REAPING THE WHIRLWIND
Lancaster was by way of being a journalist, and managed to struggle
along on an inadequate income. He had no influence, and sweated freely
for his money. A few far-seeing editors assured him of a brilliant
future, but did not seem anxious to assist him to realise their
prophecies. No one knew who Lancaster was, or where he came from, as
he never spoke of his past. For five years he had been in town, and,
unable to do anything else, had drifted into journalism. But in his
heart he cherished the notion of startling London with an up-to-date
novel. Pending the joy of waking up to find himself famous, he acted
as theatrical critic for the _Daily Budget_, a paper which paid the
lowest prices for the best procurable talent, and eked out his income
with stray articles. Occasionally he wrote verses, and in this way had
made the acquaintance of Fairy Fan, who had read some of his attempts
in the papers and thought that he might compose words fit for her rosy
mouth to sing.
She took a fancy to him, for he was handsome and well-bred. But even
Miss Berry, pretty and astute woman as she was, could not learn
anything of Lancaster's past, cleverly as she tried to find out. Her
uncle, using coarser methods, tried also, but failed likewise. Only to
one man had Frank unbosomed himself, and that was to Eustace Jarman,
who had first extended to the lonely young man a helping hand. A
memory of Starth's words made Lancaster wonder if Jarman had revealed
anything, and he would have sought out his friend to ask him directly
had not Jarman dwelt in Essex. However, Frank concluded that Starth
had merely made the remarks about his parents in a casual way, and
without any real knowledge, so he dismissed that matter easily from
his mind.
But he could not so easily dismiss the memory of the quarrel,
especially as the charming face of Miss Starth floated persistently
before his mental vision. Jarman had introduced Frank to Starth three
years before, and the two men had never got on well together. By
mutual consent they avoided one another, until Miss Berry brought them
together to quarrel over her beauty. Starth thereafter became more and
more insulting, until his behaviour resulted in the row of the
previous night. Had Frank not seen the beautiful sister he would not
have cared much, having small regard for the brother. As it was, he
felt depressed the next morning, seeing in that final quarrel an
insurmountable barrier to making acquaintance with his divinity.
Being in this frame of mind he was both surprised and pleased to
receive a note from Starth asking him to call that afternoon between
four and five. It seemed that Starth wished to apologise as he had
gone rather far--so he stated in his note--on the previous night.
Lancaster was astonished that Starth should behave thus reasonably.
The action was unlike him. But as the olive branch was held forth, and
as there was a chance of meeting the sister, Lancaster decided to
accept. No answer was required, so Starth evidently expected him to
come. Frank finished his work for the day, and went to his rooms to
dress himself more smartly. If Miss Starth were to be present he
wanted to appear at his best, but if she were not--
It was at this point that Lancaster sat down to consider. How did he
know that the note might not be a trap? He thought it strange that
Starth should come forward in this way, and at a second meeting the
man might try to revenge himself for his punishment. A black eye is
not forgiven easily by any man, and Starth was the last person to let
bygones be bygones. Then, again, if there was to be trouble Miss
Starth would not be there, and the careful dressing would be wasted.
Lancaster was no coward, but he did not wish to accentuate his bad
relations with Starth. He had half a mind to send round stating that
he could not come, but the hope that, after all, his divinity might be
present, decided him to go. Having made up his mind he completed his
toilet, and ended by stowing away a pistol in his hip pocket. It was a
loaded Derringer, which Frank sometimes took with him when he went
round the slums on dangerous business connected with his journalistic
work. On the present occasion it was taken merely to intimidate Starth
should he have arranged a trap.
"The man's a coward," thought Frank, as he issued forth into the July
sunshine, "so if he threatens in any way I can show him the pistol if
necessary. I'd rather use my fists as I did last night, but for all I
know he may have a revolver handy. It's as well to be on the safe
side."
All the same he rather despised himself for this precaution, and twice
was on the point of returning to his room to discard the weapon.
Still, Starth was a dangerous man, and might use something lethal only
to be met with by a revolver; and if nothing happened no one would
ever know that he--Lancaster was thinking of himself--carried a
pistol. In spite of his experience of life, Frank was callow in many
ways, else he would not have armed himself in so unnecessary a manner.
Starth lived in a South Kensington side street, a blind alley where
the houses were small, and each was fronted by a weedy garden.
Lancaster found himself after a brisk walk--he never took a cab unless
forced to, and disliked a 'bus ride--facing a blank, dismal house of
two storeys with green shutters. It had not been painted for years,
and the front was blistered, weather-stained, discoloured, and
generally dilapidated. Some attempt had been made to cultivate the
patch of ground in front, but, beyond rearing a few marigolds and
pansies, the attempt had not been successful. Up a path bordered by
oyster shells, Frank advanced to a rustic porch of green latticework,
entwined with dusty creepers, and rang a jingling little bell whose
shrill summons he could hear. While waiting he casually noticed that
the right-hand window was slightly open, although the blind was pulled
down. Before he could observe further, the door opened so suddenly
that it almost seemed as though the person behind had been waiting in
the passage.
The person was a small sluttish servant, with gooseberry eyes and a
pasty white face. She was attired in her best blue dress, and wore a
large picture-hat trimmed with more flowers than adorned the garden.
Also she had on gloves, and carried a yellow umbrella. As soon as she
saw Frank she burst into voluble speech.
"Yer the gent as wishes to see Mr. Starth, and I am glad to see you,
sir, for he said as you was goin' to be 'ere at four, it now bein'
half-past, and I'm goin' out, my young man waiting for me. This way,
sir, and please be quick, as I am in a hurry. Missus 'ave gone out
too, but the tea's all ready and the kettle on the fire."
Almost before she finished this incoherent address, she conducted the
astonished Frank up a stuffy staircase, and into a front room. Hastily
shoving him into this, she banged the door, and hurried away,
presumably to meet her young man. Lancaster, puzzled by this
reception, and by the mean look of the room in which he found himself,
halted at the door, waiting for his host to speak. Starth was sitting
in an armchair by the window, with a book. He threw this down, and
advanced to his visitor with outstretched hands.
"I'm glad you've come, Lancaster," he said, eagerly. "I am so ashamed
of myself that I hardly know what to say."
"Say nothing more," said Frank, laying aside his hat and cane. "I am
only too glad to come to an understanding. I can't comprehend why you
quarrel with me."
"Jealousy," said Starth, quickly, and sat down.
"Of me and Miss Berry? Well, you needn't be. I don't love her."
Starth pulled down the blind so as to prevent his discoloured eye
showing up too badly. "I thought you were to marry her?" he remarked.
"Certainly not. Such an idea never entered my head. Who said so?"
"Captain Berry."
Frank looked puzzled, then laughed. "I should have thought Berry more
ambitious for his niece. I haven't any money."
"That's just it," said Starth, slowly. "If you are poor, how did you
come to give her those diamonds?"
"I never did. I heard you gave them to her."
Starth laughed, and glanced round the stuffy room. "Would I live in
this dog's kennel if I could afford such stones?" he said. "My dear
Lancaster, I'm desperately hard up. Between my sister and myself there
is enough to live on, no more."
"I saw your sister last night," said Frank.
"Yes. She lives in Essex, but happened to be in town, so I got her a
box. She went back this morning with Mrs. Perth."
"Is that the lady who was with her?"
Starth nodded. "She and my sister live together in a small cottage at
Wargrove. But I needn't bore you with my family history. I want you to
accept my apology."
"I do, Starth. But why did you mention my parents?"
"It was the only thing I could think of."
"To make me angry, I suppose? H'm! You know nothing about me."
"No. Is there anything interesting to know?"
"I fear not," said Lancaster. "My story is a dull one. Still, I
thought that Jarman might have said something."
"He said nothing. I never asked about you," responded the other,
quickly. "Fact is, Lancaster, I don't think you and I ever got on well
together. My fault, I'm afraid, as I have such a bad temper. I am
jealous, too, as I love Miss Berry and want to marry her."
"You can, for all I care," said Lancaster, quietly. "I did admire her
greatly, but I never had any intention of marrying her. As to the
diamonds, who told you that I gave them to her?"
"No one directly. But Berry hinted--"
"Why should he hint?" said Frank, thoughtfully. "He knows I'm as poor
as the proverbial church mouse. Do you think he wants me, or expects
me, to marry his niece?"
"Yes, I do," said Starth, promptly; "and that was why I grew jealous."
"Then I can't see his reason. I have no money, no position, and no
influence. Miss Berry doesn't love me--"
"The Captain says she does," said Starth, quickly.
"Oh, that's rubbish! She likes me because I write her songs, and we
get on well together. As for love--" Frank shrugged his shoulders.
"Have you never been in love, Lancaster?"
Frank grew red and shook his head, looking down meanwhile. Starth's
jealous eyes followed his every movement, and he eagerly waited for an
answer. But none came. Frank could not bring himself to say that he
had fallen in love with a girl he had seen but once, and to say it to
her brother. In place of gratifying Starth's curiosity he changed the
subject. "What a queer servant that was who admitted me," he said.
"She was quite angered because I had delayed her appointment with her
young man. Had I known, I'd have been punctual."
"It's Tilly," said Starth, carelessly. "A queer creature, as you
say--a London slavey of the regular type. I believe Mrs. Betts--that's
my landlady--gets her cheap from a workhouse. I let her go to see her
young man because Mrs. Betts, who keeps her well in hand, is away at
the wedding of some cousin or another. I've got all the house to
myself till nine o'clock. But, I say, let's have tea."
Frank made no objection, as he was thirsty, and Starth went down to
get the hot water. Pending his return Lancaster strolled about the
room, and looked at the photographs. There was one of the beautiful
girl he had seen on the previous night, and he nearly stole it. Also
he was taken with a gorgeous portrait of a tall, thick-lipped negress,
which had an Arabic inscription written at the foot. "Who is this,
Starth?" asked Frank, when his host returned with the tea-tray and a
kettle of hot water.
Starth glanced at the photograph. "A girl called Balkis. I believe she
comes from Zanzibar. I met her at the Docks when I was exploring an
opium den."
"H'm! She looks as though she had a temper."
"She has. Took a fancy to me, and gave me her picture, with that
writing. It's something about Allah and good luck, I believe. I saw
her a good many times at that opium shop. She runs it, I believe."
Lancaster sat down while Starth made ready the tea. It struck him,
from these remarks, and from a certain strange odour in the room, that
Starth smoked opium. Perhaps the drug was accountable for his queer
tempers and utter disregard of decency. Frank began to be rather sorry
he had quarrelled with the man, since, if he smoked opium, he was to a
certain extent not accountable for his actions. Starth, with his
swollen face and discoloured eye, looked queer and grim, and had a
haggard look about him which hinted at excess of some sort.
"Here you are," said Starth, passing along a cup. "Do you take sugar
Or perhaps," he added, as he handed over the basin, "you would like a
drink of whisky?"
"Tea's good enough for me," said Frank, sipping. "Well, Starth, I'm
glad we've come to some sort of understanding. I hate rows."
"So do I, but jealousy always makes my blood boil."
"But, you see, you've no cause to be jealous."
"I can see that now. But Berry kept hinting that it was an arranged
thing between you and Fan."
"H'm! I'll have a talk with him. He's no right to make false
statements of that kind. I wonder what his game is. I'm certainly not
a desirable match for his niece, putting aside the fact that she
doesn't care two pins for anyone but herself."
"Are you sure of that, Lancaster?" said Starth, with rather an anxious
look. "I'm mad about her, and want to marry her."
"I shouldn't like Banjo Berry for a connection myself," said
Lancaster, setting down his cup. "What a strange taste that tea has."
"They never clean the kettles here," said Starth, hastily. "It's smoke
or fur inside the kettle, or something. My tea tastes bad also."
Frank refused another cup, and smoked a cigarette while Starth related
his feelings for Fairy Fan in detail. Also he mentioned that he hoped
to see much of Lancaster, and that he should like to introduce him to
his sister. This last remark made Frank's heart leap with joy, but
somehow he could not find words to thank his host. Starth seemed to
recede a long way, and his voice sounded like that of a phonograph.
Lancaster tried to rise, but sank back in his chair drowsily. He felt
sure that there was foul play, as he saw faintly the man lean forward
to scrutinise him. But his brain was clouded, his speech was thick,
and wave after wave of something deeper than sleep poured over him.
His last thought was something about opium being in the tea, but he
could not put this into words. After that last effort of the mind to
overcome the lethargy his head fell back, and he became unconscious.
In after days Frank never could be got to tell his dreams. The mere
memory of them would make him shudder. Far away in the land of sleep
he wrestled with unknown foes, and passed a time of sheer agony not to
be paralleled by any experience of the waking hours. He seemed to have
slept for centuries when he came to himself on the sofa, with a furred
tongue and an aching head. There was a faint light in the room as the
blinds were up, and for a few minutes the young man, still half
stupefied with the drug, could not grasp the idea of his whereabouts.
Then after an effort or two at thought, his self-consciousness came
back with a rush. He rose slowly and staggered into the centre of the
room, only to stumble over a body.
It _was_ a body, for he fell on top of it. His memory became clearer
with the horror of the discovery. He remembered his visit, the empty
house, the drugged tea, and, recalling his dread of foul play on the
part of Starth, he slipped his hand round to his hip-pocket. The
Derringer was gone. When he made that discovery, Frank leaped to his
feet with a strangled cry. By this time he had his wits about him; but
still remained a vague fear of the thing on the floor.
His frock coat had been removed and cast on the carpet beside the
sofa. He found it by the feel, and obtained a match out of the
ticket-pocket. Striking this he bent over the dead. It _was_ Starth.
"Great Heavens!" said Frank, under his breath. "Starth--dead--shot!"
Assuredly shot, for there was a small hole under the left eye. The
bullet must have passed into the brain, killing the poor wretch
instantaneously. As the match flickered out, Frank was left alone in
the half-gloom beside this dead thing, trying to think how the poor
wretch had come by his death. Then it dawned anew on him that his
pistol was gone, that the man had been shot. Who had slain him? What
revolver had been used? The first question he could not answer, but
the second answered itself. Since his weapon was gone, it assuredly
had been used to commit the murder.
But was it murder? What about suicide? Frank tried to argue the case.
As he did so, the clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. The sudden
tingle of the bell set his blood leaping. He recalled how Starth had
expected Mrs. Betts and Tilly back at that hour, and making a dash for
his coat, he hastily struggled into it. He must not be found here with
the dead man. The row on the previous night, his foolish words, his
weapon, his being alone in the house with a man with whom he was well
known to be on bad terms--all these things would weave a rope to hang
him. Realising his danger with a gasp, Frank lighted another match,
and found cane and hat. But he had no more matches, although he
desired to search for the Derringer. All he wanted now was to get
away, and he hastened down the stairs in a state of agony, the
perspiration standing on his brow, and his heart in his mouth.
There was no difficulty in opening the door. He closed it again, and
went down the path, through the gate, and on to the road. Here a
street-lamp threw a strong light. Under it stood a girl and a young
man. "My, sir!" said Tilly, catching sight of his face, "you have been
a time with Mr. Starth. I 'ope he ain't angered. He--"
Lancaster waited to hear no more, but walked rapidly down the lane, he
knew not whither. All he wanted was to get away from the gallows, from
the dead.