CHAPTER XIFORESTALLED
Merewords fail to express my chagrin. Job Seal could perhaps have uttered remarks sufficiently pointed and appropriate, but for myself I could only reflect that this unknown man who called himself Mr. Purvis, of London, had forestalled me.
The parchment he had purchased of this drink-sodden old yokel might, for aught I knew, give a clue to the spot of which I was in search. We had more than a thousand golden guineas locked up safely in the bank in London, but both Seal, Mr. Staffurth, and myself felt certain that the great bulk of the treasure still remained undiscovered.
But what was the explanation of these inquiries by the mysterious Purvis? He evidently knew that the family of Knutton had been appointed hereditary guardians of the Italian’s hoard, and he, like myself, was investigating the possibility of securing it.
I asked the old labourer, Ben Knutton, to describe the parchment he had sold, but owing to the landlady’s sharp and well-meant remonstrance he was not communicative.
“It was all stained and faded so that you could hardly see there was any writin’ on it at all,” he said vaguely.
“But there was a seal on it. What was it like?”
“Oh, it was a thick, round bit o’ wax what had been put on to a narrow piece of parchment and threaded through at the bottom so that it hung down.”
“Did you ever notice the device on the seal?” I inquired eagerly.
“There was a lion, or summat—it were very much like what’s on the stone in front o’ Caldecott Manor.”
That decided me. The document the foolish old simpleton had sold for half a sovereign was the one that had been in his family since the days of Queen Elizabeth, and in all probability gave some clue, if a guarded one, to the secret.
“This stranger knew all about the Knuttons?” I hazarded.
“Lor’ bless you yes. He knew more about my family than I do myself. Been studying ’em, he said.”
I smiled within myself. Whoever this man Purvis was he was certainly no fool.
“Well,” observed the landlady, addressing me, “my own opinion is, sir, that Ben has made a very great mistake in selling the paper to a stranger. He don’t know what it might not be worth.”
“I quite agree,” I said. “The thing should have been examined first.”
“Oh,” said the old man, “Mr. Beresford, who was the parson before Mr. Pocock, borrowed it from my brother Dick and kept it a long time, but couldn’t make head nor tail of the thing. He said it was written in some kind of secret writing.”
“In cipher, perhaps,” I remarked. And it then occurred to me what Mr. Staffurth had told me, that at the end of the sixteenth century a great many private documents were so written that only those in possession of a key could decipher them. It might be so in the case of the one in question.
“How big was it?” I inquired.
“Oh, when it wor spread out, it measured about a foot square. It folded up, and there was some scribbling on the back. I remember that my father, just afore he died, called Dick to him and told him to look in the bottom of the old chest—the one I’ve got at home now. He did so, and brought the faded old thing out. I’d never seen it before, but my father told Dick to keep it all his life, and give it to his eldest son. He made Dick promise that.”
“And before your brother Dick died he carried out his father’s wish?”
“Yes, sir. Then young Dick gave it to me. I thought half a sovereign for it was a good bargain.”
“It all depends upon what it contained. It might have been of great importance to your family,” I said; “it might have had to do with the fortune which it is supposed to be yours by right.”
“Ah, sir!” the landlady exclaimed, smiling. “We’ve heard a lot about that great fortune of the Knuttons. I used to hear all about it when I was a girl, how that if they had their own they’d be as rich as the Marquis of Exeter. It’s an old story in Rockingham.”
“It was foolish in the extreme to sell a document of the contents of which he was ignorant,” I declared. “But he’s parted with it, and it’s gone, so, as far as I can see, nothing can be done.”
“Where’s the half-sovereign?” asked the landlady sharply of the old fellow.
“Spent it.”
“Yes, on drink,” she said. “You know very well you treated all your friends out of it, both here and at the other inns, and that you haven’t been sober these two days till to-night. If you didn’t have so much beer, Ben Knutton, it would be better for you, and for us too, I can tell you that.”
“That’s enough, missus,” the old man said, “you’re always grumbling, you are.”
I left the old yokel sitting on a bench over a big mug of beer and chatted with the landlady. In the course of conversation I asked if she knew any one of the name of Woollerton, but she was unaware of any person bearing that cognomen. Then in the summer twilight I strolled back to my headquarters in Caldecott, much puzzled over the curious manner in which I had been checkmated by this mysterious Purvis.
As far as it went my visit there had been satisfactory, because I had established the fact that there was truth in the story of Bartholomew da Schorno’s property at Caldecott, and that in the family of Knutton there had been, until two days ago, a document similar in form to that I had found on board theSeahorse. We had in the bank tangible proof that the owner of theSeahorsewas a man of wealth; therefore I could not help believing that there was treasure stored somewhere ashore. Besides, the local legend of the fortune of the Knuttons added greatly to its possibility.
I smoked with a couple of farmers that evening, and learnt what I could from them. It was not much, only that a few years ago some one had taken the Manor House with an idea of turning it into a private lunatic asylum.
“Did it answer?” I asked of one.
“No. They had only three gentlemen, so I suppose it didn’t pay.”
Neither of the men knew anything regarding the facts I desired to prove. They were not natives of the place, one being from Orton, in Huntingdonshire, and the other from Islip, near Thrapston. So they were not versed in the legendary lore of the place.
I ate my plain supper alone, and went to bed when the house closed at ten. But betimes I was up, and before noon next day was sitting in Mr. Staffurth’s little back study.
He had before him a big pile of valuable manuscripts which he was deciphering and investigating, part of his profession being to catalogue and value manuscripts for certain well-known dealers and auctioneers. This is a profession in itself, and requires the most erudite knowledge of the mediaeval literature of Europe, as well as an acquaintance with the rarity of any particular manuscript. Piled on the table was a batch just sent from one of the West-end firms who employed him. Most of the bindings were the original ones—oaken boards covered with leather, some were of purple velvet mostly faded, while the manuscripts themselves were of a varied character, Latin Bibles of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, an exquisite fifteenth centuryHoræwith splendid illuminations and miniatures, a rare copy of what is known asLa Bible de Herman, a fine Gothic copy of Du Guesclin, with miniatures incamaïeu grisheightened with gold, a tenth century Hieronymus, and a dozen other smaller manuscripts, the value of none being below fifty pounds apiece.
“Ah!” cried the old gentleman, pushing his spectacles to his forehead as I entered, “I’m very glad to see you, doctor,” and he moved aside a wonderfully illuminatedHoræthat he had been examining, counting the number of leaves, the number of lines to a column, the number of miniatures, and determining its date and where it was written.
“So you’ve been down to Caldecott. Well, what did you discover?”
I took the cigarette he offered and, flinging myself in the old arm-chair, related all that had transpired and all that I had discovered.
As I did so he drew towards him the old vellum volume that I had discovered on board theSeahorse—the book written by Bartholomew da Schorno—and opened it at the place where he had put in a slip of paper as mark.
“You certainly have not been idle,” he remarked. “Neither have I. To be brief, doctor, I have, after spending the whole of yesterday upon this manuscript, at last discovered the secret referred to in the beginning.”
“You have!” I gasped excitedly. “What is it? The secret of the treasure?”
“No, not exactly that,” was his answer, calm and slow as befitted an expert in such a dry-as-dust subject as faded parchments. “But there is given here the key to a certain cipher which may assist us in a very great degree. There is, or rather was, in the possession of Richard Knutton and his family a certain document written in cipher explaining how and where the Italian had disposed of his secret hoard. It was written in cryptic writing in order that the Knuttons themselves, although guardians of the secret, should not be able to seize the treasure. Only by means of this book can the document entrusted to them by old Bartholomew be deciphered. Here is a full description of it. Let me read in English what it says: —
I have this day, the fourth of May, 1590, given into the hands of my trusted lieutenant, Richard Knutton, a parchment wherein is explained the hiding-place of all I possess, including all that I took from the Spanish galleon two years ago. I have presented unto this same Richard Knutton the Manor Farm of Caldecott as a free gift to him and to his heirs for ever, while he has sworn before God to hand down the sealed parchment to his eldest son, and so on until the gold shall be wanted for the treasury of the noble Knights of St. Stephen. The document is in cipher that no man can read, but hereunto I attach a key to it by which the secret of the treasure-house may at the proper time be revealed and its contents handed over, either to the Knights at Pisa or to the youngest representative of the house of Wollerton, as I have already willed.
I have this day, the fourth of May, 1590, given into the hands of my trusted lieutenant, Richard Knutton, a parchment wherein is explained the hiding-place of all I possess, including all that I took from the Spanish galleon two years ago. I have presented unto this same Richard Knutton the Manor Farm of Caldecott as a free gift to him and to his heirs for ever, while he has sworn before God to hand down the sealed parchment to his eldest son, and so on until the gold shall be wanted for the treasury of the noble Knights of St. Stephen. The document is in cipher that no man can read, but hereunto I attach a key to it by which the secret of the treasure-house may at the proper time be revealed and its contents handed over, either to the Knights at Pisa or to the youngest representative of the house of Wollerton, as I have already willed.
“Then,” remarked the old expert, “there follows an alphabet to which he has fortunately placed the cipher equivalent, and by means of which we should be enabled to make out the document in the hands of the Knuttons.”
“Mr. Staffurth,” I said gravely, interrupting him, “I much regret to tell you that we have been forestalled.”
“Forestalled! How?” he cried, starting and turning to look at me full in the face.
I explained my meeting with the besotted Ben Knutton of Rockingham, and of how, only two days ago, he had sold for half a sovereign the actual document we wanted, and had been drunk for a couple of days afterwards.
“What bad luck!” exclaimed the old man. “What infernal luck! If we had got hold of that the secret would have been ours within an hour or two. But as the thing has passed into other hands—well, as far as I can see at present, we must remain utterly in the dark.”
“Yes. But there’s a great mystery surrounding the identity of the person who has so cleverly forestalled us,” I said. “Who can he be? And how can he be aware of the existence of the treasure?”
The old man shook his head.
“My dear doctor,” he said, “the whole affair is a very romantic and mysterious one. It certainly increases our difficulties a hundredfold, now that the last of the Knuttons has sold the parchment that has been in his family for three centuries or so. Still, we have at least one satisfaction, that of knowing that the person into whose hands it has passed can make nothing out of it without the key contained here.” And he smiled with evident satisfaction.
“We must discover the identity of this man who calls himself Purvis,” I said firmly. “Perhaps we can obtain it from him.”
“We must—by fair means or foul,” remarked Mr. Staffurth calmly, taking off his spectacles and wiping them carefully. “I agree with you entirely. Wemustrecover possession of that parchment.”
CHAPTER XIIJOB SEAL MAKES A PROPOSAL
Canyou, my reader, imagine a more tantalizing position than the one in which I now found myself? It took a great deal to arouse enthusiasm in the breast of old Mr. Staffurth, whose interest in the world had seemed to me as dried up as those musty parchments he was so constantly examining. But the mystery of it all had certainly awakened him, and he was as keen as myself to get to the bottom of it—and to the treasure, of which I had promised him a small portion as repayment for his services.
Next day I went down to Fresh Wharf and found theThrush, with cranes creaking over her, looking more grimy and forbidding than ever. As I went on board the men one and all saluted me, and when I knocked at the door of the captain’s cabin there came a low gruff growl —
“Well, what is it now?”
I announced who I was, and was of course at once admitted. Job Seal, in shirt and trousers, had been lying in his bunk smoking, taking his ease after a full night ashore in company with his “chief.” He had been reading the paper, and a big glass of brandy and soda at his elbow told its own tale.
“Come in, come in, doctor,” he cried cheerily, holding out his enormous hand; “I intended to come over and see you to-night. Well, what’s the latest news of Old Mystery?”
“As I told you, he’s in the hands of the first specialist in lunacy in London, and under treatment at a private asylum.”
“Will he get better?”
“Nobody can tell that. The doctor, however, anticipates that he will.”
“Well, I hope by the time I get back from this next trip he’ll have told you his story. We sail to-morrow on our usual round—Cardiff, Leghorn, Naples, Valencia, and home. But I don’t suppose we’ll be picking up any Noah’s Arks this trip—eh?”
“No,” I laughed. “I see that a paragraph has crept into the papers about our discovery, and it is discredited. One paper heads it ‘A Seaman’s Yarn.’ I suppose some of the men have been talking about it on shore.”
“Suppose so. One o’ them chaps from the newspapers came aboard yesterday and began asking all about it, but I blessed him for his inquisitiveness, and sent him about his business. What the dickens has it to do with him?”
“Quite right,” I said approvingly. “We ought to keep our knowledge to ourselves. People can believe or disbelieve, just as they like. If, however, they saw those bags of gold at the bank, I fancy it would convince them.”
“Or if they saw Old Mister Mystery with his red velvet jacket and sword,” he laughed. “Lor’, doctor, I’ll never forget the funny figure that chap cut when we hauled him out. He was real scared at first, wasn’t he?”
His words brought back to my memory that never-to-be-forgotten evening of our discovery. The mystery of how the cumbersome old vessel had got afloat again was not one of the least connected with it.
The reason of my visit was to tell him the result of my inquiries and the neat manner in which we had been foiled. Therefore, after some preliminaries, I explained to him all that I have set down in the previous chapter. He heard me through, blowing vigorously at his pipe and grunting, as was his habit. The amount of smoke his pipe emitted was an index to his thoughts. If pleased, his pipe burned slowly, the smoke rising in a tiny thin column; but if the contrary, the smoke came forth from pipe and mouth in clouds. The cabin was now so full that I could scarcely see across it, and when I arrived at the critical point and told him how I had been forestalled, he jumped up, exclaiming —
“The son of a gun! He actually sold it for ’arf a quid!”
“He has,” I answered sadly. “If we could only get it back it might be the means of bringing wealth to all of us.”
“Then you really believe in all this yarn what’s written in the parchments, doctor?” he asked.
“How can I do otherwise?” I said. “There are signatures and seals. Besides, I have, I think, sufficiently proved that Bartholomew da Schorno, whoever he was, lived once at Caldecott Manor, and further, that the Knuttons were owners of the Manor Farm. You must remember, too, that Mr. Staffurth is an expert, and not likely to mislead us.”
“Well, doctor,” he said, “the whole thing makes a queer yarn, an’ that’s a fact. Sometimes I almost feel as though the overhauling of Noah’s Ark was a dream, only you see we’ve already got about a thousand quid to go shares in. Now, what I’ve been thinkin’, doctor, is that you’ll want a fair understandin’ if you’re goin’ to follow this thing up. I’ll be away, and shall have to leave it all in your hands. Now, I’m a plain-spoken man—that you know. For my own part, I’m content with the thousand quid we hauled aboard, and if you like to forego your claim to the half of it, I’ll forego my claim to whatever you may find ashore. Forgive me for speakin’ plain, doctor, won’t you?—for it’s no good a-beating about the bush.”
“Well,” I said, “if you are ready to accept such an agreement, I also am ready, although I think, captain, that you may be doing an injustice to yourself.”
But Job Seal did not see it in that light. He was a hard-headed British skipper, and regarded a safe thousand pounds better than an imaginary million. For that nobody could blame him. On the one hand I felt regret at giving up my share of the gold, but on the other it left me open to share the treasure, if found, with the unknown descendant of the Wollertons.
So we drew out together an agreement by which I relinquished all claim to the gold in the bank, and he, on his part, withdrew any claim upon any treasure discovered by means of the parchments found on board theSeahorse.
I could see that after I had signed the paper Job Seal was greatly relieved. He was but human, not avaricious, he declared, but urged to the suggestion by the knowledge that he must be absent, and would be unable to assist in the search ashore.
And it so happened that for five hundred pounds I bought out my friend the skipper. Who had the best of the bargain will be seen later in this curious chapter of exciting events.
I wrote an order to the bank to deliver up the gold at Seal’s order at any time, and after a final drink shook hands and left.
“I may be over to see you before we sail, doctor,” were his parting words; “but if not, you’ll see me, all being well, back in London in about five weeks. Good-bye,” he said, heartily gripping my hand; “and good luck to you in your search.”
At home in Chelsea I sat calmly reflecting, smoking the while and lazily turning over the leaves of the old fifteenth-century manuscripts, theDecretales Summa, theTrithemius, and others that I had found with the documents on board theSeahorse. They were evidently Bartholomew da Schorno’s favourite reading, which showed that though he might have been a fierce sea-dog he was nevertheless a studious man, who preferred the old writers in their ancient manuscripts to the printed editions. They smelt musty now, but showed how well and diligently they had been studied. He must have been a devout Catholic, surely, to have studied theDecretalesof the Friar Henry so assiduously. It was his property, for on the last leaf of vellum, in faded ink, was written his name: “Bartholomew da Schorno, Cavaliere di Santo Stefano, Maggio 5, 1579.”
I tried to conjure up what manner of man he was. Probably that giant in stature whose skeleton had laid heaped in the big saloon of theSeahorse. If so, he had surely been a magnificent successor to the Crusaders of olden days—a powerful friend and a formidable foe. The latter he must certainly have been to tackle and capture one of the Spanish galleons sent against England. But probably no ships ever saw such fierce and sanguinary frays as those of the Knights of St. Stephen. Every man on board was a picked fighter, and against them even the dreaded power of the Barbary pirates was insufficient, for the latter were gradually crushed, not, however, without enormous bloodshed on both sides.
The power of the Corsairs at one time was so great that they constantly landed at points along what is now known as the Corniche road, between the Var mouth and Genoa, and took whole villages captive, sacking and burning the houses, and laying desolate great tracts of country. Thousands of Christians were carried into slavery to North Africa, and a veritable reign of terror existed along the Mediterranean shore.
It took nearly a hundred years for the Knights of St. Stephen to crush the robbers, but they did so, owing to their indomitable pluck and hard and relentless fighting.
I recollected the old Elizabethan portrait of the hard-faced man that hung upon the panelled wall, but could not believe that that was a picture of old Bartholomew. No, I pictured him as a merry, round-faced, easy-going type, tall to notoriety, a giant in strength, a very demon in war, and a clever and ingenious administrator where his own personal affairs were concerned.
His independence in his quarrel with the Duke of Ferrara was shown by the manner in which he sold his estates and shook the dust of the province from his feet, and his religious fervour by the fact that although a wealthy man he braved the perils of the sea and of the fight to aid and release the Christian slaves.
I could only think of him as a grand type of the past, a dandy in dress, and even in armour, a patrician in his food, and a sad dog where women were concerned. He was Italian by birth, so it was to be presumed that he loved easily, and forgot with similar facility.
But reverie would not uplift the veil of mystery that surrounded the present situation.
Now I, like you, my reader, had read all sorts of stories about hidden treasure, mostly imaginary, and all in more or less degree exciting. Treasure exists, it seems, mostly on islands the exact latitude and longitude of which is a secret, or else in caves in Guatemala or beneath the earth in Mexico—all far afield. But here I had tangible proof of a treasure deposited in rural England in the days of Good Queen Bess at some spot between the port of Yarmouth and the village of Caldecott. Therefore, if you had been in my place, would you not have searched for that mysterious Mr. Purvis who bought the missing document from a half-drunken labourer for half a sovereign?
I carefully reviewed the situation, and after due consideration could only hope for one thing—namely, that the purchaser of that parchment, finding it useless to him, might sell it to one or other of the London booksellers who deal in manuscripts—Quaritch, Maggs, Tregaskis, Bumpas, Dobell, and the others. The market for such things as codexes and interesting documents on vellum is limited, and in the hands of very few dealers; therefore, I later on wrote a letter to all of them from the list given me by Mr. Staffurth, saying that, if any document answering to the description which I gave should be offered for sale, they were commissioned to purchase it at any price up to fifty pounds.
This was, I thought, a step in the right direction. Mr. Purvis, when he found that the document he had purchased was useless, would probably dispose of it at a profit, and if he did so through any of the recognized channels, it must certainly fall into my hands.
Job Seal did not call, but three days later I received a much-smeared post-card, sent from Cardiff, regretting that he had not been able to wish me good-bye as he had intended. He ended by an inquiry after Old Mister Mystery, and asking me to send any important news to him at the Poste Restante at Leghorn.
A fortnight went by. I went one day to Ealing to see the Mysterious Man, but he was just the same, and knew me not. The weather was still hot in London, those blazing days when the very pavements seem aglow, but old Mr. Staffurth, whenever I called upon him, still sat in his back parlour poring over the codexes and valuable manuscripts submitted to him. Often I consulted him, but, like me, he could see no way by which we could advance farther. Things were at an absolute deadlock.
I believe that he rather blamed me for my settlement with Seal, feeling that, after all, the continued existence of the treasure was still uncertain, for it might have been discovered and carried away years ago. Still, towards me he was always the same courteous, low-spoken, if dry-as-dust old gentleman.
I went ever in search of the man who called himself Purvis, but although there were many persons of that name in theLondon DirectoryI was unable to discover the identical one who had tempted the drunken labourer with half a sovereign.
After three weeks of going hither and thither it became necessary to reflect upon matters more material, and, compelled to work at my profession for a living, I becamelocum tenensfor a doctor who had a dispensary in the Walworth Road, near Camberwell Gate. Probably that part of London is well known to you, the great wide thoroughfare that is one of the main arteries of South London, but dull, grey, and overcrowded; a depressing place for a man who like myself had so recently come from weeks of the open sea and sunshine.
I still bore the bronze of the sun and salt upon my cheeks, according to the remarks of my friends, but although well in health and with an appetite like the proverbial horse, my mind was full of the mystery of theSeahorseand the ingenious purchase of the missing parchment.
The practice in the Walworth Road was a big and a poor one. The majority of the patients were hoarse-voiced costermongers from East Street and its purlieus, seamstresses, labourers, and factory hands. There is nothing mean in “the Road” itself, as it is called in the neighbourhood, but alas! many of the streets that run off it towards the Old Kent Road are full of squalid poverty.
It was not my duty to be at the dispensary at night, the night calls being attended to by a medical friend of the man whose practice I was taking charge of; therefore at ten o’clock each night the boy closed the door, put out the red light, and I took the omnibus for Chelsea.
One night just as the last patient, a garrulous old man with gout, had taken his departure and the cheap American timepiece on the mantelshelf was chiming ten, the signal for Siddons, the boy, to turn off the gas in the red lamp, I heard voices in the shop that had been turned into a waiting-room. It was after hours, and Siddons had his orders, therefore I did not anticipate that he would disobey them. But he did, for he entered, saying: —
“There’s a lady just come, sir. Must see you, sir—very urgent, she says.”
“Do you know her?”
“No, sir—stranger,” replied the sharp Cockney youth.
I groaned within myself, and announced my readiness to see her. She entered, and as she did so and our eyes met I rose to my feet, open-mouthed, utterly dumb.
CHAPTER XIIIA CALL, AND ITS CONSEQUENCE
Myvisitor evidently noticed my stupefaction. She must have done, or she would not have been a woman.
The reason of my sudden surprise was not because I recognized her, but on account of her perfect and amazing beauty. Every doctor sees some pretty faces in the course of practise, but having been asked to set down the chief details of this romance, I must here confess that never in all my life had I set eyes upon such a sweet and charming countenance.
I judged her to be about twenty, and the manner in which she entered the dingy consulting-room that reeked with the pungent odour of iodoform showed that, although not well dressed, she was nevertheless modest and well bred. She wore a plain, black tailor-made skirt, a trifle the worse for wear, a white cotton blouse, a small black hat, and black gloves. But her face held me fascinated; I could not take my eyes off it. It was oval, regular, with beautifully-moulded cheeks, a small, well-formed mouth, and fine arched brows, while the eyes, dark and sparkling, looked out at me half in wonder, half in fear. Hers was a kind of half-tragic beauty, a face intensely sweet in its expression, yet with a distinct touch of sadness in its composition, as though her heart were burdened by some secret.
This latter fact seemed patent to me from the very first instant of our meeting.
“Is Dr. Whitworth in?” she inquired, in a soft, rather musical voice, when I bowed and indicated a chair.
“No,” I responded, “he’s not. My name is Pickering, and I am acting for the doctor, who is away on a holiday.”
“Oh!” she ejaculated, and I thought I detected that her jaw dropped slightly, as though she were disappointed. “Will Dr. Whitworth be away long?”
“Another fortnight, I believe. He is not very well, and has gone to Cornwall. Are you one of his patients? If so, I shall be delighted to do what I can for you.”
“No,” she responded; “but my brother is, and, being taken worse, wanted to consult him.”
“I shall be very pleased to see him, if you think he would care for it,” I said rather eagerly, I believe, if the truth were told.
She seemed undecided. When a person is in the habit of being attended by one medical man, a fresh one is always at a disadvantage. People have such faith in their “own doctor,” a faith that is almost a religion, often misplaced, and sometimes fatal. The old-fashioned family doctor with his out-of-date methods, his white waistcoat, and his cultivated gravity still flourishes, even in these enlightened days of serums and light cures. And in order to impress their patients, they sometimes prescribe unheard of medicines that are not to be found even in “Squire.”
“Dr. Whitworth has attended my brother for several years, and has taken a great interest in his case,” she said reflectively.
“What is his ailment?” I inquired.
“An internal one. All the doctors he has seen appear to disagree as to its actual cause. He suffers great pain at times. It is because he is worse that I have come here.”
“Perhaps I can prescribe something to relieve it,” I suggested. “Would you like me to see him? I am entirely at your disposal.”
“You are extremely kind, doctor,” she replied. “But we live rather a long way off, and I am afraid at this time of night——”
“Oh, the hour is nothing, I assure you,” I laughed, interrupting her. “If I can do anything to make your brother more comfortable, I’ll do so.”
She was still undecided. Somehow I could not help thinking that she regarded me with a strange fixed look—a glance which indeed surprised me. Having regard to the strangedénouementof the interview, I now recollect every detail of it, and can follow accurately the working of her mind.
“Well,” she said at last, rather reluctantly it seemed, “if you are quite sure the distance is not too far, it would be most kind of you to come. I’m sure you could give Frank something to allay his pain. We live at Dartmouth Hill, Blackheath.”
“Oh, that’s not so very far,” I exclaimed, eager to be her companion. “A cab will soon take us there.”
“Dr. Whitworth usually comes over to visit my brother once a week—every Thursday. Did he tell you nothing of his case?”
“No. Probably he considers him a private patient, while I am left in charge of the poorer people who come to the dispensary.”
“Ah! I understand,” she said, drawing the black boa tighter around her throat, as though ready for departure.
I made some inquiries regarding the region where her brother’s pain was situated, and, placing a morphia case and bottles of various narcotics in my well-worn black bag, put on my hat and announced my readiness to accompany her.
As I turned again to her I could not fail to notice that the colour in her face a moment before had all gone out of it. She was ashen pale, almost to the lips. The change in her had been sudden, and I saw that as she stood she gripped the back of her chair, swaying to and fro as though every moment she might collapse in a faint.
“You are unwell,” I said quickly.
“A—a little faintness. That is all,” she gasped.
Without a moment’s delay I got her seated, and rushing into the dispensary obtained restoratives, which in a few minutes brought her back to her former self.
“How foolish!” she remarked, as though disgusted with herself. “Forgive me, doctor; I suppose it is because I have been up two nights with my brother and am tired out.”
“Of course; that accounts for it. You have over-taxed your strength. Have you no one who can take your place?”
“No,” she responded, with a strange sadness which seemed an index to her character; “I have, unfortunately, no one. Frank is rather irritable, and will have nobody about him except myself.”
Brother and sister appeared devoted to each other.
She spoke of him in a tone betraying that deep fraternal affection which nowadays is not common.
I waited while the boy Siddons closed the surgery and put out the lights, and then, having locked the outer door, we walked together to the cab-stand at the top of Beresford Street and entered a hansom, giving directions to drive to Blackheath.
The man seemed rather surprised at such an order at such an hour, but nevertheless, nothing loth to take a fare outside the radius, he whipped up, and drove straight down the Boyson Road, through into Albany Road, one of the decayed relics of bygone Camberwell when the suburb was fashionable in the days of George the Third, and on into that straight, never-ending thoroughfare, the Old Kent Road.
Seated side by side our conversation naturally turned upon conversational subjects, and presently she remarked upon the great heat of the day just closed, whereupon I told her how oppressed I had been by it, because of my recent voyage where the sea breeze was always fresh and the spray combined with the brilliant sunshine.
“Ah!” she sighed, “I would so much like to go abroad. I’ve never been farther than Paris, and, after all, that’s so much like London. I would dearly like a voyage up the Mediterranean. The ports you put into must have been a perfect panorama of the various phases of life.”
“Yes,” I said, “the Italian is so different from the Syrian, the Syrian from the African, and the African from the Spanish. It is all so fresh and new. You would be charmed with it. The only disagreeable part is the return to hot and overcrowded London.”
“Myself, I hate London,” was her remark. “The fresh open country always appeals to me, and Blackheath, you know, is better than nothing at all.”
I had to confess that I was not acquainted with Blackheath. Apart from my term at the hospital and a year or two doinglocum tenenswork in London I knew more of the country than of the Metropolis. Unless one is a London-born man one never knows and never in his heart loves London. He may delight in its attractions, its social advantages, and its pecuniary possibilities, but at heart he shudders at the greyness of its streets, the grime of the houses, and the hustling, whirling, selfish crowds. To the man country-born, be he peer or commoner, London is always intolerable for any length of time; he sighs for the open air, the green of Nature, the gay songs of the birds, and the freedom of everything. Unfortunately, however, the country is not fashionable, save in autumn for shooting and in winter for hunting, even though the London season may be, to the great majority, an ordeal only to be borne in order to sustain the social status.
I ask of you, my readers—who perhaps work in the City and go to and from the suburbs with clock-work regularity—whether you would not be prepared to accept a lower wage if you could carry on that same profession in the country and live in a house with a real garden instead of one of a row of jerry-built “desirable residences” so crowded together that what was once a healthy and splendid suburb is nowadays as cramped as any street in Central London? You know your house, a place that was run up in six weeks by a speculative builder; you know your garden, a dried-up, stony strip of back yard, where even the wallflowers have a difficulty in taking root; you know your daily scramble to get into a train for the City—nay, the hard fight to keep a roof over your head and the vulpine animal from the door. Yes, you would move into the country if you only could, for your wife and children would then be strong and well, instead of always sickly and ailing. But what is the use of moralizing? There is no work for you in the country, so you are one of millions of victims who, like yourself, are compelled to stifle and scramble in London, or to starve.
All this we discussed quite philosophically as we rode together through that hot summer’s night, first past shops and barrows where lights still burned, and then away down the broad road, dark save for the long row of street-lamps stretching away into the distance.
I found her a bright and interesting companion. She seemed of a rather reflective turn of mind, but through all her conversation ran that vein of sadness which from the first had impressed itself upon me. From what she led me to believe, her brother and she were in rather straitened circumstances, owing to the former’s long illness. He had been head cashier with a firm in Cannon Street, but had been compelled to resign three years ago and had not earned a penny since. I wondered whether she worked at something, typewriting or millinery, in order to assist the household, but she told me nothing and I did not presume to ask.
It is enough to say that I found myself charmed by her, even on this first acquaintance. Although so modest and engaging, she seemed to possess wonderful tact. But after all, now that I reflect, tact is in the fair sex inborn, and it takes a clever man to outwit a woman when she is bent upon accomplishing an object.
She told me very little about herself. In fact, now I recall the curious circumstances, I see that she purposely refrained from doing so. To my leading questions she responded so naïvely that I was entirely misled.
How is it, I wonder, that every man of every age will run his head against a wall for the sake of a pretty woman? Given a face out of the ordinary rut of English beauty, a woman in London can command anything, no matter what her station. It has always been so the whole world over, even from the old days of Troy and Rome—a fair face rules the roost.
We had crossed a bridge over a canal—Deptford Bridge I think it is called—and began to ascend a long hill which she told me led on to Blackheath. She had grown of a sudden thoughtful, making few responses to my observations. Perhaps I had presumed too much, I thought; perhaps I had made some injudicious inquiry which annoyed her. But she was so charming, so sweet of temperament, and so bright in conversation, that my natural desire to know all about her had led me into being a trifle more inquisitive than the circumstances warranted.
“Doctor,” she exclaimed suddenly, in a strange voice; “I hope you will not take as an offence what I am about to say,” and as she turned to me the light of a street lamp flashing full on her face revealed to me how white and anxious it had suddenly become.
“Certainly not,” I answered, not without surprise.
“Well, I have reconsidered my decision, and I think that in the circumstances you had better not see my brother, after all.”
“Not see your brother!” I exclaimed, surprised.
“No. I—I’m awfully sorry to have brought you out here so far, but if you will allow me to get out I can walk home and you can drive back.”
“Certainly not,” I answered. “Now I’m so close to your house I’ll see your brother. I can no doubt relieve his pain, and for that he would probably be thankful.”
“No,” she said, involuntarily laying her hand upon my sleeve, “I cannot allow you to accompany me farther;” and I felt her hand tremble.
Surely there is no accounting for the working of a woman’s mind, but I certainly believed her to be devoid of any such caprice as this.
I argued with her that if her brother were in pain it was only right that I should do what I could to relieve him. But she firmly shook her head.
“Forgive me, doctor,” she urged anxiously. “I know you must think me absurdly whimsical, but this decision is not the outcome of any mere whim, I assure you. I have a reason why I absolutely insist upon us parting here.”
“Well, of course, if you really deny me the privilege of accompanying you as far as your house I can do nothing but submit,” I said very disappointedly. “I shall tell Dr. Whitworth of your call. What name shall I give him?”
“Miss Bristowe.”
“And are you quite determined that I shall go no farther?” I asked earnestly.
“Quite.”
I saw some hidden reason in this decision, but what it was I failed to make out. She was certainly most determined, and, further, she seemed to have been suddenly filled with an unusual excitement, betrayed in her white, almost haggard, face.
So I stopped the cab at last, just as we reached the dark Heath.
“I must say that I am very disappointed at this abrupt ending to our brief acquaintanceship,” I said, taking her hand and helping her out.
“Ah! doctor,” she sighed. Then, in a voice full of strange meaning, she added: “Perhaps one day you will learn the real reason of this decision. I thank you very much for accompanying me so far. Good-night.”
She allowed her hand to rest in mine for a moment; then turned and was lost in the darkness, leaving me standing beside the cab.