Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.The Young Ladies.Ella Bedford might well be excused for looking with astonished eyes at the three juveniles to whom she was expected to teach deportment in connection with music and language—British and foreign; for the first that presented herself was a square-shaped child of about six, very red-eyed and smudgy from the application of a pair of grubby fists to remove the tears not yet dry, evidently on account of the absence of a pocket-handkerchief, which absence was also plainly otherwise manifested.Number two, about a year and a half older, was a young lady gifted with a perpetual sniff, in which she indulged as she stood and stared at the new governess, an operation she was abetted in by number three, a young lady of ten, with tousley hair, and an inclination to rub one ear with a bony bare shoulder, which was continually hitching itself out of the loose shoulder-straps, and rising up as its owner gave herself a writhe, and then lolled against the drawing-room table, which creaked audibly at the infliction.“This, my dears,” said Mrs Marter, pointing at Ella with her gold eyeglass, and speaking in an imposing showman-like voice, as if she was exhibiting some new curiosity—“this, my dears, is Miss Bedford, your new governess. Eleonora, you may shake hands with her.”Thus adjured, Eleonora, the eldest and tousley of head, gave her shoulder a hitch out of the straps, and sulkily held out a hand elegantly veined and marbled from the want of saponaceous applications.“Alicia, you may shake hands with your new governess,” said Mrs Marter again, evidently addressing the second daughter, who did not move. “Alicia, did you hear me? Go and shake hands with your new instructress.”“Sha’n’t?” said Alicia, twisting her feet about so as to loosen a shoe, and sniffing directly afterwards in a defiant manner.“What do I hear?” exclaimed Mrs Marter. “Go correctly, and shake hands with Miss Bedford!”“Shan’t!” said Alicia, tucking her hands behind her, and sniffing again abundantly, as she, to show her dislike to governesses in general, made what is termed “a face” at the new-comer—that is to say, she contracted the skin of her little snub nose, half-closed her eyes, and lolled out her tongue in a most prepossessing manner; though Ella, not being of the medical profession, could very well have dispensed with the last attention.“Alicia, I’ve told you before that that is very coarse and vulgar,” said Mrs Marter mildly, for the young lady’s back being turned, she did not see the physiognomical contortions. “You must not say ‘sha’n’t!’ but, if you do not wish to shake hands with Miss Bedford: ‘I would rather not,’ or, ‘I do not wish to do so.’—Selina, my darling, you will do as mamma tells you—won’t you? Now, my love, you go and shake hands with your new governess.”Ella took a step forward, and held out her hand, when mamma’s darling’s face contracted, and directly after she spat fiercely at the new-comer, and then ran howling behind the sofa.“Naughty Seliny—naughty Seliny!” said Mrs Marter. “You see, Miss Bedford, you are strange to them yet. They will know you better soon.”“I sha’n’t do no lessons,” said Alicia defiantly; “and I’ve burnt my book.”“Fie, fie!” said Mrs Marter sweetly.“Licy pushed me downstairs, mar,” said the darling behind the sofa.“No, I didn’t,” shouted Alicia; “she tumbled.”“There’s a big story!” cried Eleonora. “She put her hands on her back, mar, and pushed her as hard as she could—”Smack!“Boo—boo—bo—oh!”Before Miss Eleonora had finished her sentence, her sweet sister had smitten her upon the mouth so sharply, that her lip bled, and she burst forth into a loud howl.“There, my dears, I cannot have this to-day.—Miss Bedford, be kind enough to see them into the schoolroom.—There, it’s of no use, Selina; if you will not go, you must be carried.—There, for goodness’ sake, Miss Bedford, what are you thinking about? Take her up in your arms and carry her.”Ella obeyed; for Miss Selina had refused to leave the room, clinging tightly to mamma’s skirts till she was carried off, fighting furiously, and slapping and scratching at her bearer’s face in such a way that, could Charley Vining have been a spectator, he would have been frantic.“Never mind her scratching,” said the eldest girl; “she always does like that. This way.”And in a few moments more Ella was able to deposit her precious charge in the schoolroom, where, set free, the sweet innocent revenged herself again by spitting, till the upper housemaid was summoned, and led Ella to her own room.“I pity you, miss, I do,” said the woman kindly. “You’re no more fit to manage them young rips than nothing. They’re spoilt in the drawing-room, and encouraged in everything.”“Thank you,” said Ella gently; “you mean kindly, I am sure; but pray say no more. Let me find it out by degrees.”“Well, that’s best, certainly, miss,” said the woman, who eagerly assisted her to take off her things, and then hurried down to help get up the luggage; while Ella—did she break down and burst into weak tears?No; smiling sadly, she determined to bear the burden that was to be hers, and nerved herself for the coming battle; so that when the housemaid returned and helped uncord the luggage, she was rewarded with a sweet and cheerful smile, which was repeated when she said she would go down and make Miss Bedford a cup of tea.Ten minutes later, when, after coaxing the kettle to boil with a few pieces of bundle London fire-wood, she was making that infusion that is considered by the fair sex to be a balm and refreshment for every pain and fatigue, she expressed herself loudly to her fellow-servants, to the effect that “that was quite an angel they had got upstairs. But it’s my belief,” she added, “that the poor thing don’t know what she’s got to put up with.”
Ella Bedford might well be excused for looking with astonished eyes at the three juveniles to whom she was expected to teach deportment in connection with music and language—British and foreign; for the first that presented herself was a square-shaped child of about six, very red-eyed and smudgy from the application of a pair of grubby fists to remove the tears not yet dry, evidently on account of the absence of a pocket-handkerchief, which absence was also plainly otherwise manifested.
Number two, about a year and a half older, was a young lady gifted with a perpetual sniff, in which she indulged as she stood and stared at the new governess, an operation she was abetted in by number three, a young lady of ten, with tousley hair, and an inclination to rub one ear with a bony bare shoulder, which was continually hitching itself out of the loose shoulder-straps, and rising up as its owner gave herself a writhe, and then lolled against the drawing-room table, which creaked audibly at the infliction.
“This, my dears,” said Mrs Marter, pointing at Ella with her gold eyeglass, and speaking in an imposing showman-like voice, as if she was exhibiting some new curiosity—“this, my dears, is Miss Bedford, your new governess. Eleonora, you may shake hands with her.”
Thus adjured, Eleonora, the eldest and tousley of head, gave her shoulder a hitch out of the straps, and sulkily held out a hand elegantly veined and marbled from the want of saponaceous applications.
“Alicia, you may shake hands with your new governess,” said Mrs Marter again, evidently addressing the second daughter, who did not move. “Alicia, did you hear me? Go and shake hands with your new instructress.”
“Sha’n’t?” said Alicia, twisting her feet about so as to loosen a shoe, and sniffing directly afterwards in a defiant manner.
“What do I hear?” exclaimed Mrs Marter. “Go correctly, and shake hands with Miss Bedford!”
“Shan’t!” said Alicia, tucking her hands behind her, and sniffing again abundantly, as she, to show her dislike to governesses in general, made what is termed “a face” at the new-comer—that is to say, she contracted the skin of her little snub nose, half-closed her eyes, and lolled out her tongue in a most prepossessing manner; though Ella, not being of the medical profession, could very well have dispensed with the last attention.
“Alicia, I’ve told you before that that is very coarse and vulgar,” said Mrs Marter mildly, for the young lady’s back being turned, she did not see the physiognomical contortions. “You must not say ‘sha’n’t!’ but, if you do not wish to shake hands with Miss Bedford: ‘I would rather not,’ or, ‘I do not wish to do so.’—Selina, my darling, you will do as mamma tells you—won’t you? Now, my love, you go and shake hands with your new governess.”
Ella took a step forward, and held out her hand, when mamma’s darling’s face contracted, and directly after she spat fiercely at the new-comer, and then ran howling behind the sofa.
“Naughty Seliny—naughty Seliny!” said Mrs Marter. “You see, Miss Bedford, you are strange to them yet. They will know you better soon.”
“I sha’n’t do no lessons,” said Alicia defiantly; “and I’ve burnt my book.”
“Fie, fie!” said Mrs Marter sweetly.
“Licy pushed me downstairs, mar,” said the darling behind the sofa.
“No, I didn’t,” shouted Alicia; “she tumbled.”
“There’s a big story!” cried Eleonora. “She put her hands on her back, mar, and pushed her as hard as she could—”
Smack!
“Boo—boo—bo—oh!”
Before Miss Eleonora had finished her sentence, her sweet sister had smitten her upon the mouth so sharply, that her lip bled, and she burst forth into a loud howl.
“There, my dears, I cannot have this to-day.—Miss Bedford, be kind enough to see them into the schoolroom.—There, it’s of no use, Selina; if you will not go, you must be carried.—There, for goodness’ sake, Miss Bedford, what are you thinking about? Take her up in your arms and carry her.”
Ella obeyed; for Miss Selina had refused to leave the room, clinging tightly to mamma’s skirts till she was carried off, fighting furiously, and slapping and scratching at her bearer’s face in such a way that, could Charley Vining have been a spectator, he would have been frantic.
“Never mind her scratching,” said the eldest girl; “she always does like that. This way.”
And in a few moments more Ella was able to deposit her precious charge in the schoolroom, where, set free, the sweet innocent revenged herself again by spitting, till the upper housemaid was summoned, and led Ella to her own room.
“I pity you, miss, I do,” said the woman kindly. “You’re no more fit to manage them young rips than nothing. They’re spoilt in the drawing-room, and encouraged in everything.”
“Thank you,” said Ella gently; “you mean kindly, I am sure; but pray say no more. Let me find it out by degrees.”
“Well, that’s best, certainly, miss,” said the woman, who eagerly assisted her to take off her things, and then hurried down to help get up the luggage; while Ella—did she break down and burst into weak tears?
No; smiling sadly, she determined to bear the burden that was to be hers, and nerved herself for the coming battle; so that when the housemaid returned and helped uncord the luggage, she was rewarded with a sweet and cheerful smile, which was repeated when she said she would go down and make Miss Bedford a cup of tea.
Ten minutes later, when, after coaxing the kettle to boil with a few pieces of bundle London fire-wood, she was making that infusion that is considered by the fair sex to be a balm and refreshment for every pain and fatigue, she expressed herself loudly to her fellow-servants, to the effect that “that was quite an angel they had got upstairs. But it’s my belief,” she added, “that the poor thing don’t know what she’s got to put up with.”
Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.Change of Scene.It was not until Ella had been gone a fortnight that Charley Vining learned the news of her departure; as it happened, upon the same day that it was brought home to Max Bray that his visits to Laneton were of no effect.But he was shrewd, was Max Bray; and encountering Charley directly after, and reading his disappointment in his face, he assumed an air of perfect contentment himself, played with the ring upon his watch-chain, and passed his rival with a mocking smile.Five minutes after, Charley was at Copse Hall face to face with Edward the hard, who encountered him with a shake of the head.“Show me in to your mistress,” said Charley hoarsely; and it was done.Mrs Brandon was seated working, but she rose, evidently much agitated, as her visitor entered to catch her hands in his, and look imploringly in her face.“I have only just learned the news,” he said. “Dear Mrs Brandon, you know why I have come! Be pitiful! See how I suffer! Tell me where she is gone!”“I cannot,” was the gentle reply, as, with a mother’s tenderness, Mrs Brandon pressed him back into a seat. “You forget that I have given my word to Sir Philip.”Charley groaned bitterly.“You are all against me!” he cried reproachfully. “You measure me by others. You do not know the depth of my feelings towards her. You all think that in a few days—a month—a year—all will be forgotten; but, Mrs Brandon, it grows upon me with the obstacles I encounter. But you will at least tell me to what part of England she has gone?”Mrs Brandon shook her head.“It was her wish—her express wish—that her retreat should not be known, Mr Vining; and, in addition to what I promised to your father, I must respect that wish.”Charley looked sternly at her for a moment, and then rose, and without a word left the room; Mrs Brandon following him with a sympathising look, till the door closed upon him.“I must be a boy—a simple boy!” muttered Charley fiercely; “for they treat me as such. My father, this Mrs Brandon, and even Max Bray laugh at me! But,” he muttered fiercely, “I may be a boy; but these bitternesses will soon make me a man—such a man as they do not dream of! Give her up? Yes, when I see her in Max Bray’s arms—not before!”Then he laughed, almost lightly, at the utter impossibility of such a termination, and returned to Blandfield after vainly trying to obtain information at the Laneton station of Ella’s whereabouts. He could find that a young lady answering his description had taken a ticket for London; that was all; and in spite of his laugh of assurance, that was all the information that had so far been obtained by Max Bray.But there are ways and means of finding all who play at hide and seek; England, as a rule, proving to be too small a place to conceal those who are diligently sought.Max Bray knew that well enough; and returning to town, he sat tapping his white teeth as he made his plans; on the whole feeling very well satisfied at the change in the base of operations, since, in spite of his hippopotamus hide, he was beginning to be a little annoyed at the notice taken of his visits to Laneton. Old women were in the habit of thrusting their heads out of their cottage doors to watch him; servant-girls would titter; and on more than one countenance of the male sex there would often be a stolid grin.It was satisfactory, then, on the whole, for London presented many advantages to a scheming mind; but the first thing to be found out was whether Ella were in London.Max was seated in one of the windows of his club, as he ran over his arrangements; then rising, he ordered a cab, and drove away, ignorant of the fact that the hall boy was imitating his gestures for the benefit of the porter, who was convulsed with laughter.That same day, without a word to Sir Philip, Charley started for town.A week later, and, to his surprise, Charley Vining, who was staying at Long’s, involuntarily raised his hat as the Brays’ carriage passed him, with Mrs Bray and Laura on the back seat, Nelly and a stranger on the front. So introspective was Charley as he stood upon the hotel steps, that the carriage would have passed him unnoticed if a loud shrill voice had not shouted his name, when, starting and looking up, he saw Nelly, flushed and excited, leaning over the side of the barouche, as if ready to jump into his arms. But the carriage passed on; and though by a little exertion he might easily have overtaken it in the crowded street, beyond raising his hat, Charley made no movement.Ten minutes after, an empty hansom passing, Charley hailed it, gave his orders, and was soon being spun along through the streets, thinking over the encounter he had just had, and wondering whether Sir Philip Vining would be the next to make his appearance.“To see what I am doing!” said Charley bitterly. And then his thoughts reverted to the past, and he came to the conclusion that it does not fall to the lot of any of us to pass a life of uninterrupted happiness, such as his had been until he first set eyes upon Ella.“Branksome-street, sir?” cried the driver through his little trap-door. “Number nineteen, sir?”“How did you know that I wanted number nineteen?” said Charley pettishly; “I did not name a number.”“Lor’ bless you, sir, this makes, I should think, a score of times I’ve been here in the course of a couple of years’ hansom-driving. I never come wunst when it was a growler I druv. You want number nineteen, sir—private-inkviry orfice—that’s what you want.”“And how did you know that?” said Charley, who could not help feeling amused.“How did I know that, sir?” grinned the man. “It’s a sort of instinkt, sir, as is only possessed by drivers of kebs. Here you are, sir—number nineteen. Up on the first floor for Mr Whittrick.”Charley leaped out, ran up the stairs indicated; and directly after he was in the office of Mr Whittrick, of private-inquiry celebrity.
It was not until Ella had been gone a fortnight that Charley Vining learned the news of her departure; as it happened, upon the same day that it was brought home to Max Bray that his visits to Laneton were of no effect.
But he was shrewd, was Max Bray; and encountering Charley directly after, and reading his disappointment in his face, he assumed an air of perfect contentment himself, played with the ring upon his watch-chain, and passed his rival with a mocking smile.
Five minutes after, Charley was at Copse Hall face to face with Edward the hard, who encountered him with a shake of the head.
“Show me in to your mistress,” said Charley hoarsely; and it was done.
Mrs Brandon was seated working, but she rose, evidently much agitated, as her visitor entered to catch her hands in his, and look imploringly in her face.
“I have only just learned the news,” he said. “Dear Mrs Brandon, you know why I have come! Be pitiful! See how I suffer! Tell me where she is gone!”
“I cannot,” was the gentle reply, as, with a mother’s tenderness, Mrs Brandon pressed him back into a seat. “You forget that I have given my word to Sir Philip.”
Charley groaned bitterly.
“You are all against me!” he cried reproachfully. “You measure me by others. You do not know the depth of my feelings towards her. You all think that in a few days—a month—a year—all will be forgotten; but, Mrs Brandon, it grows upon me with the obstacles I encounter. But you will at least tell me to what part of England she has gone?”
Mrs Brandon shook her head.
“It was her wish—her express wish—that her retreat should not be known, Mr Vining; and, in addition to what I promised to your father, I must respect that wish.”
Charley looked sternly at her for a moment, and then rose, and without a word left the room; Mrs Brandon following him with a sympathising look, till the door closed upon him.
“I must be a boy—a simple boy!” muttered Charley fiercely; “for they treat me as such. My father, this Mrs Brandon, and even Max Bray laugh at me! But,” he muttered fiercely, “I may be a boy; but these bitternesses will soon make me a man—such a man as they do not dream of! Give her up? Yes, when I see her in Max Bray’s arms—not before!”
Then he laughed, almost lightly, at the utter impossibility of such a termination, and returned to Blandfield after vainly trying to obtain information at the Laneton station of Ella’s whereabouts. He could find that a young lady answering his description had taken a ticket for London; that was all; and in spite of his laugh of assurance, that was all the information that had so far been obtained by Max Bray.
But there are ways and means of finding all who play at hide and seek; England, as a rule, proving to be too small a place to conceal those who are diligently sought.
Max Bray knew that well enough; and returning to town, he sat tapping his white teeth as he made his plans; on the whole feeling very well satisfied at the change in the base of operations, since, in spite of his hippopotamus hide, he was beginning to be a little annoyed at the notice taken of his visits to Laneton. Old women were in the habit of thrusting their heads out of their cottage doors to watch him; servant-girls would titter; and on more than one countenance of the male sex there would often be a stolid grin.
It was satisfactory, then, on the whole, for London presented many advantages to a scheming mind; but the first thing to be found out was whether Ella were in London.
Max was seated in one of the windows of his club, as he ran over his arrangements; then rising, he ordered a cab, and drove away, ignorant of the fact that the hall boy was imitating his gestures for the benefit of the porter, who was convulsed with laughter.
That same day, without a word to Sir Philip, Charley started for town.
A week later, and, to his surprise, Charley Vining, who was staying at Long’s, involuntarily raised his hat as the Brays’ carriage passed him, with Mrs Bray and Laura on the back seat, Nelly and a stranger on the front. So introspective was Charley as he stood upon the hotel steps, that the carriage would have passed him unnoticed if a loud shrill voice had not shouted his name, when, starting and looking up, he saw Nelly, flushed and excited, leaning over the side of the barouche, as if ready to jump into his arms. But the carriage passed on; and though by a little exertion he might easily have overtaken it in the crowded street, beyond raising his hat, Charley made no movement.
Ten minutes after, an empty hansom passing, Charley hailed it, gave his orders, and was soon being spun along through the streets, thinking over the encounter he had just had, and wondering whether Sir Philip Vining would be the next to make his appearance.
“To see what I am doing!” said Charley bitterly. And then his thoughts reverted to the past, and he came to the conclusion that it does not fall to the lot of any of us to pass a life of uninterrupted happiness, such as his had been until he first set eyes upon Ella.
“Branksome-street, sir?” cried the driver through his little trap-door. “Number nineteen, sir?”
“How did you know that I wanted number nineteen?” said Charley pettishly; “I did not name a number.”
“Lor’ bless you, sir, this makes, I should think, a score of times I’ve been here in the course of a couple of years’ hansom-driving. I never come wunst when it was a growler I druv. You want number nineteen, sir—private-inkviry orfice—that’s what you want.”
“And how did you know that?” said Charley, who could not help feeling amused.
“How did I know that, sir?” grinned the man. “It’s a sort of instinkt, sir, as is only possessed by drivers of kebs. Here you are, sir—number nineteen. Up on the first floor for Mr Whittrick.”
Charley leaped out, ran up the stairs indicated; and directly after he was in the office of Mr Whittrick, of private-inquiry celebrity.
Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.Private-Inquiry.Waiting your turn in a dull cheerless room along with half a dozen more people who always seem oil to your water orvice versa, so as to insure non-mixing, is about one of the most unpleasant things in life. It is bad enough at the doctor’s, where you sit and wonder what is the matter with your neighbours right or left, and whether their complaints are infectious; but at a private-inquiry office at a busy time it is ten times worse. There is such a general disposition evinced by everybody to turn his back on everybody else; an act which the actor soon finds out to be an utter impossibility; for though he gets on very well with respect to two or three, he soon finds that, however clever a mathematician he may be, he cannot place himself in the required position; and, as a matter of course, he turns rusty, and resents the presence of the other waiters—waiters, of course not in the hotel and coffee-room sense of the term.To do Charley Vining justice, he was as ill-tempered as any one present; but he refrained from showing it, and tried to tranquillise his mind into a state of wonderment as to the business of others present. Was there any one seeking the address of some daughter or sister very dear?—was any one moved by the tender passion? It did not seem like it, judging from the countenances around.One lady of vinegary aspect was evidently in search of a husband who had vanished; while on the other side was a little squeezy mild man, who might have come on a similar errand respecting a wife. The gentleman in speckless black, with papers in his hand tied with red tape, looked legal, and took snuff or pounce frequently from a small box, which he tapped with considerable grace, so as to bring the dust from the corner into a heap in the centre. His mission was evidently respecting a legatee, heir-at-law, administrator, executor, or assign, whose presence was necessary for the completion of some deed, document, or preamble as aforesaid.What a wheezy stout man wanted was doubtful; but it was evident that the quiet-looking unassuming man who came out softly from the inner sanctum, and in one glance took down and mentally recorded all who were present, had something to do with order as well as law.And it was so, in fact; for the quiet unassuming man was Mr Orger, of the detective department of Great Scotland-yard, who, after a fortnight of unavailing search for some gentleman who was wanted, did not think it derogatory to his dignity to seek counsel—on the principle of two heads being better than one—from his old friend and fellow-inspector Mr Whittrick, of the detective force formerly, but now professionally engaged upon his own account.Charley’s turn at last, just as he had come to the conclusion that he would wait no longer, but call another day, when there were not so many private inquirers.Obeying a signal, he was shown into a well-furnished room with a couple of tables, at one of which, whose top was covered with papers, sat a very ordinary-looking man, in a black-velvet cap; at the other, which bore a telegraphic dial, were a couple of clerks busily writing.“Perhaps you will step this way,” said the man of the black-velvet cap, mentally photographing his visitor the while; and Charley followed him to an inner room, where, taking the seat offered, he paid certain fees and stated his case.“Young lady—deep mourning—fair—grey eyes—luxuriant hair,” muttered the private-inquiry high-priest, as he took notes during Charley’s explanations, trying hard to suppress a smile as he saw his client’s earnestness. “Came up from Laneton on the 9th, to the South Midland Terminus,” he continued.“Well, Mr Vining?”“Well,” said Charley, “I must have her address found!”“The information you give is very meagre, sir,” said Mr Whittrick quietly.“It is, I know,” said Charley impetuously: “but I must have that address.“Here,” he exclaimed, drawing out his porte-monnaie and placing a couple of crisp new ten-pound notes upon the table, “do not stand for expense. That is all I have with me; but tell me what you require, and you shall have it.”“Thanks, sir,” said Mr Whittrick quietly, as he transferred the notes to his pocket-book, after entering the transaction and the numbers in a book. “But you give us the credit of great powers, sir.”“Well,” said Charley, “you have great powers: telegraphy and a cordon of spies, I have no doubt. All you require is something to set the mechanism at work, and I tell you frankly I am ready to supply that something liberally.”“You would not consider those two notes ill spent for a little certain information, I suppose, sir?”“No, nor double!” said Charley hastily.“Good,” said Mr Whittrick; and rising, he took a whistle from the mouth of a speaking-tube in the wall, whispered a few words, and then applied his ear.The answer came in half a minute; and then he gave some other order, replugged the tube, and sitting down, made some remark touching the present ministry.“But I am keeping you,” said Charley, who took the remark as an intimation that he might go. “Tell me when I may come again?” he said, rising.“Stop a bit—stop a bit, Mr Vining: I never like doing things in a hurry. Let’s economise time; and we can now you are here,” said Mr Whittrick. “It may save my sending to Long’s Hotel, and wasting time, and men, and cab-hire, and perhaps not then to find you. I shall have a reply directly to a question I have asked. And, besides, you have entirely omitted to give me the young lady’s age and name.—Ah, Smith, that will do,” he said, as a clerk entered the room with a sheet of paper.The clerk left the room; and then, after running through the manuscript note, Mr Whittrick took out a double eyeglass, rubbed it leisurely, and then fixed it by its spring upon the bridge of his nose.“You’d be surprised, Mr Vining,” he said, “what a deal of difficulty I have to get clerks who write a plain legible hand. I’m a terrible scrawler myself; but then my writing has to keep up with my thoughts, and has to struggle hard, with the certainty of failure always before it. But my clerks are well paid to do nothing else but copy; and really at times, either from hurry or carelessness, their stuff is almost undecipherable. But let me see; I think I have managed this, though.”“Is that anything relating to my search?” said Charley excitedly.“Stop a minute, my dear sir, and we’ll see,” said Mr Whittrick; and then he held the slip of paper in his hand as if about to read aloud.
Waiting your turn in a dull cheerless room along with half a dozen more people who always seem oil to your water orvice versa, so as to insure non-mixing, is about one of the most unpleasant things in life. It is bad enough at the doctor’s, where you sit and wonder what is the matter with your neighbours right or left, and whether their complaints are infectious; but at a private-inquiry office at a busy time it is ten times worse. There is such a general disposition evinced by everybody to turn his back on everybody else; an act which the actor soon finds out to be an utter impossibility; for though he gets on very well with respect to two or three, he soon finds that, however clever a mathematician he may be, he cannot place himself in the required position; and, as a matter of course, he turns rusty, and resents the presence of the other waiters—waiters, of course not in the hotel and coffee-room sense of the term.
To do Charley Vining justice, he was as ill-tempered as any one present; but he refrained from showing it, and tried to tranquillise his mind into a state of wonderment as to the business of others present. Was there any one seeking the address of some daughter or sister very dear?—was any one moved by the tender passion? It did not seem like it, judging from the countenances around.
One lady of vinegary aspect was evidently in search of a husband who had vanished; while on the other side was a little squeezy mild man, who might have come on a similar errand respecting a wife. The gentleman in speckless black, with papers in his hand tied with red tape, looked legal, and took snuff or pounce frequently from a small box, which he tapped with considerable grace, so as to bring the dust from the corner into a heap in the centre. His mission was evidently respecting a legatee, heir-at-law, administrator, executor, or assign, whose presence was necessary for the completion of some deed, document, or preamble as aforesaid.
What a wheezy stout man wanted was doubtful; but it was evident that the quiet-looking unassuming man who came out softly from the inner sanctum, and in one glance took down and mentally recorded all who were present, had something to do with order as well as law.
And it was so, in fact; for the quiet unassuming man was Mr Orger, of the detective department of Great Scotland-yard, who, after a fortnight of unavailing search for some gentleman who was wanted, did not think it derogatory to his dignity to seek counsel—on the principle of two heads being better than one—from his old friend and fellow-inspector Mr Whittrick, of the detective force formerly, but now professionally engaged upon his own account.
Charley’s turn at last, just as he had come to the conclusion that he would wait no longer, but call another day, when there were not so many private inquirers.
Obeying a signal, he was shown into a well-furnished room with a couple of tables, at one of which, whose top was covered with papers, sat a very ordinary-looking man, in a black-velvet cap; at the other, which bore a telegraphic dial, were a couple of clerks busily writing.
“Perhaps you will step this way,” said the man of the black-velvet cap, mentally photographing his visitor the while; and Charley followed him to an inner room, where, taking the seat offered, he paid certain fees and stated his case.
“Young lady—deep mourning—fair—grey eyes—luxuriant hair,” muttered the private-inquiry high-priest, as he took notes during Charley’s explanations, trying hard to suppress a smile as he saw his client’s earnestness. “Came up from Laneton on the 9th, to the South Midland Terminus,” he continued.
“Well, Mr Vining?”
“Well,” said Charley, “I must have her address found!”
“The information you give is very meagre, sir,” said Mr Whittrick quietly.
“It is, I know,” said Charley impetuously: “but I must have that address.
“Here,” he exclaimed, drawing out his porte-monnaie and placing a couple of crisp new ten-pound notes upon the table, “do not stand for expense. That is all I have with me; but tell me what you require, and you shall have it.”
“Thanks, sir,” said Mr Whittrick quietly, as he transferred the notes to his pocket-book, after entering the transaction and the numbers in a book. “But you give us the credit of great powers, sir.”
“Well,” said Charley, “you have great powers: telegraphy and a cordon of spies, I have no doubt. All you require is something to set the mechanism at work, and I tell you frankly I am ready to supply that something liberally.”
“You would not consider those two notes ill spent for a little certain information, I suppose, sir?”
“No, nor double!” said Charley hastily.
“Good,” said Mr Whittrick; and rising, he took a whistle from the mouth of a speaking-tube in the wall, whispered a few words, and then applied his ear.
The answer came in half a minute; and then he gave some other order, replugged the tube, and sitting down, made some remark touching the present ministry.
“But I am keeping you,” said Charley, who took the remark as an intimation that he might go. “Tell me when I may come again?” he said, rising.
“Stop a bit—stop a bit, Mr Vining: I never like doing things in a hurry. Let’s economise time; and we can now you are here,” said Mr Whittrick. “It may save my sending to Long’s Hotel, and wasting time, and men, and cab-hire, and perhaps not then to find you. I shall have a reply directly to a question I have asked. And, besides, you have entirely omitted to give me the young lady’s age and name.—Ah, Smith, that will do,” he said, as a clerk entered the room with a sheet of paper.
The clerk left the room; and then, after running through the manuscript note, Mr Whittrick took out a double eyeglass, rubbed it leisurely, and then fixed it by its spring upon the bridge of his nose.
“You’d be surprised, Mr Vining,” he said, “what a deal of difficulty I have to get clerks who write a plain legible hand. I’m a terrible scrawler myself; but then my writing has to keep up with my thoughts, and has to struggle hard, with the certainty of failure always before it. But my clerks are well paid to do nothing else but copy; and really at times, either from hurry or carelessness, their stuff is almost undecipherable. But let me see; I think I have managed this, though.”
“Is that anything relating to my search?” said Charley excitedly.
“Stop a minute, my dear sir, and we’ll see,” said Mr Whittrick; and then he held the slip of paper in his hand as if about to read aloud.
Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.Second-Hand.At the last words uttered by Mr Whittrick, Charley Vining started forward, and gazed at the speaker as if he would have devoured the ordinary-looking slip of paper rustling before him. It was with the greatest difficulty that he refrained from snatching the memorandum from its holder; for in every respect save one, Mr Whittrick, of the black-velvet cap, was outwardly an excessively slow man. He had crawled to the speaking-tube and crawled back, and when he took the slip of paper from the clerk, it was as if the effort was too much for him—so much, in fact, that he had hard work to wipe his double eyeglasses.But we said that there was an exception, and this lay in Mr Whittrick’s eyes, which gave a sharpness to his whole appearance, as they twinkled and darted and played as it were, while they displayed the activity of their owner’s brains.But, apparently satisfied that if he kept him waiting half an hour longer, Charley Vining would not say anything that would be of service for information of any kind, Mr Whittrick commenced reading:“9th instant. Miss Ella Bedford, age about twenty; fair; grey eyes; thick braided hair—not false; height about five feet two; dressed in deep mourning; arrived by forty-five, a.m., train from Laneton. Robert Wilks, porter, Number 93, called four-wheeled cab, V.R. 09876, John Round driver. Luggage: canvas-covered box, black enamelled bag, and leather wallet,not addressed. Set down at 19 Crescent Villas, Regent’s-park—Mr Saint Clair Marter’s. Cab man paid. No farther communication; but footman averse to taking in luggage, whether from idleness or particular reasons not known; shall know shortly, if necessary. Cab returned to terminus.”“Let me see,” continued Mr Whittrick, turning the paper on the other side. “No, that is all we know at present;” and he looked at Charley, who, mute with astonishment, was staring hard at him.“Why, good heavens! how did you know that?” he cried. “That is all I wanted to know.”“At present—at present!” said Mr Whittrick, with a smile.“But I expected days of waiting and anxiety,” cried Charley, eagerly seizing the paper.“Possibly,” said Mr Whittrick; “but there are times, you see, when we are speedy in our movements.”“But I am astounded!” cried Charley. “You make me almost to believe in magicians.”Mr Whittrick smiled deprecatingly and shrugged his shoulders.“How did you obtain the information?” cried Charley.“My dear sir,” said Mr Whittrick, “that is my profession. If you go to a doctor and he gives you a prescription which cures you, do you ask him how he discovered his drugs? Of course not. You came to me for assistance, and showed me that you were ready to pay liberally for that assistance, and, of course, I set to work instanter.”“But is that—are you sure—that Miss—that the young lady is there?”“Certainly not,” said Mr Whittrick; “some time has passed since then. But I am ready to make affidavit that she was there. Now then, sir, what can I do for you next?”“Nothing more,” said Charley; “I am quite satisfied.”“Do I understand you to say you consider my efforts sufficient?”“Quite,” said Charley.“Very good, my dear sir,” said Mr Whittrick; “then all I can say is, that it has been a most satisfactory interview for both parties; only recollect that you may want me again, and that you have paid me so liberally, that there is a large balance in your favour, which I am ready to devote to you at a moment’s notice.”“You would rather not inform me how you obtained that information, I presume?” said Charley, turning on the threshold, to display to the high-priest of private-inquiry a thoroughly mystified countenance.“Quite out of the question,” said Mr Whittrick, smiling; and the next minute Charley was bowed out, to descend the stairs, taking no heed of the scowls of those who had been kept waiting during the long interview.“Where to next, sir?” said a voice; and Charley started to find that the cabman, who had not been paid, was naturally enough waiting the return of his fare.“19 Crescent Villas, Regents-park,” said Charley abstractedly; but the next moment he had altered his mind, and changed his order for Long’s Hotel, where he arrived elate, but confused, so utterly incomprehensible seemed the power of the private inquirer.Light came through at last, and seemed to cut through his brain with a sharp pang. It was all plain enough now: another had been seeking information, even as he had sought it, and the news he had obtained was only second-hand. But who had been beforehand with him, while he had been wasting time with his own ineffectual unassisted efforts?There was no need for much consideration. The reply to his question was quick enough in arriving, burdened too with bitterness: and the answer was—“Max Bray!”
At the last words uttered by Mr Whittrick, Charley Vining started forward, and gazed at the speaker as if he would have devoured the ordinary-looking slip of paper rustling before him. It was with the greatest difficulty that he refrained from snatching the memorandum from its holder; for in every respect save one, Mr Whittrick, of the black-velvet cap, was outwardly an excessively slow man. He had crawled to the speaking-tube and crawled back, and when he took the slip of paper from the clerk, it was as if the effort was too much for him—so much, in fact, that he had hard work to wipe his double eyeglasses.
But we said that there was an exception, and this lay in Mr Whittrick’s eyes, which gave a sharpness to his whole appearance, as they twinkled and darted and played as it were, while they displayed the activity of their owner’s brains.
But, apparently satisfied that if he kept him waiting half an hour longer, Charley Vining would not say anything that would be of service for information of any kind, Mr Whittrick commenced reading:
“9th instant. Miss Ella Bedford, age about twenty; fair; grey eyes; thick braided hair—not false; height about five feet two; dressed in deep mourning; arrived by forty-five, a.m., train from Laneton. Robert Wilks, porter, Number 93, called four-wheeled cab, V.R. 09876, John Round driver. Luggage: canvas-covered box, black enamelled bag, and leather wallet,not addressed. Set down at 19 Crescent Villas, Regent’s-park—Mr Saint Clair Marter’s. Cab man paid. No farther communication; but footman averse to taking in luggage, whether from idleness or particular reasons not known; shall know shortly, if necessary. Cab returned to terminus.”
“Let me see,” continued Mr Whittrick, turning the paper on the other side. “No, that is all we know at present;” and he looked at Charley, who, mute with astonishment, was staring hard at him.
“Why, good heavens! how did you know that?” he cried. “That is all I wanted to know.”
“At present—at present!” said Mr Whittrick, with a smile.
“But I expected days of waiting and anxiety,” cried Charley, eagerly seizing the paper.
“Possibly,” said Mr Whittrick; “but there are times, you see, when we are speedy in our movements.”
“But I am astounded!” cried Charley. “You make me almost to believe in magicians.”
Mr Whittrick smiled deprecatingly and shrugged his shoulders.
“How did you obtain the information?” cried Charley.
“My dear sir,” said Mr Whittrick, “that is my profession. If you go to a doctor and he gives you a prescription which cures you, do you ask him how he discovered his drugs? Of course not. You came to me for assistance, and showed me that you were ready to pay liberally for that assistance, and, of course, I set to work instanter.”
“But is that—are you sure—that Miss—that the young lady is there?”
“Certainly not,” said Mr Whittrick; “some time has passed since then. But I am ready to make affidavit that she was there. Now then, sir, what can I do for you next?”
“Nothing more,” said Charley; “I am quite satisfied.”
“Do I understand you to say you consider my efforts sufficient?”
“Quite,” said Charley.
“Very good, my dear sir,” said Mr Whittrick; “then all I can say is, that it has been a most satisfactory interview for both parties; only recollect that you may want me again, and that you have paid me so liberally, that there is a large balance in your favour, which I am ready to devote to you at a moment’s notice.”
“You would rather not inform me how you obtained that information, I presume?” said Charley, turning on the threshold, to display to the high-priest of private-inquiry a thoroughly mystified countenance.
“Quite out of the question,” said Mr Whittrick, smiling; and the next minute Charley was bowed out, to descend the stairs, taking no heed of the scowls of those who had been kept waiting during the long interview.
“Where to next, sir?” said a voice; and Charley started to find that the cabman, who had not been paid, was naturally enough waiting the return of his fare.
“19 Crescent Villas, Regents-park,” said Charley abstractedly; but the next moment he had altered his mind, and changed his order for Long’s Hotel, where he arrived elate, but confused, so utterly incomprehensible seemed the power of the private inquirer.
Light came through at last, and seemed to cut through his brain with a sharp pang. It was all plain enough now: another had been seeking information, even as he had sought it, and the news he had obtained was only second-hand. But who had been beforehand with him, while he had been wasting time with his own ineffectual unassisted efforts?
There was no need for much consideration. The reply to his question was quick enough in arriving, burdened too with bitterness: and the answer was—
“Max Bray!”
Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.At Crescent Villas.Keeping to her determination, Ella wrote cheerfully to Mrs Brandon, making the best of everything, and then devoted herself energetically to the task of trying to shape the rugged children in her charge. The days glided by, and ever striving to be hopeful she toiled on, driving away all thoughts of the past, and rejoicing in her freedom from persecution.But her rejoicings were but short-lived; for one day, upon returning from a walk, there, once more, was Max Bray to meet her, and salute her with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance, just in front of the windows of Mrs Saint Clair Marter’s house, and at a time, too, when that lady herself was gazing from a window.Ella crimsoned with vexation, and escaping as quickly as possible, she entered the house, to learn from Thomas that there had been “a gent to see her; but as she was out, missus had seen him instead.”How was it all to end? she asked herself, as, angry now, she hurried to her room, expecting momentarily a summons to the presence of Mrs Marter.But it did not come; and it was with beating heart that she descended to the drawing-room in the evening. Had there come a message soon after she returned, it would have been when, driven as it were to bay, she would have had spirit to defend herself; but now she was tremulous and weak, and as she took her place and began to read, her voice shook so that she was afraid it would attract attention.“By the way, Miss Bedford—” said Mrs Marter suddenly.It was coming, then, at last, and in an instant Ella saw herself once more driven to seek a home—saw herself harried and persecuted at situation after situation; and it was with a faint giddy sensation, making everything look confused and indistinct, that she listened to Mrs Marter’s words, and tried to find words to reply.“By the way, Miss Bedford, as you are aware, a gentleman called this afternoon while you were absent with the young ladies. I have always said that I would never encourage anything of the kind; but when a gentleman of good family comes to me, and in a proper way, I must say that I feel disposed to be lenient. I must say, though, that I consider you a very fortunate girl; and though this has come upon me very suddenly, yet I shall not be harsh; and if your conduct continues satisfactory, I shall give you every encouragement.”Ella was astounded: the words were so thoroughly opposed to those she had expected, that for a few moments she could not speak, and her silence was immediately interpreted to mean modest confusion.“I did know some branches of the Bray family at one time,” continued Mrs Marter, “and Mr Maximilian puts me very much in mind of them. I must say that I very greatly approve of your choice, for he is a most gentlemanly man: there is so much the tone of one accustomed to good society. Really I cannot help congratulating you.”“Indeed, indeed, madam—” exclaimed Ella earnestly.“Hush, child, hush. I will not hear a word. I have said all that need be said upon the subject, except that I have given Mr Maximilian Bray my full consent to his calling here as frequently as he likes.”Again Ella essayed to speak, but only to be checked, and almost ordered to go on with her reading, which was kept up for two hours, till Mrs Marter and her lord were both comfortably asleep, when the reader was left alone with her thoughts.Two days passed, and then she was summoned to the drawing-room to meet Mr Maximilian Bray. In the interim she had twice approached the subject—the first time to be checked good-humouredly, the second time to be told that her conduct was bold and forward, words which effectually sealed her lips for the future; while it was with a feeling of hot indignation that she descended to the drawing-room, to find Mrs Marter laughing at some remark just made by the exquisite, who rose on Ella’s entrance to salute her in a quiet, respectful, friendly way, that she told herself it would be folly to resent. Then, chattering quietly, more to Mrs Marter than herself, his behaviour was sufficient to make Mrs Marter at his departure praise him earnestly, but at the same time refuse to hear a word in return.What did it mean? Was Mrs Marter siding with him? What, then, should she do? It seemed nothing so long as such visits as those were paid.From twice in a week Max’s visits grew to three, and soon to one a day; but always towards her there was a quiet gentlemanly reserve, and once, and once only, when they were left alone for a minute, did Max say words that gave her cause for thought.“Nice woman, Mrs Marter,” said Max quietly, “only she keeps twitting me with my frequent visits. She will have they are for an end, while really, Miss Bedford, my sole end now is a little friendly feeling. O, here she comes back. Can’t you give us a little music? I do find it so dull here in town!—Just asking Miss Bedford to give us a little music, Mrs Marter,” said Max, raising his voice as that lady re-entered the room.“O, yes, of course,” said Mrs Marter; and Ella was obliged to go to the piano.She could not help wondering at times whether Charley Vining had ever tried to find out her address, a strange thrill passing through her frame at the thought; but the next moment she had crushed that thought out, and was sternly occupied over some task in connection with her duties.At one time she thought of telling Mrs Brandon of Max’s visits, but as they seemed to grow daily more and more addressed to the lady of the house, there seemed to be no necessity; for there were days when hardly half-a-dozen words passed between her and Max during a visit, and she had not worldly wisdom enough to see that Max Bray was awaiting the time when it would suit him best to make his spring.
Keeping to her determination, Ella wrote cheerfully to Mrs Brandon, making the best of everything, and then devoted herself energetically to the task of trying to shape the rugged children in her charge. The days glided by, and ever striving to be hopeful she toiled on, driving away all thoughts of the past, and rejoicing in her freedom from persecution.
But her rejoicings were but short-lived; for one day, upon returning from a walk, there, once more, was Max Bray to meet her, and salute her with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance, just in front of the windows of Mrs Saint Clair Marter’s house, and at a time, too, when that lady herself was gazing from a window.
Ella crimsoned with vexation, and escaping as quickly as possible, she entered the house, to learn from Thomas that there had been “a gent to see her; but as she was out, missus had seen him instead.”
How was it all to end? she asked herself, as, angry now, she hurried to her room, expecting momentarily a summons to the presence of Mrs Marter.
But it did not come; and it was with beating heart that she descended to the drawing-room in the evening. Had there come a message soon after she returned, it would have been when, driven as it were to bay, she would have had spirit to defend herself; but now she was tremulous and weak, and as she took her place and began to read, her voice shook so that she was afraid it would attract attention.
“By the way, Miss Bedford—” said Mrs Marter suddenly.
It was coming, then, at last, and in an instant Ella saw herself once more driven to seek a home—saw herself harried and persecuted at situation after situation; and it was with a faint giddy sensation, making everything look confused and indistinct, that she listened to Mrs Marter’s words, and tried to find words to reply.
“By the way, Miss Bedford, as you are aware, a gentleman called this afternoon while you were absent with the young ladies. I have always said that I would never encourage anything of the kind; but when a gentleman of good family comes to me, and in a proper way, I must say that I feel disposed to be lenient. I must say, though, that I consider you a very fortunate girl; and though this has come upon me very suddenly, yet I shall not be harsh; and if your conduct continues satisfactory, I shall give you every encouragement.”
Ella was astounded: the words were so thoroughly opposed to those she had expected, that for a few moments she could not speak, and her silence was immediately interpreted to mean modest confusion.
“I did know some branches of the Bray family at one time,” continued Mrs Marter, “and Mr Maximilian puts me very much in mind of them. I must say that I very greatly approve of your choice, for he is a most gentlemanly man: there is so much the tone of one accustomed to good society. Really I cannot help congratulating you.”
“Indeed, indeed, madam—” exclaimed Ella earnestly.
“Hush, child, hush. I will not hear a word. I have said all that need be said upon the subject, except that I have given Mr Maximilian Bray my full consent to his calling here as frequently as he likes.”
Again Ella essayed to speak, but only to be checked, and almost ordered to go on with her reading, which was kept up for two hours, till Mrs Marter and her lord were both comfortably asleep, when the reader was left alone with her thoughts.
Two days passed, and then she was summoned to the drawing-room to meet Mr Maximilian Bray. In the interim she had twice approached the subject—the first time to be checked good-humouredly, the second time to be told that her conduct was bold and forward, words which effectually sealed her lips for the future; while it was with a feeling of hot indignation that she descended to the drawing-room, to find Mrs Marter laughing at some remark just made by the exquisite, who rose on Ella’s entrance to salute her in a quiet, respectful, friendly way, that she told herself it would be folly to resent. Then, chattering quietly, more to Mrs Marter than herself, his behaviour was sufficient to make Mrs Marter at his departure praise him earnestly, but at the same time refuse to hear a word in return.
What did it mean? Was Mrs Marter siding with him? What, then, should she do? It seemed nothing so long as such visits as those were paid.
From twice in a week Max’s visits grew to three, and soon to one a day; but always towards her there was a quiet gentlemanly reserve, and once, and once only, when they were left alone for a minute, did Max say words that gave her cause for thought.
“Nice woman, Mrs Marter,” said Max quietly, “only she keeps twitting me with my frequent visits. She will have they are for an end, while really, Miss Bedford, my sole end now is a little friendly feeling. O, here she comes back. Can’t you give us a little music? I do find it so dull here in town!—Just asking Miss Bedford to give us a little music, Mrs Marter,” said Max, raising his voice as that lady re-entered the room.
“O, yes, of course,” said Mrs Marter; and Ella was obliged to go to the piano.
She could not help wondering at times whether Charley Vining had ever tried to find out her address, a strange thrill passing through her frame at the thought; but the next moment she had crushed that thought out, and was sternly occupied over some task in connection with her duties.
At one time she thought of telling Mrs Brandon of Max’s visits, but as they seemed to grow daily more and more addressed to the lady of the house, there seemed to be no necessity; for there were days when hardly half-a-dozen words passed between her and Max during a visit, and she had not worldly wisdom enough to see that Max Bray was awaiting the time when it would suit him best to make his spring.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.A Rival Encounter.The day following his visit to Branksome-street, Charley made his way to Crescent Villas, and sent up his card to Mrs Marter.The footman returned at the end of a few minutes to say that Mrs Marter was not at home.Was Miss Bedford at home?Thomas did not know, but he would go and see; which he did, to return shaking his head.Charley said he would call again, which he did, with precisely the same result.Nothing daunted, he repeated his calls, till it was perfectly evident that neither Mrs Marter nor Ella would see him; and he was coming away knit of brow one day, when he started with anger on seeing a cab trundle by with Max Bray as its occupant.It was most repugnant to his feelings to play the spy; but in despite of himself he followed the cab till he saw it stop at Crescent Villas, and Max spring out, run up the steps and ring, to be the next minute admitted, the cab being driven off.One hour, two hours, three hours, did Charley Vining wait, when, it being evident that Max was dining there, he returned to his hotel; and then, in a state of mental anguish that he could not control, he wrote a long and earnest letter to Ella, imploring her to see him, telling of his sufferings, and of how he had been refused entrance again and again.He waited three days and there was no response, when he wrote again—a bitter angry letter this time, to have it returned to him unopened by the next post, the direction, he felt sure, being in Max Bray’s handwriting.Maddened now by the jealous feelings that assailed him, he watched the house till he saw that Max Bray was a constant visitor. Then came a night when a brougham was at the door, and he saw Max hand down two ladies, one of whom was Ella. Then taking his place, the door of the brougham was closed, and it was driven off.“Follow that fly,” said Charley to a cabman; and the man drew up at last by the Piazza in the Haymarket, and Charley leaped out just in time to see Max disappearing in the stall-entrance of Her Majesty’s Theatre, Mrs Marter upon one arm, Ella upon the other.Dressed as he was, it was with some difficulty that Charley secured a place where he could, unobserved, watch the movements of the party. Max’s quiet gentlemanly attentions were directed to both alike, the passing of the book of the words, the seeking places, and lastly the replacing of the opera-cloak upon Ella’s gracefully rounded shoulders.They passed close to him where he stood muffled up and with flashing eyes, Ella’s cloak brushing his coat on the way to the brougham; and then they were driven off.He wrote again after a sleepless night, telling of what he had seen, and imploring Ella to send him if but a line to assure him that his suspicions were false. “I have fought against them till it seems to me that it would require more than human strength,” he said naïvely, “while now I feel almost driven to believe.”The same result: the letter returned unopened, and redirected in a hand that he was certain was Max Bray’s.Furious now with rage, he took a cab and drove to Max’s lodgings in Bury-street, Saint James’s, to arrive in time to see two ladies descend the steps—one of whom was Ella—Max handing them into a waiting brougham, and kissing his hand as they were driven off.“Ah, Charley Vining, how do?” he exclaimed, smiling pleasantly as he encountered the fierce angry face at his side. “Bai Jove, what a stranger you are! Haven’t set eyes on you for months.”“I want a few words with you, Max,” said Charley harshly.“Many as you like. Bai Jove, I don’t care how much any one talks to me, so long as they don’t want me to talk to them! Come upstairs.”Charley followed him into his sybaritish bachelor rooms, where Max threw himself on a couch.“Cigar or pipe, Vining—which will you have? I’ve some capital Saint Julien, and a decent bottle or two of hock. Which shall it be? Bai Jove, man, what’s the matter? Anything upset you?”“Max Bray,” said Charley, striding up to the sofa and towering over its occupant, “I want to know who those ladies were that you handed into that brougham.”“Bai Jove, mai dear fellow, what an uncouth kind of catechism! And suppose I don’t choose to tell you?”“Curse you! I’ll wring it out of you!” cried Charley fiercely.“No, bai Jove, you won’t do anything of the kind,” said Max coolly. “Gentlemen don’t act like confounded cads. Why, man alive, I did not say I would not tell you. I’m open as the day. Do you want to know?”Charley made an impatient gesture.“Well, bai Jove, if you must know, one is a friend of mine, Mrs Marter, of Regent’s-park.”“And the other?” said Charley hoarsely.“The other,” said Max, quietly lighting a cigar, “is another lady friend of mine—one Miss Bedford.”Max must have seen those clutching fingers that moved as if about to seize him by the throat; but he did not shrink, he did not waver for an instant, but lit his cigar unmoved, and then sank luxuriously back upon the couch to smoke and stare nonchalantly in his visitor’s face.That cool matter-of-fact way staggered and disarmed Charley. Had he seen the slightest sign of cowardice, he would have seized Max, and shaken him savagely; but that cool insolence seemed to the stricken man to tell of success and safety of position—the sense of being able to deal pityingly with an unfortunate rival; and it was in altered tones that Charley tore a letter from his breast, and threw it upon the table.“Who redirected that letter?” he exclaimed.Max smoked for a few moments in thoughtful silence, then, casting off all affectation, he said quietly:“Would it not be better to change the subject, Vining? It is not every horse that wins. The favourite is a dangerous nag to place your money on, as you must know. We are old friends, Vining, and I am sorry to run counter to you. Say what you will, I shall not quarrel.”“Who redirected that letter?” repeated Charley, again more fiercely.“Bai Jove, Vining, this is going too far!” said Max in injured tones. “You have no right to come to a gentleman and ask him such questions.”“Who redirected that letter?” Charley cried for the third time.“Well there, then, if you will have it—I did,” said Max quietly.“And any others?”“Yes, all of them.”“And by whose authority?”“Bai Jove, it’s too bad!” exclaimed Max—“I will not say another word. I will not be cross-examined like this. You’ve made misery enough, Vining, bai Jove, you have! You throw over poor Laura in the most heartless way; you come between me and some one; and now, when matters are once more running smoothly, you come here more like a mad bull than anything. I don’t care; it’s the truth, and you can’t deny it!”The moment was critical again; for blind with rage, Charley Vining seized Max by the throat, and placed his knee upon his chest as he lay back on the couch; but again the latter was equal to the position, and he did not attempt to free himself.“Don’t be a brute, Vining!” he said quietly. “I’m not afraid of you; but you have double my strength.”Charley started back as he was met by those cool collected words, and catching up his letter, he tore from the place, leaving Max with a quiet contented smile upon his face, smoking till he had finished his cigar, when he threw away the end, rose, rearranged his slightly disordered shirt-front, and rang for a cab, being driven to Austin’s Ticket-Office, where he secured seats for a concert to be held that night at Saint James’s Hall; returned, made a most elaborate toilet, and then, not knowing, but careless, whether or not he was watched, he made his way to Crescent Villas, dined there, and that same evening Charley Vining saw him seated beside Ella Bedford in the reserved scats at the great hall, while, pale and careworn in the balcony, the young man again and again saw Ella smile at something her companion uttered.“I’ll not give up yet,” said Charley hoarsely. “I made a vow, and I’ll keep to it!”
The day following his visit to Branksome-street, Charley made his way to Crescent Villas, and sent up his card to Mrs Marter.
The footman returned at the end of a few minutes to say that Mrs Marter was not at home.
Was Miss Bedford at home?
Thomas did not know, but he would go and see; which he did, to return shaking his head.
Charley said he would call again, which he did, with precisely the same result.
Nothing daunted, he repeated his calls, till it was perfectly evident that neither Mrs Marter nor Ella would see him; and he was coming away knit of brow one day, when he started with anger on seeing a cab trundle by with Max Bray as its occupant.
It was most repugnant to his feelings to play the spy; but in despite of himself he followed the cab till he saw it stop at Crescent Villas, and Max spring out, run up the steps and ring, to be the next minute admitted, the cab being driven off.
One hour, two hours, three hours, did Charley Vining wait, when, it being evident that Max was dining there, he returned to his hotel; and then, in a state of mental anguish that he could not control, he wrote a long and earnest letter to Ella, imploring her to see him, telling of his sufferings, and of how he had been refused entrance again and again.
He waited three days and there was no response, when he wrote again—a bitter angry letter this time, to have it returned to him unopened by the next post, the direction, he felt sure, being in Max Bray’s handwriting.
Maddened now by the jealous feelings that assailed him, he watched the house till he saw that Max Bray was a constant visitor. Then came a night when a brougham was at the door, and he saw Max hand down two ladies, one of whom was Ella. Then taking his place, the door of the brougham was closed, and it was driven off.
“Follow that fly,” said Charley to a cabman; and the man drew up at last by the Piazza in the Haymarket, and Charley leaped out just in time to see Max disappearing in the stall-entrance of Her Majesty’s Theatre, Mrs Marter upon one arm, Ella upon the other.
Dressed as he was, it was with some difficulty that Charley secured a place where he could, unobserved, watch the movements of the party. Max’s quiet gentlemanly attentions were directed to both alike, the passing of the book of the words, the seeking places, and lastly the replacing of the opera-cloak upon Ella’s gracefully rounded shoulders.
They passed close to him where he stood muffled up and with flashing eyes, Ella’s cloak brushing his coat on the way to the brougham; and then they were driven off.
He wrote again after a sleepless night, telling of what he had seen, and imploring Ella to send him if but a line to assure him that his suspicions were false. “I have fought against them till it seems to me that it would require more than human strength,” he said naïvely, “while now I feel almost driven to believe.”
The same result: the letter returned unopened, and redirected in a hand that he was certain was Max Bray’s.
Furious now with rage, he took a cab and drove to Max’s lodgings in Bury-street, Saint James’s, to arrive in time to see two ladies descend the steps—one of whom was Ella—Max handing them into a waiting brougham, and kissing his hand as they were driven off.
“Ah, Charley Vining, how do?” he exclaimed, smiling pleasantly as he encountered the fierce angry face at his side. “Bai Jove, what a stranger you are! Haven’t set eyes on you for months.”
“I want a few words with you, Max,” said Charley harshly.
“Many as you like. Bai Jove, I don’t care how much any one talks to me, so long as they don’t want me to talk to them! Come upstairs.”
Charley followed him into his sybaritish bachelor rooms, where Max threw himself on a couch.
“Cigar or pipe, Vining—which will you have? I’ve some capital Saint Julien, and a decent bottle or two of hock. Which shall it be? Bai Jove, man, what’s the matter? Anything upset you?”
“Max Bray,” said Charley, striding up to the sofa and towering over its occupant, “I want to know who those ladies were that you handed into that brougham.”
“Bai Jove, mai dear fellow, what an uncouth kind of catechism! And suppose I don’t choose to tell you?”
“Curse you! I’ll wring it out of you!” cried Charley fiercely.
“No, bai Jove, you won’t do anything of the kind,” said Max coolly. “Gentlemen don’t act like confounded cads. Why, man alive, I did not say I would not tell you. I’m open as the day. Do you want to know?”
Charley made an impatient gesture.
“Well, bai Jove, if you must know, one is a friend of mine, Mrs Marter, of Regent’s-park.”
“And the other?” said Charley hoarsely.
“The other,” said Max, quietly lighting a cigar, “is another lady friend of mine—one Miss Bedford.”
Max must have seen those clutching fingers that moved as if about to seize him by the throat; but he did not shrink, he did not waver for an instant, but lit his cigar unmoved, and then sank luxuriously back upon the couch to smoke and stare nonchalantly in his visitor’s face.
That cool matter-of-fact way staggered and disarmed Charley. Had he seen the slightest sign of cowardice, he would have seized Max, and shaken him savagely; but that cool insolence seemed to the stricken man to tell of success and safety of position—the sense of being able to deal pityingly with an unfortunate rival; and it was in altered tones that Charley tore a letter from his breast, and threw it upon the table.
“Who redirected that letter?” he exclaimed.
Max smoked for a few moments in thoughtful silence, then, casting off all affectation, he said quietly:
“Would it not be better to change the subject, Vining? It is not every horse that wins. The favourite is a dangerous nag to place your money on, as you must know. We are old friends, Vining, and I am sorry to run counter to you. Say what you will, I shall not quarrel.”
“Who redirected that letter?” repeated Charley, again more fiercely.
“Bai Jove, Vining, this is going too far!” said Max in injured tones. “You have no right to come to a gentleman and ask him such questions.”
“Who redirected that letter?” Charley cried for the third time.
“Well there, then, if you will have it—I did,” said Max quietly.
“And any others?”
“Yes, all of them.”
“And by whose authority?”
“Bai Jove, it’s too bad!” exclaimed Max—“I will not say another word. I will not be cross-examined like this. You’ve made misery enough, Vining, bai Jove, you have! You throw over poor Laura in the most heartless way; you come between me and some one; and now, when matters are once more running smoothly, you come here more like a mad bull than anything. I don’t care; it’s the truth, and you can’t deny it!”
The moment was critical again; for blind with rage, Charley Vining seized Max by the throat, and placed his knee upon his chest as he lay back on the couch; but again the latter was equal to the position, and he did not attempt to free himself.
“Don’t be a brute, Vining!” he said quietly. “I’m not afraid of you; but you have double my strength.”
Charley started back as he was met by those cool collected words, and catching up his letter, he tore from the place, leaving Max with a quiet contented smile upon his face, smoking till he had finished his cigar, when he threw away the end, rose, rearranged his slightly disordered shirt-front, and rang for a cab, being driven to Austin’s Ticket-Office, where he secured seats for a concert to be held that night at Saint James’s Hall; returned, made a most elaborate toilet, and then, not knowing, but careless, whether or not he was watched, he made his way to Crescent Villas, dined there, and that same evening Charley Vining saw him seated beside Ella Bedford in the reserved scats at the great hall, while, pale and careworn in the balcony, the young man again and again saw Ella smile at something her companion uttered.
“I’ll not give up yet,” said Charley hoarsely. “I made a vow, and I’ll keep to it!”
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.(-?-).“La Donna e Mobile,” hummed Charley again and again, as he sat in the smoking-room of his hotel. He had paid no heed to the concert, his eyes being fixed all the while upon Max and his two companions; but that air had been sung by one of the great artistes, and words and music had forced themselves upon him so that they seemed for hours after to be ringing in his ears.“La Donna e Mobile.” Yes, it was all plain enough, and it was nothing new. He had made an impression at first, and she had seemed to love him—perhaps, after her fashion, had loved him—but woman’s love, he said, required feeding. The fuel absent, the flame must become extinct.He laughed bitterly, and a waiter came up.“Did you ask for something, sir?”“No!” roared Charley savagely; and the man shrunk away.“I’ll pester her no more,” he said; “let things take their course. I’ll go down home and see the poor old gentleman to-morrow. I may just as well, as hang about here torturing myself over a slow fire. I wonder how the mare looks. A good run or two would do me no end of good. I’ll pack up and run down to-morrow.”Then he laughed bitterly, for he knew that he was playing at self-deceit; he felt that he could not stir from London—that he was, as it were, fixed, and without a desire to leave the spot where he could feel that she was near.“No,” he said, after a while; “I’ll not give up yet. I made a vow, and I’ll keep it. She is not his yet. She may have been—she must have been—deceived. I have been condemned. No; she would not listen. I don’t know—there, I think I’m half mad!”Just then his hand came in contact with a couple of letters which had been awaiting him on his return, and which one of the waiters had handed to him, to be thrust unnoticed into his pocket.“Bills,” said the waiter, to one of his fellows. “How nice to be tradesman to those young swells! I s’pose some of them must pay, some time or other, or else people couldn’t live.”“O yes,” said the other; “some of them pay, and those who will pay, have to pay for those who won’t.”“Through the nose,” said number one with a wink.“To be sure,” said his confrère; and then they laughed at one another, and winked again.But the waiter was wrong: those were not bills; one being a long and affectionate letter from Sir Philip Vining, telling Charley that he would be in town the next day, and asking if it would be convenient for his son to meet him at the station. The other was from Laura Bray, saying that they had heard from Sir Philip that he would be in town the next day, and asking that he and Charley would dine in Harley-street, where was the Brays’ town house, on the next day but one.The above was all formal, and written at mamma’s command, but Laura had added a postscript, asking that Charley would come for the sake of the old times when they were friends. Max would be away, and the party very small.Then came a quiet reminder of the encounter, and a word to say that the writer had looked out day by day, in the expectation of receiving a call, while poor Nelly wasau désespoir.Charley smiled grimly as he read the letter over, and then carelessly thrust it back into the envelope with the bold address which waiter number one had kindly taken for a tradesman’s hand.“Take the good the gods provide one,” said Charley with a bitter laugh, as he smoked furiously, and tossed down glass after glass of claret to allay the fevered rush of thought through his brain.“I’ll go,” he said at last, “and see little Nell. Poor little wiry weedy Nell!—what a genuine, free-hearted, jolly little lass it is! But there, if I do, shell only make some reference to the past.”Charley Vining’s thoughts came so fast that night, that they jostled and stumbled over one another in the most confused way imaginable, till once more, shining out like a star amidst the surrounding darkness, the light of Ella’s face seemed to slowly rise, and he sat there thinking of her till the waiters yawned with misery because he did not retire.But he went at last; and Ella’s name was on his lips as he fell off into a heavy weary sleep, as it was the first word he uttered when waking.The next day Sir Philip was in town, surprised and shocked to see the alteration in his son’s face; for Charley looked haggard and worn, and as if he had been engaged in a long career of dissipation. He laughed, though, when Sir Philip reverted to it, and seemed most assiduous in his endeavours to promote the old man’s comfort.“About this dinner at the Brays’, Charley: I should like to go,” Sir Philip said—“that is, if you will go with me.”“Do you particularly wish it, sir?” said Charley.“It would give me much pleasure, if you have no other engagement.”“Engagement!” said Charley, with a bitter laugh that shocked Sir Philip. “No, father, I have no engagements. I’ll go.”“But, my dear boy, what have you been doing with yourself?—how do you pass your time?”“Preparing myself for a private lunatic asylum, father,” said Charley, with a cynical laugh; and the old man felt a swelling in his throat as he thought of the alteration that had taken place since the morning of the memorable conversation in the library.There was a something in Charley’s looks that troubled Sir Philip more than he cared to intimate: had the young man sternly refused to visit the Brays, or to accede to his wishes in any way, he would not have been surprised; but his strange looks, his bitter words, and ready acquiescence alarmed Sir Philip; and when, an hour after, Charley left the room, the old gentleman looked anxiously for his return, till, unable to bear the suspense any longer, he rang and summoned a waiter.“Has my son gone out?” he asked.“Think not, Sir Philip. I’ll make inquiry.”Five anxious minutes passed, and then the man returned.“No, Sir Philip, he went up to his bedroom.”Pale and trembling, Sir Philip rose and hurried upstairs. He knew that Charley had had some more than usually bitter reverse, and a horrible dread had invaded the troubled father’s breast, so that when he reached his son’s room door, he feared to summon him; but at last he knocked, and waited for a few moments before he struck again upon the panels, this time more forcibly.There was no reply.
“La Donna e Mobile,” hummed Charley again and again, as he sat in the smoking-room of his hotel. He had paid no heed to the concert, his eyes being fixed all the while upon Max and his two companions; but that air had been sung by one of the great artistes, and words and music had forced themselves upon him so that they seemed for hours after to be ringing in his ears.
“La Donna e Mobile.” Yes, it was all plain enough, and it was nothing new. He had made an impression at first, and she had seemed to love him—perhaps, after her fashion, had loved him—but woman’s love, he said, required feeding. The fuel absent, the flame must become extinct.
He laughed bitterly, and a waiter came up.
“Did you ask for something, sir?”
“No!” roared Charley savagely; and the man shrunk away.
“I’ll pester her no more,” he said; “let things take their course. I’ll go down home and see the poor old gentleman to-morrow. I may just as well, as hang about here torturing myself over a slow fire. I wonder how the mare looks. A good run or two would do me no end of good. I’ll pack up and run down to-morrow.”
Then he laughed bitterly, for he knew that he was playing at self-deceit; he felt that he could not stir from London—that he was, as it were, fixed, and without a desire to leave the spot where he could feel that she was near.
“No,” he said, after a while; “I’ll not give up yet. I made a vow, and I’ll keep it. She is not his yet. She may have been—she must have been—deceived. I have been condemned. No; she would not listen. I don’t know—there, I think I’m half mad!”
Just then his hand came in contact with a couple of letters which had been awaiting him on his return, and which one of the waiters had handed to him, to be thrust unnoticed into his pocket.
“Bills,” said the waiter, to one of his fellows. “How nice to be tradesman to those young swells! I s’pose some of them must pay, some time or other, or else people couldn’t live.”
“O yes,” said the other; “some of them pay, and those who will pay, have to pay for those who won’t.”
“Through the nose,” said number one with a wink.
“To be sure,” said his confrère; and then they laughed at one another, and winked again.
But the waiter was wrong: those were not bills; one being a long and affectionate letter from Sir Philip Vining, telling Charley that he would be in town the next day, and asking if it would be convenient for his son to meet him at the station. The other was from Laura Bray, saying that they had heard from Sir Philip that he would be in town the next day, and asking that he and Charley would dine in Harley-street, where was the Brays’ town house, on the next day but one.
The above was all formal, and written at mamma’s command, but Laura had added a postscript, asking that Charley would come for the sake of the old times when they were friends. Max would be away, and the party very small.
Then came a quiet reminder of the encounter, and a word to say that the writer had looked out day by day, in the expectation of receiving a call, while poor Nelly wasau désespoir.
Charley smiled grimly as he read the letter over, and then carelessly thrust it back into the envelope with the bold address which waiter number one had kindly taken for a tradesman’s hand.
“Take the good the gods provide one,” said Charley with a bitter laugh, as he smoked furiously, and tossed down glass after glass of claret to allay the fevered rush of thought through his brain.
“I’ll go,” he said at last, “and see little Nell. Poor little wiry weedy Nell!—what a genuine, free-hearted, jolly little lass it is! But there, if I do, shell only make some reference to the past.”
Charley Vining’s thoughts came so fast that night, that they jostled and stumbled over one another in the most confused way imaginable, till once more, shining out like a star amidst the surrounding darkness, the light of Ella’s face seemed to slowly rise, and he sat there thinking of her till the waiters yawned with misery because he did not retire.
But he went at last; and Ella’s name was on his lips as he fell off into a heavy weary sleep, as it was the first word he uttered when waking.
The next day Sir Philip was in town, surprised and shocked to see the alteration in his son’s face; for Charley looked haggard and worn, and as if he had been engaged in a long career of dissipation. He laughed, though, when Sir Philip reverted to it, and seemed most assiduous in his endeavours to promote the old man’s comfort.
“About this dinner at the Brays’, Charley: I should like to go,” Sir Philip said—“that is, if you will go with me.”
“Do you particularly wish it, sir?” said Charley.
“It would give me much pleasure, if you have no other engagement.”
“Engagement!” said Charley, with a bitter laugh that shocked Sir Philip. “No, father, I have no engagements. I’ll go.”
“But, my dear boy, what have you been doing with yourself?—how do you pass your time?”
“Preparing myself for a private lunatic asylum, father,” said Charley, with a cynical laugh; and the old man felt a swelling in his throat as he thought of the alteration that had taken place since the morning of the memorable conversation in the library.
There was a something in Charley’s looks that troubled Sir Philip more than he cared to intimate: had the young man sternly refused to visit the Brays, or to accede to his wishes in any way, he would not have been surprised; but his strange looks, his bitter words, and ready acquiescence alarmed Sir Philip; and when, an hour after, Charley left the room, the old gentleman looked anxiously for his return, till, unable to bear the suspense any longer, he rang and summoned a waiter.
“Has my son gone out?” he asked.
“Think not, Sir Philip. I’ll make inquiry.”
Five anxious minutes passed, and then the man returned.
“No, Sir Philip, he went up to his bedroom.”
Pale and trembling, Sir Philip rose and hurried upstairs. He knew that Charley had had some more than usually bitter reverse, and a horrible dread had invaded the troubled father’s breast, so that when he reached his son’s room door, he feared to summon him; but at last he knocked, and waited for a few moments before he struck again upon the panels, this time more forcibly.
There was no reply.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.Accident or Design?Sir Philip Vining tried the door again and again, shaking it loudly, and repeating his son’s name; but there was no reply.What should he do—summon assistance and have the room broken open? He dreaded calling for aid, to bring up the curious to gaze upon his anguish, and perhaps upon—He seemed to check his thoughts there by a tremendous effort, and turning round, he gazed in both directions along the well-lit thickly-carpeted corridor.There was no one in sight, neither could he hear a sound.Then he tried to look through the keyhole of the door, but something arrested his vision. He knocked and called again and again, but there was not even the sound of breathing to be detected on the other side; and at last, roused to frenzy. Sir Philip turned the handle, and then dashed his shoulder with all his might against the panelling.He was not strong, but the sudden sharp shock made the little bolt by which the door was secured give way, when, rushing in, Sir Philip hastily closed the door behind him, anxious even now to hide from the public eye any blur that might have fallen upon the Vinings’ name.There was a small globe lamp burning upon the table, but the room seemed empty, and the bed was impressed; but on hurrying round to the foot, there on a couch lay Charley, his coat and vest thrown off, his collar and neckband unfastened, and his pale handsome face turned towards the light. His lips were just parted, and his leaden-hued eyelids barely closed; but upon Sir Philip throwing himself on his knees by the figure of his son, he could just detect a faint breathing, and upon hastily drawing his watch and holding it near his lips, the bright gold back was slightly dimmed.“O, that it should have come to this!” groaned Sir Philip; and raising his clenched hand, for a moment it was as though he were about to call down Heaven’s bitterest curse upon the head of the gentle girl to whom he attributed all this pain and suffering. But as he did so, his hand fell again to his side, and the recollection of the fair, soft, pleading face he had last looked upon, with its gentle eyes and pale cheeks, and then the scene of her fainting when he tottered back to kiss her glossy hair—all came back most vividly, and he groaned aloud.And then he seemed to awaken to the necessity for instant action, and running to the bell, he tore at it furiously.But there was pride still busy in the old man’s brain, in spite of the shock: the world must not know what was wrong; and hastily looking round, he saw upon the dressing-table, lying in company with the young man’s watch, with the thick gold chain carelessly thrown around it, a small graduated bottle—Time and Eternity, so it seemed, side by side.Sir Philip was not surprised. He seemed to know intuitively what was coming. He had suspected it when downstairs, but in a more horrible manner; and as soon as he had thrust the bottle into his pocket, he shudderingly closed and locked the dressing-case upon the table, where, glittering and bright, lay amongst velvet several unused keen-bladed means of avoiding the pains and suffering of this world.The next minute there was a knock at the bedroom-door, and the chamber-maid appeared.“Quick!” exclaimed Sir Philip—“the nearest doctor directly. My son is dangerously ill!”The woman hurried out, but returned directly.“I have sent, sir. But can I do anything? Has he taken too much?”“Too much! Too much what?” cried Sir Philip angrily, resenting the remark. “What do you mean, woman?”“He has been taking it now for above a fortnight, sir,” said the maid. “Poor gentleman! he’s in trouble, I think, and takes it to quiet himself.”“What?” cried Sir Philip, but this time with less anger in his tones.“Morphy, I think it’s called, sir—a sort of spirits of laudanum; and I suppose it’s awful strong. Surely, poor gentleman, he ain’t over-done it!”“Are you sure that he has been in the habit of taking it?” said Sir Philip.“O, yes, sir. I’ve often seen the bottle on the dressing-table. ‘Morphy: to be used with great care,’ it said on the label. I don’t fancy he’s so bad as you think, sir.”Sir Philip, still trembling with anxiety, knelt by his son’s couch, to be somewhat reassured by a deep sigh which the young man now drew; and five minutes after, the doctor came in, black, smooth, and silent—a very owl amongst men—bowed to Sir Philip, and then looked at his patient.“How long has he been like this?”“I found him so a quarter—half an hour since,” said Sir Philip. “He had left me an hour before that.”“Humph!” said the doctor. “Any reason for thinking he would commit suicide?”“H’m—no!” said Sir Philip, hesitating; “but he has, I fear, been suffering a great deal of mental pain.”“Any bottle or packet about?” said the doctor—“bottle, I should say. No strong odour existent; but it seems like a narcotic poison at work.”“I found this,” said Sir Philip, producing the little flask he had taken from the table.“To be sure—exactly—graduated too! My dear sir, I don’t think there is any cause for alarm. He has evidently taken a strong dose; but, you see, here are ample instructions, and the bottle is nearly empty.”“But he may have taken all that,” said Sir Philip anxiously.“My dear sir,” said the doctor, “if he had taken one-eighth part, he would not be lying as you now see him. Depend upon it, that after a few hours he will wake calm and composed, when, if you are, as I suppose from the likeness,”—here the doctor bowed,—“his father, a little quiet advice would not be out of place. It is a bad sign for a fine young man like this to be resorting to such subtle agencies to procure rest. Depend upon it, his brain is in a sad state. I should advise change.”“But do you not think that you had better wait?” said Sir Philip anxiously.“I would do so with pleasure,” said the doctor; “but really, my dear sir, there is not the slightest necessity, and, besides, I am within easy call.”The doctor departed softly, as he had arrived; and taking his seat by the couch, Sir Philip watched hour after hour, forgetful of his own fatigue, till towards morning, when Charley turned, sighed deeply, and then sat up to gaze anxiously in his father’s face.“You here, dad?” he said lightly.“My dear boy—at last!” cried Sir Philip. “You have alarmed me terribly! Why do you take that?” And he pointed to the bottle.“To keep myself sane, father,” said Charley sadly—“because I have lain here night after night waiting for the sleep that would not come. I’ve smoked; I’ve drunk heavily; I’ve walked and ridden till so tired I could hardly stand; and then I’ve lain here through the long dreary nights, till I felt that I should lose my head altogether.”The old gentleman rose and began to pace the room.“But there,” cried Charley cheerfully, “I’ve kept you up too. So now go to your room, and I’ll turn over a new leaf, dad. Look here!”As he spoke, he took up the little bottle from where it had been placed by the doctor, and threw it sharply into the grate, where it was smashed to atoms.“There, I’ll be a coward no longer, sir! I’m going to begin a clean page of the book to-morrow. No more blots and random writing, but all ruled fair and straight. There, good-night, or, rather, good-morning! Breakfast at ten, mind!”Sir Philip left the room, and Charley plunged his face into a basin of cold water before sitting down quietly to think; and as he thought, he turned over and over again his intentions for the future.It did seem now certain that Max Bray had supplanted him—there could be hardly a doubt of it, but still there was that shade; and till he was certain he would still hold to his faith. He told himself that he was wanting in no way, that he had done all that man could do; but still he must have the final certainty before he would hide for ever in his breast the sharply-cut wound, and trust to time to do something towards alleviating his suffering.Then he thought of Max Bray, and his brow lowered as he recalled his words, till those floated before his mind respecting Laura, and his treatment of her.It was absurd, certainly, but the whole family must have supposed that he had intended to ask her hand. But he had never said word of love to her. What, though, of the lady? There was no doubt that Laura did love him, poor girl! perhaps very earnestly; and if so, he was sorry for her; for it was not his wish to give her pain.Then once more he thought of Ella. Would she have accepted him, he would have set the world at defiance; but no—under the guise of a modest retirement, she had rejected him to accept Max Bray.But was it so? No,no, no! He would not believe it. He would hold to his faith in her till the last came, and then he knew that he should be a changed man.Once more he asked himself whether he had done all that man could do; and his heart honestly replied that he had—everything.“Then my policy now is, to wait and see,” said Charley aloud, and with a bitterness in his tones that told how what he had seen rankled in his breast. Then, throwing himself on his bed, he said once more aloud, “It can’t be long now before I have some proof, and after that—”He did not finish his sentence—he could not; for “after that” seemed to him to be such a weary blank, that he almost wondered whether he would be able to live through it all. And there he lay, sleepless now, awaiting the convincing proof; a proof that was to come sooner even than he anticipated.
Sir Philip Vining tried the door again and again, shaking it loudly, and repeating his son’s name; but there was no reply.
What should he do—summon assistance and have the room broken open? He dreaded calling for aid, to bring up the curious to gaze upon his anguish, and perhaps upon—
He seemed to check his thoughts there by a tremendous effort, and turning round, he gazed in both directions along the well-lit thickly-carpeted corridor.
There was no one in sight, neither could he hear a sound.
Then he tried to look through the keyhole of the door, but something arrested his vision. He knocked and called again and again, but there was not even the sound of breathing to be detected on the other side; and at last, roused to frenzy. Sir Philip turned the handle, and then dashed his shoulder with all his might against the panelling.
He was not strong, but the sudden sharp shock made the little bolt by which the door was secured give way, when, rushing in, Sir Philip hastily closed the door behind him, anxious even now to hide from the public eye any blur that might have fallen upon the Vinings’ name.
There was a small globe lamp burning upon the table, but the room seemed empty, and the bed was impressed; but on hurrying round to the foot, there on a couch lay Charley, his coat and vest thrown off, his collar and neckband unfastened, and his pale handsome face turned towards the light. His lips were just parted, and his leaden-hued eyelids barely closed; but upon Sir Philip throwing himself on his knees by the figure of his son, he could just detect a faint breathing, and upon hastily drawing his watch and holding it near his lips, the bright gold back was slightly dimmed.
“O, that it should have come to this!” groaned Sir Philip; and raising his clenched hand, for a moment it was as though he were about to call down Heaven’s bitterest curse upon the head of the gentle girl to whom he attributed all this pain and suffering. But as he did so, his hand fell again to his side, and the recollection of the fair, soft, pleading face he had last looked upon, with its gentle eyes and pale cheeks, and then the scene of her fainting when he tottered back to kiss her glossy hair—all came back most vividly, and he groaned aloud.
And then he seemed to awaken to the necessity for instant action, and running to the bell, he tore at it furiously.
But there was pride still busy in the old man’s brain, in spite of the shock: the world must not know what was wrong; and hastily looking round, he saw upon the dressing-table, lying in company with the young man’s watch, with the thick gold chain carelessly thrown around it, a small graduated bottle—Time and Eternity, so it seemed, side by side.
Sir Philip was not surprised. He seemed to know intuitively what was coming. He had suspected it when downstairs, but in a more horrible manner; and as soon as he had thrust the bottle into his pocket, he shudderingly closed and locked the dressing-case upon the table, where, glittering and bright, lay amongst velvet several unused keen-bladed means of avoiding the pains and suffering of this world.
The next minute there was a knock at the bedroom-door, and the chamber-maid appeared.
“Quick!” exclaimed Sir Philip—“the nearest doctor directly. My son is dangerously ill!”
The woman hurried out, but returned directly.
“I have sent, sir. But can I do anything? Has he taken too much?”
“Too much! Too much what?” cried Sir Philip angrily, resenting the remark. “What do you mean, woman?”
“He has been taking it now for above a fortnight, sir,” said the maid. “Poor gentleman! he’s in trouble, I think, and takes it to quiet himself.”
“What?” cried Sir Philip, but this time with less anger in his tones.
“Morphy, I think it’s called, sir—a sort of spirits of laudanum; and I suppose it’s awful strong. Surely, poor gentleman, he ain’t over-done it!”
“Are you sure that he has been in the habit of taking it?” said Sir Philip.
“O, yes, sir. I’ve often seen the bottle on the dressing-table. ‘Morphy: to be used with great care,’ it said on the label. I don’t fancy he’s so bad as you think, sir.”
Sir Philip, still trembling with anxiety, knelt by his son’s couch, to be somewhat reassured by a deep sigh which the young man now drew; and five minutes after, the doctor came in, black, smooth, and silent—a very owl amongst men—bowed to Sir Philip, and then looked at his patient.
“How long has he been like this?”
“I found him so a quarter—half an hour since,” said Sir Philip. “He had left me an hour before that.”
“Humph!” said the doctor. “Any reason for thinking he would commit suicide?”
“H’m—no!” said Sir Philip, hesitating; “but he has, I fear, been suffering a great deal of mental pain.”
“Any bottle or packet about?” said the doctor—“bottle, I should say. No strong odour existent; but it seems like a narcotic poison at work.”
“I found this,” said Sir Philip, producing the little flask he had taken from the table.
“To be sure—exactly—graduated too! My dear sir, I don’t think there is any cause for alarm. He has evidently taken a strong dose; but, you see, here are ample instructions, and the bottle is nearly empty.”
“But he may have taken all that,” said Sir Philip anxiously.
“My dear sir,” said the doctor, “if he had taken one-eighth part, he would not be lying as you now see him. Depend upon it, that after a few hours he will wake calm and composed, when, if you are, as I suppose from the likeness,”—here the doctor bowed,—“his father, a little quiet advice would not be out of place. It is a bad sign for a fine young man like this to be resorting to such subtle agencies to procure rest. Depend upon it, his brain is in a sad state. I should advise change.”
“But do you not think that you had better wait?” said Sir Philip anxiously.
“I would do so with pleasure,” said the doctor; “but really, my dear sir, there is not the slightest necessity, and, besides, I am within easy call.”
The doctor departed softly, as he had arrived; and taking his seat by the couch, Sir Philip watched hour after hour, forgetful of his own fatigue, till towards morning, when Charley turned, sighed deeply, and then sat up to gaze anxiously in his father’s face.
“You here, dad?” he said lightly.
“My dear boy—at last!” cried Sir Philip. “You have alarmed me terribly! Why do you take that?” And he pointed to the bottle.
“To keep myself sane, father,” said Charley sadly—“because I have lain here night after night waiting for the sleep that would not come. I’ve smoked; I’ve drunk heavily; I’ve walked and ridden till so tired I could hardly stand; and then I’ve lain here through the long dreary nights, till I felt that I should lose my head altogether.”
The old gentleman rose and began to pace the room.
“But there,” cried Charley cheerfully, “I’ve kept you up too. So now go to your room, and I’ll turn over a new leaf, dad. Look here!”
As he spoke, he took up the little bottle from where it had been placed by the doctor, and threw it sharply into the grate, where it was smashed to atoms.
“There, I’ll be a coward no longer, sir! I’m going to begin a clean page of the book to-morrow. No more blots and random writing, but all ruled fair and straight. There, good-night, or, rather, good-morning! Breakfast at ten, mind!”
Sir Philip left the room, and Charley plunged his face into a basin of cold water before sitting down quietly to think; and as he thought, he turned over and over again his intentions for the future.
It did seem now certain that Max Bray had supplanted him—there could be hardly a doubt of it, but still there was that shade; and till he was certain he would still hold to his faith. He told himself that he was wanting in no way, that he had done all that man could do; but still he must have the final certainty before he would hide for ever in his breast the sharply-cut wound, and trust to time to do something towards alleviating his suffering.
Then he thought of Max Bray, and his brow lowered as he recalled his words, till those floated before his mind respecting Laura, and his treatment of her.
It was absurd, certainly, but the whole family must have supposed that he had intended to ask her hand. But he had never said word of love to her. What, though, of the lady? There was no doubt that Laura did love him, poor girl! perhaps very earnestly; and if so, he was sorry for her; for it was not his wish to give her pain.
Then once more he thought of Ella. Would she have accepted him, he would have set the world at defiance; but no—under the guise of a modest retirement, she had rejected him to accept Max Bray.
But was it so? No,no, no! He would not believe it. He would hold to his faith in her till the last came, and then he knew that he should be a changed man.
Once more he asked himself whether he had done all that man could do; and his heart honestly replied that he had—everything.
“Then my policy now is, to wait and see,” said Charley aloud, and with a bitterness in his tones that told how what he had seen rankled in his breast. Then, throwing himself on his bed, he said once more aloud, “It can’t be long now before I have some proof, and after that—”
He did not finish his sentence—he could not; for “after that” seemed to him to be such a weary blank, that he almost wondered whether he would be able to live through it all. And there he lay, sleepless now, awaiting the convincing proof; a proof that was to come sooner even than he anticipated.