Mr. Spolger Tells a Story
Jackson Spolger, proprietor of that celebrated patent medicine,
"Spolger's Soother," was a long, lean, lank man, with a somewhat cross
face, and a mildly irritable manner. Spolger the father had been a
chemist, but having invented the "Soother," made his fortune thereby,
owing to lavish advertising and plenty of testimonials (paid for) from
hypochondriacal celebrities. Having thus fulfilled his mission in this
world, and benefited his fellow men by the "Soother," he departed
therefrom, leaving his money and his "Soother" to Spolger the son, who
still carried on the advertising business, and derived a large income
from it. He had been well educated, had travelled a good deal, and had
a kind of social veneer, which, added to his money, entitled him to be
called a gentleman. Although he suffered a good deal from ill-health,
he never by any chance used the "Soother," which led ill-natured
people to remark that it was made to sell and not to cure. Mr.
Spolger, however, did not mind ill-natured people being too much taken
up with himself and his ailments, of which he was always talking. He
chatted constantly about his own liver, or some one else's liver,
prescribed remedies, talked gloomily of his near death, and altogether
was not a particularly agreeable person.
Being thus a diseased egotist, he carried his mania for health even
into his matrimonial prospects, and loved Florry not so much on
account of her beauty as because she looked delicate, and in a wife of
such a constitution he thought he would always have some one beside
him, on whom to practise his little curative theories. He always
carried in his pocket a horrible little book called "Till the Doctor
Comes," and was never so delighted as when he found some one
sufficiently ill who would permit him to prescribe one of the remedies
from his precious book. He preferred a chemist's shop to his own
house, loved doctors above all other men, and contemplated passing his
honeymoon in a hydropathic establishment, where there would be plenty
of fellow-sufferers with whom to compare notes.
At present he was clad in a heavy tweed suit, and wore a thickly lined
fur coat, galoshes on his feet, and a roll of red flannel round his
throat.
"How do you do, Mr. Marson?" he said, in a thin, irritable voice, as
he shook hands. "I hope you are well. You don't look it. Your hand is
moist; that's a bad sign. Dry? Yes, mine is dry. I'm afraid it's
fever. Diseases are so subtle. Miss Varlins, you look healthy. Florry,
my dearest, what a thin dress for this weather!"
"Oh, it's all right, Mr. Spolger."
"Jackson," he interpolated.
"It's all right, Jackson," said Florry, gaily. "I'm quite healthy."
"Ah, yes, now," replied Mr. Spolger, darkly, sitting down; "but that
thin dress means a chill. It might settle on the lungs, and you might
be in your coffin before you know where you are."
"Nonsense, man," said Marson, in a hearty voice; "the room is quite
warm. Won't you take off that heavy coat?"
"Not at present," answered Mr. Spolger, emphatically. "I always
accustom myself to the temperature of a place by degrees. A sudden
chill is worse than damp feet."
"Will you have some tea, Mr. Spolger?" asked Judith, for the footman
had now brought in the teapot and a plate of toast.
"No, thank you," answered the hypochondriac, politely. "I'm undergoing
a course of medicine just now, and tea in my present condition means
death."
"Then have some toast," said Florry, laughingly, presenting him with
the plate.
"Buttered," said Mr. Spolger, looking at the plate. "Horrible! The
worst thing in the world for me! I take dry toast for breakfast, with
a glass of hot water--nothing more."
"I hope you don't intend me to breakfast like that," said Florry,
saucily.
"My dear, you can eat what you like," answered Mr. Spolger, solemnly
producing his little book. "Should you suffer from your indiscretion,
I have always got the remedy in this."
"Did the medicine Dr. Japix prescribed do you good?" asked Judith.
"Not a bit," said Spolger, slowly taking off his coat. "I still suffer
from sleeplessness. However, I've got a new idea I'm going to carry
out. Cold water bandages at the head, and a hot brick at the feet.
There, now my coat is off I feel beautiful."
"Well! well!" said Mr. Marson, rather impatient of all this medical
talk, "I hope you'll be quite well for your wedding."
"I hope so, too," retorted Spolger, with gloomy foreboding. "I've
arranged all the tour, Florry. We go first to Malvern, a very healthy
place, then to Bath to drink the waters. After that, if you like,
we'll go abroad, though I much distrust the drainage of these foreign
towns."
"Oh, let us go abroad at once," said Florry, eagerly; "to Paris. If
you find it too lively, you can walk everyday in the Père-la-Chaise
Cemetery."
"Don't jest on such a subject, Florry," said Judith, reprovingly.
"Oh, I don't mind," replied the lover, with gloomy relish; "we'll all
have to go to the cemetery some day, so it's as well to get accustomed
to the idea."
His three listeners looked rather depressed at this dismal prophecy,
but said nothing, while Mr. Spolger told cheerful little stories of
how his liver would treat him if he did not look after it. This led
him to talk of medicine, which suggested chemists, which in their turn
suggested Wosk & Co., so by-and-by Mr. Spolger began to talk of
Monsieur Judas.
"A most estimable young man," he said, feeling his own pulse in a
professional manner; "he has had typhoid fever twice, and suffers from
corns."
"Tight boots?" asked Florry, flippantly.
"No, hereditary! Most curious case. But talking of Monsieur Guinaud--"
"Judas," said Miss Varlins, smiling.
"Yes, I hear they call him Judas on account of his red hair," replied
Mr. Spolger, laughing carefully. "Well, as a chemist, he takes a great
interest in Florry."
"In me?" cried the damsel, indignantly.
"Yes; he thinks you look delicate," said Mr. Spolger, complacently;
"indeed, he suggested several remedies. And if you would see him--"
"No, no!" interposed Marson, quickly. "Really, Jackson, I'm
astonished at you. If Florry requires to see a medical man, there is
Dr. Japix; but as to letting a man like that Frenchman meddle with her
health--why, the very look of him is enough."
"Consumption," said Mr. Spolger, sagaciously; "he looks delicate, I
know."
"I think he is a very dangerous man," said Judith, in her quiet,
composed voice; "he was a great friend of--" Here she checked herself
suddenly.
"Of Melstane," finished Spolger, scowling. "Yes, I know that. And
talking about Mr. Melstane--"
"Don't talk about Mr. Melstane," said Marson, sharply.
"Why not?"
Florry answered him, for she was evidently struggling with a fit of
hysteria, and as he spoke she arose from her seat and fled rapidly
from the room, followed by Judith.
"There," said Marson, in an annoyed tone, "how foolish you are to
speak of that scamp!"
"I don't see why Florry shouldn't get used to his name," replied
Spolger, sulkily. "Of course, I know she loved him, but it's all over
now; he won't trouble her again."
"Why not?" demanded Marson, quickly.
"Because he's gone away. He had the impudence to call on me before he
went, but I soon settled him, though he upset me dreadfully."
"What did he call about?"
Spolger was going to reply, when once more the door was thrown open,
and the footman announced in stentorian tones:
"Mr. Roger Axton."
"Oh, how do you do, Mr. Axton?" said Mr. Marson, going forward to meet
the young man. "I did not know you were down here."
"No! I came by this morning's train from town," replied Roger, shaking
the old man's hand. "I trust you are well, Mr. Spolger?"
That gentleman shook his head as Axton sat down, and lights being
brought in at this moment, looked sharply at the new-comer, answering
his question in the Socratian fashion by asking another.
"Are you well?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Roger, hurriedly, "perfectly. I suffer a good deal
from sleeplessness."
"You should try--"
"Spolger's Soother, I suppose?"
"No," said Jackson, solemnly, "I never recommend that to my friends.
You should try morphia. Why, what's the matter?"
"Nothing," answered Roger, faintly, for he had started violently at
the mention of the drug, "only I'm rather nervous."
"You've been overworking, I suppose," said Mr. Marson, looking at him
keenly; "burning the midnight oil."
"No, indeed! I've been on a walking tour."
"Very healthy exercise," said Mr. Spolger, approvingly. "I can't
indulge in it myself because I've a tendency to varicose veins. What
part of the country were you walking in?"
"Down Winchester way," replied Roger, raising his eyes suddenly and
looking at Mr. Marson steadily.
"Oh, indeed!" answered that gentleman, with a start; "then I suppose
you were near Jarlchester."
"I was at Jarlchester," said Roger, emphatically, "during the
investigation of that case."
Both his listeners were silent, as if some nameless fear paralysed
their tongues; then Marson looked at Spolger, and Spolger looked at
Marson, while Roger glanced rapidly from one to the other.
At this moment Judith entered the room.
"Florry is better," she said, advancing; "she is-- What, Mr. Axton!"
"Yes; I came down here to see a friend, and thought I would look in,"
replied Roger as she greeted him.
"I am very glad you did not forget us," she remarked, quietly resuming
her seat. "Will you have a cup of tea?"
"Thank you!"
They were seated beside the tea-table, and were quite alone, as Mr.
Marson in company with his future son-in-law had left their seats, and
were now talking together in low whispers at the end of the room.
Judith handed a cup of tea to Roger, and looked at him steadily as he
stirred it with a listless expression on his worn face.
"You don't look well," she said at length, dropping her eyes.
"Mental worry," he responded, with a sigh. "I have undergone a good
deal since I last saw you."
"In connection with that?" she asked, in a low voice.
"Yes! I received your letter in London, and went at once down to
Jarlchester on a walking tour, that is, I made my walking tour an
excuse for being there. I stayed there a week, and then received your
second letter saying he was coming."
"And he came?" asked Judith, with a quick indrawn breath.
"He did."
"You saw him?" she continued, looking nervously towards the two
whispering figures at the end of the room.
"Yes!"
"And got--and got the letters?"
"Of course," said Axton, in a tone of surprise. "I sent them to
you--to the post office, as you desired."
"My God!" she said, in a low voice of agony, "I--I have not received
them. I went to the post office every day to ask for a packet directed
to Miss Judith, but have been told it had not come."
"Good heavens!" said Roger, with a start of surprise, "I hope they
have not gone astray--I ought to have registered them."
"If you had I could not have obtained them," replied Miss Varlins,
hurriedly; "you forget. The packet was addressed to Miss Judith, and
the postmistress knows me so well, I could not have signed any but my
own name without causing remark."
"You ought to have allowed me to send them here."
"Yes! and then Florry would have seen them."
"Nonsense!"
"There is always a possibility," said Judith, quickly; "but if these
letters have gone astray, what are we to do?"
"Well, if--"
"Hush!"
She laid her hand suddenly on his arm to arrest his speech, for at
that moment the voice, thin and peevish, of Mr. Spolger, was heard
saying a name:
"Sebastian Melstane."
Judith and Roger both looked at one another, their cheeks pale, their
manners agitated, and he was about to speak again when she stopped him
for the second time.
"Listen!"
They could hear quite plainly, for the pair at the end of the room had
moved unthinkingly near them, and Spolger was talking shrilly to Mr.
Marson about the man of whom they were then thinking.
"He came up to see me before he went away. I was very ill, but he
would see me, and we had a most agitating interview. Told me that he
loved Florry--told me, her affianced husband. Said that she would
never marry me--that he could prevent the marriage. Then he insulted
me. Yes! held out a box of pills, and asked me if I had any ideas
beyond such things. I knocked the box out of his hand and insisted
upon his leaving the house. He went, for I was firm--very firm though
much agitated. He left the box behind him. Yes, I found it after he
was gone, and sent my servant down with it to his boarding-house. Oh,
I was terribly agitated. He was so bold. But he won't come back again.
No! he won't come back."
"How do you know that?" cried Roger, starting to his feet, in spite of
Judith's warning touch.
"What! you were listening," said Mr. Spolger, angrily, coming near to
the young man.
"I could hardly help hearing you, seeing you raised your voice,"
retorted Roger, sharply.
"Most dishonourable! most dishonourable!"
"Sir!"
"Gentlemen! gentlemen!" said Francis Marson, plainly, "you are in my
house."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Marson," said Roger, ceremoniously, "I only
asked Mr. Spolger a simple question."
"To which he declines to reply," replied Mr. Spolger, coolly.
"Why?"
Judith had risen to her feet and was clinging to Francis Marson's arm,
while Roger and Spolger looked steadily at one another. The whole four
of them were so intent upon the conversation that they did not see a
little figure enter the door and pause on the threshold at the sound
of the angry voices.
"You agitate me," said the valetudinarian, angrily. "I am not used to
be agitated, sir. I was telling my friend a private story, and you
should not have listened.
"I apologise," replied Roger, bowing. "I did not intend to give
offence, but I wondered how it was you guessed Melstane would never
return."
The little figure stole nearer.
"What do you mean?" asked Spolger, quickly.
Judith leaned on Marson's arm with her face deadly white and her eyes
dilated, waiting--waiting for what she dreaded to think.
"I mean about the Jarlchester Mystery."
Mr. Marson said nothing, but with a face as pale as that of the woman
on his arm, stared steadily at Roger Axton. At the mention of
Jarlchester the figure behind came slowly along until Florry Marson,
with a look of terror on her face, stood still as a statue behind her
lover.
"I have read in the papers about the Jarlchester Mystery," said
Spolger, in an altered tone.
"I guessed as much, and that was the reason you said Melstane would
not return."
"No, no! What do you mean?"
"Mean that Sebastian Melstane died at Jarlchester, and you know it."
"Sebastian!"
They all turned round, and there stood Florry, with one hand clasped
over her heart, and the other grasping a chair to steady herself by.
"Sebastian," she whispered, with white lips, "is--is he dead?"
Roger turned his head.
"Dead!" she cried, with a cry of terror. "Dead--murdered!" and fell
fainting on the floor.