottered out, and was half-way to the brougham, drawn up by the kerb, before he recollected himself and sprang after her to open the door and try to hand her in. But she shrank from him as if in dread, and gathering her veil closely over her white, drawn face, she sank back in the carriage, and her betrothed stood gazing after her as she was rapidly driven away.
“You, Isabel dear!” cried Laura one day, as the visitor whom she had looked upon as a sister was shown into the room.
“Yes, dear, I felt obliged to come. Don’t, pray don’t be ashamed of me and think me weak,” pleaded the poor girl, as they embraced and then sat down together upon the couch.
“How can you say such things!” cried Laura, warmly, as she passed her arm about her friend’s waist.
“Because I feel that I deserve it, dear. I know how weak and foolish I am. I have been watching for an hour till I saw him go out.”
“You have been watching, Bel?”
“Yes, dear; from a brougham with the blinds partly drawn down. We are in town now. Papa says I must have a change, and we are staying here for a few days before they take me over to Paris. Laura dear, I was obliged to come. Don’t betray me, please, to anyone. They would be so angry if they knew, and say that I was shameless. I suppose I am, dear, but I hope you can sympathise with me a little.”
“Not a little, Bel dear,” cried Laura, warmly, and Isabel flung her arms about her friend’s neck, buried her face in her breast and sobbed violently for a few minutes before she raised her thin white face and said quite calmly, with a piteous smile on her lip—
“There, I told you how weak I was. I feel so much better now. I would have given anything for days and days to cry like that, but I could not. My head has been hot, and my brain seemed dry and burnt up. Now I can talk. But tell me, is—is he likely to come back?”
“No,” said Laura, shaking her head. “He will not be back till night, and even if he did return he would not come here, but go straight to his room and shut himself in.”
“Has—has he told you anything?”
“No, dear; he hardly ever speaks either to me or aunt. He did say that he was kept away to attend an important patient.”
“Yes, yes, of course. That must be it.”
Laura was silent. Aunt Grace had sown a seed in her heart which had begun to grow rapidly, in spite of her sisterly efforts to check it as a noxious weed.
“Well, why don’t you speak?” cried the visitor, sharply.
“Because I have nothing to say.”
Isabel flushed up, and Laura stared at her, wondering whether this was the placid, gentle girl whom she had known so long.
“Then why have you nothing to say?” cried Isabel, angrily. “He is your brother, and if all the world is turning against him, is it not your duty to defend—to try and find excuses for his conduct?”
“Isabel!”
“Well, I mean what I say. It is quite enough that I turn against him and that everything between us is at an end. I hate him now, for he has used me cruelly, and it seems to have changed my nature; but I cannot forget the past, and would not be malignant and cruel too.”
Laura took the hand that was resigned to her, and the pair sat in silence for some minutes.
Isabel’s lips moved several times, as if she were about to speak, but no words came, till, with a desperate effort, she said in a husky whisper—
“Have you seen her, Laura?”
“I? No!” cried the girl, who was startled by the question.
“But you know she is beautiful, and rich, and aristocratic?”
“I only know what aunt has said, dear; but if she were the most beautiful woman that ever breathed, it is no excuse for Fred treating you as he did.”
“I don’t know,” said Isabel, sadly. “He is wise and clever, while I have often felt that it was more than I could expect for a man like him to care for me, so simple and homely as I am.”
“Fred ought to have been only too proud to have won such a girl,” cried Laura, sharply, but her visitor shook her head.
“It was only a brief fancy of his, dear, and as soon as the right woman came across his path he forgot me. Well, I am patient if I am not proud, for I cannot resent it, dear, only try to bear it, for I loved him very dearly; but it is very hard for the little romance of one’s poor homely life to be so soon brought to an end.”
“It was cruel—cruel in the extreme,” cried Laura, angrily. “I would not have believed that my brother, whom I almost worshipped, could have behaved so ill.”
“These things are a mystery,” said Isabel, gently; “and perhaps it is better that it should have happened now than later on when we were married. But tell me about him, dear. Has he settled down to seeing his patients again? You wrote to me saying that he was neglecting everything.”
“So he is, nearly everything, now. Bel dear, I will not be so hard upon him any more. You must be right, that he cannot help himself, or he would never have behaved so ill. He must be mad.”
Isabel clung to her with a startled look in her eyes.
“It is the only way in which I can account for the change,” continued Laura, “for I will not believe what Aunt Grace says, that all men are bad at heart. If they are, women must be as wicked too.”
Isabel shivered slightly.
“Tell me about what he does now.”
“I can’t, dear,” cried Laura, piteously. “I seem to know so little. Only that he goes out soon after breakfast, and does not come back till dinner-time, and so wet sometimes that he must have been walking about the streets for hours.”
Isabel sighed.
“I’ve tried—oh, how I’ve tried!—to win his confidence; but he says nothing, only turns away, and goes out. It is just as if he had lost something of which he is always in search, and every day he grows more moody and strange.”
“Then he is ill—mentally ill,” cried Isabel, excitedly. “I knew that there must be some excuse for his strange behaviour. Laura dear, my heart has misgiven me from the first. It is all so directly opposed to his nature and character. I will not believe that he could be so false to everything that he has said to me.”
Laura was silent again, and Isabel’s careworn face flushed once more.
“You are not sisterly and true,” she cried. “The world is censorious enough without those who are nearest and dearest to us turning away and becoming our enemies.”
“I am not Fred’s enemy, Bel,” said Laura, gently.
“Then why are you so hard against him?”
“Because I feel that by his conduct he has put us all to shame.”
“Yes, all to shame—all to shame, my dear,” cried Aunt Grace, who had entered the room unnoticed. “It’s a wicked, wicked world; but it’s very good of you to come and see us, my dear, heart-broken as we are. You have come to stop a few days, of course?”
“I? Oh, no no, no. We are staying in town,” said Isabel, hurriedly, “and I must go directly.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Aunt Grace in rather an offended tone. “I did not think you would turn away from us in our trouble, Isabel; I thought better of you.”
“I turn away from you and Laura, Aunt Grace? Oh no, no, no.”
“I’m glad to hear it, my dear, because if you would stay we should be very glad.”
“Oh, auntie!” whispered Laura, “impossible.”
“It is not impossible, Laura,” cried the old lady; “and I beg that you will not interfere. Isabel, my child, I shall be very glad indeed if you will stay, and you need not be at all afraid of meeting that dissolute, dissipated young man.”
“Mrs Crane”—began Isabel, agitatedly, but she was interrupted at once.
“No, no, no, my dear; pray don’t apologise and make excuses. Laura and I would be very pleased, and we see nothing whatever of Frederick now from breakfast-time to dinner. I don’t know where he spends his days, but he is after no good.”
“Aunt dear, I really must interfere once more,” cried Laura, warmly. “It is, as I said, impossible for Isabel to stoop to meet Fred again; and as to staying in the house—my dear aunt, of what can you be thinking?”
“That we are beginning to live in evil times, Laura,” cried the old lady, indignantly, “when little girls so far forget the respect due to their elders as to speak as you did just now. I ought to be the best judge, miss, of what is correct, if you please.”
“Pray say no more, Mrs Crane,” cried Isabel, earnestly. “I must go back to the hotel where we are staying. It would indeed be impossible for me to visit here now.”
“Oh, very well, my dear, very well,” cried the old lady, drawing herself up. “I can see very plainly that you have allowed yourself to be impressed by what Laura has said. Young people will hold together, and think that they are wiser than their elders. There is one comfort, though, for us old folk: you all find out your mistake.”
“Good-bye, dear Mrs Crane,” said Isabel, advancing with open hands.
“Good-day, Miss Lee,” said the old lady, frigidly, as she held out her fingers limply.
But Isabel did not take them. She laid her hands upon her shoulders, and, with tears in her eyes, kissed her affectionately twice.
There was magic in the touch, for in an instant she was snatched to the old lady’s breast and kissed passionately again and again.
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” was sobbed; “I didn’t think I was such an ill-tempered, wicked old woman. Pray, pray forgive me. I don’t know what comes to me sometimes. And you in such sorrow and pain! Oh, that wicked, miserable, faithless boy! Something will come upon him some day like a judgment.”
“Oh no, no, no!” cried Isabel, wildly. “Don’t—pray don’t say that.”
“But I have said it, my dear. Ah, well, I won’t think it, then, any more, for I don’t see what greater judgment could fall upon him than losing you.”
Isabel could not trust herself to speak, but hurried out of the room and downstairs with Laura.
“Don’t speak to me, dear; let me go now,” whispered the poor girl, faintly. “I am weak and ill, and can bear no more now. I ought not to have come, but the impulse was too strong. Good-bye, dear sister, good-bye!”
The two girls were locked in a loving embrace, and then, with Isabel turning sick with dread, they sprang apart, for there was the rattle of a latch-key at the door, it was thrown open, and Chester strode in.
He stood for a few moments aghast, as he saw Isabel recoil from him. Then, drawing down her veil, she tottered out, and was half-way to the brougham, drawn up by the kerb, before he recollected himself and sprang after her to open the door and try to hand her in. But she shrank from him as if in dread, and gathering her veil closely over her white, drawn face, she sank back in the carriage, and her betrothed stood gazing after her as she was rapidly driven away.
Chapter Thirteen.Workers at a Train.“Of course, Orthur, the different grades in this service have to be kept distinct, and the inferiors have to look up to their superiors just as it is in the army.”“Oh yes, sir, of course,” said the gentleman addressed, squeezing his left eyelids together slightly, unseen by the pompous individual addressing him; “but you can’t say as I haven’t always been respectful and kept my place.”“Always, Orthur, always, and that’s why I come down a little to you and meet you on equal terms when we are alone, for I have always found you a very respectable, intelligent young man. What’s that chap staring at?”“Us, seemingly, Mr Roach, sir,” said the younger man, with a grin. “Book canvasser, that’s what he is; been taking orders of the old chap next door, but didn’t like the look of us, and didn’t try it on. I had a peep through the open door there one day, and it was packed full o’ books like a warehouse, sir.”“Yes, yes, but never mind that,” said the butler, impatiently. “But as I was saying, I’ve always found you a very respectable young man, Orthur, and I’m disposed to trust you. Service is all very well, Orthur, but there’s no saving money; and when one sees these bookmakers—coarse, beefy-faced butcher or publican sort of fellows—keeping their broughams and driving their phe-aytons, it is tempting.”“Tempting, Mr Roach,” said the young footman in a quick whisper; “it gives me the agonies. Look at the guv’nors. Why, I met a young chap as I used to know when he was a page in buttons—he’s a six-footer now. Well, he says he knowed our people ten years ago when they were regular hard up. His people used to visit ’em. And now look at ’em. They’re on with some of the knowing ones, and putting money on all the good things. Always winning, they must be. Why, if you and me, Mr Roach, was to put the pot on as they do we should be rich men in five years.”“Don’t talk so loud, Orthur; some of the women may be up at the windows.”“All right, sir. But don’t you see?”“Yes, I see; it’s right enough, Orthur, when you win; but I look at the risks.”“Warn’t much risk over that last flutter, sir. Put down five shillings a-piece and took up each of us a tenner.”“Yes, Orthur, that was very nice; but it mightn’t always happen so.”“Why not, sir? They always win, and all we have to do is to back the same as they do—take their tips, and it’s as safe as safe.”“H’m! Well, they do always seem to win, Orthur,” said the butler, slowly, and he indulged in a pinch of snuff as he stood on the step.“Seem, sir? They do. I believe if it warn’t for the odds they’d be as poor as church mice.”“But how are we to get the tips, my son?”“Keep our ears open when we’re waiting table, sir, or another way.”“The same as you got that last one?”“That’s it, sir. Don’t do them any harm, and if a gent leaves his betting-book in the breast-pocket of the coat as has to go down to be brushed, I don’t see anything in it. ’Tain’t robbery.”“H’m!” coughed the butler, glancing behind him; “no, it isn’t robbery, Orthur.”“Lor’! Mr Roach, sir; it’s as easy as easy,” whispered the footman, eagerly. “I can’t think what we’ve been about—I beg pardon, sir—what I’ve been about all these months not to have put a little money on here and there. Want o’ capital mostly, sir, but with all doo respect to my superiors, sir, if you and me was to make a sort o’ Co. of it, and I was to tell you all I heard and found out by accident like, and you was to do the same with me, then we could talk it over together in the pantry, and settle how much we’d put on the race.”The butler frowned, shook his head, and looked dissatisfied.“I know it’s asking a deal of you, Mr Roach, sir, but it would only be like business and I should never presume, you know.”“I must think about it, Orthur; I must think about it,” said the butler, importantly.“Do, sir; and I wouldn’t lose no time about it. You see, we can’t do much when we’re down at The Towers, and the Randan Stakes is on next week.”“H’m, yes,” said the butler, relaxing a little, and condescending to a smile. “Orthur, I’ve got a sovereign on the favourite.”“You have, sir? What! on Ajax?”“That’s right, my lad; and I advise you to put half-a-crown or five shillings on ’im too. There’s a tip for you.”“Yah!” ejaculated the footman in disgust. “I wouldn’t put the price of a glass of ale on that ’orse.”“Eh, why?” cried the butler, looking startled.“’Cause Ajax won’t run.”“What? How do you know?”“I heard the guv’nor tell the little ’un so last night, and that he was to back Ducrow.”“Phew!” whistled the butler.“Put two quids on Ducrow, sir, and it’ll be all right. I’ve got ten shillings on, and I’d have made it two tens if I’d had a friend who’d ha’ lent me the coin.”“Orthur,” whispered the butler, effusively; “you’re a good lad, and I’ll lend you the money.”“You will, sir? And go on as I said?”The butler nodded.“Carriage, sir,” said the footman, sharply, and they both drew back into the hall ready for the brougham which was driven up, and from which two ladies descended.
“Of course, Orthur, the different grades in this service have to be kept distinct, and the inferiors have to look up to their superiors just as it is in the army.”
“Oh yes, sir, of course,” said the gentleman addressed, squeezing his left eyelids together slightly, unseen by the pompous individual addressing him; “but you can’t say as I haven’t always been respectful and kept my place.”
“Always, Orthur, always, and that’s why I come down a little to you and meet you on equal terms when we are alone, for I have always found you a very respectable, intelligent young man. What’s that chap staring at?”
“Us, seemingly, Mr Roach, sir,” said the younger man, with a grin. “Book canvasser, that’s what he is; been taking orders of the old chap next door, but didn’t like the look of us, and didn’t try it on. I had a peep through the open door there one day, and it was packed full o’ books like a warehouse, sir.”
“Yes, yes, but never mind that,” said the butler, impatiently. “But as I was saying, I’ve always found you a very respectable young man, Orthur, and I’m disposed to trust you. Service is all very well, Orthur, but there’s no saving money; and when one sees these bookmakers—coarse, beefy-faced butcher or publican sort of fellows—keeping their broughams and driving their phe-aytons, it is tempting.”
“Tempting, Mr Roach,” said the young footman in a quick whisper; “it gives me the agonies. Look at the guv’nors. Why, I met a young chap as I used to know when he was a page in buttons—he’s a six-footer now. Well, he says he knowed our people ten years ago when they were regular hard up. His people used to visit ’em. And now look at ’em. They’re on with some of the knowing ones, and putting money on all the good things. Always winning, they must be. Why, if you and me, Mr Roach, was to put the pot on as they do we should be rich men in five years.”
“Don’t talk so loud, Orthur; some of the women may be up at the windows.”
“All right, sir. But don’t you see?”
“Yes, I see; it’s right enough, Orthur, when you win; but I look at the risks.”
“Warn’t much risk over that last flutter, sir. Put down five shillings a-piece and took up each of us a tenner.”
“Yes, Orthur, that was very nice; but it mightn’t always happen so.”
“Why not, sir? They always win, and all we have to do is to back the same as they do—take their tips, and it’s as safe as safe.”
“H’m! Well, they do always seem to win, Orthur,” said the butler, slowly, and he indulged in a pinch of snuff as he stood on the step.
“Seem, sir? They do. I believe if it warn’t for the odds they’d be as poor as church mice.”
“But how are we to get the tips, my son?”
“Keep our ears open when we’re waiting table, sir, or another way.”
“The same as you got that last one?”
“That’s it, sir. Don’t do them any harm, and if a gent leaves his betting-book in the breast-pocket of the coat as has to go down to be brushed, I don’t see anything in it. ’Tain’t robbery.”
“H’m!” coughed the butler, glancing behind him; “no, it isn’t robbery, Orthur.”
“Lor’! Mr Roach, sir; it’s as easy as easy,” whispered the footman, eagerly. “I can’t think what we’ve been about—I beg pardon, sir—what I’ve been about all these months not to have put a little money on here and there. Want o’ capital mostly, sir, but with all doo respect to my superiors, sir, if you and me was to make a sort o’ Co. of it, and I was to tell you all I heard and found out by accident like, and you was to do the same with me, then we could talk it over together in the pantry, and settle how much we’d put on the race.”
The butler frowned, shook his head, and looked dissatisfied.
“I know it’s asking a deal of you, Mr Roach, sir, but it would only be like business and I should never presume, you know.”
“I must think about it, Orthur; I must think about it,” said the butler, importantly.
“Do, sir; and I wouldn’t lose no time about it. You see, we can’t do much when we’re down at The Towers, and the Randan Stakes is on next week.”
“H’m, yes,” said the butler, relaxing a little, and condescending to a smile. “Orthur, I’ve got a sovereign on the favourite.”
“You have, sir? What! on Ajax?”
“That’s right, my lad; and I advise you to put half-a-crown or five shillings on ’im too. There’s a tip for you.”
“Yah!” ejaculated the footman in disgust. “I wouldn’t put the price of a glass of ale on that ’orse.”
“Eh, why?” cried the butler, looking startled.
“’Cause Ajax won’t run.”
“What? How do you know?”
“I heard the guv’nor tell the little ’un so last night, and that he was to back Ducrow.”
“Phew!” whistled the butler.
“Put two quids on Ducrow, sir, and it’ll be all right. I’ve got ten shillings on, and I’d have made it two tens if I’d had a friend who’d ha’ lent me the coin.”
“Orthur,” whispered the butler, effusively; “you’re a good lad, and I’ll lend you the money.”
“You will, sir? And go on as I said?”
The butler nodded.
“Carriage, sir,” said the footman, sharply, and they both drew back into the hall ready for the brougham which was driven up, and from which two ladies descended.
Chapter Fourteen.Face to Face Again.“That’s the house,” said Chester to himself; “I can swear to it. Highcombe Street, Number 44.”He laughed in his excitement—an unpleasant, harsh laugh which startled him; for as a doctor he had had to deal with strange patients beside the one at the mysterious house, and he knew pretty well how a man acted who had been overwrought and whose nerves were in that state which borders upon insanity.“This will not do,” he muttered. “I must be careful,” and, trying to pull himself together and make his plans in a matter-of-fact way, his startled feeling grew into a sensation of alarm, and he awakened fully now to the fact that the strain from which he had suffered had been too great.“I must pull up short,” he said to himself. “This last month I have been acting like a madman. Well, love—the real passion—is a kind of madness, and I could not have acted otherwise with the horror of the position in which I left her upon my mind.”As he walked home, though, he grew cooler, and made up his mind to watch the house until he obtained an interview with Marion.He shrugged his shoulders as he entered his own door, and shut himself in his consulting-room, to sit for an hour trying to grow calmer; but there was a wild throbbing in his excited brain which he could not master, and try how he would, even to the extent of taking a sedative, he could not keep down the feeling of mad exultation at having at last discovered the place.“I shall see her again,” he muttered; “I shall see her again!”A pair of soft dark eyes in a sweet, pale face seemed to rise reproachfully before him, but he mentally turned from the piteous look.“I cannot help it. Fate—fate,” he muttered; and at last, after mastering the intense desire to rush off and try and bribe the servants into speaking, he grew calmer, and obeyed the summons sent by the maid, joining his aunt and sister in the drawing-room, and afterwards formally taking the old lady down to the silent meal.Poor Aunt Grace’s plan was not succeeding.“Don’t speak to him, Laura,” she had said. “It will show how we despise him for his disgraceful conduct, and make him the sooner come creeping to our knees in sackcloth and ashes.”But the days had glided on, and Chester had bought no sackcloth and had not told the cook to sift him any ashes. For the perfect silence with which he was treated was the one great satisfaction now of his life.That night he found his sister watching him once, and as he met her eyes there was for the moment a feeling of uneasiness akin to remorse; but it passed off directly, swept away by the exciting thought that he had at last attained the goal of his desires, and must now sooner or later encounter Marion.A week then passed, and he was still no farther, when one evening as he turned into Highcombe Street, he saw a carriage at the door; and a minute later three ladies in evening dress came and stepped in, the footman mounted to his place, and the horses sprang off.“The brougham I was fetched in,” muttered Chester, and hailing a cab he said sharply, “Follow that carriage at a short distance till I tell you to stop.”He was not surprised at the direction taken by the carriage in front, which was kept just in sight till it turned into Bow Street, when Chester signed to his driver to stop, and sprang out, turning the corner just in time to see the carriage slowly passing in its turn through the gateway leading under the portico of the opera.He followed to find that the occupants had alighted, and upon entering the lobby he caught sight of the back of Marion’s dress as she swept through one of the great baize-covered doors.Here there was a check. The door-keeper held out his hand for the customary ticket, and Chester turned impatiently away, to go to the box-office, when for the first time it struck him that he was not in evening dress, and could not pass into the stalls.He stood biting his lips, and hesitating as to whether he should take a cab back home, to dress, and return, but he felt that he could not do that. A dozen things might happen to prevent his catching sight of Marion again; and snatching at the first idea that came, he took a ticket for the upper part of the house, hired an opera-glass and then climbed nearly to the top.Here upon taking a seat he came out again in despair. Even with the aid of the glass he found he could not get a glimpse of a third of the house, and feeling that at all costs he must get into the stalls in as central a position as possible, he descended again to the box-office, and secured a stall nearly in the centre of the third row.Having made sure of his seat, he hurried back to Raybeck Square calculating that he could be back within an hour.Bidding the cabman wait, he sprang up to his room, conscious of the fact that Aunt Grace was watching; and after his hurried change he knew by the ajar door of the drawing-room that she was there watching still.But this passed almost unnoticed in the excitement, and once more he was in the cab, eager and with his imagination running riot.“What an idiot I was not to ask the number of their box,” he said to himself.He did ask as soon as he reached the opera house, and found it was almost central on the grand tier; but after taking his place he had no opportunity for turning round till the end of the act in progress, and he sat trembling with excitement and wondering whether Marion had recognised him as he entered.The stage, the music, the house crowded with a fashionable assembly, were non-existent to Chester, as he sat there gazing in imagination at a face—the face of the woman who from their first encounter seemed to have taken entire possession of his faculties, enchaining his spirit so that he seemed to live and breathe for her alone.“Will this wretched singing never end?” he said to himself, as one of the great Italian singers filled the vast place with the clear, vibrating tones of her voice. “The fools! The idiots!” he muttered angrily as the plaudits rang out at the end of the scene; and then he sat waiting till at last the drop scene descended and, lorgnette in hand, he rose and, to avoid the air of being too sudden, he slowly swept the grand tier of boxes, beginning on his right near the stage, feeling that Marion must be watching him, and profoundly unconscious of the fact that scores to right and left were doing the same.When the field of his glass drew nearer to the box upon which he sought to focus it, he grew slower in his movements, as if desirous of delaying the supreme delight for a few moments longer, but at last he stopped short, gazing with every fibre thrilling at the beautiful, imperious face which held him as if fascinated.The faces of her companions were to right and left, each occupying a corner of the box, while Marion was seated a little back, looking dull and preoccupied, while she slowly waved a large black fan, which threw her face into partial shadow from time to time.For the first minute, as he drank in the various beauties of the countenance which seemed to be so near, Chester felt that she must be seeing him, but directly after he knew that she was looking dull and listless, and as if she felt the scene before her wearisome in the extreme.There could be no mistake. It was she. There was not such another face in the wide world; and yet he hesitated to go round to the box, asking himself whether he could—whether he had any right to force himself upon the notice of those who had plainly enough their reasons for wishing to cut all connection with him as soon as his patient was out of danger.“They may wish to, but she cannot. It is impossible. She must be ready to place her hand in mine. Perhaps even now that dull, weary look may be connected with our sudden parting. Who knows? Yes, come what may, I will go.”Chester passed slowly along the row and out into the entry, went up the broad stairs, and with his heart increasing its pulsations rapidly, he stopped at last at the door of a box, drew a deep breath, and then tapped lightly.There was no reply and he tapped again.This time there was a movement within, the catch was drawn back, the door thrown open, and a deep voice exclaimed—“How late you are! Hallo!”Chester had been in the act of stepping in, but paused on the threshold, completely taken aback at finding a gentleman in the box, while the speaker, who had not risen, but leaned back, balancing himself on two legs of his chair, fell over side-wise in his astonishment, but saved himself by catching at the partition.He sprang up the next moment, as Chester recovered himself and advanced, but neither of the three ladies, who had turned, made the slightest movement towards acknowledging him, and left it to their companion to speak.“May I ask whom you wish to see, sir?”“Certainly,” replied Chester, quietly, “Mrs James, Mrs Dennis, Miss Clareborough—”No one moved. He might have been addressing so many statues, as he went on—“And Mr Dennis Clareborough.”“You seem to have our names right, sir,” said the stalwart young fellow, shortly, “but I have not the pleasure of knowing you.”“Indeed!” said Chester. “Is your memory so short, sir? May I ask after your cousin’s wound?”“Certainly, if you like, sir,” replied the young man, with a little laugh, “but I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”Chester felt nettled and turned to the lady in the centre, who sat looking over the back of her chair.“Perhaps Miss Marion Clareborough will tell me how her brother is progressing?”“Dennis,” said one of the ladies, before any reply could be made, “is this a friend of yours? If so, introduce us.”“Friend of mine? Hang it, no! Gentleman has got into the wrong box. Never saw him before in my life. What number did you want, sir?”“This,” said Chester, sternly, as he looked the young man fiercely in the eyes. “Perhaps Miss Clareborough will speak. Believe me, I took great interest in your brother’s case. Can I see him again?”The lady he addressed turned to one of her companions and whispered a few words, whereupon Mrs James said coldly—“Will you help this gentleman to find the box he is in search of, Dennis? The place is so dark now the curtain is down, and he does not see the mistake he has made.”“No, that’s it,” said the young man. “Ah, here you are, then, at last,” he cried, as the entrance was darkened by another figure. “Come in. This gentleman wants to find some friends of his, and he has come to this box by mistake.”“Indeed!” and Chester at that one word felt the blood surge up to his temples, and a fierce sensation of passion began to make his nerves tingle.“Well,” continued the speaker, “it’s very easy, dear boy. Places are so confoundedly dark. Couldn’t get here sooner, girls; man detained me at the club—I beg pardon, sir; the box-keeper could no doubt help you.”The cool, contemptuous manner of the man took away Chester’s breath, and he felt himself almost compelled to give place.“Thanks, much,” said the newcomer, drawing slightly aside for Chester to back out. “Don’t apologise. They ought to light up the house more when the curtain is down.”The next moment the door was thrust to, the catch snapped, and as Chester stood there, undecided what to do, he could hear the voices within carrying on a conversation which sounded so calm and matter-of-fact that in his excited state the listener asked himself whether he was in his right senses, and at last hurried away, to pause in the refreshment-room and drink off a glass of brandy to steady his nerves.He did not return to his seat in the stalls, but stopped in the entry, where, invisible in the gloom, partially hidden by one of the curtains, he stood using his glass upon the occupants of the box he had so lately quitted.As he stood there, feeling half stunned, he went over the words that had passed and the action of the inmates, forgetting that all was quite consistent with the conduct he might have expected from people whose whole behaviour had been mysterious and strange.At last he saw a movement among those he was watching, and, desperate almost with rage and despair, he hurried round to station himself in the lobby, where he felt certain that the party must pass. But they were so long in coming that he was about to seek another doorway.Then he saw that he was right, for the big, bluff-looking brother and cousin came by without seeing him, spoke to the footman Chester had seen at the house, and then returned, as if to join their party.A few minutes later they came out slowly amongst the crowd, the tide turning them quite to the outside, so that they were close to him who watched them intently, as if in doubt of his own sanity, wondering whether he could have made any mistake.“No,” he whispered to himself, as he fixed his eyes on the beautiful woman, upon whose arm he could have laid his hand, so close was she to him as she passed.It was as if his steady gaze influenced her, for when she was just abreast she turned her head quickly, and her eyes met his full as she rested her hand upon the stalwart young fellow’s arm.Chester’s look seemed to fascinate her, for her eyes were fixed and strange in those brief moments. Then she passed on, gazing straight before her. There was no start, no sign of the slightest emotion. It was simply the inquiring look of one who seemed to fancy he was the personage who had made his appearance in their box, otherwise one whom she had never before seen.The impulse was strong upon Chester to follow, but for quite a minute he stood feeling as if he had been stunned.Then, with a strange, harsh utterance, he forced himself roughly through the well-dressed crowd in his endeavours to follow the party, but weeks of anxiety and abnormal excitement were taking their toll at last; a sudden giddiness attacked him, and with a heavy groan he reeled and fell in the midst of the pleasure-seeking throng.
“That’s the house,” said Chester to himself; “I can swear to it. Highcombe Street, Number 44.”
He laughed in his excitement—an unpleasant, harsh laugh which startled him; for as a doctor he had had to deal with strange patients beside the one at the mysterious house, and he knew pretty well how a man acted who had been overwrought and whose nerves were in that state which borders upon insanity.
“This will not do,” he muttered. “I must be careful,” and, trying to pull himself together and make his plans in a matter-of-fact way, his startled feeling grew into a sensation of alarm, and he awakened fully now to the fact that the strain from which he had suffered had been too great.
“I must pull up short,” he said to himself. “This last month I have been acting like a madman. Well, love—the real passion—is a kind of madness, and I could not have acted otherwise with the horror of the position in which I left her upon my mind.”
As he walked home, though, he grew cooler, and made up his mind to watch the house until he obtained an interview with Marion.
He shrugged his shoulders as he entered his own door, and shut himself in his consulting-room, to sit for an hour trying to grow calmer; but there was a wild throbbing in his excited brain which he could not master, and try how he would, even to the extent of taking a sedative, he could not keep down the feeling of mad exultation at having at last discovered the place.
“I shall see her again,” he muttered; “I shall see her again!”
A pair of soft dark eyes in a sweet, pale face seemed to rise reproachfully before him, but he mentally turned from the piteous look.
“I cannot help it. Fate—fate,” he muttered; and at last, after mastering the intense desire to rush off and try and bribe the servants into speaking, he grew calmer, and obeyed the summons sent by the maid, joining his aunt and sister in the drawing-room, and afterwards formally taking the old lady down to the silent meal.
Poor Aunt Grace’s plan was not succeeding.
“Don’t speak to him, Laura,” she had said. “It will show how we despise him for his disgraceful conduct, and make him the sooner come creeping to our knees in sackcloth and ashes.”
But the days had glided on, and Chester had bought no sackcloth and had not told the cook to sift him any ashes. For the perfect silence with which he was treated was the one great satisfaction now of his life.
That night he found his sister watching him once, and as he met her eyes there was for the moment a feeling of uneasiness akin to remorse; but it passed off directly, swept away by the exciting thought that he had at last attained the goal of his desires, and must now sooner or later encounter Marion.
A week then passed, and he was still no farther, when one evening as he turned into Highcombe Street, he saw a carriage at the door; and a minute later three ladies in evening dress came and stepped in, the footman mounted to his place, and the horses sprang off.
“The brougham I was fetched in,” muttered Chester, and hailing a cab he said sharply, “Follow that carriage at a short distance till I tell you to stop.”
He was not surprised at the direction taken by the carriage in front, which was kept just in sight till it turned into Bow Street, when Chester signed to his driver to stop, and sprang out, turning the corner just in time to see the carriage slowly passing in its turn through the gateway leading under the portico of the opera.
He followed to find that the occupants had alighted, and upon entering the lobby he caught sight of the back of Marion’s dress as she swept through one of the great baize-covered doors.
Here there was a check. The door-keeper held out his hand for the customary ticket, and Chester turned impatiently away, to go to the box-office, when for the first time it struck him that he was not in evening dress, and could not pass into the stalls.
He stood biting his lips, and hesitating as to whether he should take a cab back home, to dress, and return, but he felt that he could not do that. A dozen things might happen to prevent his catching sight of Marion again; and snatching at the first idea that came, he took a ticket for the upper part of the house, hired an opera-glass and then climbed nearly to the top.
Here upon taking a seat he came out again in despair. Even with the aid of the glass he found he could not get a glimpse of a third of the house, and feeling that at all costs he must get into the stalls in as central a position as possible, he descended again to the box-office, and secured a stall nearly in the centre of the third row.
Having made sure of his seat, he hurried back to Raybeck Square calculating that he could be back within an hour.
Bidding the cabman wait, he sprang up to his room, conscious of the fact that Aunt Grace was watching; and after his hurried change he knew by the ajar door of the drawing-room that she was there watching still.
But this passed almost unnoticed in the excitement, and once more he was in the cab, eager and with his imagination running riot.
“What an idiot I was not to ask the number of their box,” he said to himself.
He did ask as soon as he reached the opera house, and found it was almost central on the grand tier; but after taking his place he had no opportunity for turning round till the end of the act in progress, and he sat trembling with excitement and wondering whether Marion had recognised him as he entered.
The stage, the music, the house crowded with a fashionable assembly, were non-existent to Chester, as he sat there gazing in imagination at a face—the face of the woman who from their first encounter seemed to have taken entire possession of his faculties, enchaining his spirit so that he seemed to live and breathe for her alone.
“Will this wretched singing never end?” he said to himself, as one of the great Italian singers filled the vast place with the clear, vibrating tones of her voice. “The fools! The idiots!” he muttered angrily as the plaudits rang out at the end of the scene; and then he sat waiting till at last the drop scene descended and, lorgnette in hand, he rose and, to avoid the air of being too sudden, he slowly swept the grand tier of boxes, beginning on his right near the stage, feeling that Marion must be watching him, and profoundly unconscious of the fact that scores to right and left were doing the same.
When the field of his glass drew nearer to the box upon which he sought to focus it, he grew slower in his movements, as if desirous of delaying the supreme delight for a few moments longer, but at last he stopped short, gazing with every fibre thrilling at the beautiful, imperious face which held him as if fascinated.
The faces of her companions were to right and left, each occupying a corner of the box, while Marion was seated a little back, looking dull and preoccupied, while she slowly waved a large black fan, which threw her face into partial shadow from time to time.
For the first minute, as he drank in the various beauties of the countenance which seemed to be so near, Chester felt that she must be seeing him, but directly after he knew that she was looking dull and listless, and as if she felt the scene before her wearisome in the extreme.
There could be no mistake. It was she. There was not such another face in the wide world; and yet he hesitated to go round to the box, asking himself whether he could—whether he had any right to force himself upon the notice of those who had plainly enough their reasons for wishing to cut all connection with him as soon as his patient was out of danger.
“They may wish to, but she cannot. It is impossible. She must be ready to place her hand in mine. Perhaps even now that dull, weary look may be connected with our sudden parting. Who knows? Yes, come what may, I will go.”
Chester passed slowly along the row and out into the entry, went up the broad stairs, and with his heart increasing its pulsations rapidly, he stopped at last at the door of a box, drew a deep breath, and then tapped lightly.
There was no reply and he tapped again.
This time there was a movement within, the catch was drawn back, the door thrown open, and a deep voice exclaimed—
“How late you are! Hallo!”
Chester had been in the act of stepping in, but paused on the threshold, completely taken aback at finding a gentleman in the box, while the speaker, who had not risen, but leaned back, balancing himself on two legs of his chair, fell over side-wise in his astonishment, but saved himself by catching at the partition.
He sprang up the next moment, as Chester recovered himself and advanced, but neither of the three ladies, who had turned, made the slightest movement towards acknowledging him, and left it to their companion to speak.
“May I ask whom you wish to see, sir?”
“Certainly,” replied Chester, quietly, “Mrs James, Mrs Dennis, Miss Clareborough—”
No one moved. He might have been addressing so many statues, as he went on—
“And Mr Dennis Clareborough.”
“You seem to have our names right, sir,” said the stalwart young fellow, shortly, “but I have not the pleasure of knowing you.”
“Indeed!” said Chester. “Is your memory so short, sir? May I ask after your cousin’s wound?”
“Certainly, if you like, sir,” replied the young man, with a little laugh, “but I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”
Chester felt nettled and turned to the lady in the centre, who sat looking over the back of her chair.
“Perhaps Miss Marion Clareborough will tell me how her brother is progressing?”
“Dennis,” said one of the ladies, before any reply could be made, “is this a friend of yours? If so, introduce us.”
“Friend of mine? Hang it, no! Gentleman has got into the wrong box. Never saw him before in my life. What number did you want, sir?”
“This,” said Chester, sternly, as he looked the young man fiercely in the eyes. “Perhaps Miss Clareborough will speak. Believe me, I took great interest in your brother’s case. Can I see him again?”
The lady he addressed turned to one of her companions and whispered a few words, whereupon Mrs James said coldly—
“Will you help this gentleman to find the box he is in search of, Dennis? The place is so dark now the curtain is down, and he does not see the mistake he has made.”
“No, that’s it,” said the young man. “Ah, here you are, then, at last,” he cried, as the entrance was darkened by another figure. “Come in. This gentleman wants to find some friends of his, and he has come to this box by mistake.”
“Indeed!” and Chester at that one word felt the blood surge up to his temples, and a fierce sensation of passion began to make his nerves tingle.
“Well,” continued the speaker, “it’s very easy, dear boy. Places are so confoundedly dark. Couldn’t get here sooner, girls; man detained me at the club—I beg pardon, sir; the box-keeper could no doubt help you.”
The cool, contemptuous manner of the man took away Chester’s breath, and he felt himself almost compelled to give place.
“Thanks, much,” said the newcomer, drawing slightly aside for Chester to back out. “Don’t apologise. They ought to light up the house more when the curtain is down.”
The next moment the door was thrust to, the catch snapped, and as Chester stood there, undecided what to do, he could hear the voices within carrying on a conversation which sounded so calm and matter-of-fact that in his excited state the listener asked himself whether he was in his right senses, and at last hurried away, to pause in the refreshment-room and drink off a glass of brandy to steady his nerves.
He did not return to his seat in the stalls, but stopped in the entry, where, invisible in the gloom, partially hidden by one of the curtains, he stood using his glass upon the occupants of the box he had so lately quitted.
As he stood there, feeling half stunned, he went over the words that had passed and the action of the inmates, forgetting that all was quite consistent with the conduct he might have expected from people whose whole behaviour had been mysterious and strange.
At last he saw a movement among those he was watching, and, desperate almost with rage and despair, he hurried round to station himself in the lobby, where he felt certain that the party must pass. But they were so long in coming that he was about to seek another doorway.
Then he saw that he was right, for the big, bluff-looking brother and cousin came by without seeing him, spoke to the footman Chester had seen at the house, and then returned, as if to join their party.
A few minutes later they came out slowly amongst the crowd, the tide turning them quite to the outside, so that they were close to him who watched them intently, as if in doubt of his own sanity, wondering whether he could have made any mistake.
“No,” he whispered to himself, as he fixed his eyes on the beautiful woman, upon whose arm he could have laid his hand, so close was she to him as she passed.
It was as if his steady gaze influenced her, for when she was just abreast she turned her head quickly, and her eyes met his full as she rested her hand upon the stalwart young fellow’s arm.
Chester’s look seemed to fascinate her, for her eyes were fixed and strange in those brief moments. Then she passed on, gazing straight before her. There was no start, no sign of the slightest emotion. It was simply the inquiring look of one who seemed to fancy he was the personage who had made his appearance in their box, otherwise one whom she had never before seen.
The impulse was strong upon Chester to follow, but for quite a minute he stood feeling as if he had been stunned.
Then, with a strange, harsh utterance, he forced himself roughly through the well-dressed crowd in his endeavours to follow the party, but weeks of anxiety and abnormal excitement were taking their toll at last; a sudden giddiness attacked him, and with a heavy groan he reeled and fell in the midst of the pleasure-seeking throng.
Chapter Fifteen.Aunt Grace’s Cure.Chester was borne into the box-office, and a medical man sent for, under whose ministrations he recovered consciousness, and soon after was able to declare who he was and his ability to return home unaided.In the short conversation, the doctor, upon learning that his patient was a fellow-practitioner, took upon himself to utter a few words of warning.“Mustn’t trifle with this sort of thing, my friend,” he said. “You know that as well as I can tell you, eh?”“Yes, yes,” said Chester, irritably; “I’ll take more care. I have been over-doing it lately, but,” he added, with a curious laugh, “you see I was taking a little relaxation to-night.”“Humph! Yes, I see,” said the doctor, watching him curiously. “Well, you feel that you can go home alone?”“Oh yes; see me into a cab, please. Thanks for all you have done. Only a touch of vertigo.”“‘Only a touch of vertigo,’” said the strange doctor, as he saw the hansom driven off. “‘Only a touch of vertigo’ means sometimes the first step towards a lunatic asylum.”“Ah!” muttered Chester, while being driven homewards, “people look at me as if I were going wrong in my head. I wonder whether I am.”He laughed as he let himself in and heard a rustle on the stairs. “Watching again,” he said to himself. “And they think I’m going wrong, I suppose. But how strange! That utter denial of all knowledge of me. Even she!”He went into his room, and sat thinking of the incidents of the day and evening for some hours before throwing himself upon his bed, but was down at the usual time in the morning, partook of the unsocial breakfast and rose almost without saying a word.“Yes, what is it?” said Chester, sharply, for Laura hurried to his side and laid her hand upon his arm. “Money for housekeeping?”“No—no!” cried his sister, angrily, and there she paused.“Well, speak, then; don’t stop me. I am busy this morning.”“I must stop you, Fred,” cried Laura, passionately. “We cannot go on like this.”“Why?” he said calmly. “Because we are brother and sister. We have always been as one together. You have had no secrets from me. I have had none from you. I have always been so proud of my brother’s love for me, but now all at once everything comes to an end. You withhold your confidence.”“No; my confidence, perhaps, for the time being,” he said gravely; “not my love from you. God forbid.”“But you do, Fred.”“No; it is more the other way on,” he replied. “You have withheld your love from me, and checked any disposition I might have felt to confide in you.”“Fred!”“Don’t deny it,” he said quietly. “Since I was called away so strangely, and kept away against my will—”“Against your will!” cried Laura, scornfully.“Hah!” he cried, “it is of no use to argue with you, my child. Poor old aunt has so thoroughly imbued you with her doctrines of suspicion that everything I say will be in vain.”“Imbued me with her suspicions!” cried Laura, angrily. “That is it; because I am quite a girl still you treat me as if I were a child. Do you—oh, I cannot say it!—yes, I will; I am your sister, and it is my duty to try and save you from something which will cause you regret to the end of your days. Do you dare to deny that you have got into some wretched entanglement—something which has suddenly turned you half mad?”“No,” he said quietly. “That is so.”“Then how can you go on like this? You have broken poor Isabel’s heart, estranged everybody’s love from you, and are running headlong to ruin. Fred—brother, for all our sakes, stop before it is too late.”He looked at her mournfully, took her hand and kissed it, and with a passionate burst of sobbing she flung her arms about his neck and clung there.“Then you do repent, Fred? You will go there no more. Listen, dear; I forgive you everything now, because you are going to be my true, brave, noble brother again, and after a time—some day—Isabel will forgive you too; for she does love you still, Fred, in spite of all. There—there,” she cried, kissing him again and again, “it is all over now.”Chester loosened her hands from his neck and shook his head sadly.“No, Laury,” he said, “it is not all over now.”“What!” she cried quickly. “You will not—you cannot go back now.”“Yes,” he said, “even if you do not forgive me, I must.”“Fred!”“Look here, little one,” he said wearily; “you have grown to think and act like a woman, and you complain that I do not confide in you. Well, I will be frank with you to some extent. Laura dear, I am not my own master. I cannot do as you wish.”“Fred, you must.”“Say that to some poor creature who is smitten with a terrible mental complaint; tell him he must be ill no longer, but cast off the ailment. What will he reply?”He paused for an answer, but his sister stood gazing at him without a word.“He will tell you that he would do so gladly, but that it is impossible.”“But this is not impossible, Fred,” cried Laura; “and you are again treating me like a child. Yes, I have begun to think like a woman, and though it may sound shameless I will speak out. Do you think that we do not know that all this is wicked dissipation?”He laughed bitterly, as he pressed his hand to his weary head.“You do not know—you do not know.”“Yes,” cried Laura, embracing him again; “I know that my poor brother has yielded to some temptation, but I know, too, that it only needs a strong, brave, manly effort to throw it all off; and then we might be happy once more.”He took her face between his hands and looked down at her lovingly for a few minutes, then kissed her brow tenderly.“No,” he said; “you do not understand, my child. I am not master of my actions now.”He hurried from the room. Then she heard the door close, and his footsteps hurrying up the stairs followed by the banging of his door.“Lost, lost!” she wailed; and she threw herself sobbing upon the couch.“Well!” said a sharp voice, and the girl started up and tried hard to remove all traces of her tears.“I did not hear you come in, aunt dear.”“Perhaps not, my love, but I have been waiting and listening. Well, what does he say about coming home in that state last night? I’m sure, my dear, that was wine! Is he going to be a good boy now?”Laura uttered a passionate sob.“Oh no, aunt, oh no!” she cried.“Because if he is and will repent very seriously, I may some day, perhaps, forgive him. But I must have full assurance that he is really sorry for all his wickedness. What did he say, child?”“Nothing, aunt. It is hopeless—hopeless.”“Then I was right at first. He has gone quite out of his mind, and I fully believe that it is our duty to have him put under restraint.”“Aunt!” cried Laura, wildly.“Yes, my dear. That is the only cure for such a complaint as his. A private asylum, Laury dear.”“Oh, aunt, impossible! How can you say anything so horrible?”“My dearest child, nothing can be horrible that is to do a person good. It is quite evident to me that he can no longer control his actions.”“No, he said so,” sobbed Laura.“Hah! I knew I was right. Well, then, my dear, we must think it over seriously. You see, the weakness must have come on suddenly. How, he and somebody else best know,” said the lady, with asperity. “You see, attacks like that are only temporary, and his would, I am sure, yield to proper treatment. Now let me see what ought to be the first steps? This is a valuable practice, if he has not completely wrecked it by his wicked dissipation, and I think it ought to be our first duty, my dear, to get a permanentlocum tenens—a man of some eminence, who might be induced to come if some hope were held out to him of a future partnership. Then we could consult him about what to do, for I believe certificates have to be obtained before a patient is sent to an asylum.”“Aunt! Are you going mad too?” cried Laura, angrily.“Laura! my child!”“Well, then, you should not say such horrid things about Fred. Consult a perfect stranger about putting him into a lunatic asylum! Oh, shame!”“Shame to you, Laura, for daring to speak to me as you do. Do you want him to have one of those what-do-you-call-thems?—Para-para-para-dox—no, no, paroxysms; and then do as mad people always do, turn against those they love best? Do you want him to come some night and murder us both in our beds?”“No, aunt, of course not,” said Laura, growing more cool and matter-of-fact now.“Then do not from any false sentiment begin to oppose me. A few months under proper treatment in a good private asylum, and he would come back completely strengthened and cured. Now, let me see; I think under the circumstances that we ought first of all, my dear, to take poor dear Isabel into our confidences.”“Aunt!” cried Laura; “if you dare to tell Isabel that you think such a dreadful thing of poor Fred I don’t know what I will not do.”“Dare, Laura, dare?” said Aunt Grace, sternly.“Yes, aunt, dare!” cried the girl. “If you do I’ll tell poor Bel that it is one of your hallucinations, and that you have got softening of the brain.”“Laura!” shrieked the old lady, as she sank back in the nearest chair. “Oh, that I should live to hear such words! You horrible, abandoned child!”“I’m very sorry, auntie,” said Laura, coolly, “but you always impressed upon me that I should tell the truth. You must be getting imbecile, or you would never have proposed such a dreadful thing.”“Laura!”“Yes, aunt; it is a sign, too, that you know it is coming on. You must have been thinking of madhouses, and that made you speak.”“Worse and worse!” wailed the old lady. “You must be getting as bad as your brother. Actually siding with him now!”“No, aunt, only pitying him, for I am beginning to believe that he is suffering worse than we are.”
Chester was borne into the box-office, and a medical man sent for, under whose ministrations he recovered consciousness, and soon after was able to declare who he was and his ability to return home unaided.
In the short conversation, the doctor, upon learning that his patient was a fellow-practitioner, took upon himself to utter a few words of warning.
“Mustn’t trifle with this sort of thing, my friend,” he said. “You know that as well as I can tell you, eh?”
“Yes, yes,” said Chester, irritably; “I’ll take more care. I have been over-doing it lately, but,” he added, with a curious laugh, “you see I was taking a little relaxation to-night.”
“Humph! Yes, I see,” said the doctor, watching him curiously. “Well, you feel that you can go home alone?”
“Oh yes; see me into a cab, please. Thanks for all you have done. Only a touch of vertigo.”
“‘Only a touch of vertigo,’” said the strange doctor, as he saw the hansom driven off. “‘Only a touch of vertigo’ means sometimes the first step towards a lunatic asylum.”
“Ah!” muttered Chester, while being driven homewards, “people look at me as if I were going wrong in my head. I wonder whether I am.”
He laughed as he let himself in and heard a rustle on the stairs. “Watching again,” he said to himself. “And they think I’m going wrong, I suppose. But how strange! That utter denial of all knowledge of me. Even she!”
He went into his room, and sat thinking of the incidents of the day and evening for some hours before throwing himself upon his bed, but was down at the usual time in the morning, partook of the unsocial breakfast and rose almost without saying a word.
“Yes, what is it?” said Chester, sharply, for Laura hurried to his side and laid her hand upon his arm. “Money for housekeeping?”
“No—no!” cried his sister, angrily, and there she paused.
“Well, speak, then; don’t stop me. I am busy this morning.”
“I must stop you, Fred,” cried Laura, passionately. “We cannot go on like this.”
“Why?” he said calmly. “Because we are brother and sister. We have always been as one together. You have had no secrets from me. I have had none from you. I have always been so proud of my brother’s love for me, but now all at once everything comes to an end. You withhold your confidence.”
“No; my confidence, perhaps, for the time being,” he said gravely; “not my love from you. God forbid.”
“But you do, Fred.”
“No; it is more the other way on,” he replied. “You have withheld your love from me, and checked any disposition I might have felt to confide in you.”
“Fred!”
“Don’t deny it,” he said quietly. “Since I was called away so strangely, and kept away against my will—”
“Against your will!” cried Laura, scornfully.
“Hah!” he cried, “it is of no use to argue with you, my child. Poor old aunt has so thoroughly imbued you with her doctrines of suspicion that everything I say will be in vain.”
“Imbued me with her suspicions!” cried Laura, angrily. “That is it; because I am quite a girl still you treat me as if I were a child. Do you—oh, I cannot say it!—yes, I will; I am your sister, and it is my duty to try and save you from something which will cause you regret to the end of your days. Do you dare to deny that you have got into some wretched entanglement—something which has suddenly turned you half mad?”
“No,” he said quietly. “That is so.”
“Then how can you go on like this? You have broken poor Isabel’s heart, estranged everybody’s love from you, and are running headlong to ruin. Fred—brother, for all our sakes, stop before it is too late.”
He looked at her mournfully, took her hand and kissed it, and with a passionate burst of sobbing she flung her arms about his neck and clung there.
“Then you do repent, Fred? You will go there no more. Listen, dear; I forgive you everything now, because you are going to be my true, brave, noble brother again, and after a time—some day—Isabel will forgive you too; for she does love you still, Fred, in spite of all. There—there,” she cried, kissing him again and again, “it is all over now.”
Chester loosened her hands from his neck and shook his head sadly.
“No, Laury,” he said, “it is not all over now.”
“What!” she cried quickly. “You will not—you cannot go back now.”
“Yes,” he said, “even if you do not forgive me, I must.”
“Fred!”
“Look here, little one,” he said wearily; “you have grown to think and act like a woman, and you complain that I do not confide in you. Well, I will be frank with you to some extent. Laura dear, I am not my own master. I cannot do as you wish.”
“Fred, you must.”
“Say that to some poor creature who is smitten with a terrible mental complaint; tell him he must be ill no longer, but cast off the ailment. What will he reply?”
He paused for an answer, but his sister stood gazing at him without a word.
“He will tell you that he would do so gladly, but that it is impossible.”
“But this is not impossible, Fred,” cried Laura; “and you are again treating me like a child. Yes, I have begun to think like a woman, and though it may sound shameless I will speak out. Do you think that we do not know that all this is wicked dissipation?”
He laughed bitterly, as he pressed his hand to his weary head.
“You do not know—you do not know.”
“Yes,” cried Laura, embracing him again; “I know that my poor brother has yielded to some temptation, but I know, too, that it only needs a strong, brave, manly effort to throw it all off; and then we might be happy once more.”
He took her face between his hands and looked down at her lovingly for a few minutes, then kissed her brow tenderly.
“No,” he said; “you do not understand, my child. I am not master of my actions now.”
He hurried from the room. Then she heard the door close, and his footsteps hurrying up the stairs followed by the banging of his door.
“Lost, lost!” she wailed; and she threw herself sobbing upon the couch.
“Well!” said a sharp voice, and the girl started up and tried hard to remove all traces of her tears.
“I did not hear you come in, aunt dear.”
“Perhaps not, my love, but I have been waiting and listening. Well, what does he say about coming home in that state last night? I’m sure, my dear, that was wine! Is he going to be a good boy now?”
Laura uttered a passionate sob.
“Oh no, aunt, oh no!” she cried.
“Because if he is and will repent very seriously, I may some day, perhaps, forgive him. But I must have full assurance that he is really sorry for all his wickedness. What did he say, child?”
“Nothing, aunt. It is hopeless—hopeless.”
“Then I was right at first. He has gone quite out of his mind, and I fully believe that it is our duty to have him put under restraint.”
“Aunt!” cried Laura, wildly.
“Yes, my dear. That is the only cure for such a complaint as his. A private asylum, Laury dear.”
“Oh, aunt, impossible! How can you say anything so horrible?”
“My dearest child, nothing can be horrible that is to do a person good. It is quite evident to me that he can no longer control his actions.”
“No, he said so,” sobbed Laura.
“Hah! I knew I was right. Well, then, my dear, we must think it over seriously. You see, the weakness must have come on suddenly. How, he and somebody else best know,” said the lady, with asperity. “You see, attacks like that are only temporary, and his would, I am sure, yield to proper treatment. Now let me see what ought to be the first steps? This is a valuable practice, if he has not completely wrecked it by his wicked dissipation, and I think it ought to be our first duty, my dear, to get a permanentlocum tenens—a man of some eminence, who might be induced to come if some hope were held out to him of a future partnership. Then we could consult him about what to do, for I believe certificates have to be obtained before a patient is sent to an asylum.”
“Aunt! Are you going mad too?” cried Laura, angrily.
“Laura! my child!”
“Well, then, you should not say such horrid things about Fred. Consult a perfect stranger about putting him into a lunatic asylum! Oh, shame!”
“Shame to you, Laura, for daring to speak to me as you do. Do you want him to have one of those what-do-you-call-thems?—Para-para-para-dox—no, no, paroxysms; and then do as mad people always do, turn against those they love best? Do you want him to come some night and murder us both in our beds?”
“No, aunt, of course not,” said Laura, growing more cool and matter-of-fact now.
“Then do not from any false sentiment begin to oppose me. A few months under proper treatment in a good private asylum, and he would come back completely strengthened and cured. Now, let me see; I think under the circumstances that we ought first of all, my dear, to take poor dear Isabel into our confidences.”
“Aunt!” cried Laura; “if you dare to tell Isabel that you think such a dreadful thing of poor Fred I don’t know what I will not do.”
“Dare, Laura, dare?” said Aunt Grace, sternly.
“Yes, aunt, dare!” cried the girl. “If you do I’ll tell poor Bel that it is one of your hallucinations, and that you have got softening of the brain.”
“Laura!” shrieked the old lady, as she sank back in the nearest chair. “Oh, that I should live to hear such words! You horrible, abandoned child!”
“I’m very sorry, auntie,” said Laura, coolly, “but you always impressed upon me that I should tell the truth. You must be getting imbecile, or you would never have proposed such a dreadful thing.”
“Laura!”
“Yes, aunt; it is a sign, too, that you know it is coming on. You must have been thinking of madhouses, and that made you speak.”
“Worse and worse!” wailed the old lady. “You must be getting as bad as your brother. Actually siding with him now!”
“No, aunt, only pitying him, for I am beginning to believe that he is suffering worse than we are.”