Chapter Ten.“Ay, marry is’t; Crowner’s Quest Law.”A jury of men, chosen with the careful selection always made by the coroner’s officer, and with such extraordinary happy results, sat solemnly and listened to the evidence, after hearing the coroner’s preliminary address, and viewing the body of the deceased.Witness by witness, all were examined. John Whyley told all he knew, and produced the life-preserver; Richmond Chartley, brought from her father’s bedside, where he lay perfectly insensible, gave her account of the proceedings, and directly after joined Janet Heath, who was her companion, and sat down to try once more to disentangle her thoughts, which, from the time she had left the surgery with the bottle of chloral till she was alarmed by the persistent ringing of the doctor’s night-bell, had been in a state of wild confusion.Hendon Chartley gave his evidence. How he had been spending the evening with a gentleman of his acquaintance, and on letting himself in with his latch-key he had heard voices in the surgery, and gone there.Mr James Poynter, the gentleman with whom Hendon Chartley had been dining corroborated the last witness, and seemed disgusted that he had not a better part to play, especially after his announcement to the coroner that he was a great friend of the family.For some reason of their own, the sapient jurymen exchanged glances several times during the evidence of the last two witnesses, and shook their heads, while one man began to make notes on the sheet of paper before him with a very scratchy pen, whereupon two more immediately caught the complaint, and the foreman regretted to himself that he wasn’t as handy with ink as he could wish.The surgeon was of course a very important witness, and he told how the man upon whose body the inquest was being held had undoubtedly died of an excessive dose of hydrocyanic acid, of which poison there was, naturally enough, a bottle in the doctor’s surgery; but how it had been administered, whether by accident, purposely, or with suicidal intent, it was impossible to say; and apparently the only man who could throw any light upon the subject was Doctor Chartley himself, who was now lying in a precarious state, perfectly insensible from the pressure of bone upon the brain, and too feeble for an operation to be performed.“Not the only man,” said one of the jury; “three men were seen by the policeman to leave the surgery.”The coroner said “Exactly;” and there was a murmur of assent; while, after stating that it was impossible to say how long Dr Chartley would be before he could appear, and that it was quite possible that he would never be able to give evidence at all, the surgeon’s evidence came to an end.Elizabeth Gundry was called; and a frightened-looking smudgy woman came forward, trembling and fighting hard not to burst into tears, hysterical sobbing having filled up so much of her time since the foggy night that her voice had degenerated into an appealing whine. She was smudgy-looking, but undoubtedly clean; only life in underground kitchens, and the ingraining of London blacks with the baking process of cookery, had given her skin an unwholesome tinge, which her reddened eyes did not improve.Questioned, she knew nothing but that she thought she had heard the doctor’s bell ring; but that she always put her head under the clothes if she did hear it, and she did so that night. Further questioned why, she said with sobs that it was a very large house, and nobody was kept but her and Bob; and she was “that tired when she went to bed that she thought it weren’t fair to expect her to get up and answer the night-bell, and so she never would hear it if it rang. It warn’t her place; for though she did housemaid’s work, and there was two sets of front-doorsteps, she considered herself a cook.”Here there was a furious burst of sobbing, and the foreman of the jury wanted to know why.Now he, being a pleasant-looking man, won upon Elizabeth Gundry more than the coroner did, that gentleman being suggestive of an extremely sharp ratting terrier grown fat. So Elizabeth informed the foreman that her grief was, of course, partly on account of master, and she thought it very shocking for there to be a murder in “our house;” but what she wanted to know was what had become of Bob, whom she was sure one of those bad men had smuggled away under his coat.Of course, this brought Bob to the front, and, growing garrulous now, Elizabeth informed everybody that Bob was a regular limb, but evidently a favourite; and since Bob had answered her out of the surgery regarding his supper, Bob had not been seen or heard of, and it was her opinion that he had been killed, so as not to tell all he knew.Bob’s bed had not been slept in; Bob’s hat was hanging in the pantry, and the police had not been able to discover where Bob had gone.The mystery seemed to thicken, and Elizabeth was questioned till she broke down sobbing once more, after declaring that Bob was the mischievousest young imp as ever lived, but she was very fond of him; and if it hadn’t been for his wicked old tipsy mother, who was no better than a thief, there weren’t a dearer, more lovable boy in the “old world.”The sergeant of police and John Whyley made notes, afterwards compared, about Bob and his mother, and Elizabeth went off crying and refusing to be comforted because of Bob.Then the sergeant stated perspiringly in the hot room, buttoned up in his coat, that the cabman had been found; and in due course a red-nosed, prominent-eyed member of the four-wheeled fraternity corroborated John Whyley’s evidence as to the three men whom he took in his cab. He reiterated the statement that “one on ’em was very tight;” told that he drove them to an hotel in Surrey Street, close to the Embankment, and corrected himself as to the driving, because “You see, gents, it was like this here: the fog was that thick, if you sat on the box you couldn’t see the ’oss’s tail, let alone his ears, and you had to lead him all the way.”Did the men go into the hotel?He couldn’t say; they helped out the one as was so very tight, and they gave him arf-suffrin—first money he’d took that night, and the last, on account of the fog.And where did the three men go—into the hotel?He didn’t know; they seemed to him to go into the fog. Everythink went into the fog that night or come out on it. It was all fog as you might ’most ha’ cut with a knife; and when he had a wash next morning, his face was that black with the sut you might ha’ took him for a sweep.But the man who seemed to be drunk, did he say anything?Not a word.“Would he know the men again?”Not likely; and besides, if he took notice of all parties as was very tight, and as he took home in his keb, he’d have enough to do. That there fog was so thick that—The coroner said that would do, and after the people at the hotel had been called to prove that no one had entered their place after eleven o’clock that night, and that the bell had not been rung, the coroner said that the case would have for the present to be left in the hands of the police, who would, he hoped, elucidate what was at present one of the mysteries of our great city. He did not think he was justified in starting a theory of his own as to the causes of the dramatic scene that must have taken place in Dr Chartley’s surgery. They were met to investigate the causes of the death of this man, who was at present unknown. No doubt the police would be able to trace the three men who left the surgery that night, and during the adjournment Dr Chartley would probably recover; and so on, and so on; a long harangue in which it seemed as if the fog, of which so much mention had been made, had got into the evidence.Finally the coroner said that he did not think he should be doing his duty if he did not mark the feeling he had with respect to the conduct of the police-constable John Whyley.The gentleman in question glowed, for he felt that he had suddenly become a prominent personage, with chevrons upon his arm to denote his rise in rank. Then he froze, and his face assumed a terribly blank expression, for the coroner went on to say that never in the whole course of his experience, which now extended over a quarter of a century, had he been cognisant of such utterly crass stupidity as that of this policeman—a man who, in his opinion, ought to be dismissed from the force.John Whyley wished a wicked wish after the jury had been dismissed, and orders given for the burial of the Mephistophelean-looking man, lying so stiff and ghastly in the parish shell—and John Whyley’s wish was that it had been the coroner instead of Doctor Chartley who had got “that one—two on the nob.”
A jury of men, chosen with the careful selection always made by the coroner’s officer, and with such extraordinary happy results, sat solemnly and listened to the evidence, after hearing the coroner’s preliminary address, and viewing the body of the deceased.
Witness by witness, all were examined. John Whyley told all he knew, and produced the life-preserver; Richmond Chartley, brought from her father’s bedside, where he lay perfectly insensible, gave her account of the proceedings, and directly after joined Janet Heath, who was her companion, and sat down to try once more to disentangle her thoughts, which, from the time she had left the surgery with the bottle of chloral till she was alarmed by the persistent ringing of the doctor’s night-bell, had been in a state of wild confusion.
Hendon Chartley gave his evidence. How he had been spending the evening with a gentleman of his acquaintance, and on letting himself in with his latch-key he had heard voices in the surgery, and gone there.
Mr James Poynter, the gentleman with whom Hendon Chartley had been dining corroborated the last witness, and seemed disgusted that he had not a better part to play, especially after his announcement to the coroner that he was a great friend of the family.
For some reason of their own, the sapient jurymen exchanged glances several times during the evidence of the last two witnesses, and shook their heads, while one man began to make notes on the sheet of paper before him with a very scratchy pen, whereupon two more immediately caught the complaint, and the foreman regretted to himself that he wasn’t as handy with ink as he could wish.
The surgeon was of course a very important witness, and he told how the man upon whose body the inquest was being held had undoubtedly died of an excessive dose of hydrocyanic acid, of which poison there was, naturally enough, a bottle in the doctor’s surgery; but how it had been administered, whether by accident, purposely, or with suicidal intent, it was impossible to say; and apparently the only man who could throw any light upon the subject was Doctor Chartley himself, who was now lying in a precarious state, perfectly insensible from the pressure of bone upon the brain, and too feeble for an operation to be performed.
“Not the only man,” said one of the jury; “three men were seen by the policeman to leave the surgery.”
The coroner said “Exactly;” and there was a murmur of assent; while, after stating that it was impossible to say how long Dr Chartley would be before he could appear, and that it was quite possible that he would never be able to give evidence at all, the surgeon’s evidence came to an end.
Elizabeth Gundry was called; and a frightened-looking smudgy woman came forward, trembling and fighting hard not to burst into tears, hysterical sobbing having filled up so much of her time since the foggy night that her voice had degenerated into an appealing whine. She was smudgy-looking, but undoubtedly clean; only life in underground kitchens, and the ingraining of London blacks with the baking process of cookery, had given her skin an unwholesome tinge, which her reddened eyes did not improve.
Questioned, she knew nothing but that she thought she had heard the doctor’s bell ring; but that she always put her head under the clothes if she did hear it, and she did so that night. Further questioned why, she said with sobs that it was a very large house, and nobody was kept but her and Bob; and she was “that tired when she went to bed that she thought it weren’t fair to expect her to get up and answer the night-bell, and so she never would hear it if it rang. It warn’t her place; for though she did housemaid’s work, and there was two sets of front-doorsteps, she considered herself a cook.”
Here there was a furious burst of sobbing, and the foreman of the jury wanted to know why.
Now he, being a pleasant-looking man, won upon Elizabeth Gundry more than the coroner did, that gentleman being suggestive of an extremely sharp ratting terrier grown fat. So Elizabeth informed the foreman that her grief was, of course, partly on account of master, and she thought it very shocking for there to be a murder in “our house;” but what she wanted to know was what had become of Bob, whom she was sure one of those bad men had smuggled away under his coat.
Of course, this brought Bob to the front, and, growing garrulous now, Elizabeth informed everybody that Bob was a regular limb, but evidently a favourite; and since Bob had answered her out of the surgery regarding his supper, Bob had not been seen or heard of, and it was her opinion that he had been killed, so as not to tell all he knew.
Bob’s bed had not been slept in; Bob’s hat was hanging in the pantry, and the police had not been able to discover where Bob had gone.
The mystery seemed to thicken, and Elizabeth was questioned till she broke down sobbing once more, after declaring that Bob was the mischievousest young imp as ever lived, but she was very fond of him; and if it hadn’t been for his wicked old tipsy mother, who was no better than a thief, there weren’t a dearer, more lovable boy in the “old world.”
The sergeant of police and John Whyley made notes, afterwards compared, about Bob and his mother, and Elizabeth went off crying and refusing to be comforted because of Bob.
Then the sergeant stated perspiringly in the hot room, buttoned up in his coat, that the cabman had been found; and in due course a red-nosed, prominent-eyed member of the four-wheeled fraternity corroborated John Whyley’s evidence as to the three men whom he took in his cab. He reiterated the statement that “one on ’em was very tight;” told that he drove them to an hotel in Surrey Street, close to the Embankment, and corrected himself as to the driving, because “You see, gents, it was like this here: the fog was that thick, if you sat on the box you couldn’t see the ’oss’s tail, let alone his ears, and you had to lead him all the way.”
Did the men go into the hotel?
He couldn’t say; they helped out the one as was so very tight, and they gave him arf-suffrin—first money he’d took that night, and the last, on account of the fog.
And where did the three men go—into the hotel?
He didn’t know; they seemed to him to go into the fog. Everythink went into the fog that night or come out on it. It was all fog as you might ’most ha’ cut with a knife; and when he had a wash next morning, his face was that black with the sut you might ha’ took him for a sweep.
But the man who seemed to be drunk, did he say anything?
Not a word.
“Would he know the men again?”
Not likely; and besides, if he took notice of all parties as was very tight, and as he took home in his keb, he’d have enough to do. That there fog was so thick that—
The coroner said that would do, and after the people at the hotel had been called to prove that no one had entered their place after eleven o’clock that night, and that the bell had not been rung, the coroner said that the case would have for the present to be left in the hands of the police, who would, he hoped, elucidate what was at present one of the mysteries of our great city. He did not think he was justified in starting a theory of his own as to the causes of the dramatic scene that must have taken place in Dr Chartley’s surgery. They were met to investigate the causes of the death of this man, who was at present unknown. No doubt the police would be able to trace the three men who left the surgery that night, and during the adjournment Dr Chartley would probably recover; and so on, and so on; a long harangue in which it seemed as if the fog, of which so much mention had been made, had got into the evidence.
Finally the coroner said that he did not think he should be doing his duty if he did not mark the feeling he had with respect to the conduct of the police-constable John Whyley.
The gentleman in question glowed, for he felt that he had suddenly become a prominent personage, with chevrons upon his arm to denote his rise in rank. Then he froze, and his face assumed a terribly blank expression, for the coroner went on to say that never in the whole course of his experience, which now extended over a quarter of a century, had he been cognisant of such utterly crass stupidity as that of this policeman—a man who, in his opinion, ought to be dismissed from the force.
John Whyley wished a wicked wish after the jury had been dismissed, and orders given for the burial of the Mephistophelean-looking man, lying so stiff and ghastly in the parish shell—and John Whyley’s wish was that it had been the coroner instead of Doctor Chartley who had got “that one—two on the nob.”
Chapter Eleven.Mr Poynter polishes his Hat.James Poynter rang four times at Dr Chartley’s door-bell, and rapped as many at the great grinning knocker tied in flannel, before he heard the chain put up and the lock shot back, to display the smudgy unwholesome countenance of Elizabeth Gundry, who always blinked like a night-bird when forced to leave her dark kitchen.“There, hang it, woman, open the door!” cried Poynter. “Do you take me for a thief?”“No, sir, I didn’t know it was you; but I am so scared, sir, and they ain’t found Bob yet.”Elizabeth did not hear what James Poynter said about Bob, for she closed the door, took down the chain, opened slowly and grudgingly, and the visitor entered.“How’s the doctor?”“Awful, please, sir, just; he’s there with his eyes shut, as if he was going to die, and Miss Rich and Miss Janet taking it in turns to sit up night and day.”“Ask Miss Chartley to come down and see me.”“Which, please, sir, she said as she couldn’t see nobody now.”“You go and do as I tell you.”“Which it ain’t my place, sir, to answer the front-door-bell at all. Poor Bob!”She ended with a sob, and put her apron to her eyes.“I say,” said Poynter, giving her apron a twitch and dragging it down, “look here.”“Well, I’m sure!” began Elizabeth indignantly.“Look here; have your wages been paid?”“Lor’, no, sir, not for ever so long,” said Elizabeth, with an air of surprise at the absurdity of the question.“Then look here, Elizabeth: you know what I come here for, don’t you?”“I think I can guess, sir,” said the woman, suddenly becoming interested and smiling weakly.“Of course you can. You’re a sharp ’un, that’s what you are. So look here: the day I’m married I’ll pay your wages, and I’ll give you a fi’-pun note to buy yourself a new bonnet and gown. Now go up and say I’m waiting to see Miss Richmond on particular business.”Elizabeth’s eyes opened widely, and there was a peculiar look of satisfaction therein, as she closed the door, led the way into the dining-room, and then, after giving the visitor a nod of intelligence, she left him to go up-stairs and deliver her message.“Pah! how the place smells!” muttered Poynter. “Any one would think that chap was here now. A nasty, damp, fusty hole!”He listened eagerly, but the step he hoped to hear was not coming, and he began to walk up and down, twisting his silk handkerchief round, and polishing his glossy hat the while.“I’m screwed up now,” he muttered. “I’m not afraid of her. She can’t say no, but if she does, she’s got to learn something. Perhaps she don’t know what putting on the screw means, and I shall have to teach her. All for her good. Hah!”There was no mistake now; a step was descending the stairs, and James Poynter once more looked round for a mirror for a final glance; but there was nothing of the kind on the blank walls, and he had to face Richmond unfurbished.She entered the room, looking quite calm, but very pale, and the blue rings about her eyes told of her sufferings and anxiety. There was a slight heightening of her colour, though, for a few moments, as the visitor advanced with extended hand, in which she placed hers for a few moments before motioning him to a seat.“How’s the doctor?” he said huskily, and then coughed to clear his throat.“Very, very ill, Mr Poynter,” was the reply. “I am sorry, but I must ask you to please see Doctor Maurice, who has promised to attend any of my father’s patients if they called.”“Oh! bother Doctor Maurice! I’m better now. Quite well.”James Poynter had partaken of the greater portion of a bottle of champagne before he came, so as to screw himself up, as he termed it; and there was plenty of decision of a rude and vulgar type as he spoke.“I beg your pardon; I thought you had come to consult my father. You have come to see how he was?”“No, I didn’t? You know what I’ve come for.”Richmond did know, and perfectly well; but as she scorned to make use of farther subterfuge, she remained silent.“I’m a plain fellow, Miss Rich, and I know what’s what,” he said, “Hendon and I’ve had lots of chats together about money matters, and you want money now.”“Mr Poynter!”“Now, now, now! sit down, and don’t get in a wax, my dear, with a man who has come as a friend. I’m well enough off now, but I know the time when a half-crown seemed riches, and if a friend had come to me, I’d ha’ said ‘Bless yer!’”“If you have come as a friend of my brother, Mr Poynter, I am grateful.”“Now, don’t put me on one side like that, Miss Rich—don’t. I have come as a friend—the best of friends. I know what things are, and that you’re pushed for money.”“Mr Poynter!” indignantly.“Yes, I know what you are going to say. ’Tain’t put delicate. Can’t help that. I’m a City man of business; but if it ain’t put delicately it’s put honest. We don’t put things delicately in the City.”“I have no doubt of your intentions, Mr Poynter, and I am grateful.”“Thank you, and that’s right. Now, don’t kick at what I’m going to say, and let it hurt your pride, because it is only between you and your best friend—the man as loves you. There, I came to say that, and I’m glad it’s out.”“Mr Poynter,” said Rich hastily, “I am worn out. I am ill. I have that terrible trouble in the house. It is not the time to speak to me like this.”“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear; for when should your best friend come if it isn’t when you’re sick, and so pushed for money that you don’t know where to turn?”“Oh, the shame of it!” moaned Rich to herself, as her eyes flashed with mortification, while Poynter went on polishing his hat.“You see I know all about it, and I want to show you that I’m no fine-weather friend.”“Mr Poynter I have told you that I am ill; will you please to bring this visit to an end? I—I cannot bear it.”“Yes, you can,” he said, in what was meant to be a soothing tone; “let’s have it over at once, and have done with it. I won’t hurry you. I only want to feel that it will be some day before long; and till then here’s my hand, and it don’t come to you empty. Say what’s troubling you, and what you want to pay, and there’s my cheque for it. I don’t care how much it is.”“Mr Poynter,” cried Rich, “you force me to speak out. I cannot take your help, and what you wish is impossible.”“Oh, no, it isn’t!” he said, smiling, and leaving his handkerchief hanging on his hat as he tried to take her hand, which she withdrew; “I saw the doctor the other day, before this upset. We had a long chat over it, and he was willing.”“What! my father willing?”“To give his consent? Yes.”“It is impossible!” cried Rich.“Oh, no, it isn’t, and what’s more, Hendon and I have often chatted this over together, and he’s willing, too. Now, I say, what is the use of making a fuss over it? There, we understand one another, and I want to help you at once.”“Mr Poynter,” cried Rich, “I now calmly and firmly tell you that what you wish can never take place. Will you allow me to pass?”“No,” said Poynter, flushing angrily, “I won’t. Now, don’t put me in a temper over this by being foolish. What’s the good of it? You know it’s for the best, and that as my wife you can help the old man, and get your brother on. See what a practise you could buy Hendon by and by.”“Mr Poynter, I have already told you, I can say no more.”“Don’t say any more, then,” he cried, barring her way of exit, as he gave his hat a final polish, and pocketed his handkerchief. “I respect you—no, I love you all the more for holding out; but there’s been enough of it now, so let’s talk sensibly. Come, I say. Why, after this upset some men would have fought shy of the place, even if you’d had a fortune. I don’t: I come to you quite humble, and say what shall I do for you first?”Rich stood before him pale, and with her eyes flashing in a way that penetrated even the thick hide of his vanity, and was unmistakable.“Look here,” he said angrily, “don’t go on like that. It makes a fellow feel put out.”Richmond once more essayed to leave the room, but Poynter stayed her.“Look here,” he said, “I’m a City man, I am. I began life with nothing, but I said to myself I’d make my fortune, and I’ve made it. While other fellows were fooling about, I worked till I could afford to do as they did, and then, perhaps, I had my turn. Then I saw you, and when I had seen you I said to myself that’s the woman for my wife.”“Mr Poynter!”“Yes, and some day it shall be Mrs Poynter. I said it should, and so it shall!”“Mr Poynter, will you leave this house?”“No, I won’t,” he replied bitterly, “not till you’ve thrown all this nonsense aside, and made friends. What a temper! Now, look here, Rich, I’ve been afraid of you. I’ve come here to see the doctor, and I’ve shivered when I’ve seen you. I’ve wanted to speak to you, but my tongue has seemed to stick to the roof of my mouth; but that’s all over now, and we’re going to understand one another before I go.”“Sir, this is insolence!”“Insolence!” he said, with the champagne effervescing as it were, in his veins. “No, it’s love.”Richmond rang the bell.“Bah!” he said, “what of that? When the girl comes—if she does—I shall tell her to go, for I mean to be master here now.”“Coward!”“No, not a coward now,” he replied, laughing. “Rich, do you know what I can do if I like? I can come down on brother Hendon for all he owes me, and how would it be then?”Richmond winced, and the flush in her cheeks paled away, while Poynter saw it, and went on:“What should you say if I was to act like a business man would, and come down on your father!”“What? My father! He does not owe you money?”“Doesn’t he!” said Poynter, with a mocking laugh. “You see you don’t know everything, my dear. Come, what’s it going to be—peace or war?”“War!” said Richmond firmly. “My father cannot owe you money, and as to my brother, he would sooner die than see his sister sold as a slave to pay his debts.”“Would he?” snarled Poynter. “Why he’s as weak as water; I can turn him around my thumb. You tried to keep him away. He wouldn’t own it; but I know. He came, though, all the same, when I asked him; and he will come, too, as often as I like, and he’ll help me to make you— Bah! nonsense! Come, don’t let’s talk like this: you’re out of sorts, and no wonder, and I’ve come at a bad time. To-morrow you’ll be cool, and you’ll put that little hand in mine, and say, ‘James Poynter, you’ve acted like a man and my best friend, and I won’t say no.’”He tried to take her hand, but she shrank from him.“Sir, I beg that you will not come here again,” she said, drawing herself up. “I am not blind to your position with my brother, but—”“Your brother’s a weak-minded young fool!” cried Poynter, who had now thoroughly become roused, so withering was the contempt written in Rich’s eyes; “and—”He stopped short, for in the heat of the encounter neither had heard the latch-key in the front-door, nor the opening of that of the room, to admit Hendon Chartley, who stood still for a few moments, and then strode to his sister’s side and put his arm round her.“Yes,” he said hoarsely, “I have been a weak young fool, James Poynter, to let you play with me as you pleased; but please God, with my sister’s help, I’m going to be strong now, and if you don’t leave this house I’ll kick you out.”“You kick me out!” snarled Poynter, snatching his handkerchief from his pocket and polishing his hat savagely; “not you! So it’s going to be war, is it? Why, if I liked— There, you needn’t threaten. I’m not going to quarrel with you, my lad, because we’re going to be brothers.”“Brothers!” cried Hendon, in tones of contempt.“Yes, my lad, brothers. I’ve gone the right way to work, and you know it, too. There, we’re all peppery now. Rich, my dear, you know what I’ve said. I’m not angry. It was only a flash, and you won’t make me any the worse for speaking out like a man. Next time I come we shall be better friends.”He gave his hat a final polish, flourished his handkerchief, and left the room.“Hendon, Hendon, what have you done?” cried Richmond, as soon as they were alone. “Had we not trouble enough without this?”“The cad!” cried Hendon angrily.“And after what had passed you went to him again!”“How could I help it?” said the young man, with a groan. “I owe him money, and it’s like a chain about my neck. He tugs it, and I’m obliged to go.”“And he hinted that our poor father was in his debt.”“The governor? Oh, Rich!”Richmond said nothing, but returned to her watching by her father’s pillow, asking herself whether the chain was being fitted to her own limbs, and whether, to save those she loved, she was to become this man’s slave.
James Poynter rang four times at Dr Chartley’s door-bell, and rapped as many at the great grinning knocker tied in flannel, before he heard the chain put up and the lock shot back, to display the smudgy unwholesome countenance of Elizabeth Gundry, who always blinked like a night-bird when forced to leave her dark kitchen.
“There, hang it, woman, open the door!” cried Poynter. “Do you take me for a thief?”
“No, sir, I didn’t know it was you; but I am so scared, sir, and they ain’t found Bob yet.”
Elizabeth did not hear what James Poynter said about Bob, for she closed the door, took down the chain, opened slowly and grudgingly, and the visitor entered.
“How’s the doctor?”
“Awful, please, sir, just; he’s there with his eyes shut, as if he was going to die, and Miss Rich and Miss Janet taking it in turns to sit up night and day.”
“Ask Miss Chartley to come down and see me.”
“Which, please, sir, she said as she couldn’t see nobody now.”
“You go and do as I tell you.”
“Which it ain’t my place, sir, to answer the front-door-bell at all. Poor Bob!”
She ended with a sob, and put her apron to her eyes.
“I say,” said Poynter, giving her apron a twitch and dragging it down, “look here.”
“Well, I’m sure!” began Elizabeth indignantly.
“Look here; have your wages been paid?”
“Lor’, no, sir, not for ever so long,” said Elizabeth, with an air of surprise at the absurdity of the question.
“Then look here, Elizabeth: you know what I come here for, don’t you?”
“I think I can guess, sir,” said the woman, suddenly becoming interested and smiling weakly.
“Of course you can. You’re a sharp ’un, that’s what you are. So look here: the day I’m married I’ll pay your wages, and I’ll give you a fi’-pun note to buy yourself a new bonnet and gown. Now go up and say I’m waiting to see Miss Richmond on particular business.”
Elizabeth’s eyes opened widely, and there was a peculiar look of satisfaction therein, as she closed the door, led the way into the dining-room, and then, after giving the visitor a nod of intelligence, she left him to go up-stairs and deliver her message.
“Pah! how the place smells!” muttered Poynter. “Any one would think that chap was here now. A nasty, damp, fusty hole!”
He listened eagerly, but the step he hoped to hear was not coming, and he began to walk up and down, twisting his silk handkerchief round, and polishing his glossy hat the while.
“I’m screwed up now,” he muttered. “I’m not afraid of her. She can’t say no, but if she does, she’s got to learn something. Perhaps she don’t know what putting on the screw means, and I shall have to teach her. All for her good. Hah!”
There was no mistake now; a step was descending the stairs, and James Poynter once more looked round for a mirror for a final glance; but there was nothing of the kind on the blank walls, and he had to face Richmond unfurbished.
She entered the room, looking quite calm, but very pale, and the blue rings about her eyes told of her sufferings and anxiety. There was a slight heightening of her colour, though, for a few moments, as the visitor advanced with extended hand, in which she placed hers for a few moments before motioning him to a seat.
“How’s the doctor?” he said huskily, and then coughed to clear his throat.
“Very, very ill, Mr Poynter,” was the reply. “I am sorry, but I must ask you to please see Doctor Maurice, who has promised to attend any of my father’s patients if they called.”
“Oh! bother Doctor Maurice! I’m better now. Quite well.”
James Poynter had partaken of the greater portion of a bottle of champagne before he came, so as to screw himself up, as he termed it; and there was plenty of decision of a rude and vulgar type as he spoke.
“I beg your pardon; I thought you had come to consult my father. You have come to see how he was?”
“No, I didn’t? You know what I’ve come for.”
Richmond did know, and perfectly well; but as she scorned to make use of farther subterfuge, she remained silent.
“I’m a plain fellow, Miss Rich, and I know what’s what,” he said, “Hendon and I’ve had lots of chats together about money matters, and you want money now.”
“Mr Poynter!”
“Now, now, now! sit down, and don’t get in a wax, my dear, with a man who has come as a friend. I’m well enough off now, but I know the time when a half-crown seemed riches, and if a friend had come to me, I’d ha’ said ‘Bless yer!’”
“If you have come as a friend of my brother, Mr Poynter, I am grateful.”
“Now, don’t put me on one side like that, Miss Rich—don’t. I have come as a friend—the best of friends. I know what things are, and that you’re pushed for money.”
“Mr Poynter!” indignantly.
“Yes, I know what you are going to say. ’Tain’t put delicate. Can’t help that. I’m a City man of business; but if it ain’t put delicately it’s put honest. We don’t put things delicately in the City.”
“I have no doubt of your intentions, Mr Poynter, and I am grateful.”
“Thank you, and that’s right. Now, don’t kick at what I’m going to say, and let it hurt your pride, because it is only between you and your best friend—the man as loves you. There, I came to say that, and I’m glad it’s out.”
“Mr Poynter,” said Rich hastily, “I am worn out. I am ill. I have that terrible trouble in the house. It is not the time to speak to me like this.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear; for when should your best friend come if it isn’t when you’re sick, and so pushed for money that you don’t know where to turn?”
“Oh, the shame of it!” moaned Rich to herself, as her eyes flashed with mortification, while Poynter went on polishing his hat.
“You see I know all about it, and I want to show you that I’m no fine-weather friend.”
“Mr Poynter I have told you that I am ill; will you please to bring this visit to an end? I—I cannot bear it.”
“Yes, you can,” he said, in what was meant to be a soothing tone; “let’s have it over at once, and have done with it. I won’t hurry you. I only want to feel that it will be some day before long; and till then here’s my hand, and it don’t come to you empty. Say what’s troubling you, and what you want to pay, and there’s my cheque for it. I don’t care how much it is.”
“Mr Poynter,” cried Rich, “you force me to speak out. I cannot take your help, and what you wish is impossible.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t!” he said, smiling, and leaving his handkerchief hanging on his hat as he tried to take her hand, which she withdrew; “I saw the doctor the other day, before this upset. We had a long chat over it, and he was willing.”
“What! my father willing?”
“To give his consent? Yes.”
“It is impossible!” cried Rich.
“Oh, no, it isn’t, and what’s more, Hendon and I have often chatted this over together, and he’s willing, too. Now, I say, what is the use of making a fuss over it? There, we understand one another, and I want to help you at once.”
“Mr Poynter,” cried Rich, “I now calmly and firmly tell you that what you wish can never take place. Will you allow me to pass?”
“No,” said Poynter, flushing angrily, “I won’t. Now, don’t put me in a temper over this by being foolish. What’s the good of it? You know it’s for the best, and that as my wife you can help the old man, and get your brother on. See what a practise you could buy Hendon by and by.”
“Mr Poynter, I have already told you, I can say no more.”
“Don’t say any more, then,” he cried, barring her way of exit, as he gave his hat a final polish, and pocketed his handkerchief. “I respect you—no, I love you all the more for holding out; but there’s been enough of it now, so let’s talk sensibly. Come, I say. Why, after this upset some men would have fought shy of the place, even if you’d had a fortune. I don’t: I come to you quite humble, and say what shall I do for you first?”
Rich stood before him pale, and with her eyes flashing in a way that penetrated even the thick hide of his vanity, and was unmistakable.
“Look here,” he said angrily, “don’t go on like that. It makes a fellow feel put out.”
Richmond once more essayed to leave the room, but Poynter stayed her.
“Look here,” he said, “I’m a City man, I am. I began life with nothing, but I said to myself I’d make my fortune, and I’ve made it. While other fellows were fooling about, I worked till I could afford to do as they did, and then, perhaps, I had my turn. Then I saw you, and when I had seen you I said to myself that’s the woman for my wife.”
“Mr Poynter!”
“Yes, and some day it shall be Mrs Poynter. I said it should, and so it shall!”
“Mr Poynter, will you leave this house?”
“No, I won’t,” he replied bitterly, “not till you’ve thrown all this nonsense aside, and made friends. What a temper! Now, look here, Rich, I’ve been afraid of you. I’ve come here to see the doctor, and I’ve shivered when I’ve seen you. I’ve wanted to speak to you, but my tongue has seemed to stick to the roof of my mouth; but that’s all over now, and we’re going to understand one another before I go.”
“Sir, this is insolence!”
“Insolence!” he said, with the champagne effervescing as it were, in his veins. “No, it’s love.”
Richmond rang the bell.
“Bah!” he said, “what of that? When the girl comes—if she does—I shall tell her to go, for I mean to be master here now.”
“Coward!”
“No, not a coward now,” he replied, laughing. “Rich, do you know what I can do if I like? I can come down on brother Hendon for all he owes me, and how would it be then?”
Richmond winced, and the flush in her cheeks paled away, while Poynter saw it, and went on:
“What should you say if I was to act like a business man would, and come down on your father!”
“What? My father! He does not owe you money?”
“Doesn’t he!” said Poynter, with a mocking laugh. “You see you don’t know everything, my dear. Come, what’s it going to be—peace or war?”
“War!” said Richmond firmly. “My father cannot owe you money, and as to my brother, he would sooner die than see his sister sold as a slave to pay his debts.”
“Would he?” snarled Poynter. “Why he’s as weak as water; I can turn him around my thumb. You tried to keep him away. He wouldn’t own it; but I know. He came, though, all the same, when I asked him; and he will come, too, as often as I like, and he’ll help me to make you— Bah! nonsense! Come, don’t let’s talk like this: you’re out of sorts, and no wonder, and I’ve come at a bad time. To-morrow you’ll be cool, and you’ll put that little hand in mine, and say, ‘James Poynter, you’ve acted like a man and my best friend, and I won’t say no.’”
He tried to take her hand, but she shrank from him.
“Sir, I beg that you will not come here again,” she said, drawing herself up. “I am not blind to your position with my brother, but—”
“Your brother’s a weak-minded young fool!” cried Poynter, who had now thoroughly become roused, so withering was the contempt written in Rich’s eyes; “and—”
He stopped short, for in the heat of the encounter neither had heard the latch-key in the front-door, nor the opening of that of the room, to admit Hendon Chartley, who stood still for a few moments, and then strode to his sister’s side and put his arm round her.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, “I have been a weak young fool, James Poynter, to let you play with me as you pleased; but please God, with my sister’s help, I’m going to be strong now, and if you don’t leave this house I’ll kick you out.”
“You kick me out!” snarled Poynter, snatching his handkerchief from his pocket and polishing his hat savagely; “not you! So it’s going to be war, is it? Why, if I liked— There, you needn’t threaten. I’m not going to quarrel with you, my lad, because we’re going to be brothers.”
“Brothers!” cried Hendon, in tones of contempt.
“Yes, my lad, brothers. I’ve gone the right way to work, and you know it, too. There, we’re all peppery now. Rich, my dear, you know what I’ve said. I’m not angry. It was only a flash, and you won’t make me any the worse for speaking out like a man. Next time I come we shall be better friends.”
He gave his hat a final polish, flourished his handkerchief, and left the room.
“Hendon, Hendon, what have you done?” cried Richmond, as soon as they were alone. “Had we not trouble enough without this?”
“The cad!” cried Hendon angrily.
“And after what had passed you went to him again!”
“How could I help it?” said the young man, with a groan. “I owe him money, and it’s like a chain about my neck. He tugs it, and I’m obliged to go.”
“And he hinted that our poor father was in his debt.”
“The governor? Oh, Rich!”
Richmond said nothing, but returned to her watching by her father’s pillow, asking herself whether the chain was being fitted to her own limbs, and whether, to save those she loved, she was to become this man’s slave.
Chapter Twelve.The Dreams of a Fever.A dreamy sensation of cold and thick darkness and stumbling on and on, with a dull light glowing about his head and fading away directly, then more darkness and stumbling on, and once more a dull yellow glow, and this fading away, with the darkness increasing. Then a slight struggle, and a few petulant remonstrances.Why wouldn’t the doctor let him sleep?Then another feeble struggle, a sensation of passing through the air, a sudden plunge into the icy water, and then utter darkness, and a noise, as if of thunder, in his ears.But the sudden immersion was electric in its effect, sending a thrill through nerve and muscle, though the brain remained still drowsily inert, while the natural instinct of desire for life chased away the helpless state of collapse; and Mark Heath, old athlete, expert swimmer, man hardened by his life in the southern colony, rose to the surface, and struck out, swimming slowly and mechanically, as if it were the natural action of his muscles. On and on, breasting the icy water, keeping just afloat, but progressing blindly where the tide willed; on and on through the darkness, with the yellow fog hanging like a solid bank a few feet above his head, as if the rushing of the water were cutting the lower stratum away.Now a yellow light shone weirdly through the mist, came into sight, and after glowing for a moment on the murky current, died away.On still, as if it were the tide—that last tide which sweeps away the parting spirit—stroke after stroke, given mechanically; and then there was another light—a dull red light, then an angry glow—a stain as of blood upon the black water; and it, too, died away, but not till it had bathed the upturned face with its crimson hue.Onward still, the icy water thrilling the swimmer through and through, but seeming to bring with it no dread, no sense of horror, no recollection of the past, no fear of what was to come: the sensation was that he was swimming as one swims without effort in a dream.A blow from some dark slimy object along whose side he glided, and then on once more.Another blow against something which checked him for a time, and turned him face downward, so that the thundering recommenced in his ears; there was the sense of strangulation; and then he was steadily swimming on once more, past moored barge with its lights, past steamboat pontoon; and then with a rush he was driven against a stone pier; his hands grasped at the slimy stones without avail, he was turned in an eddy around and around, sucked under, and rose again, to swim on and on, till at last, in the darkness, his hands touched the muddy pebbles of the river shore, his knees struck heavily, and he crawled through a pool, and then staggered to his feet, with the water streaming from him.What next? It was all as in a dream, in which, in the gloom of the thick night, he stumbled upon a flight of slippery steps, and walked up and up, and then along a road which he crossed again and again, and always walking on and on.At times he guided himself by mechanically touching a cold rough stony wall, till somehow it was different and felt slippery, and his hand glided over the side.Then darkness, and a sense of wandering. How long? Where? Why was he wandering on?It was all a dream, but changed to a time when his head was as it were on fire, and he was climbing mountains where diamonds glistened at the top, but which he could not reach, though he was ever climbing, with the sun burning into his brain, and the diamonds that he must find farther and farther away.And so on, and so on, in one long weary journey, to reach that which he could not attain, and at last oblivion—soft, sweet, restful oblivion—with nothing wrong, nothing a trouble, no weariness or care: it was rest, sweet rest, after that toilsome climb.The next sensation was of a cool soft hand upon his brow, and Mark Heath opened his eyes, to gaze into those of a pale, grave-looking woman in white, curiously-shaped cap; and she smiled at the look of intelligence in his face as he said softly.“Who are you?”“Your nurse,” was the reply.“Nurse?”One word only, but a chapter in its inquiring tone. “Yes,” she said gently; “you have been ill. Don’t try to talk. Take this, and lie quite still.”Another long, dreamy time, during which there were noises about his head—the gentle, pleasant voice of his nurse, and the firm, decisive voice of the doctor. It might have been hours, it might have been days or weeks, he did not know; and then came the morning when he seemed to awaken from a long disturbed sleep, full of terrible dreams, with a full realisation of his position.He looked about him, and there were people in beds on either side, while a row of windows started from opposite to him, and went on right and left.At last he saw the face of the woman whom he felt that he had seen leaning over him in his dream.She came to his bedside.“Well?” she said, with a pleasant smile.“Is this a hospital?” he said eagerly.“Yes.”“And I have met with some accident—hurt?”“No,” was the reply; “not an accident. You have been ill.”“Ill? How came I here?”He looked wildly in the calm soft face before him, and behind it there seemed to be a dense mental mist which he could not penetrate. There was the nurse; and as he lay, it seemed to him that he could think as far as their presence there, and no further.“You had better wait till the doctor has been round.”“If you don’t tell me what all this means,” he said impetuously, “you will make me worse.”She laid her hand upon his forehead, to find that it was perfectly cool, and he caught her fingers in his as she was drawing them away. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” he said piteously.“Well, I will tell you. The police brought you here a fortnight ago. They found you lying in a doorway, drenched with water and fast asleep. You were quite delirious, and you have been very ill.”“Ill? Yes, I feel so weak,” he muttered, as he struggled to penetrate the mist which seemed to shut him in, till the nurse’s next words gave him a clue to the way out.“We do not even know who you are; only that they suppose you to be a sailor who has just left his ship.”“Heath—Mark Heath,” he said quickly.“Ah! And your friends? We want to communicate with them.”“My friends! No; it would frighten her, poor little girl!”“The cause for alarm is passed,” said the nurse gravely.“Yes. Ah! I begin to recollect now,” he said. “Send to Miss Heath—my sister—19 Upper Brunswick Avenue, Bloomsbury.”“Yes; and now lie still.”The nurse left him, and he lay thinking, and gradually finding in the mist the pieces of the puzzle of his past adventure, till he seemed to have them nearly all there.Then came the doctor with a few words of encouragement.“You’ll do now,” he said. “Narrow escape of losing your hair, young fellow. Next time you come from sea don’t touch the drink.”Mark Heath lay back thinking, and with the puzzle pretty well fitted together now all but what had happened since, half wild with exhaustion and excitement, he had taken refuge at Doctor Chartley’s.“Don’t touch the drink!” he muttered. “He thinks I have had D.T. Well, I did drink—brandy. I had some. Yes; I remember now—at the doctor’s, and—Great Heavens!”He paused, with his hands pressed to his forehead; and now the light had come back clearly.He lay waiting till the nurse passed round again, and he signed to her to come to his side.“You have sent to my sister?”“Yes; a messenger has been sent.”“My clothes?” he said, in an eager whisper. “Where are they?”“They have been taken care of quite safely.”“And the bag, and the belt—the cash-belt I had strapped round my waist?”“I will make inquiries.”The nurse went away, and Mark Heath lay in an agony of spirit which he could hardly control till her return, to announce that he had nothing whatever upon him in the way of bag or money when found by the police.Mark lay as if stunned till the messenger returned with the intelligence that Miss Heath had left the lodgings indicated; that the people there were new, and could give no information whatever.“But you have other friends,” said the nurse, as she looked down pityingly in the patient’s agitated face.“Yes,” he said, “I have friends. Write for me to—”He paused for a few moments, with a hysterical sob rising to his lips as he recalled how he had struggled to return to her wealthy, and had come back a beggar.“Yes, to—”The gently-spoken inquiry roused him, and he went on. “To Miss Richmond—”“Richmond?” said the nurse, looking up inquiringly as she took down the name in a little memorandum-book.“Miss Richmond Chartley, 27 Ramillies Street, Queen’s Square, Bloomsbury, to beg her to find and send my sister here.”The nurse smiled, and left him to his thoughts, which now came freely enough—too freely to help him to convalescence.It was late in the evening when the nurse came to announce that there were visitors; and after a few grave firm words, bidding him be calm, she left him, and returned with Janet and Richmond, both trembling and agitated, to grasp his hands, and fight hard against the desire to throw themselves sobbing upon his breast.The nurse remained, not from curiosity, but to watch over her patient, whom she had literally dragged from the grasp of death, while, after the first loving words, Mark Heath gazed at Richmond in a troubled way, and proceeded to tell of his adventures.“But did you really bring back a bag of diamonds, Mark, or is it—”“Fancy,” he said bitterly. “No; it is no fancy. I have been delirious, Jenny; but I am sane enough now. I had the bag of diamonds, and over a hundred pounds in gold, in a belt about my waist. Rich, darling, I was silent during these past two years; for I vowed that I would not write again till I could come back to you and say I have fulfilled my promise, and now I have come to you a beggar.”“Yes,” said Richmond, laying her hand in his, as an ineffably sweet look of content beamed from her eyes in his, and there was tender yearning love in every tone of her sweet deep voice; “but you have come back alive after we had long mourned you as dead.”“Better that I had been,” he said bitterly. “Better that that dark night’s work had been completed than I should have come back a beggar.”Janet and Richmond exchanged glances; which with a sick man’s suspicion he noted, and his brow contracted.“They doubt me,” he thought.“But you have come back, Mark. We are young; and there is our life before us. I do not complain,” said Richmond gently. “We must wait.”“Wait!” he said bitterly; and he uttered a low groan, which made the nurse approach. “No, no,” he said, “I will be quite calm.” The nurse drew back.“Tell me, Mark,” said Janet, with her pretty little earnest face puckered up. “Why did you not come straight to me? How stupid? Of course you didn’t know where, as you did not get my last letters?”“No, I have had no letters for a year. How could I, out in that desert?”“But, Mark, you recollect being pursued by those men!”“Yes, yes.”“You are sure it was not a dream?”He looked at her almost fiercely.“Dream? Could a man dream a thing like that?”“Don’t be cross with me, dear Mark,” she said, laying her cheek against his. “It seems so strange, and you have been very, very ill. My own darling brother!”It was not jealousy, but something very near akin, that troubled Rich as she stood there, with an intense longing to take her friend’s place, after the long parting. But there was the recollection that their parting had not been the warm passionate embracing of lovers, only calm and full of the hope of what might be.Janet continued:“And you went late at night through a dreadful fog, and took refuge with a friend?”“Yes,” he said, with his features contracting, and a shudder passing through him, as he gazed furtively at Rich.“And what can you recollect besides? Are you sure you had what you say—diamonds and money?”“Yes, I am certain.”“I never wore diamonds,” said Janet, with her pretty white forehead growing more puckered, “and I don’t want any; but after being so poor, and with one’s dearest friends so poor, and when it would make every one so happy, I should like you to find them again.”Mark uttered a low groan.“But tell me, Mark, what else can you recollect?”“Very little,” he said. “It all seems misty; but I recollect drinking something.”“Brandy, Mark?”“Yes; and afterwards a medicine that was to calm him, for I was half mad with excitement.”“Yes; go on.”“Then everything is confused: I seemed to fall asleep—a long restful sleep, that was broken by my taking a long journey.”“Yes, but that was dreaming, dear.”“Maybe,” he said, “and then I was swimming—swimming for life—and then toiling on and on, a long weary journey under a hot sun to get my diamonds.”“Yes, dear, fever,” said Janet, with the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, Mark, what you have suffered! Rich, love, do you hear?”“Yes—yes,” cried Rich, who seemed to be roused from a strange dream, in which she was fighting to recall another of which she had a misty recollection—a dream that troubled her on the night she took the chloral, when half mad with pain.“You have seen and borne so much, dear,” said Janet piteously. “Was not all this about the bag of diamonds and those people a feverish dream?”“Jenny, do you want to drive me mad?”“My own dear old darling brother, no,” she whispered caressingly; and once more that strange half-jealous feeling swept like a hot breath of wind across Rich, making her pale face flush. “I only want to make you see things rightly, and not fret about a fancy.”“I tell you it was no fancy,” he said angrily; and then, as the nurse held up a warning hand. “All right,” he added, “I’ll be calm.”“Say something to him, Rich,” said Janet piteously.Rich started, and then took Mark’s hand. “You say that you went to the house of a friend?” she whispered.“Ye–es,” he replied hesitatingly.“And that you partook of some medicine that was to make you sleep?”He bowed his head slowly.“And that your next clear recollection is of lying here, where you were brought after being found delirious by the police?”“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.“Robbed?”“Stripped of everything,” he said bitterly.“It could not have been a friend, then, with whom you took refuge,” said Rich.Mark was silent.“Must it not have been a dream?” said Janet in a whisper to her companion.“No,” said Rich aloud. “I think that all Mark recollects before he took this medicine must be true, and that this friend must have drugged him.”Mark drew a long, catching breath between his teeth.“And robbed him while he slept.”Mark’s breast rose and fell as if he were suffering some great emotion, and he stared at Rich wildly, his hand twitching and his lip quivering as he waited for her next speech, which seemed to crush him, as she asked in a clear firm voice.“Who was the friend to whose house you went?”He looked at her wildly, with the thoughts of the consequences of telling her that which he believed to be the truth—that Dr Chartley—her father—the father of the woman he passionately loved—had drugged him—taken the treasure for which he had fought so hard, and then cast him forth feverish and delirious into the river to die. For he realised it now: he had been swimming; he could even recall the very plunge; he had been cast into the river to drown, and somehow he must have struggled out.“Who was the friend, Mark?” she said again, in her calm firm way.“Yes, who was it?” cried Janet, with her little lips compressed. “You are right, Rich. Some one did do this dreadful thing. Who was it, Mark?”The sick man turned from her with a shudder, while she, all excitement now, pressed his hard hand.“Tell us, Mark dear, that he may be punished, and made to restore what he has stolen.”“No, no!” he said excitedly; “I cannot tell you—I do not know.”“Try and recollect, Mark,” said Rich gently; and she looked in his face with an appealing smile.“No, no!” he gasped, as he shuddered again; “it is impossible. I—I do not know. And Heaven forgive me for my lie!” he muttered, as he sharply withdrew his hands, sank back upon his pillow, and covered his face.“He must be left now,” said the nurse firmly, “He is very weak, and your visit is proving painful. Say good-night to him. You can come to-morrow. He will be stronger after a night’s rest.”“But—there is no danger?” whispered Rich, as she caught the sister’s hand.“No; the danger is past, but he must be kept quiet. Say good-night.”Janet bent down and kissed her brother lovingly; and as she drew back from his pallid drawn face, Rich took her place and held out her hand.Mark caught it in both his, and there was an agonised look in his eyes.“Rich,” he whispered passionately, “I have come back to you a beggar, after fighting so hard. Heaven knows how hard, and what I am suffering for your sake. I cannot tell you more. I only say, believe in me and trust in me. Kiss me, my love—my love.”Richmond Chartley’s pale face deepened, but she did not hesitate. There were patients here and there who lay witnessing the scene, and there were others present; but at that moment the world seemed very small, and they two the only living creatures it contained, as she bent down, passed her arm beneath his neck, and for the first time her lips met his.“Rich—poor—what does it matter, Mark?” she whispered, with her warm breath seeming to caress his cheek. “You have come back to me, as it were, from the dead.”She drew down her veil as she rose from the parting, and the nurse’s quick experienced eyes noted the restful happy look that had come over her patient’s face.“Good-bye,” she said to the two visitors. “May I?”Rich leaned forward, and the two women kissed.“I had some one once whom I dearly loved. It pleased God that he should die—for his country—trying to save a brother officer’s life. Good-bye, dear. You are the best physician for him now. Come back soon.”Janet impulsively threw her arms about the sister’s neck and kissed her.“And I never thanked you for your care of my poor brother,” she said. “But tell me, he is still a little wandering, is he not?”“I could not help hearing all that passed,” was the reply. “It was my duty to be present. I have, of course, had some experience of such cases, and I fear that he must have been drinking heavily in riotous company, and these ideas have become impressed upon his brain.”“And they are fancies?”“I think so, but as he grows stronger these ideas will weaken, and you, his sister—and you— Ah, men are sometimes very weak, but to whom should they come for forgiveness when weak and repentant, if not to us?”“But I won’t believe my Mark has been going on as she hinted,” said Janet, through her tears, as she walked away, weeping bitterly, and clinging tightly to Rich’s arm.“No; it is impossible,” replied Rich; and with the feeling upon her that it was her duty to suffer for all in turn, and be calm and patient, she fought down her own longing to burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and walked on to resume her watch by her father’s side, where he lay still insensible, as if in a sleep which must end in death.“Rich dear, if it is true, and poor Mark was drugged and robbed, the wretch who did it shall be brought to justice, shall he not?”“Yes,” said Rich, as she clasped the weeping girl to her breast.And as she sat there in the silent chamber, through the dark watches of the night, at times a feeling of exultation and joy filled her breast, while at others a hot pang of rage shot through her, and she felt that she could slay the wretch who had raised a hand against him who had returned to her as from the dead.
A dreamy sensation of cold and thick darkness and stumbling on and on, with a dull light glowing about his head and fading away directly, then more darkness and stumbling on, and once more a dull yellow glow, and this fading away, with the darkness increasing. Then a slight struggle, and a few petulant remonstrances.
Why wouldn’t the doctor let him sleep?
Then another feeble struggle, a sensation of passing through the air, a sudden plunge into the icy water, and then utter darkness, and a noise, as if of thunder, in his ears.
But the sudden immersion was electric in its effect, sending a thrill through nerve and muscle, though the brain remained still drowsily inert, while the natural instinct of desire for life chased away the helpless state of collapse; and Mark Heath, old athlete, expert swimmer, man hardened by his life in the southern colony, rose to the surface, and struck out, swimming slowly and mechanically, as if it were the natural action of his muscles. On and on, breasting the icy water, keeping just afloat, but progressing blindly where the tide willed; on and on through the darkness, with the yellow fog hanging like a solid bank a few feet above his head, as if the rushing of the water were cutting the lower stratum away.
Now a yellow light shone weirdly through the mist, came into sight, and after glowing for a moment on the murky current, died away.
On still, as if it were the tide—that last tide which sweeps away the parting spirit—stroke after stroke, given mechanically; and then there was another light—a dull red light, then an angry glow—a stain as of blood upon the black water; and it, too, died away, but not till it had bathed the upturned face with its crimson hue.
Onward still, the icy water thrilling the swimmer through and through, but seeming to bring with it no dread, no sense of horror, no recollection of the past, no fear of what was to come: the sensation was that he was swimming as one swims without effort in a dream.
A blow from some dark slimy object along whose side he glided, and then on once more.
Another blow against something which checked him for a time, and turned him face downward, so that the thundering recommenced in his ears; there was the sense of strangulation; and then he was steadily swimming on once more, past moored barge with its lights, past steamboat pontoon; and then with a rush he was driven against a stone pier; his hands grasped at the slimy stones without avail, he was turned in an eddy around and around, sucked under, and rose again, to swim on and on, till at last, in the darkness, his hands touched the muddy pebbles of the river shore, his knees struck heavily, and he crawled through a pool, and then staggered to his feet, with the water streaming from him.
What next? It was all as in a dream, in which, in the gloom of the thick night, he stumbled upon a flight of slippery steps, and walked up and up, and then along a road which he crossed again and again, and always walking on and on.
At times he guided himself by mechanically touching a cold rough stony wall, till somehow it was different and felt slippery, and his hand glided over the side.
Then darkness, and a sense of wandering. How long? Where? Why was he wandering on?
It was all a dream, but changed to a time when his head was as it were on fire, and he was climbing mountains where diamonds glistened at the top, but which he could not reach, though he was ever climbing, with the sun burning into his brain, and the diamonds that he must find farther and farther away.
And so on, and so on, in one long weary journey, to reach that which he could not attain, and at last oblivion—soft, sweet, restful oblivion—with nothing wrong, nothing a trouble, no weariness or care: it was rest, sweet rest, after that toilsome climb.
The next sensation was of a cool soft hand upon his brow, and Mark Heath opened his eyes, to gaze into those of a pale, grave-looking woman in white, curiously-shaped cap; and she smiled at the look of intelligence in his face as he said softly.
“Who are you?”
“Your nurse,” was the reply.
“Nurse?”
One word only, but a chapter in its inquiring tone. “Yes,” she said gently; “you have been ill. Don’t try to talk. Take this, and lie quite still.”
Another long, dreamy time, during which there were noises about his head—the gentle, pleasant voice of his nurse, and the firm, decisive voice of the doctor. It might have been hours, it might have been days or weeks, he did not know; and then came the morning when he seemed to awaken from a long disturbed sleep, full of terrible dreams, with a full realisation of his position.
He looked about him, and there were people in beds on either side, while a row of windows started from opposite to him, and went on right and left.
At last he saw the face of the woman whom he felt that he had seen leaning over him in his dream.
She came to his bedside.
“Well?” she said, with a pleasant smile.
“Is this a hospital?” he said eagerly.
“Yes.”
“And I have met with some accident—hurt?”
“No,” was the reply; “not an accident. You have been ill.”
“Ill? How came I here?”
He looked wildly in the calm soft face before him, and behind it there seemed to be a dense mental mist which he could not penetrate. There was the nurse; and as he lay, it seemed to him that he could think as far as their presence there, and no further.
“You had better wait till the doctor has been round.”
“If you don’t tell me what all this means,” he said impetuously, “you will make me worse.”
She laid her hand upon his forehead, to find that it was perfectly cool, and he caught her fingers in his as she was drawing them away. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” he said piteously.
“Well, I will tell you. The police brought you here a fortnight ago. They found you lying in a doorway, drenched with water and fast asleep. You were quite delirious, and you have been very ill.”
“Ill? Yes, I feel so weak,” he muttered, as he struggled to penetrate the mist which seemed to shut him in, till the nurse’s next words gave him a clue to the way out.
“We do not even know who you are; only that they suppose you to be a sailor who has just left his ship.”
“Heath—Mark Heath,” he said quickly.
“Ah! And your friends? We want to communicate with them.”
“My friends! No; it would frighten her, poor little girl!”
“The cause for alarm is passed,” said the nurse gravely.
“Yes. Ah! I begin to recollect now,” he said. “Send to Miss Heath—my sister—19 Upper Brunswick Avenue, Bloomsbury.”
“Yes; and now lie still.”
The nurse left him, and he lay thinking, and gradually finding in the mist the pieces of the puzzle of his past adventure, till he seemed to have them nearly all there.
Then came the doctor with a few words of encouragement.
“You’ll do now,” he said. “Narrow escape of losing your hair, young fellow. Next time you come from sea don’t touch the drink.”
Mark Heath lay back thinking, and with the puzzle pretty well fitted together now all but what had happened since, half wild with exhaustion and excitement, he had taken refuge at Doctor Chartley’s.
“Don’t touch the drink!” he muttered. “He thinks I have had D.T. Well, I did drink—brandy. I had some. Yes; I remember now—at the doctor’s, and—Great Heavens!”
He paused, with his hands pressed to his forehead; and now the light had come back clearly.
He lay waiting till the nurse passed round again, and he signed to her to come to his side.
“You have sent to my sister?”
“Yes; a messenger has been sent.”
“My clothes?” he said, in an eager whisper. “Where are they?”
“They have been taken care of quite safely.”
“And the bag, and the belt—the cash-belt I had strapped round my waist?”
“I will make inquiries.”
The nurse went away, and Mark Heath lay in an agony of spirit which he could hardly control till her return, to announce that he had nothing whatever upon him in the way of bag or money when found by the police.
Mark lay as if stunned till the messenger returned with the intelligence that Miss Heath had left the lodgings indicated; that the people there were new, and could give no information whatever.
“But you have other friends,” said the nurse, as she looked down pityingly in the patient’s agitated face.
“Yes,” he said, “I have friends. Write for me to—”
He paused for a few moments, with a hysterical sob rising to his lips as he recalled how he had struggled to return to her wealthy, and had come back a beggar.
“Yes, to—”
The gently-spoken inquiry roused him, and he went on. “To Miss Richmond—”
“Richmond?” said the nurse, looking up inquiringly as she took down the name in a little memorandum-book.
“Miss Richmond Chartley, 27 Ramillies Street, Queen’s Square, Bloomsbury, to beg her to find and send my sister here.”
The nurse smiled, and left him to his thoughts, which now came freely enough—too freely to help him to convalescence.
It was late in the evening when the nurse came to announce that there were visitors; and after a few grave firm words, bidding him be calm, she left him, and returned with Janet and Richmond, both trembling and agitated, to grasp his hands, and fight hard against the desire to throw themselves sobbing upon his breast.
The nurse remained, not from curiosity, but to watch over her patient, whom she had literally dragged from the grasp of death, while, after the first loving words, Mark Heath gazed at Richmond in a troubled way, and proceeded to tell of his adventures.
“But did you really bring back a bag of diamonds, Mark, or is it—”
“Fancy,” he said bitterly. “No; it is no fancy. I have been delirious, Jenny; but I am sane enough now. I had the bag of diamonds, and over a hundred pounds in gold, in a belt about my waist. Rich, darling, I was silent during these past two years; for I vowed that I would not write again till I could come back to you and say I have fulfilled my promise, and now I have come to you a beggar.”
“Yes,” said Richmond, laying her hand in his, as an ineffably sweet look of content beamed from her eyes in his, and there was tender yearning love in every tone of her sweet deep voice; “but you have come back alive after we had long mourned you as dead.”
“Better that I had been,” he said bitterly. “Better that that dark night’s work had been completed than I should have come back a beggar.”
Janet and Richmond exchanged glances; which with a sick man’s suspicion he noted, and his brow contracted.
“They doubt me,” he thought.
“But you have come back, Mark. We are young; and there is our life before us. I do not complain,” said Richmond gently. “We must wait.”
“Wait!” he said bitterly; and he uttered a low groan, which made the nurse approach. “No, no,” he said, “I will be quite calm.” The nurse drew back.
“Tell me, Mark,” said Janet, with her pretty little earnest face puckered up. “Why did you not come straight to me? How stupid? Of course you didn’t know where, as you did not get my last letters?”
“No, I have had no letters for a year. How could I, out in that desert?”
“But, Mark, you recollect being pursued by those men!”
“Yes, yes.”
“You are sure it was not a dream?”
He looked at her almost fiercely.
“Dream? Could a man dream a thing like that?”
“Don’t be cross with me, dear Mark,” she said, laying her cheek against his. “It seems so strange, and you have been very, very ill. My own darling brother!”
It was not jealousy, but something very near akin, that troubled Rich as she stood there, with an intense longing to take her friend’s place, after the long parting. But there was the recollection that their parting had not been the warm passionate embracing of lovers, only calm and full of the hope of what might be.
Janet continued:
“And you went late at night through a dreadful fog, and took refuge with a friend?”
“Yes,” he said, with his features contracting, and a shudder passing through him, as he gazed furtively at Rich.
“And what can you recollect besides? Are you sure you had what you say—diamonds and money?”
“Yes, I am certain.”
“I never wore diamonds,” said Janet, with her pretty white forehead growing more puckered, “and I don’t want any; but after being so poor, and with one’s dearest friends so poor, and when it would make every one so happy, I should like you to find them again.”
Mark uttered a low groan.
“But tell me, Mark, what else can you recollect?”
“Very little,” he said. “It all seems misty; but I recollect drinking something.”
“Brandy, Mark?”
“Yes; and afterwards a medicine that was to calm him, for I was half mad with excitement.”
“Yes; go on.”
“Then everything is confused: I seemed to fall asleep—a long restful sleep, that was broken by my taking a long journey.”
“Yes, but that was dreaming, dear.”
“Maybe,” he said, “and then I was swimming—swimming for life—and then toiling on and on, a long weary journey under a hot sun to get my diamonds.”
“Yes, dear, fever,” said Janet, with the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, Mark, what you have suffered! Rich, love, do you hear?”
“Yes—yes,” cried Rich, who seemed to be roused from a strange dream, in which she was fighting to recall another of which she had a misty recollection—a dream that troubled her on the night she took the chloral, when half mad with pain.
“You have seen and borne so much, dear,” said Janet piteously. “Was not all this about the bag of diamonds and those people a feverish dream?”
“Jenny, do you want to drive me mad?”
“My own dear old darling brother, no,” she whispered caressingly; and once more that strange half-jealous feeling swept like a hot breath of wind across Rich, making her pale face flush. “I only want to make you see things rightly, and not fret about a fancy.”
“I tell you it was no fancy,” he said angrily; and then, as the nurse held up a warning hand. “All right,” he added, “I’ll be calm.”
“Say something to him, Rich,” said Janet piteously.
Rich started, and then took Mark’s hand. “You say that you went to the house of a friend?” she whispered.
“Ye–es,” he replied hesitatingly.
“And that you partook of some medicine that was to make you sleep?”
He bowed his head slowly.
“And that your next clear recollection is of lying here, where you were brought after being found delirious by the police?”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.
“Robbed?”
“Stripped of everything,” he said bitterly.
“It could not have been a friend, then, with whom you took refuge,” said Rich.
Mark was silent.
“Must it not have been a dream?” said Janet in a whisper to her companion.
“No,” said Rich aloud. “I think that all Mark recollects before he took this medicine must be true, and that this friend must have drugged him.”
Mark drew a long, catching breath between his teeth.
“And robbed him while he slept.”
Mark’s breast rose and fell as if he were suffering some great emotion, and he stared at Rich wildly, his hand twitching and his lip quivering as he waited for her next speech, which seemed to crush him, as she asked in a clear firm voice.
“Who was the friend to whose house you went?”
He looked at her wildly, with the thoughts of the consequences of telling her that which he believed to be the truth—that Dr Chartley—her father—the father of the woman he passionately loved—had drugged him—taken the treasure for which he had fought so hard, and then cast him forth feverish and delirious into the river to die. For he realised it now: he had been swimming; he could even recall the very plunge; he had been cast into the river to drown, and somehow he must have struggled out.
“Who was the friend, Mark?” she said again, in her calm firm way.
“Yes, who was it?” cried Janet, with her little lips compressed. “You are right, Rich. Some one did do this dreadful thing. Who was it, Mark?”
The sick man turned from her with a shudder, while she, all excitement now, pressed his hard hand.
“Tell us, Mark dear, that he may be punished, and made to restore what he has stolen.”
“No, no!” he said excitedly; “I cannot tell you—I do not know.”
“Try and recollect, Mark,” said Rich gently; and she looked in his face with an appealing smile.
“No, no!” he gasped, as he shuddered again; “it is impossible. I—I do not know. And Heaven forgive me for my lie!” he muttered, as he sharply withdrew his hands, sank back upon his pillow, and covered his face.
“He must be left now,” said the nurse firmly, “He is very weak, and your visit is proving painful. Say good-night to him. You can come to-morrow. He will be stronger after a night’s rest.”
“But—there is no danger?” whispered Rich, as she caught the sister’s hand.
“No; the danger is past, but he must be kept quiet. Say good-night.”
Janet bent down and kissed her brother lovingly; and as she drew back from his pallid drawn face, Rich took her place and held out her hand.
Mark caught it in both his, and there was an agonised look in his eyes.
“Rich,” he whispered passionately, “I have come back to you a beggar, after fighting so hard. Heaven knows how hard, and what I am suffering for your sake. I cannot tell you more. I only say, believe in me and trust in me. Kiss me, my love—my love.”
Richmond Chartley’s pale face deepened, but she did not hesitate. There were patients here and there who lay witnessing the scene, and there were others present; but at that moment the world seemed very small, and they two the only living creatures it contained, as she bent down, passed her arm beneath his neck, and for the first time her lips met his.
“Rich—poor—what does it matter, Mark?” she whispered, with her warm breath seeming to caress his cheek. “You have come back to me, as it were, from the dead.”
She drew down her veil as she rose from the parting, and the nurse’s quick experienced eyes noted the restful happy look that had come over her patient’s face.
“Good-bye,” she said to the two visitors. “May I?”
Rich leaned forward, and the two women kissed.
“I had some one once whom I dearly loved. It pleased God that he should die—for his country—trying to save a brother officer’s life. Good-bye, dear. You are the best physician for him now. Come back soon.”
Janet impulsively threw her arms about the sister’s neck and kissed her.
“And I never thanked you for your care of my poor brother,” she said. “But tell me, he is still a little wandering, is he not?”
“I could not help hearing all that passed,” was the reply. “It was my duty to be present. I have, of course, had some experience of such cases, and I fear that he must have been drinking heavily in riotous company, and these ideas have become impressed upon his brain.”
“And they are fancies?”
“I think so, but as he grows stronger these ideas will weaken, and you, his sister—and you— Ah, men are sometimes very weak, but to whom should they come for forgiveness when weak and repentant, if not to us?”
“But I won’t believe my Mark has been going on as she hinted,” said Janet, through her tears, as she walked away, weeping bitterly, and clinging tightly to Rich’s arm.
“No; it is impossible,” replied Rich; and with the feeling upon her that it was her duty to suffer for all in turn, and be calm and patient, she fought down her own longing to burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and walked on to resume her watch by her father’s side, where he lay still insensible, as if in a sleep which must end in death.
“Rich dear, if it is true, and poor Mark was drugged and robbed, the wretch who did it shall be brought to justice, shall he not?”
“Yes,” said Rich, as she clasped the weeping girl to her breast.
And as she sat there in the silent chamber, through the dark watches of the night, at times a feeling of exultation and joy filled her breast, while at others a hot pang of rage shot through her, and she felt that she could slay the wretch who had raised a hand against him who had returned to her as from the dead.
Chapter Thirteen.Janet is Haunted.A fortnight passed, and Mark was able to join his sister at her lodging, from which she was out all day.It was very hard work, that lesson-giving at different houses, but little Janet trudged on from place to place, rarely ever travelling by omnibus unless absolutely obliged, so that she might economise and make her earnings help out her income of twenty-one pounds per annum.Rather a small sum in London, but it was safe. Seven hundred pounds’ worth of stock in the Three per Cents., and bringing in ten pounds ten shillings every half-year.One evening, as she was returning on foot, walking very rapidly, so as to get back as soon as possible to Mark, her heart sank, and she felt faint in spirit as she thought of her future and its prospects. To go on teach, teach, teach, and try to make stupid girls achieve something approaching skill in handling their brushes, so that parents might be satisfied. For, poor girl, she found what most teachers do, that when a child does not progress, it is always the instructor’s fault, not that of the disciple.“I shall be better when I’ve had some tea,” she said to herself, as the tears gathered in her eyes. “Why do I murmur so? Rich never complains, and her troubles are as great as mine. I ought to be glad and rejoice that poor Mark has come back safely, and—there he is again.”Janet’s little heart beat wildly with fear as a tall muffled-up figure appeared from a doorway in the sombre-looking square into which she had turned from the street where she gave lessons three afternoons a week, and followed her at a short distance behind. For two months past, evening after evening, that figure had been there, making her heart palpitate as she thought of what a weak, helpless little creature she was, and how unprotected in this busy world.It was hard work to keep steadily on without looking round, without starting off at a run. Her breast seemed filled with that wild scream which she longed to utter, but dared not, telling herself that to seem afraid or to notice the figure was to invite assault.“Oh, if Mark would only get well,” she thought, “or if Rich could come and meet me!”Then she called herself a coward, and stepped daintily on along the muddy street, wondering whether it would be possible to go by some other way, and so avoid this shadow which dogged her steps.There was one way to get over it—to mention if to Rich, and ask her to bid Hendon wait for her and see her home. But that, she said, she would sooner die than do; so she had tried four different ways of reaching home, and always with the figure following her to the door of the house where she lodged, and where Mark sat waiting for her to come.It was always the same: the muffled-up figure followed her closely, and kept on the same side of the way till he reached her door, when it crossed over, and waited till she went in, breathless and trembling.Over and over again the little frightened girl tried to devise some plan, but all in vain; till this night of the foggy winter she was crossing the street, rejoicing that he was so near home, when there was a shout, a horse’s hot breath was upon her cheek, and she was sent staggering sideways, and would have fallen had not the muffled-up figure been at hand, caught her in his arms, and borne her to the pavement, while the cab disappeared in the yellow mist.“My own darling! Are you hurt?” he cried passionately.“Hendon! You!” she panted.“Yes, I,” he said. “You are hurt!”“No, no,” she cried; “only frightened. The horse struck my shoulder. But—but was it you who followed every night all the way home?”“Yes,” he said, coldly now, “you knew it was.”“I did not,” she retorted angrily; and then in half hysterical terms, “how dare you go on frightening me night after night like this? It has been horrible. You have made me ill.”“Made you ill?” he said. “How could I let you go about all alone these dark evenings? I was forbidden to talk to you as I wished, but there was no reason why I should not watch over you. How’s Mark?”“Getting better,” said Janet, drawing a breath of relief at her companion’s sudden change in the conversation; for she felt that had he continued in that same sad reproachful strain she must have hung upon his arm, and sobbed and thanked him for his chivalrous conduct. There was something, too, so sweet in the feeling that he must love her very dearly in spite of all the rebuffs he had received; and somehow as they walked on, a gleam of sunny yellow came through the misty greys and dingy drabs with which from her mental colour-box she had been tingeing her future life. There was even a dash of ultramarine, too—a brighter blue than her eyes—and her heart began to beat quite another tune.“May I come and walk home with you every night?” said Hendon at last, as, after repeated assurances that she was not hurt, they stopped at last at the street door.“No,” she said decidedly; and her little lips were tightly compressed, so that they should not give vent to a sob.“How cruel you are, Janet!”“For trying to do what is right,” she said firmly. “What would your sister say if, after all that has passed, I were to be so weak?”“May I follow you at a distance, as I have done all this time?” he pleaded.“No. You have only frightened me almost to death,” she replied. “Will you come up and see poor Mark?”“Not to-night,” he said bitterly; “I couldn’t bear it now. Janet, if I go to the bad, it won’t be all my fault. I know I’m a weak fellow, but with something to act as ballast, I should be all right. What have I done that you should be so cold?”For answer, Janet held out her hand.“Good-night, Mr Chartley,” she said quietly; but he did not take the hand, only turned away, walking rapidly along the street, while, fighting hard to keep from bursting into a violent fit of sobbing, Janet hurried up to her room, to find her brother looking haggard and wild as he slowly paced the floor.
A fortnight passed, and Mark was able to join his sister at her lodging, from which she was out all day.
It was very hard work, that lesson-giving at different houses, but little Janet trudged on from place to place, rarely ever travelling by omnibus unless absolutely obliged, so that she might economise and make her earnings help out her income of twenty-one pounds per annum.
Rather a small sum in London, but it was safe. Seven hundred pounds’ worth of stock in the Three per Cents., and bringing in ten pounds ten shillings every half-year.
One evening, as she was returning on foot, walking very rapidly, so as to get back as soon as possible to Mark, her heart sank, and she felt faint in spirit as she thought of her future and its prospects. To go on teach, teach, teach, and try to make stupid girls achieve something approaching skill in handling their brushes, so that parents might be satisfied. For, poor girl, she found what most teachers do, that when a child does not progress, it is always the instructor’s fault, not that of the disciple.
“I shall be better when I’ve had some tea,” she said to herself, as the tears gathered in her eyes. “Why do I murmur so? Rich never complains, and her troubles are as great as mine. I ought to be glad and rejoice that poor Mark has come back safely, and—there he is again.”
Janet’s little heart beat wildly with fear as a tall muffled-up figure appeared from a doorway in the sombre-looking square into which she had turned from the street where she gave lessons three afternoons a week, and followed her at a short distance behind. For two months past, evening after evening, that figure had been there, making her heart palpitate as she thought of what a weak, helpless little creature she was, and how unprotected in this busy world.
It was hard work to keep steadily on without looking round, without starting off at a run. Her breast seemed filled with that wild scream which she longed to utter, but dared not, telling herself that to seem afraid or to notice the figure was to invite assault.
“Oh, if Mark would only get well,” she thought, “or if Rich could come and meet me!”
Then she called herself a coward, and stepped daintily on along the muddy street, wondering whether it would be possible to go by some other way, and so avoid this shadow which dogged her steps.
There was one way to get over it—to mention if to Rich, and ask her to bid Hendon wait for her and see her home. But that, she said, she would sooner die than do; so she had tried four different ways of reaching home, and always with the figure following her to the door of the house where she lodged, and where Mark sat waiting for her to come.
It was always the same: the muffled-up figure followed her closely, and kept on the same side of the way till he reached her door, when it crossed over, and waited till she went in, breathless and trembling.
Over and over again the little frightened girl tried to devise some plan, but all in vain; till this night of the foggy winter she was crossing the street, rejoicing that he was so near home, when there was a shout, a horse’s hot breath was upon her cheek, and she was sent staggering sideways, and would have fallen had not the muffled-up figure been at hand, caught her in his arms, and borne her to the pavement, while the cab disappeared in the yellow mist.
“My own darling! Are you hurt?” he cried passionately.
“Hendon! You!” she panted.
“Yes, I,” he said. “You are hurt!”
“No, no,” she cried; “only frightened. The horse struck my shoulder. But—but was it you who followed every night all the way home?”
“Yes,” he said, coldly now, “you knew it was.”
“I did not,” she retorted angrily; and then in half hysterical terms, “how dare you go on frightening me night after night like this? It has been horrible. You have made me ill.”
“Made you ill?” he said. “How could I let you go about all alone these dark evenings? I was forbidden to talk to you as I wished, but there was no reason why I should not watch over you. How’s Mark?”
“Getting better,” said Janet, drawing a breath of relief at her companion’s sudden change in the conversation; for she felt that had he continued in that same sad reproachful strain she must have hung upon his arm, and sobbed and thanked him for his chivalrous conduct. There was something, too, so sweet in the feeling that he must love her very dearly in spite of all the rebuffs he had received; and somehow as they walked on, a gleam of sunny yellow came through the misty greys and dingy drabs with which from her mental colour-box she had been tingeing her future life. There was even a dash of ultramarine, too—a brighter blue than her eyes—and her heart began to beat quite another tune.
“May I come and walk home with you every night?” said Hendon at last, as, after repeated assurances that she was not hurt, they stopped at last at the street door.
“No,” she said decidedly; and her little lips were tightly compressed, so that they should not give vent to a sob.
“How cruel you are, Janet!”
“For trying to do what is right,” she said firmly. “What would your sister say if, after all that has passed, I were to be so weak?”
“May I follow you at a distance, as I have done all this time?” he pleaded.
“No. You have only frightened me almost to death,” she replied. “Will you come up and see poor Mark?”
“Not to-night,” he said bitterly; “I couldn’t bear it now. Janet, if I go to the bad, it won’t be all my fault. I know I’m a weak fellow, but with something to act as ballast, I should be all right. What have I done that you should be so cold?”
For answer, Janet held out her hand.
“Good-night, Mr Chartley,” she said quietly; but he did not take the hand, only turned away, walking rapidly along the street, while, fighting hard to keep from bursting into a violent fit of sobbing, Janet hurried up to her room, to find her brother looking haggard and wild as he slowly paced the floor.