MARK FRETTLBY HAS A VISITOR.
According to the copy books of our youth, "Procrastination is the thief
of time." Now, Brian found the truth of this. He had been in town
almost a week, but he had not yet been to see Calton. Each morning--or
something very near it--he set out, determined to go direct to Chancery
Lane, but he never arrived there. He had returned to his lodgings in
East Melbourne, and had passed his time either in the house or in the
garden. When perhaps business connected with the sale of his station
compelled his presence in town, he drove straight there and back.
Curiously enough he shrank from meeting any of his friends. He felt
keenly his recent position in the prisoner's dock. And even when
walking by the Yarra, as he frequently did, he was conscious of an
uneasy feeling--a feeling that he was an object of curiosity, and that
people turned to look at him out of a morbid desire to see one who had
been so nearly hanged for murder.
As soon as his station should be sold and he married to Madge he
determined to leave Australia, and never set foot on it again. But
until he could leave the place he would see no one, nor would he mix
with his former friends, so great was his dread of being stared at.
Mrs. Sampson, who had welcomed him back with shrill exclamations of
delight, was loud in her expressions of disapproval as to the way he
was shutting himself up.
"Your eyes bein' 'ollow," said the sympathising cricket, "it is nat'ral
as it's want of air, which my 'usband's uncle, being a druggist, an'
well-to-do, in Collingwood, ses as 'ow a want of ox-eye-gent, being a
French name, as 'e called the atmispeare, were fearful for pullin'
people down, an' makin' 'em go off their food, which you hardly eats
anythin', an' not bein' a butterfly it's expected as your appetite
would be larger."
"Oh, I'm all right," said Brian, absently, lighting a cigarette, and
only half listening to his landlady's garrulous chatter, "but if anyone
calls tell them I'm not in. I don't want to be bothered by visitors."
"Bein' as wise a thing as Solomon ever said," answered Mrs. Sampson,
energetically, "which, no doubt, 'e was in good 'ealth when seein' the
Queen of Sheber, as is necessary when anyone calls, and not feelin'
disposed to speak, which I'm often that way myself on occasions, my
sperits bein' low, as I've 'eard tell soder water 'ave that effect on
'em, which you takes it with a dash of brandy, tho' to be sure that
might be the cause of your want of life, and--drat that bell," she
finished, hurrying out of the room as the front-door bell sounded,
"which my legs is a-givin' way under me thro' bein' overworked."
Meanwhile, Brian sat and smoked contentedly, much relieved by the
departure of Mrs. Sampson, with her constant chatter, but he soon heard
her mount the stairs again, and she entered the room with a telegram,
which she handed to her lodger.
"'Opin' it don't contain bad noose," she said as she retreated to the
door again, "which I don't like 'em 'avin' had a shock in early life
thro' one 'avin' come unexpected, as my uncle's grandfather were dead,
'avin' perished of consumption, our family all being disposed to the
disease--and now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'll get to my dinner,
bein' in the 'abit of takin' my meals reg'lar, and I studies my inside
carefully, bein' easily upset, thro' which I never could be a sailor."
Mrs. Sampson, having at last exhausted herself, went out of the room,
and crackled loudly down the stairs, leaving Brian to read his
telegram. He tore open the envelope and found the message was from
Madge, to say that they had returned, and to ask him to dine with them
that evening. Fitzgerald folded up the telegram, then rising from his
seat, he walked moodily up and down the room with his hands in his
pockets.
"So he is there," said the young man aloud; "and I shall have to meet
him and shake hands with him, knowing all the time what he is. If it
were not for Madge I'd leave this place at once, but after the way she
stood by me in my trouble, I should be a coward if I did so."
It was as Madge had predicted--her father was unable to stay long in
one place, and had come back to Melbourne a week after Brian had
arrived. The pleasant party at the station was broken up, and, like the
graves of a household, the guests were scattered far and wide. Peterson
had left for New Zealand EN ROUTE for the wonders of the Hot Lakes, and
the old colonist was about to start for England in order to refresh his
boyish memories. Mr. and Mrs. Rolleston had come back to Melbourne,
where the wretched Felix was compelled once more to plunge into
politics; and Dr. Chinston had resumed his usual routine of fees and
patients.
Madge was glad to be back in Melbourne again, as now that her health
was restored she craved for the excitement of town life. It was now more
than three months since the murder, and the nine days' wonder was a
thing of the past. The possibility of a war with Russia was the one
absorbing topic of the hour, and the colonists were busy preparing for
the attack of a possible enemy. As the Spanish Kings had drawn their
treasures from Mexico and Peru, so might the White Czar lay violent
hands on the golden stores of Australia; but here there were no
uncultured savages to face, but the sons and grandsons of men who had
dimmed the glories of the Russian arms at Alma and Balaclava. So in the
midst of stormy rumours of wars the tragic fate of Oliver Whyte was
quite forgotten. After the trial, everyone, including the detective
office, had given up the matter, and mentally relegated it to the list
of undiscovered crimes. In spite of the utmost vigilance, nothing new
had been discovered, and it seemed likely that the assassin of Oliver
Whyte would remain a free man. There were only two people in Melbourne
who still held the contrary opinion, and they were Calton and Kilsip.
Both these men had sworn to discover this unknown murderer, who struck
his cowardly blow in the dark, and though there seemed no possible
chance of success, yet they worked on. Kilsip suspected Roger Moreland,
the boon companion of the dead man, but his suspicions were vague and
uncertain, and there seemed little hope of verifying them. The
barrister did not as yet suspect any particular person, though the
death-bed confession of Mother Guttersnipe had thrown a new light on
the subject, but he thought that when Fitzgerald told him the secret
which Rosanna Moore had confided to his keeping, the real murderer
would soon be discovered, or, at least, some clue would be found that
would lead to his detection. So, as the matter stood at the time of
Mark Frettlby's return to Melbourne, Mr. Calton was waiting for
Fitzgerald's confession before making a move, while Kilsip worked
stealthily in the dark, searching for evidence against Moreland.
On receiving Madge's telegram, Brian determined to go down in the
evening, but not to dinner, so he sent a reply to Madge to that effect.
He did not want to meet Mark Frettlby, but did not of course, tell this
to Madge, so she had her dinner by herself, as her father had gone to
his club, and the time of his return was uncertain. After dinner, she
wrapped a light cloak round her, and repaired to the verandah to wait
for her lover. The garden looked charming in the moonlight, with the
black, dense cypress trees standing up against the sky, and the great
fountain splashing cool and silvery. There was a heavily-foliaged oak
by the gate, and she strolled down the path, and stood under it in the
shadow, listening to the whisper and rustle of its multitudinous
leaves. It is curious the unearthly glamour which moonlight seems to
throw over everything, and though Madge knew every flower, tree, and
shrub in the garden, yet they all looked weird and fantastical in the
cold, white light. She went up to the fountain, and seating herself on
the edge, amused herself by dipping her hand into the chilly water, and
letting it fall, like silver rain, back into the basin. Then she heard
the iron gate open and shut with a clash, and springing to her feet,
saw someone coming up the path in a light coat and soft wide-awake hat.
"Oh, it's you at last, Brian?" she cried, as she ran down the path to
meet him. "Why did you not come before?"
"Not being Brian, I can't say," answered her father's voice. Madge
burst out laughing.
"What an absurd mistake," she cried. "Why, I thought you were Brian."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; in that hat and coat I couldn't tell the difference in the
moonlight."
"Oh," said her father, with a laugh, pushing his hat back, "moonlight
is necessary to complete the spell, I suppose?"
"Of course," answered his daughter. "If there were no moonlight, alas,
for lovers!"
"Alas, indeed!" echoed her father. "They would become as extinct as the
moa; but where are your eyes, Puss, when you take an old man like me
for your gay young Lochinvar?"
"Well, really, papa," answered Madge, deprecatingly, "you do look so
like him in that coat and hat that I could not tell the difference,
till you spoke."
"Nonsense, child," said Frettlby, roughly, "you are fanciful;" and
turning on his heel, he walked rapidly towards the house, leaving Madge
staring after him in astonishment, as well she might, for her father
had never spoken to her so roughly before. Wondering at the cause of
his sudden anger, she stood spell-bound, until there came a step behind
her, and a soft, low whistle. She turned with a scream, and saw Brian
smiling at her.
"Oh, it's you," she said, with a pout, as he caught her in his arms and
kissed her.
"Only me," said Brian, ungrammatically; "disappointing, isn't it?"
"Oh, fearfully," answered the girl, with a gay laugh, as arm-in-arm
they walked towards the house. "But do you know I made such a curious
mistake just now; I thought papa was you."
"How strange," said Brian, absently, for indeed he was admiring her
charming face, which looked so pure and sweet in the moonlight.
"Yes, wasn't it?" she replied. "He had on a light coat and a soft hat,
just like you wear sometimes, and as you are both the same height, I
took you for one another."
Brian did not answer, but there was a cold feeling at his heart as he
saw a possibility of his worst suspicions being confirmed, for just at
that moment there came into his mind the curious coincidence of the man
who got into the hansom cab being dressed similarly to himself. What
if--"Nonsense," he said, aloud, rousing himself out of the train of
thought the resemblance had suggested.
"I'm sure it isn't," said Madge, who had been talking about something
else for the last five minutes. "You are a very rude young man."
"I beg your pardon," said Brian, waking up. "You were saying--"
"That the horse is the most noble of all animals--Exactly."
"I don't understand--" began Brian, rather puzzled.
"Of course you don't," interrupted Madge, petulantly; "considering I've
been wasting my eloquence on a deaf man for the last ten minutes; and
very likely lame as well as deaf."
And to prove the truth of the remark, she ran up the path with Brian
after her. He had a long chase of it, for Madge was nimble and better
acquainted with the garden than he was but at last he caught her just
as she was running up the steps into the house, and then--history
repeats itself.
They went into the drawing-room and found that Mr. Frettlby had gone up
to his study, and did not want to be disturbed. Madge sat down to the
piano, but before she struck a note, Brian took both her hands
prisoners.
"Madge," he said, gravely, as she turned round, "what did your father
say when you made that mistake?"
"He was very angry," she answered. "Quite cross; I'm sure I don't know
why."
Brian sighed as he released her hands, and was about to reply when the
visitor's bell sounded, they heard the servant answer it, and then
someone was taken upstairs to Mr. Frettlby's study.
When the footman came in to light the gas, Madge asked who it was that
had come to the door.
"I don't know, miss," he answered; "he said he wanted to see Mr.
Frettlby particularly, so I took him up to the study."
"But I thought that papa said he was not to be disturbed?"
"Yes, miss, but the gentleman had an appointment with him."
"Poor papa," sighed Madge, turning again to the piano. "He has always
got such a lot to do."
Left to themselves, Madge began playing Waldteufel's last new valse, a
dreamy, haunting melody, with a touch of sadness in it, and Brian,
lying lazily on the sofa, listened. Then she sang a gay little French
song about Love and a Butterfly, with a mocking refrain, which made
Brian laugh.
"A memory of Offenbach," he said, rising and coming over to the piano.
"We certainly can't approach the French in writing these airy trifles."
"They're unsatisfactory, I think," said Madge, running her fingers over
the keys; "they mean nothing."
"Of course not," he replied, "but don't you remember that De Quincy
says there is no moral either big or little in the Iliad."
"Well, I think there's more music in Barbara Allan than all those
frothy things," said Madge, with fine scorn. "Come and sing it."
"A five-act funeral, it is," groaned Brian, as he rose to obey; "let's
have Garry Owen instead."
Nothing else however would suit the capricious young person at the
piano, so Brian, who had a pleasant voice, sang the quaint old ditty of
cruel Barbara Allan, who treated her dying love with such disdain.
"Sir John Graham was an ass," said Brian, when he had finished; "or,
instead of dying in such a silly manner, he'd have married her right
off, without asking her permission."
"I don't think she was worth marrying," replied Madge, opening a book
of Mendelssohn's duets; "or she wouldn't have made such a fuss over her
health not being drunk."
"Depend upon it, she was a plain woman," remarked Brian, gravely, "and
was angry because she wasn't toasted among the rest of the country
belles. I think the young man had a narrow escape--she'd always have
reminded him about that unfortunate oversight."
"You seem to have analysed her nature pretty well," said Madge, a
little dryly; "however, we'll leave the failings of Barbara Allan
alone, and sing this."
This was Mendelssohn's charming duet, "Would that my Love," which was a
great favourite of Brian's. They were in the middle of it when suddenly
Madge stopped, as she heard a loud cry, evidently proceeding from her
father's study. Recollecting Dr. Chinston's warning, she ran out of the
room, and upstairs, leaving Brian rather puzzled by her unceremonious
departure, for though he had heard the cry, yet he did not attach much
importance to it.
Madge knocked at the study door, and then she tried to open it, but it
was locked.
"Who's there?" asked her father, sharply, from inside.
"Only me, papa," she answered. "I thought you were--"
"No! No--I'm all right," replied her father, quickly. "Go down stairs,
I'll join you shortly."
Madge went back to the drawing-room only half satisfied with the
explanation. She found Brian waiting at the door, with rather an
anxious face.
"What's the matter?" he asked, as she paused a moment at the foot of
the stairs.
"Papa says nothing," she replied, "but I am sure he must have been
startled, or he would not have cried out like that."
She told him what Dr. Chinston had said about the state of her father's
heart, a recital which shocked Brian greatly. They did not return to
the drawing-room, but went out on the verandah, where, after wrapping a
cloak around Madge, Fitzgerald lit a cigarette. They sat down at the
far end of the verandah somewhat in the shadow, and could see the hall
door wide open, and a warm flood of mellow light pouring therefrom, and
beyond the cold, white moonshine. After about a quarter of an hour,
Madge's alarm about her father having somewhat subsided, they were
chatting on indifferent subjects, when a man came out of the hall door,
and paused for a moment on the steps of the verandah. He was dressed in
rather a fashionable suit of clothes, but, in spite of the heat of the
night, he had a thick white silk scarf round his throat.
"That's rather a cool individual," said Brian, removing his cigarette
from between his lips. "I wonder what--Good God!" he cried, rising to
his feet as the stranger turned round to look at the house, and took
off his hat for a moment--"Roger Moreland."
The man started, and looked quickly round into the dark shadow of the
verandah where they were seated, then, putting on his hat, he ran
quickly down the path, and they heard the gate clang after him.
Madge felt a sudden fear at the expression on Brian's face, as revealed
by a ray of moonlight streaming full on it.
"Who is Roger Moreland?" she asked, touching his arm--"Ah! I remember,"
with sudden horror, "Oliver Whyte's friend."
"Yes," in a hoarse whisper, "and one of the witnesses at the trial."