"We all have skeletons, everyone,We hide away from the cheerful sun,Tearful and sad, or merry and gay,We all have skeletons hidden away."
"We all have skeletons, everyone,We hide away from the cheerful sun,Tearful and sad, or merry and gay,We all have skeletons hidden away."
Eustace duly arrived at San Remo, tired out by his long journey, and, as he had written to Guy before leaving London, was rather surprised not to find his cousin waiting for him at the railway station. However, he took the matter philosophically enough, after his usual fashion, although he was seriously annoyed at what seemed like wilful negligence, and drove to the Hotel de la Mer, where Errington was staying. There he found Guy's valet awaiting his arrival in the hall, and speedily received an explanation, from which it appeared that Errington was seriously ill, and confined to his bed.
"I would have come myself, sir," concluded the man, "but Sir Guy wouldn't let me leave him, and I've just slipped down stairs for a moment to explain things. I'm very glad you've come, sir."
"So am I," thought Eustace, as he followed the servant upstairs, "I hadn't any idea he was ill. No wonder he could not come to England."
When he entered the bedroom he found his cousin was really seriously ill, being in a highly excited state. He asked Eustace all kinds of questions about Alizon, about the death of the child, and talked incoherently about Mrs. Veilsturm, mixing everything up in a most nonsensical fashion, being evidently quite light-headed. Gartney answered his questions, and soothed him as well as he was able, but was very much perturbed over the matter, although he did not show his real feelings. At last he got Guy to lie down quietly, and then, leaving the room, sent for the doctor who was attending the young man.
In a few minutes Dr. Storge arrived, a tall, spare man, with a keen, clever face, and a sharp manner, who talked straight and to the point, without any loss of time.
"Yes, Mr. Gartney," he replied briskly to Eustace's enquiry. "Sir Guy is very ill, indeed. In a highly excited state brought on by worry and fretting. I saw that he was in a bad way about a week ago, when he first consulted me, but something he will not tell me about has occurred since then, and the result--well you see it upstairs."
"But surely--when--Errington consulted you, he explained----"
"He explained nothing, my dear sir, and now he is so ill that I dare not ask him, as it makes him excited, and that is what I wish to avoid. Perhaps you can give me some idea of what is wrong."
"Yes, I can. Is it necessary you should know?"
"What's the good of calling in a medical man if you don't intend to confide in him?" said Storge coolly. "You know what Balzac says, that a man reveals nothing to the priest, what suits him to the lawyer, and everything to the physician. I want to find out the cause of Sir Guy's excitement, and then I may do some good. As it is--well, you see for yourself, I am working in the dark."
This reasoning appeared to be very just, so Gartney, making a virtue of necessity, drew his chair close to that of the doctor, and told him everything.
"The fact is," said Eustace after a pause, during which he collected his thoughts, "my cousin and his wife have had a quarrel about a woman."
"Ah! I thought as much--Mrs. Veilsturm."
"What! You know----"
"Nothing, absolutely nothing," replied the doctor sharply. "I've only put two and two together, and any fool knows that makes four--more or less."
"Well, Sir Guy loves his wife very dearly, but she believes that he has compromised himself with--but I don't know if I ought to tell you this."
Dr. Storge made a gesture of despair.
"I thought you were a man of the world, Mr. Gartney," he said quickly, "but although I appreciate your delicacy with regard to--well, say our mutual friend, though I only know her by sight--I must insist upon you telling me all. 'Go on, my dear sir, go on. Your confession is as safe with me as it would be with one of those dingy priests in the town."
Being satisfied with this explanation, Gartney smothered his scruples, and went on talking.
"I see it's no use beating about the bush, doctor. My cousin has quarrelled with his wife on account of Mrs. Veilsturm, whom he loves----"
"Pardon me, No," interrupted Storge smartly, "you mean she loves him--a vastly different thing."
"Nonsense! She doesn't care two straws about him," said Eustace bluntly.
"If you don't explain, Mr. Gartney," cried the doctor angrily, "you will have me as bad as your friend upstairs."
"Then listen, my dear sir, and pray don't interrupt me," said Eustace tartly. "Mrs. Veilsturm, who is a lady holding a good position in London Society, thought herself slighted by Lady Errington--in what way it does not matter. She determined to revenge herself by taking Lady Errington's husband away from her, and she has succeeded. My cousin does not really care for Mrs. Veilsturm, but, owing to an unfortunate misunderstanding with his wife, he has drifted into a false position. This woman has entangled him in her net and won't let him go until she can bring about a divorce, which will certainly be the end. Errington, I've no doubt, has worried himself into a fever over things, thinking he is between the devil and the deep sea, and the other day his only child died, so I expect the news of the death put the finishing stroke to the whole business."
"I understand," said Storge, who had been listening attentively, "I can quite appreciate the position, and need hardly tell you Mr. Gartney, that your cousin is dangerously ill. He is an honourable man, who finds himself in a dishonourable position, through no fault of his own, and the knowledge has worked him up into a state of frenzy. I am afraid of brain fever."
"Good Heavens I hope not."
"I'm afraid so," returned the doctor sagaciously, "he's quite off the balance, with all this business. However, now you are here, things may turn out better, for he must be kept quiet--perfect rest is what is needed."
"And what am I to do?"
"Keep Mrs. Veilsturm away."
"But she surely doesn't visit him," said Eustace in an astonished tone, "because, in the first place, she doesn't care for him, and in the second, she's too cautious to jeopardise her position in Society."
"She does not exactly visit him," replied Storge, rising, "but she sends messages, flowers, fruit, three-cornered notes, and all that rubbish. Of course it keeps Errington perpetually thinking about her--then he thinks about his wife, and between the two I'm afraid of the result."
"Well, I'll go and see Mrs. Veilsturm," said Eustace grimly. "I've no doubt I'll be able to persuade her to leave my cousin alone."
"I don't envy you the interview," observed Storge, who was a sharp observer, "nor her either. Still she's a fine woman."
"A fine devil," retorted Gartney, with less than his usual caution.
"She looks like it," said the doctor coolly, going to the door. "A Creole, isn't she?--ah! I thought so. Got a considerable touch of the tiger in her I should say. I wouldn't like to be under her claws--too risky. Well I'll go up and see our patient."
"And I'll go and see Mrs. Veilsturm."
"You'd better have your lunch first," said Storge "you'll need all your strength."
"Very good advice, Doctor, I'll adopt it; at the same time don't be afraid of me--I'm a match for her."
Storge laughed and looked keenly at Gartney's powerful face.
"Yes, I think you are," he said carelessly, "I've read your looks--goodbye at present."
When the Doctor had vanished, Eustace sat down to consider the situation, which was certainly rather problematic at present, especially with regard to the Errington-Veilsturm episode. When a strikingly handsome and decidedly unscrupulous woman sets her heart upon turning the head of a disconsolate man, with a somewhat weak character, she generally succeeds in her task. Guy had been certainly rather weak with regard to the sex feminine in his bachelor days, but since marriage, his love for his wife had been a safeguard against the dangerous raids of daring free-lances. Owing to his unfortunate quarrel with Alizon, however, he had lost his shield, and of this Mrs. Veilsturm had taken instant advantage, securing thereby an indisputable victory.
In England, Gartney had felt some doubts regarding the entanglement of his cousin with Cleopatra, but now he saw plainly that Guy was still true to his wife, and that it required the utmost dexterity of his charmer to keep her captive in chains. If he could only be brought face to face with his wife, Eustace was convinced that everything could be arranged, and the influence of Mrs. Veilsturm over this weak soul destroyed. He would like to have written to Alizon, and asked her to come over in order to nurse him, and be reconciled to her husband, but he was afraid she would not do so. The only thing to be done, therefore, was to try and get Errington cured as soon as possible, and take him away from the dangerous neighbourhood of Cleopatra.
In order to do this, according to the doctor, it was necessary to force Mrs. Veilsturm to leave her victim alone, as she brought herself constantly to his mind, and exercised a malignant influence upon his whole nature highly detrimental to recovery. Eustace, therefore, agreed with the doctor, that the first thing to be done was to deal with Mrs. Veilsturm, and this he made up his mind to do without delay. As Guy could not be removed from the neighbourhood of Mrs. Veilsturm, the next best thing was to remove Mrs. Veilsturm from the neighbourhood of Guy, or, in plain words, to make her leave San Remo at once. It was a difficult task, and involved a disagreeable interview; still, desperate diseases require desperate remedies, so Eustace wasted no time in hesitation, but determined to call upon Mrs. Veilsturm that afternoon.
As Mr. Gartney was nothing if not methodical, he proceeded very deliberately with his preparations, and, truth to tell, felt rather jubilant at the prospect of a tussle with Cleopatra, who was a foeman, or rather foewoman, worthy of anyone's steel. After a cold bath, which invigorated him considerably after his tiresome journey, he changed his travelling suit for one more in conformity with an afternoon visit, and then made an early luncheon, followed by a soothing cigar. His physical wants thus having been attended to, he ascertained from the "Liste d'Étrangers," that Mrs. Veilsturm was staying at the Villa Garcia, and departed on his errand of mercy.
Cleopatra had certainly an aptitude for making herself comfortable, for the Villa Garcia was a charming little house, with white walls, vivid green shutters, and dusky, red-tiled roof. Embosomed among the grey olive trees and slender palms, it stood some distance back from the Corso Imperatrice, and from its broad terrace there could be seen the tideless blue of the Mediterranean Sea, the church of the Madonna della Guardia on Capo Verde, and sometimes a glimpse of far-off Corsica floating in a golden mist, or lying amid the rose-red clouds of dawn, like Brünnhilde within the magic circle of Wotan's fire.
Happily for Eustace the lady he sought was at home, so on sending in his card, he was conducted to an artificially darkened drawing-room, where Mrs. Veilsturm was seated in a comfortable-looking chair, occupied with a French novel and a fan. No one was with her, as Major Griff had gone off with Thambits and Mr. Jiddy for a day's pleasure at Monte Carlo and, Errington not being obtainable, Mrs. Veilsturm was delighted to see Eustace, who was much more amusing than her own thoughts. She was arrayed in a loose dress of white Chinese silk, with great masses of scarlet geranium at her throat and waist, which suited her so well that Eustace, with a view to making everything pleasant, could not help congratulating her on her appearance.
"I know I'm looking well," said Cleopatra indolently, as Gartney settled himself in a low chair near her. "The South always agrees with me so much better than that smoky London. That comes of being a daughter of the Tropics I suppose."
"You look in your proper place under a burning sky," observed Eustace poetically. "There is more of the gorgeous cactus about you than the English rose."
"Am I to take that as a compliment?"
"Most women would."
"I daresay, but then you see I'm unlike most women," replied Cleopatra, fanning herself slowly. "It's rather a good thing I think myself. What a horrible idea to be a replica of half a dozen of one's dearest enemies."
"Have you any enemies?" asked Eustace, looking keenly at her.
"Plenty! principally of my own sex I think. It doesn't trouble me, however, as I think it is rather a distinction than otherwise. A person without enemies must be without character. By-the-way, Mr. Gartney, I haven't asked you what you are doing in San Remo."
"What do you think?"
"It's too hot to answer riddles," replied Mrs. Veilsturm languidly. "I'm sure I can't tell. Restoring your health, writing a book, hiding from your friends. There, I've given you a choice of three answers."
"None of which are right. I've come over to attend to my cousin Errington."
"How devoted of you," said the lady ironically. "I was not aware you were so fond of your cousin as all that."
"Were you not?" answered Eustace nonchalantly. "Rather an oversight on your part, seeing that Errington and myself have been close friends all our lives."
An angry colour glowed in Cleopatra's swarthy face as she detected a covert insolence in this reply, but, having a sharp tongue of her own, she lost no time in answering.
"Ah! I see, like does not always draw to like."
"Certainly not in this case, but the reverse is true. I am not a bit like Errington in any way. For example, I can always take care of myself."
"And Sir Guy cannot, I suppose?"
"Not when there's a woman in the case, as there is now."
Mrs. Veilsturm had never liked Eustace, as he knew more about her former life than she cared he should, but being an eminently diplomatic woman she had always treated him as a friend. Now, however, she saw that his attitude was distinctly hostile, and prepared to give battle. They were now matching their wits against one another, and each knew it would take wonderful skill and cautious dealing in order to come off victor in such a remarkably equal contest.
"I don't understand you," said Mrs. Veilsturm, after a pause.
"Try," responded Eustace curtly.
"Why should I?"
"Because you understand well enough, only you won't admit it."
"Do you know, Mr. Gartney, you are very rude?" said the Creole quietly.
"Pshaw!" cried Eustace angrily, "it's no use our fencing with buttons on the foils. I've come here for a certain purpose, and you know what it is."
"I'm sure I don't," said Mrs. Veilsturm doggedly.
"None so blind as those who won't see."
"Pithy," retorted Cleopatra sneeringly, "very pithy, but irrelevant."
"Not at all, as I will soon show you. Look here, Mrs. Veilsturm, I'm going to be plain, brutally plain."
"To do you justice you generally are."
"It is necessary in some cases, especially in this one," said Gartney quietly, "but I'm not here to discuss my personal character, but to save my cousin."
"From me, I presume."
"Exactly! I did not think you would have admitted that."
She had made a false move in doing so, and saw that Eustace had taken advantage of her rashness, so, throwing down her book, she sat straight up in her chair, and spoke with firm deliberation.
"You're talking nonsense, my dear Mr. Gartney, which is a thing I don't care about. You say you have come here for a certain purpose, perhaps you'll be kind enough to tell me the meaning of that remark."
"Certainly," replied Gartney promptly. "I know all about the way you consider yourself to have been slighted by Lady Errington. I know that you have tried your best to inveigle Errington into your net in order to be revenged, and I've come here to ask you to leave my cousin alone, and leave San Remo."
"A very cool request, upon my word," cried the Creole viciously, with an evil smile on her angry face, "but one I don't intend to comply with."
"I think it will be as well for you to do so."
She sprang to her feet in a fury, and stood looking at him, with clenched hands and face convulsed with rage.
"You threaten me, do you?" she shrieked savagely. "How dare you--how dare you? I shall tell Major Griff--I shall tell----"
"You'll tell no one," said Gartney calmly, "that is, you won't if you are wise."
Cleopatra stood silent for a moment, struggling with her temper, then, stamping her foot, walked rapidly up and down the room, Eustace watching her meanwhile, with a sardonic smile on his lips. He, also, had risen to his feet, as, knowing Maraquita's temper of old, he thought it wise to be prepared for possibilities. At last the lady collected herself sufficiently to talk quietly, and stopping opposite her antagonist, spoke in a low, suppressed voice, which was far more deadly in its meaning than the first outburst of wrath.
"As you say, we may as well take the buttons off the foils. Consider them removed."
"So far, so good," assented Eustace, not taking his eyes off her. "Go on."
"Carambo!"
"You still remember your Spanish, I see," he said mockingly, "but we're not in South America now."
"I wish we were," she hissed savagely, bringing her beautiful, distorted face so close to his own that he felt her hot breath on his cheek. "Oh, I wish we were."
"I don't," he replied, without blenching. "You might treat me as you did Manuel----"
"No! No!" she cried, a terrified expression flitting across her face. "Not that name!--not that name here!"
"Then let us keep to the subject in hand," said Eustace politely.
If a look could have killed Gartney, he would have there and then fallen dead at the feet of the Creole, but suddenly changing her tactics, she flung herself on the sofa in a storm of tears.
"How cruel you are, oh, how cruel," she wailed, hiding her face in the cushions. "I am only a woman, you coward--only a woman."
"You're a remarkably good actress, my dear Mrs. Veilsturm;" replied Eustace coolly, in no wise moved by her sorrow, "but tears are very weak. Try something else more original."
After this scoffing remark he resumed his seat, and waited till her passion should have exhausted itself, which happened very soon, for Mrs. Veilsturm was too sensible a woman to waste her weapons when she found they were useless. Drying her eyes carefully, she sat up again quite cool and composed, which warned Eustace that he must be more on his guard than ever.
"Your cousin's a fool," she said viciously. "Do you think it was any pleasure for me to have him running after me? No! I hate and detest him, the persistent bore that he is."
"Don't you think you'd better drop these flowers of speech?" replied Eustace leisurely. "They're neither pretty nor necessary. Go on with the main subject."
"I'll come to that quick enough," retorted Mrs. Veilsturm sullenly. "You are right about Lady Errington--she did slight me, and in a way no woman can forgive nor forget. I'd hate her if it were only for the fact that she is Gabriel Mostyn's daughter--the traitor--but I hate her twice as much on my own account. I vowed I'd punish her for the insult--and I will too."
"By causing a divorce?"
"Either that or separating them altogether. And I think I've managed that now."
"You can think what you please," said Eustace coolly, "but at all events you've done your worst."
"Not yet--not yet."
"Oh, yes, you have. Now you are going to write my cousin a letter, saying you don't care about him, or--well, say what you like, but give him to understand you won't see him again."
"And then?" she demanded, with a sneer.
"And then you'll leave San Remo as soon as you conveniently can."
She burst out into a peal of ironical laughter.
"Do you actually expect me to do that?"
"I do, and I'm certain you'll do it."
"I will not."
"No?"
"No."
They looked at one another in silence, she tapping her foot on the ground with a scornful smile, he eyeing her with calm deliberation.
"If you don't go to that desk and write what I ask you," he said at length, in a low, clear voice, "I'll tell the world all I know about Lola Trujillo."
Her face grew very pale, but she answered defiantly:
"Do so! No one can connect her with me."
"Ah, so you think, but I have enough proofs to do so."
"Do what you like. I defy you."
"I don t think it will be wise of you to do so," said Eustace in a low voice of concentrated fury. "You know me, Lola, and I know you, and all the world of South America knows you also."
He jumped up, and crossing over to the sofa, bent down and whispered in her ear:
"I can tell about your connection with Gabriel Mostyn, in regard to that boy, his son--who disappeared."
"I had nothing to do with it," she muttered, shrinking from him.
"And Manuel Lopez."
"Be silent!"
"And that little gambling saloon at Lima."
"Hush! for God's sake. You will ruin me."
"I intend to," said Eustace relentlessly, "unless----" and he pointed to the desk.
Without saying a word, she arose to her feet, and dragging herself slowly across the room sat down at the desk and began to write. Eustace said nothing, but remained standing by the sofa with a smile of satisfaction on his massive features. Nothing was heard in the room but the steady ticking of the clock, and the scratching of Mrs. Veilsturm's pen as it moved rapidly over the paper. In a few minutes she came back to him holding out a sheet of paper, which he read carefully without taking it out of her hand.
"That will do," he said quietly. "Will you be so kind as to put it into an envelope and direct it?"
Darting a look of hatred at him, which showed how hard it was for her to control her temper, she returned to the desk and did what he asked. Then, leaving it on the blotting-paper, she went to her seat by the window, while Eustace, picking up the letter, glanced at the address and slipped it into his inner pocket.
"And about leaving San Remo?" he asked, turning towards Mrs. Veilsturm.
"I will leave in three days," she replied harshly. "Will that suit you?
"Yes! I won't see you again.Bon voyage."
He turned to go, but Mrs. Veilsturm's voice arrested him. "Of course you will say nothing about South America?" she said quietly.
"No! You have done your part, and I will do mine."
"I wouldn't go to Lima again if I were you," said Mrs. Veilsturm, with deadly hatred, "it might be dangerous."
"I've no doubt of that," replied Eustace carelessly. "If you want to turn the tables you had better send your emissaries to Africa."
He left the room without another word, and Cleopatra, sitting at the window, saw him walking down the garden path. She was holding her handkerchief in her hands, and with a sudden anger tore it in two.
"If it had only been in South America," she said in a low, fierce voice. "Oh, if it had only been in South America!"
"Death ever rends asunder marriage bonds,So should he die, this husband undesired,She would be free to woo and wed againAnd I might haply gain her hand, her heart.Yet there is folly in this argument,For such a course would breed but sterile love,Seeing the first link in the chain of circumstanceIs ominous indeed--a dead man's grave."
"Death ever rends asunder marriage bonds,So should he die, this husband undesired,She would be free to woo and wed againAnd I might haply gain her hand, her heart.Yet there is folly in this argument,For such a course would breed but sterile love,Seeing the first link in the chain of circumstanceIs ominous indeed--a dead man's grave."
Having thus routed the enemy, Eustace returned to his hotel very well satisfied with his victory, which he hoped would be productive of good in removing the obstacle to the reconciliation of husband and wife. For his own part, he felt considerable astonishment at the self-abnegation of his conduct, seeing that he was doing his best to place the woman he loved so devotedly beyond any possible chance of being anything to him. But since his last interview with Lady Errington, the astute man of the world had been quick to read her true feelings, and had therefore given up all hope of winning her love. Besides, he had arranged with Laxton to go to Africa, and had it not been for the accident of Guy's illness would have started almost immediately for that mysterious continent, but since things had turned out otherwise, he resolved to do his duty by his cousin even against his desire of gratifying self. It was true he had done all in his power to conquer this dominant faculty of egotism, he had parted with Alizon for ever, he had saved Errington from the machinations of Mrs. Veilsturm but the great temptation was yet to come, and in a guise least anticipated by the tempted.
Of course, he told Dr. Storge about his success in the delicate matter of Mrs. Veilsturm, at which success the physician expressed himself highly delighted, as he undoubtedly thought that the removal of this disturbing influence on Errington's life would have a beneficial result on his health.
Doctors are not infallible, however, and the result of this attempt to quiet the patient's mind only succeeded in exciting it still more, which state of the case considerably dismayed both Storge and Gartney.
Guy, being under the impression that his wife had cast him off for ever, had been touched by the interest displayed towards him by Mrs. Veilsturm, and clung to the idea of her disinterested affection as a drowning man clings to a straw. An old simile, certainly, but one that holds good in this case. He thought that his wife did not love him, that she had never loved him, and that Cleopatra was the only woman who had any tender feelings towards him in her heart. It was true that the world, a notoriously ungenerous critic, said that she was capricious, cruel, fickle as the wind--still, so cleverly had she feigned a love she did not feel, that Errington really believed he had inspired a genuine feeling in her hard heart.
Every day, when tender messages arrived for him with presents of fruit and flowers, he mentally thanked Heaven that one woman, at least, truly loved and remembered him in his hour of trouble. When, however, the messages with their accompanying gifts of fruit and flowers ceased to arrive, he wondered at the omission and became querulously suspicious. Why had she forgotten him? What was the reason of this sudden change? Could she be false to him, seeing that she had made such protestations of love? No, it could not be, and yet--there must be some reason. These were the questions he kept continually asking himself, and thereby working himself into such mad frenzies, that it seemed as though nothing could avert the threatened attack of brain fever.
True to her promise, which would cost her too much to break, Mrs. Veilsturm had departed from San Remo and taken up her abode at Nice, together with the Major, Dolly Thambits and Mr. Jiddy, alleging that she found the Italian watering-place dull and preferred the lively Gauls to the more sedate Latins. Errington, however, knew nothing of this sudden exodus, and his excited brain suggested a thousand reasons for the sudden silence of his quondam charmer. She was ill! She was afraid of exciting him. She had been called to England on business! What could be the reason of this sudden change from attention to neglect, from warmth to coldness? And day and night, and night and day, the weary brain puzzled over these perplexing questions, suggesting and discarding a thousand answers with every tick of the clock.
Eustace did his best to allay his cousin's excitement without telling him the truth, but all to no purpose, so, in despair, he spoke seriously to Storge as to what was best to be done under the circumstances.
"Things can't go on like this much longer," he said decisively, "if my cousin was ill when I arrived, he seems to me to be much worse now."
"It's a very difficult case," remarked Storge musingly. "So difficult, that I hardly know what step to take. I've made him keep to his room, see no one, given him sedatives, and yet he is no better. In fact, I think we're only at the beginning of the trouble."
"Well, I've got that woman out of the way," said Eustace bluntly, "so that is something gained."
"I'm not so sure of that," replied the doctor, biting his nails, a habit he had when irritated; "of course I advised it, and it was done for the best, still, upon my soul Mr. Gartney you must think me a fool. Here am I, a duly accredited M.D., yet I don't know what steps to take in order to cure my patient."
"It is perplexing," sighed Eustace, drumming with his fingers on the table. "Errington has got it into his head that this woman is his good angel--faugh! to what lengths will love carry a man."
"But you said he was not in love with her."
"Neither is he! This is one of those rare cases which are veritable enigmas. Most unaccountable. As far as I can see, the whole thing is simply this. My cousin thinks his wife hates him, and, as Mrs. Veilsturm has played her game so cleverly, believes she loves him. He doesn't love her, but he is intensely grateful for what he thinks is her disinterested kindness. Now she has withdrawn the light of her countenance, he imagines that he is forsaken for the second time, and his feeling is one of absolute despair."
"'Thou cans't not minister to a mind diseased," quoted Storge, musingly. "A very true remark of Shakespeare's. It seems to me, judging from your theory, with which I must say I agree, that I'm in very much the same dilemma. My drugs are no use while his mind is in such a turmoil. You cure his mind, Gartney, and I'll cure his body."
"It's all very well saying that," replied Eustace pettishly. "You give me the hardest task."
"Suppose you send for his wife?"
"She won't come."
"But surely when she knows----"
"I tell you she won't come," repeated Eustace sternly, "she thinks he has behaved shamefully, and I'm afraid she is rather unforgiving."
Storge ran his hands through his hair in a most perplexed fashion, but made no reply, as he was quite at his wits' end what to suggest. It was as he suggested more a mental than a physical case, and though he felt himself competent to deal with nerves, brain, or tissues, he was quite helpless in this emergency, which required the aid of external circumstances. Those external circumstances were best known to Eustace Gartney, so that gentleman was the only man who could have any influence in the matter.
"I tell you what," said Gartney, after a pause, during which he had been thinking deeply, "Errington imagines Mrs. Veilsturm an angel of light, and is worrying himself because he thinks a good woman has forgotten him. Suppose I show her to him in her true colours, and then----"
"And then," finished the doctor caustically, "you'll fix him up nicely for a very bad attack of brain fever."
"That is one presumption!"
"The only one."
"I don't agree with you! I'll undeceive him about Mrs. Veilsturm, and then he'll see the snare he has escaped."
"Oh, and do you think that will quiet him?" asked Dr. Storge sarcastically.
"I think it will turn his thoughts back to his wife. If so, I'll write to her to come over----"
"What about the forgiveness?"
"I'll tell her it's a case of life and death. That will surely soften her."
"You whirl about like a weather-cock, my friend," said Storge grimly, "you tell me decisively that the wife is unforgiving, and won't come, then you say she might soften--which view is the right one?"
"Both."
"Impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible with regard to a woman. But what do you say to my plan?"
"I don't know what to say."
"Then I'll try it," said Eustace determinedly.
"I don't approve of it," remarked Storge in desperation, "still, as it's a case of brain fever if things go on like this, the chance of accelerating the disease doesn't make much difference, so you'd better begin your disillusionising at once."
"Very well," replied Gartney with a sigh of relief, and this closed the conversation.
It was a disagreeable task to undertake, but not more so than that connected with Mrs. Veilsturm, and Eustace made up his mind to speak to Errington at once.
"The sooner things are brought to a crisis the better," he thought, as he went up to his cousin's room. "As they stand now, it's quite impossible to move either way."
Guy was lying with his arms outside the counterpane, when Mr. Gartney entered, and turned his eyes, unnaturally bright, in the direction of the door when he heard his cousin's footstep.
"Anything from Mrs. Veilsturm?" he asked eagerly.
"Nothing," responded Eustace, and took a seat beside the bed.
"What can be the matter with her?" said Guy, feverishly. "Eustace, why don't you find out? It's cruel of you to keep me in suspense."
"I won't keep you in suspense any longer."
"What?"
Guy sat up in his bed with a cry, but Eustace forced him to lie down again.
"Keep quiet, or I won't tell you," he said sternly. "By-the-way, if you don't want Albert, he had better go downstairs. I want to speak to you privately."
"Yes! yes! you can go, Albert. Mr. Gartney will stay with me."
The well-trained valet bowed his head in answer, arranged a few things on the little table beside the bed, and then noiselessly withdrew, leaving the cousins together.
"Well, Eustace, well?" said Guy, plucking restlessly at the bedclothes. "What is the matter? Nothing wrong with Mrs. Veilsturm."
"Not that I'm aware of," responded Gartney drily. "She is a lady who can take remarkably good care of herself."
"Don't talk like that about her," said Guy, with weak anger, "she is my friend."
"Your friend!" repeated Eustace scornfully. "Yes, the same kind of friend as she is to every man!"
"Eustace!"
He sat up again with a fierce look on his face, but the calm gaze of his cousin disconcerted him, and he sank back on the pillows with an impatient sigh.
"I don't understand you," he said fretfully. "I don't understand--my head is aching--aching terribly."
"Guy, old fellow," said Eustace, in his low, soft voice, which had such an indescribable charm in its tones, "I want to speak to you about your wife."
"My wife?"
"Yes! I have a confession to make to you. I love your wife."
Guy looked at his cousin vacantly, and as if he did not understand.
"You love my wife?" he repeated mechanically. "You love my wife?"
"Yes," said Eustace, steadily, going through his self-imposed ordeal with stern determination, although his face was grey with anguish and his heart ached with pain and self-humiliation. "It's a terrible thing to confess to you--to her husband--but true nevertheless. When I first saw her at Como, I worshipped her for that calm, spiritual loveliness which made her so beautiful in my eyes. But I said nothing, and went into exile for her sake, trusting to come back and find her a happy wife and mother. I went away to forget, and I came back to remember. Oh, Guy, if you only knew how I have despised myself for thus thinking about your wife; but believe me, it was not in the sensual fashion of the world that I loved her. I worshipped her as one might worship a star which is higher and purer than he who kneels to its splendour. My love was pure, still I strove to crush it out of my heart, but all in vain. I came back to England and saw her once more, a happy mother indeed, but not a happy wife. It was not your fault, my poor boy, for I know you did your best to win her heart, but her child blinded her better nature, and she could not see that the father yearned for love, and required it as much as the son. Then came the episode of Mrs. Veilsturm, which was one of those cruel decrees of Fate which no man can guard against. It parted you, as I thought, for ever, and you obeyed the instincts of your lower nature, while she remained sternly unforgiving in her purity--a purity which could not understand the temptations of a weaker soul. I tried my best to make her look more kindly on your mistake--as I am a living man, Guy, I did my best to bring you together again, but it was all useless. Then I lost my head, the devil whispered in my ear, and I spoke to her of love, and the result was what you might have expected from your wife. She told me that she loved her child, and would not stoop to dishonour for his sake. But she said more--not in words indeed, but in looks, in manner, in irrepressible tears--that she loved you, Guy, that she was sorry for her cruel justice, that she longed for the father of her child, for the husband of her vows, to clasp her in his arms once more. I was punished for my daring to lift my eyes to her--I saw that I could be nothing to such spotless purity of soul, and I left--I went away into the outer darkness, intending to exile myself for ever from her sight. Then the child died--the child whom she worshipped--the child who was your strongest rival in her affections, and now she sits alone and in solitude--robbed of her nearest and dearest--waiting for the sound of her husband's voice, for the clasp of his arms, for the touch of his lips."
In his fervour, he had slipped from his chair, and was now kneeling beside the bed, holding his cousin's hot hand in his own. The sick man had listened dully to the long speech, but at the end he flung up his disengaged hand with a bitter cry.
"No! no! It is too late, it is too late."
"It is not too late," said Eustace, earnestly. "I have told you the truth. I have humiliated myself in your eyes because I am anxious to repair my fault, to bring you together again. Let me send for your wife, Guy, and believe me, she will come, only too gladly, to your sick bed with words of forgiveness and regret."
But the sick man rolled his head from side to side on the pillow with dreary despair.
"No; no! it cannot be. My wife can never be mine again--Maraquita----"
"Maraquita Veilsturm!" interrupted Eustace, sternly. "Don't mention her name in connection with that of your wife."
"She was kind to me when Alizon was so cruel."
"Kind, yes, for her own ends. Listen to me, Guy. Mrs. Veilsturm has been using you as a means of revenge against your wife."
All the listless despair disappeared from Errington's face, and he wrenched his hand angrily away from Eustace. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say," said Eustace hurriedly, seeing that his cousin was getting excited, and determined to have the whole thing over and done with it at once. "Do you think Mrs. Veilsturm ever forgave or forgot the slight she received from your wife? Not she! I know Mrs. Veilsturm, none better. However, I'm going to say nothing about her except this, that she pretended to love you in order to cause trouble between yourself and your wife. And now that she has succeeded, she has gone off and left you, ill as you are, to do the best you can without her."
"No! it's not true! It can't be true," raved Guy, fiercely. "You malign her, she is a true good woman, she loves me--she loves me."
"I tell you she does not," said Eustace, rising to his feet, so as to be ready for any emergency, for Guy looked so wild that he was afraid he would spring upon him.
"Liar! You cannot prove it!"
"I can, and by her own handwriting."
Guy snatched the letter Eustace held out to him, tore open the envelope, glanced over the few cruel words of dismissal, and then, dropping the paper, covered his face with his hands, moaning pitifully.
"You see now, my dear Guy, what this woman really is," said Gartney tranquilly, picking up the letter; "a vindictive vixen, who simply used you for her own ends."
The baronet uncovered his face, and looked at Eustace in a vacant manner, his eyes large and bright, his lips twitching with nervous agitation, and a feverish flush on his hot, dry skin.
"I must go to her," he said in a shrill voice, trying to rise from his bed. "I must see her."
"No! no! it's impossible," cried Eustace in alarm, holding him back; "be reasonable, Guy, be reasonable. Stay where you are, Guy!"
But Guy was now past all understanding, and struggled vehemently with Eustace, uttering short cries of rage and terror like a caged animal. His cousin's heart bled for the frenzied agony of the unhappy man, but he saw that Guy was rapidly getting worse, and shouted for assistance. No one answered, however, so having forced Guy to lie down with a great effort, Eustace ran to the electric bell, and in a moment its shrill summons rang through the house. In that moment, however, Guy was out of bed, making for the window, swaying, staggering, raving, with outstretched hands, and Eustace had just time to throw himself on the madman--for he was nothing else at present--and prevent him breaking the glass.
Albert entered, and, seeing the state of affairs, shouted for aid, and came forward to help Gartney, whose valet also came up stairs in answer to their cries, and between them the three men managed to get Guy back to bed, where they held him down, raving, crying, shrieking, and entirely insane. Leaving the two servants in charge, Eustace went down stairs and sent for the doctor, who arrived speedily on the scene and prescribed such remedies as were necessary, although, truth to tell, he could do but little.
"Just what I expected," he said grimly, when things were going smoother, "and now, Mr. Gartney, as you've carried out your first intention, perhaps you'll carry out the second, and send for his wife."
"I suppose I must."
"It's a case of life and death," said Storge, and walked out of the room.
In two minutes Eustace was on his way to the telegraph office. As he walked rapidly down the street, the temptation came, the terrible temptation that whispered to him not to send for Alizon.
"If you do not," whispered the devil on his left, "Guy will die, and you will be able to gain her for your wife."
"No," said the good angel on his right. "She can never love you, you could buy nothing, not even happiness, at the price of your cousin's death."
So Eustace walked along with these two angels, the bad and the good, whispering in his ears, now inclining to one, now to the other, fighting desperately against the temptations of the devil, and again yielding to the insidious whisper of future joy to be won by a simple act of neglect. In that short walk a whole life-time of agony passed, but no one looking at this stalwart, calm-faced man striding along the Street, could have guessed the hell that raged within.
The powers of good and evil fought desperately for the possession of this weak, wavering soul, that was in such sore straits, but in the end the good angel prevailed, and Eustace sat down to write his telegram.
He wrote one to Alizon, as strongly worded as he was able, and a second to Otterburn, telling him he must bring Lady Errington over at once. In both he wrote the words, "It is a case of life and death," those words that had been ringing in his ears ever since the doctor had said them.
Then, as he handed the telegram to the clerk, the temptation again assailed him. It was not too late, let him withdraw the messages, tear them up, and there would be a chance of his winning the woman he loved instead of going into voluntarily exile. But at the price of a man's life? No! that was too big a price to pay, and yet--he put down the money demanded by the clerk and walked out of the post office.
Outside in the sunshine he stood with drops of sweat on his forehead, and the soul that had been saved from the commission of a great crime, put up a prayer of thanks to God that this last temptation had passed, and that the powers of evil had not prevailed in the hour of weakness.