It might seem rash of me to say that I ascribe the death of my poor
friend, John Barrington Cowles, to any preternatural agency. I am aware
that in the present state of public feeling a chain of evidence would
require to be strong indeed before the possibility of such a conclusion
could be admitted.
I shall therefore merely state the circumstances which led up to this
sad event as concisely and as plainly as I can, and leave every reader
to draw his own deductions. Perhaps there may be some one who can throw
light upon what is dark to me.
I first met Barrington Cowles when I went up to Edinburgh University to
take out medical classes there. My landlady in Northumberland Street
had a large house, and, being a widow without children, she gained a
livelihood by providing accommodation for several students.
Barrington Cowles happened to have taken a bedroom upon the same floor
as mine, and when we came to know each other better we shared a small
sitting-room, in which we took our meals. In this manner we originated
a friendship which was unmarred by the slightest disagreement up to the
day of his death.
Cowles’ father was the colonel of a Sikh regiment and had remained in
India for many years. He allowed his son a handsome income, but seldom
gave any other sign of parental affection--writing irregularly and
briefly.
My friend, who had himself been born in India, and whose whole
disposition was an ardent tropical one, was much hurt by this neglect.
His mother was dead, and he had no other relation in the world to supply
the blank.
Thus he came in time to concentrate all his affection upon me, and to
confide in me in a manner which is rare among men. Even when a stronger
and deeper passion came upon him, it never infringed upon the old
tenderness between us.
Cowles was a tall, slim young fellow, with an olive, Velasquez-like
face, and dark, tender eyes. I have seldom seen a man who was more
likely to excite a woman’s interest, or to captivate her imagination.
His expression was, as a rule, dreamy, and even languid; but if in
conversation a subject arose which interested him he would be all
animation in a moment. On such occasions his colour would heighten, his
eyes gleam, and he could speak with an eloquence which would carry his
audience with him.
In spite of these natural advantages he led a solitary life, avoiding
female society, and reading with great diligence. He was one of the
foremost men of his year, taking the senior medal for anatomy, and the
Neil Arnott prize for physics.
How well I can recollect the first time we met her! Often and often I
have recalled the circumstances, and tried to remember what the exact
impression was which she produced on my mind at the time.
After we came to know her my judgment was warped, so that I am curious
to recollect what my unbiassed{sic} instincts were. It is hard, however,
to eliminate the feelings which reason or prejudice afterwards raised in
me.
It was at the opening of the Royal Scottish Academy in the spring of
1879. My poor friend was passionately attached to art in every form, and
a pleasing chord in music or a delicate effect upon canvas would give
exquisite pleasure to his highly-strung nature. We had gone together to
see the pictures, and were standing in the grand central salon, when I
noticed an extremely beautiful woman standing at the other side of the
room. In my whole life I have never seen such a classically perfect
countenance. It was the real Greek type--the forehead broad, very low,
and as white as marble, with a cloudlet of delicate locks wreathing
round it, the nose straight and clean cut, the lips inclined to
thinness, the chin and lower jaw beautifully rounded off, and yet
sufficiently developed to promise unusual strength of character.
But those eyes--those wonderful eyes! If I could but give some faint
idea of their varying moods, their steely hardness, their feminine
softness, their power of command, their penetrating intensity suddenly
melting away into an expression of womanly weakness--but I am speaking
now of future impressions!
There was a tall, yellow-haired young man with this lady, whom I at once
recognised as a law student with whom I had a slight acquaintance.
Archibald Reeves--for that was his name--was a dashing, handsome young
fellow, and had at one time been a ringleader in every university
escapade; but of late I had seen little of him, and the report was that
he was engaged to be married. His companion was, then, I presumed, his
fiancee. I seated myself upon the velvet settee in the centre of the
room, and furtively watched the couple from behind my catalogue.
The more I looked at her the more her beauty grew upon me. She was
somewhat short in stature, it is true; but her figure was perfection,
and she bore herself in such a fashion that it was only by actual
comparison that one would have known her to be under the medium height.
As I kept my eyes upon them, Reeves was called away for some reason,
and the young lady was left alone. Turning her back to the pictures, she
passed the time until the return of her escort in taking a deliberate
survey of the company, without paying the least heed to the fact that
a dozen pair of eyes, attracted by her elegance and beauty, were bent
curiously upon her. With one of her hands holding the red silk cord
which railed off the pictures, she stood languidly moving her eyes from
face to face with as little self-consciousness as if she were looking at
the canvas creatures behind her. Suddenly, as I watched her, I saw her
gaze become fixed, and, as it were, intense. I followed the direction of
her looks, wondering what could have attracted her so strongly.
John Barrington Cowles was standing before a picture--one, I think, by
Noel Paton--I know that the subject was a noble and ethereal one.
His profile was turned towards us, and never have I seen him to such
advantage. I have said that he was a strikingly handsome man, but at
that moment he looked absolutely magnificent. It was evident that he had
momentarily forgotten his surroundings, and that his whole soul was in
sympathy with the picture before him. His eyes sparkled, and a dusky
pink shone through his clear olive cheeks. She continued to watch him
fixedly, with a look of interest upon her face, until he came out of his
reverie with a start, and turned abruptly round, so that his gaze met
hers. She glanced away at once, but his eyes remained fixed upon her for
some moments. The picture was forgotten already, and his soul had come
down to earth once more.
We caught sight of her once or twice before we left, and each time I
noticed my friend look after her. He made no remark, however, until we
got out into the open air, and were walking arm-in-arm along Princes
Street.
“Did you notice that beautiful woman, in the dark dress, with the white
fur?” he asked.
“Yes, I saw her,” I answered.
“Do you know her?” he asked eagerly. “Have you any idea who she is?”
“I don’t know her personally,” I replied. “But I have no doubt I could
find out all about her, for I believe she is engaged to young Archie
Reeves, and he and I have a lot of mutual friends.”
“Engaged!” ejaculated Cowles.
“Why, my dear boy,” I said, laughing, “you don’t mean to say you are so
susceptible that the fact that a girl to whom you never spoke in your
life is engaged is enough to upset you?”
“Well, not exactly to upset me,” he answered, forcing a laugh. “But I
don’t mind telling you, Armitage, that I never was so taken by any
one in my life. It wasn’t the mere beauty of the face--though that was
perfect enough--but it was the character and the intellect upon it. I
hope, if she is engaged, that it is to some man who will be worthy of
her.”
“Why,” I remarked, “you speak quite feelingly. It is a clear case of
love at first sight, Jack. However, to put your perturbed spirit at
rest, I’ll make a point of finding out all about her whenever I meet any
fellow who is likely to know.”
Barrington Cowles thanked me, and the conversation drifted off into
other channels. For several days neither of us made any allusion to
the subject, though my companion was perhaps a little more dreamy
and distraught than usual. The incident had almost vanished from my
remembrance, when one day young Brodie, who is a second cousin of mine,
came up to me on the university steps with the face of a bearer of
tidings.
“I say,” he began, “you know Reeves, don’t you?”
“Yes. What of him?”
“His engagement is off.”
“Off!” I cried. “Why, I only learned the other day that it was on.”
“Oh, yes--it’s all off. His brother told me so. Deucedly mean of Reeves,
you know, if he has backed out of it, for she was an uncommonly nice
girl.”
“I’ve seen her,” I said; “but I don’t know her name.”
“She is a Miss Northcott, and lives with an old aunt of hers in
Abercrombie Place. Nobody knows anything about her people, or where she
comes from. Anyhow, she is about the most unlucky girl in the world,
poor soul!”
“Why unlucky?”
“Well, you know, this was her second engagement,” said young Brodie, who
had a marvellous knack of knowing everything about everybody. “She was
engaged to Prescott--William Prescott, who died. That was a very
sad affair. The wedding day was fixed, and the whole thing looked as
straight as a die when the smash came.”
“What smash?” I asked, with some dim recollection of the circumstances.
“Why, Prescott’s death. He came to Abercrombie Place one night, and
stayed very late. No one knows exactly when he left, but about one
in the morning a fellow who knew him met him walking rapidly in the
direction of the Queen’s Park. He bade him good night, but Prescott
hurried on without heeding him, and that was the last time he was ever
seen alive. Three days afterwards his body was found floating in
St. Margaret’s Loch, under St. Anthony’s Chapel. No one could ever
understand it, but of course the verdict brought it in as temporary
insanity.”
“It was very strange,” I remarked.
“Yes, and deucedly rough on the poor girl,” said Brodie. “Now that this
other blow has come it will quite crush her. So gentle and ladylike she
is too!”
“You know her personally, then!” I asked.
“Oh, yes, I know her. I have met her several times. I could easily
manage that you should be introduced to her.”
“Well,” I answered, “it’s not so much for my own sake as for a friend of
mine. However, I don’t suppose she will go out much for some little time
after this. When she does I will take advantage of your offer.”
We shook hands on this, and I thought no more of the matter for some
time.
The next incident which I have to relate as bearing at all upon the
question of Miss Northcott is an unpleasant one. Yet I must detail it as
accurately as possible, since it may throw some light upon the sequel.
One cold night, several months after the conversation with my second
cousin which I have quoted above, I was walking down one of the
lowest streets in the city on my way back from a case which I had been
attending. It was very late, and I was picking my way among the dirty
loungers who were clustering round the doors of a great gin-palace, when
a man staggered out from among them, and held out his hand to me with a
drunken leer. The gaslight fell full upon his face, and, to my intense
astonishment, I recognised in the degraded creature before me my former
acquaintance, young Archibald Reeves, who had once been famous as one
of the most dressy and particular men in the whole college. I was so
utterly surprised that for a moment I almost doubted the evidence of
my own senses; but there was no mistaking those features, which, though
bloated with drink, still retained something of their former comeliness.
I was determined to rescue him, for one night at least, from the company
into which he had fallen.
“Holloa, Reeves!” I said. “Come along with me. I’m going in your
direction.”
He muttered some incoherent apology for his condition, and took my arm.
As I supported him towards his lodgings I could see that he was not only
suffering from the effects of a recent debauch, but that a long course
of intemperance had affected his nerves and his brain. His hand when I
touched it was dry and feverish, and he started from every shadow which
fell upon the pavement. He rambled in his speech, too, in a manner which
suggested the delirium of disease rather than the talk of a drunkard.
When I got him to his lodgings I partially undressed him and laid him
upon his bed. His pulse at this time was very high, and he was evidently
extremely feverish. He seemed to have sunk into a doze; and I was about
to steal out of the room to warn his landlady of his condition, when he
started up and caught me by the sleeve of my coat.
“Don’t go!” he cried. “I feel better when you are here. I am safe from
her then.”
“From her!” I said. “From whom?”
“Her! her!” he answered peevishly. “Ah! you don’t know her. She is the
devil! Beautiful--beautiful; but the devil!”
“You are feverish and excited,” I said. “Try and get a little sleep. You
will wake better.”
“Sleep!” he groaned. “How am I to sleep when I see her sitting down
yonder at the foot of the bed with her great eyes watching and watching
hour after hour? I tell you it saps all the strength and manhood out of
me. That’s what makes me drink. God help me--I’m half drunk now!”
“You are very ill,” I said, putting some vinegar to his temples; “and
you are delirious. You don’t know what you say.”
“Yes, I do,” he interrupted sharply, looking up at me. “I know very
well what I say. I brought it upon myself. It is my own choice. But I
couldn’t--no, by heaven, I couldn’t--accept the alternative. I couldn’t
keep my faith to her. It was more than man could do.”
I sat by the side of the bed, holding one of his burning hands in mine,
and wondering over his strange words. He lay still for some time, and
then, raising his eyes to me, said in a most plaintive voice--
“Why did she not give me warning sooner? Why did she wait until I had
learned to love her so?”
He repeated this question several times, rolling his feverish head from
side to side, and then he dropped into a troubled sleep. I crept out of
the room, and, having seen that he would be properly cared for, left
the house. His words, however, rang in my ears for days afterwards, and
assumed a deeper significance when taken with what was to come.
My friend, Barrington Cowles, had been away for his summer holidays, and
I had heard nothing of him for several months. When the winter session
came on, however, I received a telegram from him, asking me to secure
the old rooms in Northumberland Street for him, and telling me the train
by which he would arrive. I went down to meet him, and was delighted to
find him looking wonderfully hearty and well.
“By the way,” he said suddenly, that night, as we sat in our chairs
by the fire, talking over the events of the holidays, “you have never
congratulated me yet!”
“On what, my boy?” I asked.
“What! Do you mean to say you have not heard of my engagement?”
“Engagement! No!” I answered. “However, I am delighted to hear it, and
congratulate you with all my heart.”
“I wonder it didn’t come to your ears,” he said. “It was the queerest
thing. You remember that girl whom we both admired so much at the
Academy?”
“What!” I cried, with a vague feeling of apprehension at my heart. “You
don’t mean to say that you are engaged to her?”
“I thought you would be surprised,” he answered. “When I was staying
with an old aunt of mine in Peterhead, in Aberdeenshire, the Northcotts
happened to come there on a visit, and as we had mutual friends we soon
met. I found out that it was a false alarm about her being engaged, and
then--well, you know what it is when you are thrown into the society of
such a girl in a place like Peterhead. Not, mind you,” he added, “that I
consider I did a foolish or hasty thing. I have never regretted it for
a moment. The more I know Kate the more I admire her and love her.
However, you must be introduced to her, and then you will form your own
opinion.”
I expressed my pleasure at the prospect, and endeavoured to speak as
lightly as I could to Cowles upon the subject, but I felt depressed
and anxious at heart. The words of Reeves and the unhappy fate of young
Prescott recurred to my recollection, and though I could assign no
tangible reason for it, a vague, dim fear and distrust of the woman
took possession of me. It may be that this was foolish prejudice and
superstition upon my part, and that I involuntarily contorted her future
doings and sayings to fit into some half-formed wild theory of my
own. This has been suggested to me by others as an explanation of my
narrative. They are welcome to their opinion if they can reconcile it
with the facts which I have to tell.
I went round with my friend a few days afterwards to call upon Miss
Northcott. I remember that, as we went down Abercrombie Place, our
attention was attracted by the shrill yelping of a dog--which noise
proved eventually to come from the house to which we were bound. We
were shown upstairs, where I was introduced to old Mrs. Merton, Miss
Northcott’s aunt, and to the young lady herself. She looked as beautiful
as ever, and I could not wonder at my friend’s infatuation. Her face
was a little more flushed than usual, and she held in her hand a heavy
dog-whip, with which she had been chastising a small Scotch terrier,
whose cries we had heard in the street. The poor brute was cringing up
against the wall, whining piteously, and evidently completely cowed.
“So Kate,” said my friend, after we had taken our seats, “you have been
falling out with Carlo again.”
“Only a very little quarrel this time,” she said, smiling charmingly.
“He is a dear, good old fellow, but he needs correction now and then.”
Then, turning to me, “We all do that, Mr. Armitage, don’t we? What a
capital thing if, instead of receiving a collective punishment at the
end of our lives, we were to have one at once, as the dogs do, when we
did anything wicked. It would make us more careful, wouldn’t it?”