Chapter Twenty.The Morning Paper.No one by any stretch of the imagination could have called the admiral a good reader. In fact, a person might very well have been considered to be strictly within the limits of truth if he had declared the old officer to be the worst reader he ever heard. But so it was, from the crookedness of human nature, that he always made a point of reading every piece of news in the paper which he considered interesting, aloud, for the benefit of those with him at the breakfast table.Matters happen strangely quite as frequently as they go on in the regular groove of routine, and hence it happened, one morning at breakfast, that is to say, on the morning after the tragedy at the convict prison, that Sir Mark put on his gold spectacles as soon as he had finished his eggs and bacon and one cup of coffee, and, taking the freshly aired paper, opened it with a good deal of rustling noise, and coughed.Edie looked across at her cousin with a mischievous smile, but Myra was gazing thoughtfully before her, and the glance missed its mark.“Hum! ha!” growled Sir Mark. “‘London, South, and Channel. Same as number three.’ Confound number three! Who wants to refer to that? Oh, here we are: ‘Light winds, shifting to east. Fine generally.’ Climate’s improving, girls. More coffee, Myra. Pass my cup, Edie, dear.”He skimmed over the summary, and then turned to the police cases, found nothing particular, and went on to the sessions, stopping to refresh himself from time to time, while Edie wondered what her cousin’s thoughts might be.“Dear me!” exclaimed the admiral suddenly; “how singular! I must read you this, girls. Here’s another forgery of foreign banknotes.”The click of Myra’s teacup as she suddenly set it down made the admiral drop the paper and read in his child’s blank face the terrible slip he had made.“O Myra, my darling!” he cried apologetically; “I am so sorry;” and he turned to Edie, who looked daggers.“It is nothing, papa,” said Myra coldly, as she tried hard to master her emotion.“But it is something, my dear. I wouldn’t have said a word only I caught sight of Percy Guest’s name as junior for the defence.”It was Edie’s turn now to look startled, and Sir Mark hurriedly fixed upon her to become the scapegoat for his awkward allusion, and divert Myra’s attention.“Can’t congratulate the prisoner upon his counsel,” he said. “The man’s too young and inexperienced. Only the other day a mere student. It’s like putting a midshipman as second in command of an ironclad.”Edie’s eyes now seemed to dart flames, and she looked up boldly at her uncle.“Oh, yes,” he said, “I mean it. Very nice fellow, Percy Guest, in a social way, but I should be sorry to trust an important case with him. Here, I’ll read it, and see what it’s all about. No; never mind, I know you girls don’t care about law.”The morning meal had been commenced cheerfully. There was sunshine without and at the table, Edie had thought how bright and well her cousin looked, and augured pleasant times of the future.“If she could only feel herself free,” was her constant thought when Myra gave way to some fit of despondency.“I’m sure that she loves Malcolm Stratton, and what is the good of a stupid old law if all it does is to make people uncomfortable. I wish I knew the Archbishop of Canterbury or the judge of the Court of Divorce, or whoever it is settles those things. I’d soon make them see matters in a different light. Poor Myra would be obedient then, and there’d be an end of all this moping. I believe she delights in making herself miserable.”It was just when Edie had reached this point and she was stirring her tea, and thinking how easily she could settle matters if she were at the head of affairs, so as to make everybody happy, herself included, when her uncle made his malapropos remarks.There was no more sunshine in the dining room after that. Myra looked cold and pale, the admiral was uncomfortable behind the paper, in which he enveloped himself as in a cloud, from which came a hand at intervals to feel about the table in an absurd way for toast or his coffee cup, which was twice over nearly overturned.Then he became visible for a moment or two as he turned the paper, but it closed him in again, and from behind it there came, now and then, a fidgeting nervous cough, which was as annoying to the utterer as to those who listened.“Going out to-day, girls?” asked Sir Mark at last, but without removing the paper.“Yes, uncle,” said Edie sharply, for her cousin had given her an imploring look, and the girl could see that Myra was greatly agitated still; “the carriage is coming round at two. Shall we drop you at the club?”“Great Heavens!” ejaculated the old man in a tone which startled both his hearers, and as if expectant from some premonition, Myra thrust back her chair, and sat gazing at the paper wildly.“What is it, uncle?” cried Edie.“Eh? Oh, nothing, my dear,” said Sir Mark confusedly, as he rustled the paper and hurriedly turned it. “More horrors. These editors seem to revel in them, or the public do. So shocking; no sooner is one at an end, than another begins.”He had screened his face again as quickly as he could, for he was a miserable dissembler, and Edie and Myra exchanged glances. Then, rising slowly with her hand pressed to her breast, Myra made as if she would go to the other side of the table, but her strength failed her, and as her father cleared his throat with a sonorous cough, she clung to the edge, crumpling up the white cloth in her damp fingers.Edie rose too, but throwing up her head, Myra motioned her back imperiously, and stood for a few moments with her lips parted and eyes dilated, gazing at the paper, as if devouring its contents, while from behind it came the admiral’s voice with forced carelessness.“For my part,” he said, with a clumsy effort to hide his own emotion, “I am beginning to think that the ordinary daily newspapers are unsuitable reading for young ladies, who had better keep to the magazines and journals specially devoted to their wants.”There was no word spoken in return, and after another cough, the old man continued:“What was that you said about dropping me at the club? By all means, yes. My leg was rather bad in the night. Don’t care so much about walking as I used.”Still there was no reply, and, as if struck by the notion that he had been left alone in the room, Sir Mark coughed again nervously, and slowly moved himself in his chair, to turn the paper slightly aside, and, as if by accident, so that he could see beyond one side.He sat there the next moment petrified, and staring at his daughter’s wildly excited face, for, resting one hand on the table, she was leaning toward him, her hand extended to take the paper, and her eyes questioning his, while Edie, looking terribly agitated, was also leaning forward as if to restrain her cousin.Sir Mark’s lips parted and moved, but he made no sound. Then recovering himself, he hastily closed the paper, doubled it over again, and rose from his chair.“Myra, my darling!” he cried, “are you ill?”Her lips now moved in turn, but without a sound at first; then she threw back her head, and her eyes grew more dilated as she cried hoarsely:“That paper—there is news—something about my husband.”“Edie, ring! She is ill,” cried Sir Mark.“No, stop!” cried Myra. “I am not a child now, father. I tell you that there is news in that paper about my husband. Give it to me. I will see.”Sir Mark was as agitated now as his child, and with a hurried gesture, perfectly natural under the circumstances, he thrust the paper behind him. “No, no, my child,” he stammered, with his florid face growing mottled and strange.“I say there is, father, and you are deceiving me.”“Well, yes, a little, my darling,” he said hastily. “A little. Not for your ears, dear. Another time when you are cool and calm, you know. Edie, my dear, come to her; talk to her. Myra, my child, leave it to me.”Myra’s hand went to her throat as if she were stifling, but once more she forced back her emotion.“Something about—the prison—my husband?”“Yes, yes, my dear. Nothing so very particular. Now do—do leave it to me, and try to be calm. You frighten me. There, there, my pet,” he continued, trying to take her hand; “go to your room for a bit with Edie, and—yes, yes, lie down.”“Give me the paper,” she said hoarsely.“No, no, I cannot, indeed, my dear.”“Ah!” cried the agitated girl wildly. “I know—they have set him free?”Sir Mark glanced at his niece, and then passed his hand over his beaded forehead.“Yes, yes, my dear,” he faltered; “he is free.”“Ah! and he will come here and claim me, and then—”She reeled as if to fall, but her force of will was too great, and she mastered her emotion again, stepped forward, and seized the paper, her senses swimming as she turned it again and again, till the large type of the telegram caught her attention.Then she closed her eyes for a few moments, drew a long breath, and they saw her compress her lips and read without a tremor:Daring attempted Escape.Serious Affray.Our correspondent at Grey Cliff telegraphs of a desperate attempt made by three of the convicts at The Foreland last night about eight o’clock. By some means they managed to elude the vigilance of the warders after the cells had been visited and lights were out, reached the yard, and scaled the lofty wall. Then, favoured by the darkness of the night, they threaded their way among the sentries, and reached the cliffs of the dangerous rocky coast, where, their evasion having been discovered, they were brought to bay by a party of the armed warders. In the affray which ensued two of the warders were dangerously wounded with stones, and the convicts were making their way down the cliffs to the sea when orders were given to fire. One of the men was shot down, while, in the desperate attempts to escape recapture, the others went headlong down the almost perpendicular precipice which guards the eastern side of The Foreland.Upon the warders descending with ropes, two of the men were brought up, one with a shot through the leg, the other suffering from a badly fractured skull, while, in spite of vigorous search by the boats of H.M.S.Merlin, the body of the third man, which had been heard to plunge into the sea, was not recovered. We regret to add that the man injured by his fall expired in the ambulance on the way back to the prison. He was the notorious convict Barron, or Dale, sentenced to seven years’ penal servitude, about a twelvemonth ago, for the daring fraud upon the Russian government by the issue of forged rouble notes.The paper fell from Myra’s hands as she stood there motionless, and apparently unmoved by the tidings she had read. Then turning slowly, she held out her hand to Edie, who obeyed the imploring look in her eyes, and led her from the dining room to her own chamber without a word.“Myra,” she whispered then, and she pressed closely toward her cousin, whose lips now parted, and she heard almost like a sigh:“Free—free!”“Talk to me, dear, talk to me,” whispered Edie. “It frightens me when you look like that.”Myra turned to her, caught her cousin to her breast, and kissed her rapidly twice. Then, thrusting her away, she whispered faintly:“Go now—go, dear. I can bear no more;” and when, a few moments later, Edie looked back from the door she was about to close, Myra was in the act of sinking upon her knees by the bedside, where she buried her face in her hands.But hardly had the door closed when she sprang to her feet, and hurried across to shoot the bolt, and then stand with her hands to her head, and starting eyes, picturing in imagination the scene of the past night. The darkness and James Barron—her husband—the man who had haunted her night and day in connection with the hour when he would come back and claim her, not at the end of seven years, but earlier, released before his time—that man—while she sat below in her room at the piano—yes, she recalled vividly every minute of the previous night—she sat playing the melodies of old ballads, favourites of her father, with Percy Guest talking to Edie, and at that time this man was fighting to escape—this man, her horror. And had he succeeded he would have come there.She shuddered as, from the brief description of the struggle, she saw him trying to descend the rocky face of the cliff, stumble when shots were fired, and fall headlong upon the cruel stones.It was horrible—too horrible to bear; and yet she felt obliged to dwell upon it all, and go over it again and again, shuddering at the pictures her active brain evoked till the agony was maddening.Then, to make her horror culminate, doubt stepped in to ask her, as if in an insidious whisper, whether she could believe it to be all true, and not some reporter’s error.She felt as if she were withering beneath some cold mental blast, and in spite of the horror, her hopes and dreams, which would have place, shrank back again. For it might be a mistake. Some other wretched man had striven to escape, and in the hurry and darkness had been mistaken for her husband.But hope came again directly, and while shuddering at the thoughts, she recalled how explicit it had all been. There could be no mistake. She was wife no longer—tied no more by those hated bonds to a wretched adventurer—a forger—whose sole aim had been to get her father’s money—she was free, and Malcolm Stratton had told her—She shuddered again at the horror of dwelling upon such thoughts at a moment when her ears were stunned by the news of death; but the thoughts were imperious. She had never loved this man, and the ceremony had only been performed under misapprehension. Once more she was free—free to follow the bent of her affections—free to give herself to the man she knew she loved.What had Malcolm Stratton said—what had he said?A mist had been gathering about her mental vision, and she staggered toward her bedside, once more to sink down and bury her burning face in her hands, for her emotion was greater than she could bear.
No one by any stretch of the imagination could have called the admiral a good reader. In fact, a person might very well have been considered to be strictly within the limits of truth if he had declared the old officer to be the worst reader he ever heard. But so it was, from the crookedness of human nature, that he always made a point of reading every piece of news in the paper which he considered interesting, aloud, for the benefit of those with him at the breakfast table.
Matters happen strangely quite as frequently as they go on in the regular groove of routine, and hence it happened, one morning at breakfast, that is to say, on the morning after the tragedy at the convict prison, that Sir Mark put on his gold spectacles as soon as he had finished his eggs and bacon and one cup of coffee, and, taking the freshly aired paper, opened it with a good deal of rustling noise, and coughed.
Edie looked across at her cousin with a mischievous smile, but Myra was gazing thoughtfully before her, and the glance missed its mark.
“Hum! ha!” growled Sir Mark. “‘London, South, and Channel. Same as number three.’ Confound number three! Who wants to refer to that? Oh, here we are: ‘Light winds, shifting to east. Fine generally.’ Climate’s improving, girls. More coffee, Myra. Pass my cup, Edie, dear.”
He skimmed over the summary, and then turned to the police cases, found nothing particular, and went on to the sessions, stopping to refresh himself from time to time, while Edie wondered what her cousin’s thoughts might be.
“Dear me!” exclaimed the admiral suddenly; “how singular! I must read you this, girls. Here’s another forgery of foreign banknotes.”
The click of Myra’s teacup as she suddenly set it down made the admiral drop the paper and read in his child’s blank face the terrible slip he had made.
“O Myra, my darling!” he cried apologetically; “I am so sorry;” and he turned to Edie, who looked daggers.
“It is nothing, papa,” said Myra coldly, as she tried hard to master her emotion.
“But it is something, my dear. I wouldn’t have said a word only I caught sight of Percy Guest’s name as junior for the defence.”
It was Edie’s turn now to look startled, and Sir Mark hurriedly fixed upon her to become the scapegoat for his awkward allusion, and divert Myra’s attention.
“Can’t congratulate the prisoner upon his counsel,” he said. “The man’s too young and inexperienced. Only the other day a mere student. It’s like putting a midshipman as second in command of an ironclad.”
Edie’s eyes now seemed to dart flames, and she looked up boldly at her uncle.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “I mean it. Very nice fellow, Percy Guest, in a social way, but I should be sorry to trust an important case with him. Here, I’ll read it, and see what it’s all about. No; never mind, I know you girls don’t care about law.”
The morning meal had been commenced cheerfully. There was sunshine without and at the table, Edie had thought how bright and well her cousin looked, and augured pleasant times of the future.
“If she could only feel herself free,” was her constant thought when Myra gave way to some fit of despondency.
“I’m sure that she loves Malcolm Stratton, and what is the good of a stupid old law if all it does is to make people uncomfortable. I wish I knew the Archbishop of Canterbury or the judge of the Court of Divorce, or whoever it is settles those things. I’d soon make them see matters in a different light. Poor Myra would be obedient then, and there’d be an end of all this moping. I believe she delights in making herself miserable.”
It was just when Edie had reached this point and she was stirring her tea, and thinking how easily she could settle matters if she were at the head of affairs, so as to make everybody happy, herself included, when her uncle made his malapropos remarks.
There was no more sunshine in the dining room after that. Myra looked cold and pale, the admiral was uncomfortable behind the paper, in which he enveloped himself as in a cloud, from which came a hand at intervals to feel about the table in an absurd way for toast or his coffee cup, which was twice over nearly overturned.
Then he became visible for a moment or two as he turned the paper, but it closed him in again, and from behind it there came, now and then, a fidgeting nervous cough, which was as annoying to the utterer as to those who listened.
“Going out to-day, girls?” asked Sir Mark at last, but without removing the paper.
“Yes, uncle,” said Edie sharply, for her cousin had given her an imploring look, and the girl could see that Myra was greatly agitated still; “the carriage is coming round at two. Shall we drop you at the club?”
“Great Heavens!” ejaculated the old man in a tone which startled both his hearers, and as if expectant from some premonition, Myra thrust back her chair, and sat gazing at the paper wildly.
“What is it, uncle?” cried Edie.
“Eh? Oh, nothing, my dear,” said Sir Mark confusedly, as he rustled the paper and hurriedly turned it. “More horrors. These editors seem to revel in them, or the public do. So shocking; no sooner is one at an end, than another begins.”
He had screened his face again as quickly as he could, for he was a miserable dissembler, and Edie and Myra exchanged glances. Then, rising slowly with her hand pressed to her breast, Myra made as if she would go to the other side of the table, but her strength failed her, and as her father cleared his throat with a sonorous cough, she clung to the edge, crumpling up the white cloth in her damp fingers.
Edie rose too, but throwing up her head, Myra motioned her back imperiously, and stood for a few moments with her lips parted and eyes dilated, gazing at the paper, as if devouring its contents, while from behind it came the admiral’s voice with forced carelessness.
“For my part,” he said, with a clumsy effort to hide his own emotion, “I am beginning to think that the ordinary daily newspapers are unsuitable reading for young ladies, who had better keep to the magazines and journals specially devoted to their wants.”
There was no word spoken in return, and after another cough, the old man continued:
“What was that you said about dropping me at the club? By all means, yes. My leg was rather bad in the night. Don’t care so much about walking as I used.”
Still there was no reply, and, as if struck by the notion that he had been left alone in the room, Sir Mark coughed again nervously, and slowly moved himself in his chair, to turn the paper slightly aside, and, as if by accident, so that he could see beyond one side.
He sat there the next moment petrified, and staring at his daughter’s wildly excited face, for, resting one hand on the table, she was leaning toward him, her hand extended to take the paper, and her eyes questioning his, while Edie, looking terribly agitated, was also leaning forward as if to restrain her cousin.
Sir Mark’s lips parted and moved, but he made no sound. Then recovering himself, he hastily closed the paper, doubled it over again, and rose from his chair.
“Myra, my darling!” he cried, “are you ill?”
Her lips now moved in turn, but without a sound at first; then she threw back her head, and her eyes grew more dilated as she cried hoarsely:
“That paper—there is news—something about my husband.”
“Edie, ring! She is ill,” cried Sir Mark.
“No, stop!” cried Myra. “I am not a child now, father. I tell you that there is news in that paper about my husband. Give it to me. I will see.”
Sir Mark was as agitated now as his child, and with a hurried gesture, perfectly natural under the circumstances, he thrust the paper behind him. “No, no, my child,” he stammered, with his florid face growing mottled and strange.
“I say there is, father, and you are deceiving me.”
“Well, yes, a little, my darling,” he said hastily. “A little. Not for your ears, dear. Another time when you are cool and calm, you know. Edie, my dear, come to her; talk to her. Myra, my child, leave it to me.”
Myra’s hand went to her throat as if she were stifling, but once more she forced back her emotion.
“Something about—the prison—my husband?”
“Yes, yes, my dear. Nothing so very particular. Now do—do leave it to me, and try to be calm. You frighten me. There, there, my pet,” he continued, trying to take her hand; “go to your room for a bit with Edie, and—yes, yes, lie down.”
“Give me the paper,” she said hoarsely.
“No, no, I cannot, indeed, my dear.”
“Ah!” cried the agitated girl wildly. “I know—they have set him free?”
Sir Mark glanced at his niece, and then passed his hand over his beaded forehead.
“Yes, yes, my dear,” he faltered; “he is free.”
“Ah! and he will come here and claim me, and then—”
She reeled as if to fall, but her force of will was too great, and she mastered her emotion again, stepped forward, and seized the paper, her senses swimming as she turned it again and again, till the large type of the telegram caught her attention.
Then she closed her eyes for a few moments, drew a long breath, and they saw her compress her lips and read without a tremor:
Daring attempted Escape.Serious Affray.Our correspondent at Grey Cliff telegraphs of a desperate attempt made by three of the convicts at The Foreland last night about eight o’clock. By some means they managed to elude the vigilance of the warders after the cells had been visited and lights were out, reached the yard, and scaled the lofty wall. Then, favoured by the darkness of the night, they threaded their way among the sentries, and reached the cliffs of the dangerous rocky coast, where, their evasion having been discovered, they were brought to bay by a party of the armed warders. In the affray which ensued two of the warders were dangerously wounded with stones, and the convicts were making their way down the cliffs to the sea when orders were given to fire. One of the men was shot down, while, in the desperate attempts to escape recapture, the others went headlong down the almost perpendicular precipice which guards the eastern side of The Foreland.Upon the warders descending with ropes, two of the men were brought up, one with a shot through the leg, the other suffering from a badly fractured skull, while, in spite of vigorous search by the boats of H.M.S.Merlin, the body of the third man, which had been heard to plunge into the sea, was not recovered. We regret to add that the man injured by his fall expired in the ambulance on the way back to the prison. He was the notorious convict Barron, or Dale, sentenced to seven years’ penal servitude, about a twelvemonth ago, for the daring fraud upon the Russian government by the issue of forged rouble notes.
Daring attempted Escape.
Serious Affray.
Our correspondent at Grey Cliff telegraphs of a desperate attempt made by three of the convicts at The Foreland last night about eight o’clock. By some means they managed to elude the vigilance of the warders after the cells had been visited and lights were out, reached the yard, and scaled the lofty wall. Then, favoured by the darkness of the night, they threaded their way among the sentries, and reached the cliffs of the dangerous rocky coast, where, their evasion having been discovered, they were brought to bay by a party of the armed warders. In the affray which ensued two of the warders were dangerously wounded with stones, and the convicts were making their way down the cliffs to the sea when orders were given to fire. One of the men was shot down, while, in the desperate attempts to escape recapture, the others went headlong down the almost perpendicular precipice which guards the eastern side of The Foreland.
Upon the warders descending with ropes, two of the men were brought up, one with a shot through the leg, the other suffering from a badly fractured skull, while, in spite of vigorous search by the boats of H.M.S.Merlin, the body of the third man, which had been heard to plunge into the sea, was not recovered. We regret to add that the man injured by his fall expired in the ambulance on the way back to the prison. He was the notorious convict Barron, or Dale, sentenced to seven years’ penal servitude, about a twelvemonth ago, for the daring fraud upon the Russian government by the issue of forged rouble notes.
The paper fell from Myra’s hands as she stood there motionless, and apparently unmoved by the tidings she had read. Then turning slowly, she held out her hand to Edie, who obeyed the imploring look in her eyes, and led her from the dining room to her own chamber without a word.
“Myra,” she whispered then, and she pressed closely toward her cousin, whose lips now parted, and she heard almost like a sigh:
“Free—free!”
“Talk to me, dear, talk to me,” whispered Edie. “It frightens me when you look like that.”
Myra turned to her, caught her cousin to her breast, and kissed her rapidly twice. Then, thrusting her away, she whispered faintly:
“Go now—go, dear. I can bear no more;” and when, a few moments later, Edie looked back from the door she was about to close, Myra was in the act of sinking upon her knees by the bedside, where she buried her face in her hands.
But hardly had the door closed when she sprang to her feet, and hurried across to shoot the bolt, and then stand with her hands to her head, and starting eyes, picturing in imagination the scene of the past night. The darkness and James Barron—her husband—the man who had haunted her night and day in connection with the hour when he would come back and claim her, not at the end of seven years, but earlier, released before his time—that man—while she sat below in her room at the piano—yes, she recalled vividly every minute of the previous night—she sat playing the melodies of old ballads, favourites of her father, with Percy Guest talking to Edie, and at that time this man was fighting to escape—this man, her horror. And had he succeeded he would have come there.
She shuddered as, from the brief description of the struggle, she saw him trying to descend the rocky face of the cliff, stumble when shots were fired, and fall headlong upon the cruel stones.
It was horrible—too horrible to bear; and yet she felt obliged to dwell upon it all, and go over it again and again, shuddering at the pictures her active brain evoked till the agony was maddening.
Then, to make her horror culminate, doubt stepped in to ask her, as if in an insidious whisper, whether she could believe it to be all true, and not some reporter’s error.
She felt as if she were withering beneath some cold mental blast, and in spite of the horror, her hopes and dreams, which would have place, shrank back again. For it might be a mistake. Some other wretched man had striven to escape, and in the hurry and darkness had been mistaken for her husband.
But hope came again directly, and while shuddering at the thoughts, she recalled how explicit it had all been. There could be no mistake. She was wife no longer—tied no more by those hated bonds to a wretched adventurer—a forger—whose sole aim had been to get her father’s money—she was free, and Malcolm Stratton had told her—
She shuddered again at the horror of dwelling upon such thoughts at a moment when her ears were stunned by the news of death; but the thoughts were imperious. She had never loved this man, and the ceremony had only been performed under misapprehension. Once more she was free—free to follow the bent of her affections—free to give herself to the man she knew she loved.
What had Malcolm Stratton said—what had he said?
A mist had been gathering about her mental vision, and she staggered toward her bedside, once more to sink down and bury her burning face in her hands, for her emotion was greater than she could bear.
Chapter Twenty One.“Silence gives Consent.”“Oh, it’s you two again, is it?” said Miss Jerrold, in a tone of voice which might have been borrowed from her brother, as Stratton and Guest were shown up into her pretty little drawing room, where she sat ready to preside over her china tea tray with its quaint Sèvres cups and saucers and parcel gilt apostle spoons, while a tall stand was on her left with its bronze kettle humming and whispering, and uttering a pleasant coo now and then, as it felt the warm kisses of the spirit lamp.Stratton’s brows contracted and a look of resentment darted from his eyes as he stopped short, but Guest laughed and said airily:“Yes; it is your humble servant once again.”“Well, and what do you want?”“Hear that, Stratton?” said Guest. “A lady sends you her cards, ‘At home, Thursday, four to six;’ we go to the expense of new lavender kids—no, come what may, I will be truthful, mine are only freshly cleaned—and new hats—no, truth shall prevail! a gloss over from the hatter’s iron—drag ourselves all this way west to pay our devoirs—to drink tea out of thimbles, and eat slices of butter thinly sprinkled with bread crumbs, and the lady says, ‘What do you want?’”“Of course I do. There, sit down, both of you, and, Malcolm Stratton, don’t put on that wicked, melodramatic frown; it does not become you. You’re a pair of impostors. Think I’m blind? You don’t come here to call upon a poor old woman like—Quick, Percy, my dear boy! Blow it out; we shall have the room in a blaze.”“No, no, be cool,” said Guest, and he made for the spirit kettle, whose lamp had become overheated, and was sending up quite a volume of flame. But Stratton was nearer, and taking out his handkerchief, he turned it into a pad, dabbed it on the lamp, and the light was smothered.“Oh, dear me!” sighed Miss Jerrold in tones full of relief, “now, that was very clever. I do like presence of mind. Sugar, Mr Stratton?”He bowed stiffly.“Haven’t burned yourself, have you, my dear?”“Oh, no; my glove protected my hand,” said Stratton, looking at the stiff, formal, handsome old body; half amused, half pleased, by the maternal “my dear.”“Ah, now you’re smiling at me,” she said quickly. “Sugar, Percy?”“A good deal, please, to take the taste of your harsh words out of my mouth.”“There, then—two lumps. I know you take sugar, Malcolm Stratton, and cream. Well, my dear, I’m obliged to speak out; for you really are a pair of impostors, and I cannot have my house made a meeting place for would-be lovers. There—there—there, Mr Stratton, don’t pray turn like that, and look as if you were going to rush away. Mine is a very delicate position, and I know my brother will be taking me to task some day about all this. Now, do take my advice; and give it all up—Percy Guest, if you break that cup I’ll never forgive you. It cannot be matched.”“Would you advise us to go and try our fortunes in Australia, Miss Jerrold?” said Guest quietly, as he replaced the tiny cup in the middle of its saucer, after nearly sending it on the carpet.“No, I would not, you stupid boy. There, I don’t mean you at all. I dare say Edie will be silly enough to let you wheedle her into matrimony some day—a goose.”Guest touched his breast.“You? No,” said the lady sharply, “Edie. But you two are nobodies. I was thinking about Mr Stratton, here. Now, don’t you think, my dear, you had better give it all up?”She held out her hand with a look of gentle sympathy to him, and he caught it and kissed it.“Do you think I ever could?” he said, in a low voice while Guest began to display great interest in the painting of the teacup.“No, I suppose not,” said Miss Jerrold, with a sigh. “It’s very sad, you see, poor girl, she’s going through a curious morbid phase which has completely changed her. All that time she had her ideas that it was her duty to wait and suffer; and I do honestly believe that if that man had behaved himself, been released on a ticket of—ticket of—what do they call those tickets, Percy?”“Leave,” said the young barrister gravely.“Yes; of course—she would have considered it her duty to go to him if he had come to claim her; and then died of misery and despair in a month.”“Had we not better change the conversation, Miss Jerrold?” said Stratton quietly.“Yes, of course. I’m a very stupid old woman, I suppose; but Myra does worry me a great deal. One moment, and I’ve done, and I suppose things must take their course. But all this treating herself as a widow and—there—there—there—I have done. I suppose I need not tell you they are coming here to-day?”“I did hope to see Miss—”“Hush! Don’t call her that, my dear. It must be Mrs Barron, or she will consider herself insulted. Ah, she’s a strange girl, Mr Stratton, but we can’t help liking her all the same, can we?”She held out her hand to him with a pleasant smile and a nod; and Guest saw his friend’s eyes brighten, and then noted his passionate, eager look, as there was a ring and knock.But the ladies who came up were strangers; and it was not until quite the last that Myra and her cousin arrived, the former in black, and with a calm, resigned look in her pale face, which had grown very thoughtful and dreamy during the six months which had elapsed since that morning at breakfast, when the news came of James Dale’s tragic end.And now her eyes softened as she greeted Stratton, and she sat talking to him in a quiet, subdued way, till the gentlemen took their leave, and made their way back to Benchers’ Inn.Hardly a word was spoken till they were in Stratton’s room, where Guest threw his hat and umbrella down impatiently, walked straight to the door on the left of the fireplace, opened it, went in, and returned with a cigar box, which he set down, and then went back to fetch out the spirit-stand and a siphon from another shelf, while, dreamy looking and thoughtful, Stratton sat back in an easy-chair watching his friend’s free and easy, quite at home, ways, but thinking the while of Myra.“Might have troubled yourself to get the glasses,” said Guest ill-humouredly, as he fetched a couple of tall, green Venice cups from a cabinet, poured out some whisky, frothed it up from the siphon, and drank.“That’s better,” he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “Aren’t you going to have one?”“Presently.”“Presently? Bah! It’s always presently with you. I’m tired of presently. Edie would say ‘Yes,’ directly, and I could get Aunt Jerrold to coax the old man round if he wanted coaxing. But it’s always the same. Look here; if you don’t keep your cigars somewhere else, and not on a shelf over that damp bath, I won’t smoke ’em. Hardly get ’em to light. Here,” he continued, thrusting a cigar and a match-box into Stratton’s hands, “do smoke and talk, you give a fellow the blues with your dismal looks.”“I’m very sorry, old fellow,” said Stratton, lighting the cigar. “I am not dismal. I feel very happy and contented.”“Then you’re easily satisfied,” cried Guest.“Yes; because I hope and believe that if I am patient, my time will come.”“Not it. It’s too bad of Myra.”“No; I would not have her change,” said Stratton dreamily. “It is a hard and long probation, but I can wait, and I love her all the more dearly for her true womanly behaviour. There, hold your tongue, you miserable, selfish reviler of one whom in your heart you look up to as a pattern of womanhood. The joy would be almost greater than I could bear if she said ‘Yes’; but she is right, and I will patiently wait, for some day the time will come.”“There you go again. Presently. It’s all very well for you with your calm worship of your ideal woman, and your high-falutin talk about womanhood, etcetera, but I love my little Edie in a non-aesthetic, Christian-like, manly way; and it’s maddening to be always kept off by the little thing with, ‘No, not till I see poor Myra happy. Then, perhaps, you may begin to talk.’ Perhaps and presently make poor food for a fellow like me.”Stratton smiled at him gravely.“That’s right—laugh at me. Tell you what, Mal, you’re a poor lover. Why don’t you ask her plump and plain?”Stratton made no reply but sat back smoking, and his friend said no more for a time. At last, quietly:“Not such a bad cigar after all, Mal.”Stratton did not reply for a few moments. Then, in a low voice, full of emotion:“Percy, lad, you must bear with me: it is all too deep for words. If we could change places you would do as I do. Speak to her? pray to her? Have I not done all this till now when her eyes gaze in mine with their gentle, pleading calm, and say to me—‘Bear with me; be patient. If you love me, give me time till all these sorrows of the past have grown blurred and faint with distance.’ Guest, old fellow, she gives me no hope. There is no verbal promise, but there is a something in her gentle, compassionate look which says to me—‘Wait; if ever I can forget the past—if ever I marry man—it will be you.’”There was a deep silence in the room, and faintly heard came the roar of the great city street.Stratton was the first to break the silence by saying softly to himself:“Yes; wait: the time will come.” Again the silence was broken, this time by a strange hurrying, rustling sound behind the wainscot, followed by a dull thud.“What’s that?” said Guest sharply. “That? Oh, only the rats. There are plenty in this old house.”“Ugh! Brutes.”“They only have runs behind the panelling. They never come into the rooms.”There was another silence before Guest spoke. “Mal, old chap,” he said, “I’m a miserable, impatient beast. You are quite right; I’m in my ordinary senses once more. Edie speaks just as you do, and she’s as wise a little thing as ever stepped. We must wait, old man; we must wait.”Malcolm Stratton waited till one evening, when fortune favoured him for the moment once again. It was by accident that he found Myra alone. He had heard the tones of the piano as he went up to the drawing room in Bourne Square, and his heart had begun to beat wildly and then its pulsations grew to throbs and bounds, as he went in, to find her alone and playing softly in the half light.She did not cease, but her fingers strayed on over the keys, and once more as his arm rested upon the piano, the chords thrilled through his very being; and when, without a word, his hands were outstretched to take her to his breast, she sank upon it with a sigh of relief. At that moment steps were heard upon the landing, and Edie and Miss Jerrold entered the room dressed to go to some concert, Sir Mark following directly after, from the dining room, with Guest.Myra did not shrink from Stratton till all had seen what had taken place. Then, gravely crossing to her father, she laid her hands together upon his breast, while he waited for her to speak.The words came at last:“Father, dear, Malcolm has asked me to be his wife.”Sir Mark drew her tightly to him, and held out his hand to Stratton.“Soon, dear, very soon, but it must be very quiet, and not from here.”“Anything, my darling, to see you happy once again.”The butler just then brought in a lamp, and they could see the love light beaming from her eyes.
“Oh, it’s you two again, is it?” said Miss Jerrold, in a tone of voice which might have been borrowed from her brother, as Stratton and Guest were shown up into her pretty little drawing room, where she sat ready to preside over her china tea tray with its quaint Sèvres cups and saucers and parcel gilt apostle spoons, while a tall stand was on her left with its bronze kettle humming and whispering, and uttering a pleasant coo now and then, as it felt the warm kisses of the spirit lamp.
Stratton’s brows contracted and a look of resentment darted from his eyes as he stopped short, but Guest laughed and said airily:
“Yes; it is your humble servant once again.”
“Well, and what do you want?”
“Hear that, Stratton?” said Guest. “A lady sends you her cards, ‘At home, Thursday, four to six;’ we go to the expense of new lavender kids—no, come what may, I will be truthful, mine are only freshly cleaned—and new hats—no, truth shall prevail! a gloss over from the hatter’s iron—drag ourselves all this way west to pay our devoirs—to drink tea out of thimbles, and eat slices of butter thinly sprinkled with bread crumbs, and the lady says, ‘What do you want?’”
“Of course I do. There, sit down, both of you, and, Malcolm Stratton, don’t put on that wicked, melodramatic frown; it does not become you. You’re a pair of impostors. Think I’m blind? You don’t come here to call upon a poor old woman like—Quick, Percy, my dear boy! Blow it out; we shall have the room in a blaze.”
“No, no, be cool,” said Guest, and he made for the spirit kettle, whose lamp had become overheated, and was sending up quite a volume of flame. But Stratton was nearer, and taking out his handkerchief, he turned it into a pad, dabbed it on the lamp, and the light was smothered.
“Oh, dear me!” sighed Miss Jerrold in tones full of relief, “now, that was very clever. I do like presence of mind. Sugar, Mr Stratton?”
He bowed stiffly.
“Haven’t burned yourself, have you, my dear?”
“Oh, no; my glove protected my hand,” said Stratton, looking at the stiff, formal, handsome old body; half amused, half pleased, by the maternal “my dear.”
“Ah, now you’re smiling at me,” she said quickly. “Sugar, Percy?”
“A good deal, please, to take the taste of your harsh words out of my mouth.”
“There, then—two lumps. I know you take sugar, Malcolm Stratton, and cream. Well, my dear, I’m obliged to speak out; for you really are a pair of impostors, and I cannot have my house made a meeting place for would-be lovers. There—there—there, Mr Stratton, don’t pray turn like that, and look as if you were going to rush away. Mine is a very delicate position, and I know my brother will be taking me to task some day about all this. Now, do take my advice; and give it all up—Percy Guest, if you break that cup I’ll never forgive you. It cannot be matched.”
“Would you advise us to go and try our fortunes in Australia, Miss Jerrold?” said Guest quietly, as he replaced the tiny cup in the middle of its saucer, after nearly sending it on the carpet.
“No, I would not, you stupid boy. There, I don’t mean you at all. I dare say Edie will be silly enough to let you wheedle her into matrimony some day—a goose.”
Guest touched his breast.
“You? No,” said the lady sharply, “Edie. But you two are nobodies. I was thinking about Mr Stratton, here. Now, don’t you think, my dear, you had better give it all up?”
She held out her hand with a look of gentle sympathy to him, and he caught it and kissed it.
“Do you think I ever could?” he said, in a low voice while Guest began to display great interest in the painting of the teacup.
“No, I suppose not,” said Miss Jerrold, with a sigh. “It’s very sad, you see, poor girl, she’s going through a curious morbid phase which has completely changed her. All that time she had her ideas that it was her duty to wait and suffer; and I do honestly believe that if that man had behaved himself, been released on a ticket of—ticket of—what do they call those tickets, Percy?”
“Leave,” said the young barrister gravely.
“Yes; of course—she would have considered it her duty to go to him if he had come to claim her; and then died of misery and despair in a month.”
“Had we not better change the conversation, Miss Jerrold?” said Stratton quietly.
“Yes, of course. I’m a very stupid old woman, I suppose; but Myra does worry me a great deal. One moment, and I’ve done, and I suppose things must take their course. But all this treating herself as a widow and—there—there—there—I have done. I suppose I need not tell you they are coming here to-day?”
“I did hope to see Miss—”
“Hush! Don’t call her that, my dear. It must be Mrs Barron, or she will consider herself insulted. Ah, she’s a strange girl, Mr Stratton, but we can’t help liking her all the same, can we?”
She held out her hand to him with a pleasant smile and a nod; and Guest saw his friend’s eyes brighten, and then noted his passionate, eager look, as there was a ring and knock.
But the ladies who came up were strangers; and it was not until quite the last that Myra and her cousin arrived, the former in black, and with a calm, resigned look in her pale face, which had grown very thoughtful and dreamy during the six months which had elapsed since that morning at breakfast, when the news came of James Dale’s tragic end.
And now her eyes softened as she greeted Stratton, and she sat talking to him in a quiet, subdued way, till the gentlemen took their leave, and made their way back to Benchers’ Inn.
Hardly a word was spoken till they were in Stratton’s room, where Guest threw his hat and umbrella down impatiently, walked straight to the door on the left of the fireplace, opened it, went in, and returned with a cigar box, which he set down, and then went back to fetch out the spirit-stand and a siphon from another shelf, while, dreamy looking and thoughtful, Stratton sat back in an easy-chair watching his friend’s free and easy, quite at home, ways, but thinking the while of Myra.
“Might have troubled yourself to get the glasses,” said Guest ill-humouredly, as he fetched a couple of tall, green Venice cups from a cabinet, poured out some whisky, frothed it up from the siphon, and drank.
“That’s better,” he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “Aren’t you going to have one?”
“Presently.”
“Presently? Bah! It’s always presently with you. I’m tired of presently. Edie would say ‘Yes,’ directly, and I could get Aunt Jerrold to coax the old man round if he wanted coaxing. But it’s always the same. Look here; if you don’t keep your cigars somewhere else, and not on a shelf over that damp bath, I won’t smoke ’em. Hardly get ’em to light. Here,” he continued, thrusting a cigar and a match-box into Stratton’s hands, “do smoke and talk, you give a fellow the blues with your dismal looks.”
“I’m very sorry, old fellow,” said Stratton, lighting the cigar. “I am not dismal. I feel very happy and contented.”
“Then you’re easily satisfied,” cried Guest.
“Yes; because I hope and believe that if I am patient, my time will come.”
“Not it. It’s too bad of Myra.”
“No; I would not have her change,” said Stratton dreamily. “It is a hard and long probation, but I can wait, and I love her all the more dearly for her true womanly behaviour. There, hold your tongue, you miserable, selfish reviler of one whom in your heart you look up to as a pattern of womanhood. The joy would be almost greater than I could bear if she said ‘Yes’; but she is right, and I will patiently wait, for some day the time will come.”
“There you go again. Presently. It’s all very well for you with your calm worship of your ideal woman, and your high-falutin talk about womanhood, etcetera, but I love my little Edie in a non-aesthetic, Christian-like, manly way; and it’s maddening to be always kept off by the little thing with, ‘No, not till I see poor Myra happy. Then, perhaps, you may begin to talk.’ Perhaps and presently make poor food for a fellow like me.”
Stratton smiled at him gravely.
“That’s right—laugh at me. Tell you what, Mal, you’re a poor lover. Why don’t you ask her plump and plain?”
Stratton made no reply but sat back smoking, and his friend said no more for a time. At last, quietly:
“Not such a bad cigar after all, Mal.”
Stratton did not reply for a few moments. Then, in a low voice, full of emotion:
“Percy, lad, you must bear with me: it is all too deep for words. If we could change places you would do as I do. Speak to her? pray to her? Have I not done all this till now when her eyes gaze in mine with their gentle, pleading calm, and say to me—‘Bear with me; be patient. If you love me, give me time till all these sorrows of the past have grown blurred and faint with distance.’ Guest, old fellow, she gives me no hope. There is no verbal promise, but there is a something in her gentle, compassionate look which says to me—‘Wait; if ever I can forget the past—if ever I marry man—it will be you.’”
There was a deep silence in the room, and faintly heard came the roar of the great city street.
Stratton was the first to break the silence by saying softly to himself:
“Yes; wait: the time will come.” Again the silence was broken, this time by a strange hurrying, rustling sound behind the wainscot, followed by a dull thud.
“What’s that?” said Guest sharply. “That? Oh, only the rats. There are plenty in this old house.”
“Ugh! Brutes.”
“They only have runs behind the panelling. They never come into the rooms.”
There was another silence before Guest spoke. “Mal, old chap,” he said, “I’m a miserable, impatient beast. You are quite right; I’m in my ordinary senses once more. Edie speaks just as you do, and she’s as wise a little thing as ever stepped. We must wait, old man; we must wait.”
Malcolm Stratton waited till one evening, when fortune favoured him for the moment once again. It was by accident that he found Myra alone. He had heard the tones of the piano as he went up to the drawing room in Bourne Square, and his heart had begun to beat wildly and then its pulsations grew to throbs and bounds, as he went in, to find her alone and playing softly in the half light.
She did not cease, but her fingers strayed on over the keys, and once more as his arm rested upon the piano, the chords thrilled through his very being; and when, without a word, his hands were outstretched to take her to his breast, she sank upon it with a sigh of relief. At that moment steps were heard upon the landing, and Edie and Miss Jerrold entered the room dressed to go to some concert, Sir Mark following directly after, from the dining room, with Guest.
Myra did not shrink from Stratton till all had seen what had taken place. Then, gravely crossing to her father, she laid her hands together upon his breast, while he waited for her to speak.
The words came at last:
“Father, dear, Malcolm has asked me to be his wife.”
Sir Mark drew her tightly to him, and held out his hand to Stratton.
“Soon, dear, very soon, but it must be very quiet, and not from here.”
“Anything, my darling, to see you happy once again.”
The butler just then brought in a lamp, and they could see the love light beaming from her eyes.
Chapter Twenty Two.At the silent Dock.Even as Percy Guest rushed at his friend’s door to bring one foot against the lock with all his might, he felt the futility of the proceeding. For he knew how solid the old oak outer panels had been made; but he did not pause, and as his foot struck against it there was a dull sound—nothing more.Guest drew back again, fully impressed by the hopelessness of his proceedings, for the outer door opened toward him, and the effect of his next thrust was only to drive it against the jamb.He was recoiling again, with his muscles quivering from the violence of his efforts, when Miss Jerrold caught his arm.“Mr Guest,” she said firmly, “this is madness. You will bring a crowd of people about us, and only workmen could open that door.”Guest hesitated a moment or two.“Stop!” he said. “His friend, Mr Brettison, is in the next chambers, perhaps. I’ll go and see.”“Come, Rebecca,” said the admiral scornfully; “we have no business here.”He held out his arm, but his sister thrust it away.“Yes; we have business here,” she said. “If, as Mr Guest suspects, some accident has befallen Malcolm Stratton, would you care to meet Myra without having been there?”She whispered this to her brother while Guest had gone to Brettison’s door, at which he knocked sharply.The admiral turned fiercely upon his sister, but she did not shrink.“You know it’s right,” she said. “Be reasonable, Mark. Malcolm Stratton could not have insulted us all like this.”“I can’t make him hear,” said Guest, after a second sharp summons at Brettison’s door. “I must fetch up a carpenter and make him force open this door.”“You have no right to proceed to such violent measures, Mr Guest.”“Then I shall assume the right, sir. I believe that my friend lies behind that door wounded or murdered for the sake of the money he had ready for his wedding trip, and do you think I am going to stand on punctilio at a time like this?”Miss Jerrold looked very white and faint as she said quietly:“He is quite right, Mark.”“Get workmen, then, in Heaven’s name, sir, or the police.”Guest took a step toward the stairs, but turned again.“I don’t like theexposé, sir,” he said sharply. “There might be reasons why I should repent going.”“But you must have that door opened at once,” cried Sir Mark, now once more growing excited, as if Guest’s manner were contagious.Guest drew his hand over the door in search of a hold to try and drag it toward him, ending by thrusting it in by the letter slit and giving it a vigorous shake.He withdrew it, shaking his head, and paused, for steps were heard. But they passed the doorway at the bottom of the building and died away, while, as he listened, all seemed to be silent upstairs and down.“We must have a carpenter,” he said aloud; and, once more placing his ear to the letter slit, he listened, and then came away to where Sir Mark stood.“I’m certain I heard breathing within there,” he whispered. “Someone is listening, and I’m sure there is something wrong; but I don’t like to leave you here alone, Sir Mark.”“Why?”“In case some scoundrel should make a sudden rush out and escape.”“Fetch a policeman,” said Sir Mark sturdily. “Let him try it while you are gone.”At that moment, Guest uttered an eager cry, and thrust his hand into his pocket.“I’d forgotten that,” he said, in answer to Miss Jerrold’s inquiring look; “and I don’t know now that it will fit.”He had taken out his latchkey on the chance of that which fitted the lock of one set of chambers fitting that of another, and, thrusting it into the keyhole, he was in the act of turning it when, as if someone had been listening to every word and act, a bolt was suddenly shot back, and the door thrown open against Guest’s chest. He started back in astonishment, for there, in the dark opening, stood Malcolm Stratton, his face of a sickly sallow, a strange look in his eyes, and a general aspect of his having suddenly turned ten years older, startling all present.“What do you want?” he said harshly.The question was so sudden that Guest was stunned into muteness, but the admiral stepped forward fiercely.“You—you despicable scoundrel!” he roared; and as Stratton stepped back the old man followed him quickly into the room, and caught him by the throat.“Mark! Mark!” cried Miss Jerrold, following to seize her brother’s arm, while Guest, relieved beyond measure at finding his friend in the flesh, instead of his murderer, hurriedly entered and closed the outer door.“Stand aside, woman!” cried the admiral, fiercely wresting himself free in ungovernable rage on seeing the man who had caused the morning’s trouble standing there unharmed. The fact of Stratton being uninjured and making so insulting a demand half maddened him, and, seizing his collar, he was bearing him back, when Guest interposed, and separated them.“This will do no good, Sir Mark,” he cried. “For everybody’s sake, sir, be calm.”“Calm!” roared the old sailor furiously.“Yes, Mark, calm,” whispered his sister, clinging to him firmly. “Is it the act of an officer and a gentleman to behave like this?”“You don’t know—you cannot feel as I do,” he raged.“For Myra’s sake,” whispered Miss Jerrold quickly; and the old man made an effort and calmed down.“Let him explain then. Let him say what it means. A public insult. To be degraded like this. And after what is past.”Meanwhile Stratton was looking wildly about him. The sweat stood in great drops upon his haggard face, and he trembled violently, though it was apparent to his friend that he was fighting hard to be composed.Guest turned to Sir Mark.“Thank you, sir,” he said. “There must, as I have said, be good reasons for poor Stratton’s actions. Pray be patient with him. You see, sir—you see, Miss Jerrold, he is ill and suffering. Now, Stratton, for Heaven’s sake speak out. You must explain. Tell Sir Mark what it is.”“Take them away,” said Stratton in a hoarse whisper; “take them away.”“Yes, yes, but say something. What is it—some sudden attack? Come, man, don’t look at me in that ghastly way; are you ill?”“No—no. I don’t know,” faltered Stratton.“Then you must have some explanation to make.”“No—no. None. Go!”“Mark—my dear brother,” whispered Miss Jerrold.“Flesh and blood can’t stand it, girl,” he panted, with the veins in his temples purple; and snatching himself away, he thrust Guest aside and once more seized Stratton—this time by the arms.“Now, sir,” he said hoarsely, “I know I ought to leave you in contempt for your cursed shilly-shallying, pusillanimous conduct, but with my poor child’s agonised past before me, I can’t behave as a polished gentleman should.”Stratton glared at him in silence, with the pallor increasing, and his face assuming a bluish-grey tinge.“I came here believing—no, trying to believe—that you had been taken ill; that there was good reason for my child being once more exposed to a cruel public shame that must make her the byword of society. I ask you for an explanation, and in this cursedly cool way you say you have none to offer. You are not ill; you have not, as we feared, been attacked for your money, for there it lies on the table. There is nothing wrong, then, with you, and—good God! what’s this?”He started away in horror, for the hand he had in his anger shifted to Stratton’s shoulder was wet, and, as he held it out, Miss Jerrold uttered a faint cry, for it was red with blood; and, released from the fierce grasp which had held him up, Stratton swayed forward, reeled, and fell with a crash on to the carpet.“He’s hurt. Wounded,” cried Guest, dropping on one knee by his friend’s side, but only to start up and dash into the adjoining room, to come back directly with basin, sponge, and water.“Damn!” raged the admiral, “what a brutal temper I have. Poor lad! poor lad! Fetch a doctor, Guest. No. That’s right, sponge his temples, ’Becca. Good girl. Don’t fetch a doctor yet, Guest. I am a bit of a quack. Let me see.”He went behind the prostrate man, who lay perfectly insensible, and kept on talking hurriedly as he took out a penknife and used it freely to get at the injury in the shoulder.“Why didn’t he speak? You were right, then, Guest. Some scoundrel has been here. Curse him! we’ll have him hung. To be sure—a bullet gone right through here—no; regularly ploughed his flesh. Thank Heaven! not a dangerous wound. I can bandage it. But too much for a bridegroom. Poor lad! poor lad!”He tore up his own handkerchief and made a pad of his sister’s, but these were not enough. “Look here, Rebecca,” he said; “you’d better go and leave us.”“Nonsense!” said the lady sternly. “Go on with your work, and then a doctor must be fetched.”“Very well, then, if you will stay. There, don’t try to revive him yet. Let’s finish. Guest, my lad, take that knife and slit one of the sheets in the next room; then tear off a bandage four inches wide and as long as you can. Let’s stop the bleeding, and he won’t hurt.”All was done as he ordered, and the bandage roughly fixed, Stratton perfectly insensible the while.“’Becca, my dear—Guest, my lad,” said the admiral huskily. “Never felt so sorry in my life.” Then, taking Stratton’s hand between both his own, he said, in a low voice, “I beg your pardon, my lad, humbly.”“I don’t like this long insensibility, Mark,” said Miss Jerrold.“No; it’s too long. Has he any rum or brandy in the place?”“Yes,” said Guest eagerly, and he hurried to the door of the bath-closet, and turned the handle, but it was locked. “How tiresome!” he muttered. “Here, I know.”He dropped quickly on one knee by his friend, and thrust a hand into his coat pocket for his bunch of keys; when his hand came in contact with something, which he drew out with an ejaculation, and looked up at Sir Mark.“A pistol!” said the latter, and they stared in each other’s eyes, just as Stratton began to show signs of recovery.“Why has he a pistol?” whispered Miss Jerrold; and her brother’s whole manner changed.“I was thinking that you ought to have fetched the police at once, my lad,” he said; “but it’s as well you did not. There are things men like hushed up.”“I—I—don’t know what you mean,” faltered Miss Jerrold, while Guest slowly laid the weapon on the table, looking ghastly pale, and feeling a sensation of heart-sickness and despair.“Plain enough,” said the admiral coldly. “There is something more, though, behind. Do you know what?” he cried sternly, as he fixed Guest with his eyes.“On my honour, no, Sir Mark.”“It does not matter to us.”“But it does, Mark,” cried Miss Jerrold piteously; “and I am confused. What does it all mean?”“Heaven and the man himself alone know.”“But, Mark, dear; I cannot understand.”“Not with this before you plainly stamped,” said the admiral bitterly. “Some old trouble—a lady, I suppose—men are all alike—there was anexposéimminent, I expect, and he sought a way out of it—the coward’s way, and was too great a cur to take aim straight.”They all looked down in horror at Stratton, where he lay, to see that he was now sensible to their words, and glaring wildly from face to face.
Even as Percy Guest rushed at his friend’s door to bring one foot against the lock with all his might, he felt the futility of the proceeding. For he knew how solid the old oak outer panels had been made; but he did not pause, and as his foot struck against it there was a dull sound—nothing more.
Guest drew back again, fully impressed by the hopelessness of his proceedings, for the outer door opened toward him, and the effect of his next thrust was only to drive it against the jamb.
He was recoiling again, with his muscles quivering from the violence of his efforts, when Miss Jerrold caught his arm.
“Mr Guest,” she said firmly, “this is madness. You will bring a crowd of people about us, and only workmen could open that door.”
Guest hesitated a moment or two.
“Stop!” he said. “His friend, Mr Brettison, is in the next chambers, perhaps. I’ll go and see.”
“Come, Rebecca,” said the admiral scornfully; “we have no business here.”
He held out his arm, but his sister thrust it away.
“Yes; we have business here,” she said. “If, as Mr Guest suspects, some accident has befallen Malcolm Stratton, would you care to meet Myra without having been there?”
She whispered this to her brother while Guest had gone to Brettison’s door, at which he knocked sharply.
The admiral turned fiercely upon his sister, but she did not shrink.
“You know it’s right,” she said. “Be reasonable, Mark. Malcolm Stratton could not have insulted us all like this.”
“I can’t make him hear,” said Guest, after a second sharp summons at Brettison’s door. “I must fetch up a carpenter and make him force open this door.”
“You have no right to proceed to such violent measures, Mr Guest.”
“Then I shall assume the right, sir. I believe that my friend lies behind that door wounded or murdered for the sake of the money he had ready for his wedding trip, and do you think I am going to stand on punctilio at a time like this?”
Miss Jerrold looked very white and faint as she said quietly:
“He is quite right, Mark.”
“Get workmen, then, in Heaven’s name, sir, or the police.”
Guest took a step toward the stairs, but turned again.
“I don’t like theexposé, sir,” he said sharply. “There might be reasons why I should repent going.”
“But you must have that door opened at once,” cried Sir Mark, now once more growing excited, as if Guest’s manner were contagious.
Guest drew his hand over the door in search of a hold to try and drag it toward him, ending by thrusting it in by the letter slit and giving it a vigorous shake.
He withdrew it, shaking his head, and paused, for steps were heard. But they passed the doorway at the bottom of the building and died away, while, as he listened, all seemed to be silent upstairs and down.
“We must have a carpenter,” he said aloud; and, once more placing his ear to the letter slit, he listened, and then came away to where Sir Mark stood.
“I’m certain I heard breathing within there,” he whispered. “Someone is listening, and I’m sure there is something wrong; but I don’t like to leave you here alone, Sir Mark.”
“Why?”
“In case some scoundrel should make a sudden rush out and escape.”
“Fetch a policeman,” said Sir Mark sturdily. “Let him try it while you are gone.”
At that moment, Guest uttered an eager cry, and thrust his hand into his pocket.
“I’d forgotten that,” he said, in answer to Miss Jerrold’s inquiring look; “and I don’t know now that it will fit.”
He had taken out his latchkey on the chance of that which fitted the lock of one set of chambers fitting that of another, and, thrusting it into the keyhole, he was in the act of turning it when, as if someone had been listening to every word and act, a bolt was suddenly shot back, and the door thrown open against Guest’s chest. He started back in astonishment, for there, in the dark opening, stood Malcolm Stratton, his face of a sickly sallow, a strange look in his eyes, and a general aspect of his having suddenly turned ten years older, startling all present.
“What do you want?” he said harshly.
The question was so sudden that Guest was stunned into muteness, but the admiral stepped forward fiercely.
“You—you despicable scoundrel!” he roared; and as Stratton stepped back the old man followed him quickly into the room, and caught him by the throat.
“Mark! Mark!” cried Miss Jerrold, following to seize her brother’s arm, while Guest, relieved beyond measure at finding his friend in the flesh, instead of his murderer, hurriedly entered and closed the outer door.
“Stand aside, woman!” cried the admiral, fiercely wresting himself free in ungovernable rage on seeing the man who had caused the morning’s trouble standing there unharmed. The fact of Stratton being uninjured and making so insulting a demand half maddened him, and, seizing his collar, he was bearing him back, when Guest interposed, and separated them.
“This will do no good, Sir Mark,” he cried. “For everybody’s sake, sir, be calm.”
“Calm!” roared the old sailor furiously.
“Yes, Mark, calm,” whispered his sister, clinging to him firmly. “Is it the act of an officer and a gentleman to behave like this?”
“You don’t know—you cannot feel as I do,” he raged.
“For Myra’s sake,” whispered Miss Jerrold quickly; and the old man made an effort and calmed down.
“Let him explain then. Let him say what it means. A public insult. To be degraded like this. And after what is past.”
Meanwhile Stratton was looking wildly about him. The sweat stood in great drops upon his haggard face, and he trembled violently, though it was apparent to his friend that he was fighting hard to be composed.
Guest turned to Sir Mark.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “There must, as I have said, be good reasons for poor Stratton’s actions. Pray be patient with him. You see, sir—you see, Miss Jerrold, he is ill and suffering. Now, Stratton, for Heaven’s sake speak out. You must explain. Tell Sir Mark what it is.”
“Take them away,” said Stratton in a hoarse whisper; “take them away.”
“Yes, yes, but say something. What is it—some sudden attack? Come, man, don’t look at me in that ghastly way; are you ill?”
“No—no. I don’t know,” faltered Stratton.
“Then you must have some explanation to make.”
“No—no. None. Go!”
“Mark—my dear brother,” whispered Miss Jerrold.
“Flesh and blood can’t stand it, girl,” he panted, with the veins in his temples purple; and snatching himself away, he thrust Guest aside and once more seized Stratton—this time by the arms.
“Now, sir,” he said hoarsely, “I know I ought to leave you in contempt for your cursed shilly-shallying, pusillanimous conduct, but with my poor child’s agonised past before me, I can’t behave as a polished gentleman should.”
Stratton glared at him in silence, with the pallor increasing, and his face assuming a bluish-grey tinge.
“I came here believing—no, trying to believe—that you had been taken ill; that there was good reason for my child being once more exposed to a cruel public shame that must make her the byword of society. I ask you for an explanation, and in this cursedly cool way you say you have none to offer. You are not ill; you have not, as we feared, been attacked for your money, for there it lies on the table. There is nothing wrong, then, with you, and—good God! what’s this?”
He started away in horror, for the hand he had in his anger shifted to Stratton’s shoulder was wet, and, as he held it out, Miss Jerrold uttered a faint cry, for it was red with blood; and, released from the fierce grasp which had held him up, Stratton swayed forward, reeled, and fell with a crash on to the carpet.
“He’s hurt. Wounded,” cried Guest, dropping on one knee by his friend’s side, but only to start up and dash into the adjoining room, to come back directly with basin, sponge, and water.
“Damn!” raged the admiral, “what a brutal temper I have. Poor lad! poor lad! Fetch a doctor, Guest. No. That’s right, sponge his temples, ’Becca. Good girl. Don’t fetch a doctor yet, Guest. I am a bit of a quack. Let me see.”
He went behind the prostrate man, who lay perfectly insensible, and kept on talking hurriedly as he took out a penknife and used it freely to get at the injury in the shoulder.
“Why didn’t he speak? You were right, then, Guest. Some scoundrel has been here. Curse him! we’ll have him hung. To be sure—a bullet gone right through here—no; regularly ploughed his flesh. Thank Heaven! not a dangerous wound. I can bandage it. But too much for a bridegroom. Poor lad! poor lad!”
He tore up his own handkerchief and made a pad of his sister’s, but these were not enough. “Look here, Rebecca,” he said; “you’d better go and leave us.”
“Nonsense!” said the lady sternly. “Go on with your work, and then a doctor must be fetched.”
“Very well, then, if you will stay. There, don’t try to revive him yet. Let’s finish. Guest, my lad, take that knife and slit one of the sheets in the next room; then tear off a bandage four inches wide and as long as you can. Let’s stop the bleeding, and he won’t hurt.”
All was done as he ordered, and the bandage roughly fixed, Stratton perfectly insensible the while.
“’Becca, my dear—Guest, my lad,” said the admiral huskily. “Never felt so sorry in my life.” Then, taking Stratton’s hand between both his own, he said, in a low voice, “I beg your pardon, my lad, humbly.”
“I don’t like this long insensibility, Mark,” said Miss Jerrold.
“No; it’s too long. Has he any rum or brandy in the place?”
“Yes,” said Guest eagerly, and he hurried to the door of the bath-closet, and turned the handle, but it was locked. “How tiresome!” he muttered. “Here, I know.”
He dropped quickly on one knee by his friend, and thrust a hand into his coat pocket for his bunch of keys; when his hand came in contact with something, which he drew out with an ejaculation, and looked up at Sir Mark.
“A pistol!” said the latter, and they stared in each other’s eyes, just as Stratton began to show signs of recovery.
“Why has he a pistol?” whispered Miss Jerrold; and her brother’s whole manner changed.
“I was thinking that you ought to have fetched the police at once, my lad,” he said; “but it’s as well you did not. There are things men like hushed up.”
“I—I—don’t know what you mean,” faltered Miss Jerrold, while Guest slowly laid the weapon on the table, looking ghastly pale, and feeling a sensation of heart-sickness and despair.
“Plain enough,” said the admiral coldly. “There is something more, though, behind. Do you know what?” he cried sternly, as he fixed Guest with his eyes.
“On my honour, no, Sir Mark.”
“It does not matter to us.”
“But it does, Mark,” cried Miss Jerrold piteously; “and I am confused. What does it all mean?”
“Heaven and the man himself alone know.”
“But, Mark, dear; I cannot understand.”
“Not with this before you plainly stamped,” said the admiral bitterly. “Some old trouble—a lady, I suppose—men are all alike—there was anexposéimminent, I expect, and he sought a way out of it—the coward’s way, and was too great a cur to take aim straight.”
They all looked down in horror at Stratton, where he lay, to see that he was now sensible to their words, and glaring wildly from face to face.
Chapter Twenty Three.The Man is mad.Stratton rose slowly, and he was evidently confused and not quite able to grasp all that had been going on, till a pang from his injured shoulder spurred his brain.His right-hand went up to the bandage, and he began hastily to arrange his dress.He was evidently sick and faint, but to restore his garments was for the moment the dominant idea.Then another thought came, and he looked wildly round, hardly appearing to grasp the fact that friend and visitors had drawn back from him, while the former slowly uncocked the revolver and carefully extracted the cartridges, noting that four were filled, and two empty.Guest knew the billet of one of the bullets, and he involuntarily looked round for the other.He had not far to seek. The shade covering the wired and mounted bones of an ancient extinct bird standing on a cabinet was shattered, and the bullet had cut through the neck vertebrae, and then buried itself in the oaken panelling.Guest lowered his eyes to his task again, and slowly placed the cartridges in one pocket, the pistol in the other, when, raising his eyes, he met the admiral’s shadowed by the heavy brows; and the old officer gave him a nod of approval.“Well, Rebecca,” he said, in a deep voice which seemed to hold the dying mutterings of the storm which had raged in his breast but a short time before; “we may go. I can’t jump on a fallen man.”“Yes,” said Miss Jerrold, with a look of sadness and sympathy at Stratton, who stood supporting himself against the table; “we had better go. O Malcolm Stratton,” she cried passionately, “and I did so believe in you.”He raised his face, with a momentary flush of pleasure bringing back something of its former aspect. But the gloom of despair came down like a cloud over a gleam of sunshine, and his chin fell upon his chest, though a movement now and then told that he was listening bitterly to every word.“Yes,” said Sir Mark; “it’s as well you did not get in the police. Keep it all quiet for everyone’s sake. The doctor must know, though.”Stratton’s face was a little raised at this, and he turned slightly as Guest said:“Of course. It is not a dangerous wound, but look at him.”Stratton’s chin fell again upon his breast.“In a few hours,” continued the admiral, “fever will probably set in.”A low, catching breath shook Stratton, and one hand grasped the table edge violently.“And he will be delirious.”Stratton strove hard to contain himself, but he started violently, and raising his face he passed his right-hand across his dripping brow.“I cannot stop here, Guest,” said Sir Mark. “Come, Rebecca, my dear. You must not leave him alone. Shall I send in a medical man?”“No!” cried Stratton hoarsely, in so fierce a voice that all started, and the admiral shrugged his shoulders, and drawing himself up crossed to the door, his sister following him with her face full of perplexity and commiseration.But she turned as she reached the door, hesitated for a moment, and the rigid hardness in her face, with its anger against the man who had done her niece so cruel a wrong, died away to give place to a gentle, womanly look of sorrow and reproach as she hurried back to where Stratton stood with his back to the table, grasping its edge, while the objects thereon trembled and tottered from the motion communicated by the man’s quivering muscles.“Heaven forgive you, Malcolm Stratton!” she said slowly. “I cannot now. I am going back to her. Man, you have broken the heart of as true and sweet a woman as ever lived.”Stratton did not stir, but stood there bent, and as if crushed, listening to the rustle of his visitor’s rich silk, as she hurried back to her brother; then the door was opened, closed upon them, and a dead silence reigned in Stratton’s study, as he and Guest stood listening to the faint sound of the descending steps till they had completely died away.Then Guest turned to his friend:“Now,” he said coldly, “give me your arm. No; stop. Where are your keys?”Stratton raised his head sharply.“Where are your keys?”“What for?”“I want to get the spirits to give you a dram.”“No, no,” said Stratton firmly. “Now go!”“Of course,” said Guest bitterly. “That’s my way when you’re in trouble. You miserable fool! You madman!” he roared, flashing out suddenly with passion. “What is it? Two years ago, when I came here and found you with that cyanide bottle on the table, and the glass ready with its draught, I stopped you then, you coward. This time you were alone to attempt your wretched work.”Stratton glared at him wildly.“And here have we all been scared to death, fearing that you had been attacked. The admiral said you were a miserable coward, and you are. Where is your manhood? Where is your honour, to carry on like this with poor Myra till the last moment, and then do this? Hang it, man, why didn’t you aim straight and end it, instead of bringing us to such a pitiful scene as this?”Stratton drew his breath hard.“There, I’ve done. It’s jumping, as he said, on a fallen man. But I was obliged to speak. Now, then, those keys.”“Go!” cried Stratton sternly. “Go. Leave me!”“To play some other mad prank? Not I. I want those keys to get out the brandy.”“I tell you no—no.”“Very well. It was to save you from fainting. Faint then, and be hanged. Give me your arm.”“Will you go?” cried Stratton fiercely.“Yes, when you are on your bed, and then only to the door to call someone—”“What?”“To fetch the nearest doctor. Come along.”“Percy Guest—” began Stratton fiercely.“It’s of no use,” said Guest. “Only waste of words. Come along.”Stratton made a quick movement to avoid him, and staggered into a chair; when his eyes closed, and he lay back fainting.“Poor wretch!” muttered Guest, snatching the basin and sponge to begin bathing the already damp face. “I oughtn’t to have bullied him.”In a few moments Stratton opened his eyes again, and his first look was directed round the room.“It’s all right, old chap,” said Guest. “Temper’s gone. Come, be sensible. I won’t say disagreeable things to you. Give up the keys. You’d be better for a drop of brandy.”“No,” said Stratton hastily. “Go and leave me now.”“Impossible. You must have the doctor.”“I cannot; I will not.”“But you must.”“Do you hear what I say?” cried Stratton fiercely.“Yes. There is no occasion to fly out at me for wanting to be of service.”“I want no help. I must be alone.”“To go wandering off into a fit of delirium. There, I’ll call old mother Brade to fetch a surgeon.”“You will not do so. I forbid it.”“Exactly, but you are a patient now. There, don’t be idiotic. I can read you like a book.”Stratton looked up at him sharply.“You don’t want the doctor to see your wound and know how it came—there, don’t stare in that wild way—leave it to me. It was an accident. You were fooling about with a revolver. Cleaning it, say; and it went off. That’s all the doctor need know.”“No one must know even that.”“But your wound must be properly dressed.”“I will not have it touched,” cried Stratton decisively. “Now, once more. I am not much hurt. Go.”Guest laughed bitterly.“No, my boy, you don’t get rid of me. I’ll stick to you like your conscience.”Stratton’s eyes dilated.“And I’m going to be master here till you are well bodily and mentally.”“I tell you I am not much hurt. Mentally! Pooh, I’m as well as you are.”“Better, of course. Why, what nonsense you are talking!” cried Guest, pointing to the other’s wounded shoulder. “Come, don’t let us argue more. Give in sensibly, there’s a good fellow, and let me do my best for you. I know you see things in a wrong light now, but you’ll thank me some day.”They watched each other furtively, and Guest could see how hard his friend was evidently planning to get rid of him, while, on his own part, he was calculating his chances. He knew that mad people were superhumanly strong, but then in spite of his conduct he could not in his own mind grant that Stratton was mad. It was a case of what coroners call “temporary insanity,” due to some trouble which had been kept hidden; and if there should be a struggle, Guest felt that he would be more than a match for his friend, injured as he was.Stratton was the first to speak, in a low voice, which suggested his being faint and in great pain.“Now I’m better. Will you go and leave me?”Guest took a chair, and placing its back opposite to his friend, strode across it, and rested his arms on the rail.“Look here, Stratton, old fellow; I’ve always trusted you, and you’ve always trusted me.”“Yes, of course,” said Stratton hurriedly.“Well, then, as your old chum—the man who has stuck to you and is going to stick to you all through this hobble into which you have got yourself—don’t you think it would be as well to make a clean breast of it—to me?”Stratton’s eyes dilated as he spoke, and his look was so strange that Guest involuntarily prepared himself for some outbreak.“You can trust me,” continued Guest, and he saw a look of despair come into his friend’s countenance. “Come, old chap, what’s the use of a friend if he is not to help you? You know I want to.”Stratton’s lips parted in an almost inaudible, “Yes.”“Well, then, for poor Myra’s sake.”Stratton started as if he had been stung.“I can’t help hurting you, and I repeat—for her sake. She is a woman. She loves you.”“For pity’s sake, don’t, don’t,” groaned Stratton in a voice full of unutterable anguish.“She loves you, I say,” continued Guest firmly; “and, whatever has been the cause of this madness, she will forgive you.”Stratton shook his head slowly.“But I say she will. Come, we are none of us perfect. I tell you I am fighting for you now as well as myself. Your act this morning injures Edie and me too. So take it like this, old fellow. You have done wrong in some way; is not an attempt to make amends the first step toward showing repentance?”“You don’t know—you don’t know,” groaned the wretched man.“Not yet; you will not be open. Come now, be frank with me. In your utter despair, consequent upon your nerves being weak with mental worry, you used that pistol.”Stratton buried his face in his hands.“The old man was right,” continued Guest; “it was a cowardly way to get out of the difficulty. Let me help you. Come, once more, make a clean breast of it.”Stratton’s hands fell again, and there was an eager look in his face; his lips parted and he was about to speak, but the look faded away and in a despondent, weary way he sank back once more.“Very well. I will not press you now,” said Guest. “You’ll think better of it, old fellow. I’ll wait. Now, then, let me help you into your room.”“What for?” cried Stratton suspiciously.“Because a wounded man must be better lying down.”“So that you can lock me in and go for people—for doctors?”“He is queer,” thought Guest. “The cunning of a man off his head.”As he thought this he rose, walked to the bedroom door, opened it, and took the key out to hand to his friend.“There, are you satisfied? Look here, Mal, even to better you I will not play any treacherous trick like that?”“I believe you,” said Stratton quietly; and he waved away the hand holding the key.“So far, so good, then. Will you come and lie down while I fetch a doctor?”“No. I will not have a doctor. It is a mere scratch.”“Very well. Come and sit down, then.”Stratton shook his head.“Invalids must be humoured, I suppose. Sit where you are then, and try and have a nap. You’ll be calmer afterward—I hope,” he added to himself.Guest changed the position of his chair, took up a book, and crossed to a lounge, but as he was in the act of turning it he saw that Stratton was watching him keenly.“Don’t do that. I want you to leave me now.”“I know you do,” said Guest quietly; “but I am not going.”Stratton drew a heavy, catching breath, and lay back in his chair, while Guest opened the book he had taken at random, and read from it half a dozen romances which he made up as he went on. For he could not see a word of the printed matter, and in each of these romances his friend was the hero, who was being hunted to desperation by some woman with whom he had become entangled.From time to time he glanced across at his friend as the hours glided by, hoping to see that he slept; but he always caught a glimpse of a pair of eager eyes watching him.At last, about six o’clock, faint, weary, and oppressed by the terrible silence in the room, Guest laid down the book.“Going?” said Stratton eagerly.“No. Only to send for Mrs Brade.”“What for?”“To get her to run to the Peacock, and tell them to bring some dinner and a bottle of Bass. You can eat something?”“Bring dinner—here?” gasped Stratton.“Yes. I have had nothing since early breakfast.”“You cannot have it here,” said Stratton, making an effort, and speaking firmly. “I am better and calmer now. After a night’s rest I shall be myself again.”“I hope so,” said Guest quietly.“So go now, there’s a good fellow. I’ll explain everything to you some day, and I shall be far better alone.”“Yes; you are fit to trust!”“You need not sneer. You think I shall make some insane attempt upon my life.”Guest looked at him fixedly.“Yes; you have good reason for doubting me, but I swear to you that you may trust me.”At that moment steps were heard upon the stairs, almost inaudible; but whoever it was whistled some melody, and before Stratton could stay him, Guest threw open the door, and called to the whistler to come back.“Want me, sir?” said a telegraph boy, appearing in the opening.“Yes,” said Guest, giving the boy sixpence; “ask the woman at the lodge to come up here directly.”“All right, sir.”Guest returned to his seat, and saw that Stratton’s face was averted and his eyes closed.“Finds he must give way,” said the young barrister to himself; and once more there was silence, till Mrs Brade’s knock was heard.Guest admitted her, and cut short a string of wondering exclamations by giving her his orders.“Oh, certainly, sir,” she cried; “but I thought—”“Yes, of course you did, my dear madam, but unfortunately Mr Stratton was suddenly taken ill.”“Oh, poor dear!” cried Mrs Brade, in deep concern. “Let me go and ask my doctor to—”“No,” cried Stratton so fiercely that the woman started and turned pale.“Go and do as I said,” whispered Guest; and after a while the refreshments were brought, partaken of, and, in spite of his friend’s protests, Guest insisted upon passing the night in an easy-chair, dropping off to sleep occasionally, to dream that Stratton was threatening to destroy his life, and waking to find him in his easy-chair thrust back to the side of the fireplace between him and the panelled door.
Stratton rose slowly, and he was evidently confused and not quite able to grasp all that had been going on, till a pang from his injured shoulder spurred his brain.
His right-hand went up to the bandage, and he began hastily to arrange his dress.
He was evidently sick and faint, but to restore his garments was for the moment the dominant idea.
Then another thought came, and he looked wildly round, hardly appearing to grasp the fact that friend and visitors had drawn back from him, while the former slowly uncocked the revolver and carefully extracted the cartridges, noting that four were filled, and two empty.
Guest knew the billet of one of the bullets, and he involuntarily looked round for the other.
He had not far to seek. The shade covering the wired and mounted bones of an ancient extinct bird standing on a cabinet was shattered, and the bullet had cut through the neck vertebrae, and then buried itself in the oaken panelling.
Guest lowered his eyes to his task again, and slowly placed the cartridges in one pocket, the pistol in the other, when, raising his eyes, he met the admiral’s shadowed by the heavy brows; and the old officer gave him a nod of approval.
“Well, Rebecca,” he said, in a deep voice which seemed to hold the dying mutterings of the storm which had raged in his breast but a short time before; “we may go. I can’t jump on a fallen man.”
“Yes,” said Miss Jerrold, with a look of sadness and sympathy at Stratton, who stood supporting himself against the table; “we had better go. O Malcolm Stratton,” she cried passionately, “and I did so believe in you.”
He raised his face, with a momentary flush of pleasure bringing back something of its former aspect. But the gloom of despair came down like a cloud over a gleam of sunshine, and his chin fell upon his chest, though a movement now and then told that he was listening bitterly to every word.
“Yes,” said Sir Mark; “it’s as well you did not get in the police. Keep it all quiet for everyone’s sake. The doctor must know, though.”
Stratton’s face was a little raised at this, and he turned slightly as Guest said:
“Of course. It is not a dangerous wound, but look at him.”
Stratton’s chin fell again upon his breast.
“In a few hours,” continued the admiral, “fever will probably set in.”
A low, catching breath shook Stratton, and one hand grasped the table edge violently.
“And he will be delirious.”
Stratton strove hard to contain himself, but he started violently, and raising his face he passed his right-hand across his dripping brow.
“I cannot stop here, Guest,” said Sir Mark. “Come, Rebecca, my dear. You must not leave him alone. Shall I send in a medical man?”
“No!” cried Stratton hoarsely, in so fierce a voice that all started, and the admiral shrugged his shoulders, and drawing himself up crossed to the door, his sister following him with her face full of perplexity and commiseration.
But she turned as she reached the door, hesitated for a moment, and the rigid hardness in her face, with its anger against the man who had done her niece so cruel a wrong, died away to give place to a gentle, womanly look of sorrow and reproach as she hurried back to where Stratton stood with his back to the table, grasping its edge, while the objects thereon trembled and tottered from the motion communicated by the man’s quivering muscles.
“Heaven forgive you, Malcolm Stratton!” she said slowly. “I cannot now. I am going back to her. Man, you have broken the heart of as true and sweet a woman as ever lived.”
Stratton did not stir, but stood there bent, and as if crushed, listening to the rustle of his visitor’s rich silk, as she hurried back to her brother; then the door was opened, closed upon them, and a dead silence reigned in Stratton’s study, as he and Guest stood listening to the faint sound of the descending steps till they had completely died away.
Then Guest turned to his friend:
“Now,” he said coldly, “give me your arm. No; stop. Where are your keys?”
Stratton raised his head sharply.
“Where are your keys?”
“What for?”
“I want to get the spirits to give you a dram.”
“No, no,” said Stratton firmly. “Now go!”
“Of course,” said Guest bitterly. “That’s my way when you’re in trouble. You miserable fool! You madman!” he roared, flashing out suddenly with passion. “What is it? Two years ago, when I came here and found you with that cyanide bottle on the table, and the glass ready with its draught, I stopped you then, you coward. This time you were alone to attempt your wretched work.”
Stratton glared at him wildly.
“And here have we all been scared to death, fearing that you had been attacked. The admiral said you were a miserable coward, and you are. Where is your manhood? Where is your honour, to carry on like this with poor Myra till the last moment, and then do this? Hang it, man, why didn’t you aim straight and end it, instead of bringing us to such a pitiful scene as this?”
Stratton drew his breath hard.
“There, I’ve done. It’s jumping, as he said, on a fallen man. But I was obliged to speak. Now, then, those keys.”
“Go!” cried Stratton sternly. “Go. Leave me!”
“To play some other mad prank? Not I. I want those keys to get out the brandy.”
“I tell you no—no.”
“Very well. It was to save you from fainting. Faint then, and be hanged. Give me your arm.”
“Will you go?” cried Stratton fiercely.
“Yes, when you are on your bed, and then only to the door to call someone—”
“What?”
“To fetch the nearest doctor. Come along.”
“Percy Guest—” began Stratton fiercely.
“It’s of no use,” said Guest. “Only waste of words. Come along.”
Stratton made a quick movement to avoid him, and staggered into a chair; when his eyes closed, and he lay back fainting.
“Poor wretch!” muttered Guest, snatching the basin and sponge to begin bathing the already damp face. “I oughtn’t to have bullied him.”
In a few moments Stratton opened his eyes again, and his first look was directed round the room.
“It’s all right, old chap,” said Guest. “Temper’s gone. Come, be sensible. I won’t say disagreeable things to you. Give up the keys. You’d be better for a drop of brandy.”
“No,” said Stratton hastily. “Go and leave me now.”
“Impossible. You must have the doctor.”
“I cannot; I will not.”
“But you must.”
“Do you hear what I say?” cried Stratton fiercely.
“Yes. There is no occasion to fly out at me for wanting to be of service.”
“I want no help. I must be alone.”
“To go wandering off into a fit of delirium. There, I’ll call old mother Brade to fetch a surgeon.”
“You will not do so. I forbid it.”
“Exactly, but you are a patient now. There, don’t be idiotic. I can read you like a book.”
Stratton looked up at him sharply.
“You don’t want the doctor to see your wound and know how it came—there, don’t stare in that wild way—leave it to me. It was an accident. You were fooling about with a revolver. Cleaning it, say; and it went off. That’s all the doctor need know.”
“No one must know even that.”
“But your wound must be properly dressed.”
“I will not have it touched,” cried Stratton decisively. “Now, once more. I am not much hurt. Go.”
Guest laughed bitterly.
“No, my boy, you don’t get rid of me. I’ll stick to you like your conscience.”
Stratton’s eyes dilated.
“And I’m going to be master here till you are well bodily and mentally.”
“I tell you I am not much hurt. Mentally! Pooh, I’m as well as you are.”
“Better, of course. Why, what nonsense you are talking!” cried Guest, pointing to the other’s wounded shoulder. “Come, don’t let us argue more. Give in sensibly, there’s a good fellow, and let me do my best for you. I know you see things in a wrong light now, but you’ll thank me some day.”
They watched each other furtively, and Guest could see how hard his friend was evidently planning to get rid of him, while, on his own part, he was calculating his chances. He knew that mad people were superhumanly strong, but then in spite of his conduct he could not in his own mind grant that Stratton was mad. It was a case of what coroners call “temporary insanity,” due to some trouble which had been kept hidden; and if there should be a struggle, Guest felt that he would be more than a match for his friend, injured as he was.
Stratton was the first to speak, in a low voice, which suggested his being faint and in great pain.
“Now I’m better. Will you go and leave me?”
Guest took a chair, and placing its back opposite to his friend, strode across it, and rested his arms on the rail.
“Look here, Stratton, old fellow; I’ve always trusted you, and you’ve always trusted me.”
“Yes, of course,” said Stratton hurriedly.
“Well, then, as your old chum—the man who has stuck to you and is going to stick to you all through this hobble into which you have got yourself—don’t you think it would be as well to make a clean breast of it—to me?”
Stratton’s eyes dilated as he spoke, and his look was so strange that Guest involuntarily prepared himself for some outbreak.
“You can trust me,” continued Guest, and he saw a look of despair come into his friend’s countenance. “Come, old chap, what’s the use of a friend if he is not to help you? You know I want to.”
Stratton’s lips parted in an almost inaudible, “Yes.”
“Well, then, for poor Myra’s sake.”
Stratton started as if he had been stung.
“I can’t help hurting you, and I repeat—for her sake. She is a woman. She loves you.”
“For pity’s sake, don’t, don’t,” groaned Stratton in a voice full of unutterable anguish.
“She loves you, I say,” continued Guest firmly; “and, whatever has been the cause of this madness, she will forgive you.”
Stratton shook his head slowly.
“But I say she will. Come, we are none of us perfect. I tell you I am fighting for you now as well as myself. Your act this morning injures Edie and me too. So take it like this, old fellow. You have done wrong in some way; is not an attempt to make amends the first step toward showing repentance?”
“You don’t know—you don’t know,” groaned the wretched man.
“Not yet; you will not be open. Come now, be frank with me. In your utter despair, consequent upon your nerves being weak with mental worry, you used that pistol.”
Stratton buried his face in his hands.
“The old man was right,” continued Guest; “it was a cowardly way to get out of the difficulty. Let me help you. Come, once more, make a clean breast of it.”
Stratton’s hands fell again, and there was an eager look in his face; his lips parted and he was about to speak, but the look faded away and in a despondent, weary way he sank back once more.
“Very well. I will not press you now,” said Guest. “You’ll think better of it, old fellow. I’ll wait. Now, then, let me help you into your room.”
“What for?” cried Stratton suspiciously.
“Because a wounded man must be better lying down.”
“So that you can lock me in and go for people—for doctors?”
“He is queer,” thought Guest. “The cunning of a man off his head.”
As he thought this he rose, walked to the bedroom door, opened it, and took the key out to hand to his friend.
“There, are you satisfied? Look here, Mal, even to better you I will not play any treacherous trick like that?”
“I believe you,” said Stratton quietly; and he waved away the hand holding the key.
“So far, so good, then. Will you come and lie down while I fetch a doctor?”
“No. I will not have a doctor. It is a mere scratch.”
“Very well. Come and sit down, then.”
Stratton shook his head.
“Invalids must be humoured, I suppose. Sit where you are then, and try and have a nap. You’ll be calmer afterward—I hope,” he added to himself.
Guest changed the position of his chair, took up a book, and crossed to a lounge, but as he was in the act of turning it he saw that Stratton was watching him keenly.
“Don’t do that. I want you to leave me now.”
“I know you do,” said Guest quietly; “but I am not going.”
Stratton drew a heavy, catching breath, and lay back in his chair, while Guest opened the book he had taken at random, and read from it half a dozen romances which he made up as he went on. For he could not see a word of the printed matter, and in each of these romances his friend was the hero, who was being hunted to desperation by some woman with whom he had become entangled.
From time to time he glanced across at his friend as the hours glided by, hoping to see that he slept; but he always caught a glimpse of a pair of eager eyes watching him.
At last, about six o’clock, faint, weary, and oppressed by the terrible silence in the room, Guest laid down the book.
“Going?” said Stratton eagerly.
“No. Only to send for Mrs Brade.”
“What for?”
“To get her to run to the Peacock, and tell them to bring some dinner and a bottle of Bass. You can eat something?”
“Bring dinner—here?” gasped Stratton.
“Yes. I have had nothing since early breakfast.”
“You cannot have it here,” said Stratton, making an effort, and speaking firmly. “I am better and calmer now. After a night’s rest I shall be myself again.”
“I hope so,” said Guest quietly.
“So go now, there’s a good fellow. I’ll explain everything to you some day, and I shall be far better alone.”
“Yes; you are fit to trust!”
“You need not sneer. You think I shall make some insane attempt upon my life.”
Guest looked at him fixedly.
“Yes; you have good reason for doubting me, but I swear to you that you may trust me.”
At that moment steps were heard upon the stairs, almost inaudible; but whoever it was whistled some melody, and before Stratton could stay him, Guest threw open the door, and called to the whistler to come back.
“Want me, sir?” said a telegraph boy, appearing in the opening.
“Yes,” said Guest, giving the boy sixpence; “ask the woman at the lodge to come up here directly.”
“All right, sir.”
Guest returned to his seat, and saw that Stratton’s face was averted and his eyes closed.
“Finds he must give way,” said the young barrister to himself; and once more there was silence, till Mrs Brade’s knock was heard.
Guest admitted her, and cut short a string of wondering exclamations by giving her his orders.
“Oh, certainly, sir,” she cried; “but I thought—”
“Yes, of course you did, my dear madam, but unfortunately Mr Stratton was suddenly taken ill.”
“Oh, poor dear!” cried Mrs Brade, in deep concern. “Let me go and ask my doctor to—”
“No,” cried Stratton so fiercely that the woman started and turned pale.
“Go and do as I said,” whispered Guest; and after a while the refreshments were brought, partaken of, and, in spite of his friend’s protests, Guest insisted upon passing the night in an easy-chair, dropping off to sleep occasionally, to dream that Stratton was threatening to destroy his life, and waking to find him in his easy-chair thrust back to the side of the fireplace between him and the panelled door.