BOTH SIDES OF THE QUESTION.
MAN'S life has frequently been compared to a river. In childhood it is a
trickling thread, in youth a stream, in manhood a majestic river, and
finally in old age is swallowed up in the ocean of death. A very pretty
parable, but somewhat stale. It is time that life was indicated by a new
metaphor. Let us therefore compare the life of man to the ocean itself.
Like the ocean life has its calms and storms, its sullen rages, its
caressing moments; and like the ocean--for this is the main point of the
illustration--it has its profound depths, containing a hundred secrets
unknown to the outer world. Francis Hilliston was like the ocean: all
knew the surface, few were acquainted with the depths below.
A man who leads a double life need never feel dull. He may be nervous,
anxious, fearful lest his secret should be discovered, but the constant
vigilance required to hide it preserves him from the curse of ennui. He
ever keeps the best side of his nature uppermost; his smiles are for the
world, his brow is smoothed to lull suspicion. But to continue the
simile of the ocean: in the depths lie many terrible things which never
come to the surface; things which he scarcely dare admit even to
himself. Francis Hilliston was one of these men.
Everyone knew Hilliston of Lincoln's Inn Fields, or thought they did,
which is quite a different thing. He was widely respected in the
profession; he was popular in society; hand and glove with prominent and
wealthy personages. His house at Kensington Gore was richly furnished;
his wife was handsome and fashionable; he gave splendid entertainments,
at which none was more jocund than the host himself; he was, outwardly,
all that was prosperous and popular. In his professional capacity he was
the repository of a thousand secrets, but of all these none was more
terrible than the one locked up in his own breast.
Long years of training, constant necessity, had taught him how to
control his emotions, to turn his face into a mask of inscrutability;
yet he succeeded ill at times, as witness his interview with the two
young men. Not all his powers of self-repression could keep his face
from turning gray; nor prevent the perspiration beading his brow; nor
steady his voice to well-bred indifference. Usually he succeeded in
masking his emotion; this time he had failed, and, worst of all, he knew
that he had failed.
It was not Claude that he feared, for the young man was not of a
suspicious nature; and even had he been so, would certainly have scoffed
at the idea of attributing any evil to the one who had been to him a
father. Tait, silent, observant, and cynical, was the person to be
dreaded. Accustomed by his profession to read faces, Hilliston had seen
that the quiet little man was possessed of one of those inquisitive
penetrative natures, which suspect all men, and from a look, a gesture,
a pause, can draw evidence to support any suspicion they may entertain.
Certainly Tait had no reason to distrust Hilliston when he entered the
room, but during the interview he appeared dissatisfied with the
lawyer's manner. That Hilliston should attempt to dissuade Claude from
prosecuting a search for his father's murderer seemed strange; but that
he should betray such marked agitation at the idea of such searching
taking place was stranger still. Altogether Tait left the office in a
very dissatisfied state of mind. Hilliston had sufficient penetration to
note this, and when left alone was at his wit's end how to baffle the
unwarrantable curiosity of this intruder.
"I don't mind Claude," he said, pacing up and down the room, "he has not
sufficient brain power to find out anything. I do not want him to know.
But this Tait is dangerous. He is one of those dogged creatures, who
puts his nose to the scent, and never leaves the trail till the prey is
captured. It is with him I have to deal, not with Claude."
His agitation almost mastered him, and he hurriedly took a small bottle
from a drawer in his desk. Dropping the contents of this into a glass of
water, he drank off the draught, and in a short space of time regained
his composure, in some measure. Then he sat down to think, and plot, and
plan how to baffle the vigilance of Tait.
"That infernal woman has done it all," he muttered savagely; "she has
lighted the fire. Let us see how she will put it out. But she cannot put
it out," he added, striking his forehead with his clenched fist; "it
will blaze and burn. I shall burn with it unless----"
There was a strange smile on his lips, as an idea entered his mind, and
he glanced quickly at his watch.
"Four o'clock. Claude can't possibly call on Margaret to-day, so I have
yet time to prepare her for his visit. I must silence her at any cost.
She must hold her tongue or ruin us both. Great Heavens! to think that
she should break out like this after five-and-twenty years. It is enough
to drive me mad."
By this time he had put on his gloves, and stretched his hand toward his
hat, which stood on a side table. A glance in the glass showed him how
old and gray he looked, and the sight was so unexpected that he started
in dismay.
"Bah! I look as though I were going to fail," he said to himself, "but I
must not fail. I dare not fail. At sixty, rich, honored, respected, I am
not going to fall from the pedestal I have reached. I shall reassure
Claude. I shall baffle Tait. I shall silence Margaret. The first move in
the game is mine."
Calm, dignified, easy, he left his office, and stepped into the brougham
waiting at the door. To judge by appearance, one would have thought him
the most respectable and upright man in London. No one knew what lurked
behind that benevolent expression. His mask had fallen for the moment
when Tait was present; now it was on again, and he went forth to deceive
the world. Yet he had an uneasy consciousness that one man at least
guessed his real character.
"Never mind," he thought, as the footman closed the door of the
brougham, "it will be strange if, with my age and experience and
reputation and money, I cannot baffle him."
He did not go direct home, as it was yet early, and he had one or two
things to do in connection with his new task. First he drove to Tait's
chambers, and ascertained from the porter that the two young men were
within.
"Never mind sending up my name, I won't disturb them," he said, when the
porter requested his card. "I only wished to speak to Mr. Tait about a
box at the theater."
"If it is the Lyceum you mean, sir, I have just got two stalls for Mr.
Tait."
"Ah! I may see them there," replied Hilliston negligently; and as he
drove away reflected: "Good! They have not yet been to Hampstead; nor do
they intend to go to-night. Mr. Tait has yet to learn the value of
time."
Driving through Piccadilly he stopped at a bookshop, and with some
difficulty, for the demand was large, obtained a copy of "A Whim of
Fate." He began to read it in the brougham, and skimmed its pages so
rapidly that by the time he reached Kensington Gore he had nearly
finished the first volume. He did not recognize himself in the character
of Michael Dene, and became more convinced than ever that the
coincidence of the Larcher affair forming the plot of a novel, was due
to the author's reading the case in some old provincial newspaper. On
every page it betrayed that, to him, the story was hearsay.
Fortunately Mrs. Hilliston was driving in the Park, so the lawyer shut
himself up in his library, and went on reading the story. He did not see
his wife till dinner, which took place at eight o'clock, and then
descended in his ordinary clothes, looking ill and pale. Something he
had read in the novel had startled him more than he cared to
confess--even to himself.
"You must excuse my dress, Louise," he said, on taking his seat, "but I
have been so engrossed with a novel that I did not hear the dressing
bell."
"It has not had a pleasant effect on you," replied his wife, smiling;
"you do not look at all well."
"I am not well," said Hilliston, who merely trifled with his food; "you
must excuse me going with you to the Lamberts' to-night, as I think I
shall call in and see my doctor."
"Are you so bad as all that?" questioned Mrs. Hilliston anxiously. "Why
not send for Dr. Bland?"
"I prefer going to see him, Louise. You will probably not be back till
three in the morning, so I will go to bed immediately on my return. Have
no fear, my dear, it is only a trifling indisposition."
After these plain statements it was rather strange that Hilliston, in
place of driving to Dr. Bland's, who lived in Hill Street, should direct
the cab, which he picked up by the Park railings, to drive to Hampstead.