Who knows? the man is proven by the hour.
In his stately bedroom on the second floor of the quietest house in
Russell Square Mr. Thomas Oscard--the eccentric Oscard--lay, perhaps,
a-dying.
Thomas Oscard had written the finest history of an extinct people that
had ever been penned; and it has been decreed that he who writes a
fine history or paints a fine picture can hardly be too eccentric. Our
business, however, does not lie in the life of this historian--a life
which certain grave wiseacres from the West End had shaken their
heads over a few hours before we find him lying prone on a four-poster
counting for the thousandth time the number of tassels fringing the
roof of it. In bold contradiction to the medical opinion, the nurse was,
however, hopeful. Whether this comforting condition of mind arose from
long experience of the ways of doctors, or from an acquired philosophy,
it is not our place to inquire. But that her opinion was sincere is
not to be doubted. She had, as a matter of fact, gone to the pantomime,
leaving the patient under the immediate eye of his son, Guy Oscard.
The temporary nurse was sitting in a cretonne-covered armchair, with a
book of travel on his knee, and thoughts of Millicent Chyne in his mind.
The astute have no doubt discovered ere this that the mind of Mr. Guy
Oscard was a piece of mental mechanism more noticeable for solidity of
structure than brilliancy or rapidity of execution. Thoughts and ideas
and principles had a strange way of getting mixed up with the machinery,
and sticking there. Guy Oscard had, for instance, concluded some years
before that the Winchester rifle was, as he termed it, “no go”; and if
the Pope of Rome and the patentee of the firearm in question had crossed
Europe upon their bended knees to persuade him to use a Winchester
rifle, he would have received them with a pleasant smile and an offer
of refreshment. He would have listened to their arguments with that
patience of manner which characterises men of large stature, and for
the rest of his days he would have continued to follow big game with
an “Express” double-barrelled rifle as heretofore. Men who decide such
small matters as these for themselves, after mature and somewhat slow
consideration, have a way of also deciding the large issues of life
without pausing to consider either expediency or the experience of their
neighbours.
During the last forty-eight hours Guy Oscard had made the decision that
life without Millicent Chyne would not be worth having, and in the
hush of the great house he was pondering over this new feature in his
existence. Like all deliberate men, he was placidly sanguine. Something
in the life of savage sport that he had led had no doubt taught him to
rely upon his own nerve and capacity more than do most men. It is the
indoor atmosphere that contains the germ of pessimism.
His thoughts cannot have been disturbing, for presently his eyes closed
and he appeared to be slumbering. If it was sleep, it was the light
unconsciousness of the traveller; for a sound so small, that waking ears
could scarce have heard it, caused him to lift his lashes cautiously. It
was the sound of bare feet on carpet.
Through his lashes Guy Oscard saw his father standing on the hearthrug
within two yards of him. There was something strange, something
unnatural and disturbing, about the movements of the man that made Guy
keep quite still--watching him.
Upon the mantelpiece the medicine bottles were arranged in a row, and
the “eccentric Oscard” was studying the labels with a feverish haste.
One bottle--a blue one--bore two labels: the smaller, of brilliant
orange colour, with the word “Poison” in startling simplicity. He took
this up and slowly drew the cork. It was a liniment for neuralgic
pains in an overwrought head--belladonna. He poured some into a
medicine-glass, carefully measuring two tablespoonsful.
Then Guy Oscard sprang up and wrenched the glass away from him, throwing
the contents into the fire, which flared up. Quick as thought the bottle
was at the sick man's lips. He was a heavily built man with powerful
limbs. Guy seized his arm, closed with him, and for a moment there was
a deadly struggle, while the pungent odour of the poison filled
the atmosphere. At last Guy fell back on art: he tripped his father
cleverly, and they both rolled on the floor.
The sick man still gripped the bottle, but he could not get it to his
lips. He poured some of the stuff over his son's face, but fortunately
missed his eyes. They struggled on the floor in the dim light, panting
and gasping, but speaking no word. The strength of the elder man was
unnatural--it frightened the younger and stronger combatant.
At last Guy Oscard got his knee on his father's neck, and bent his wrist
back until he was forced to let go his hold on the bottle.
“Get back to bed!” said the son breathlessly. “Get back to bed.”
Thomas Oscard suddenly changed his tactics. He whined and cringed to his
own offspring, and begged him to give him the bottle. He dragged across
the floor on his knees--three thousand pounds a year on its knees to Guy
Oscard, who wanted that money because he knew that he would never get
Millicent Chyne without it.
“Get back to bed!” repeated Guy sternly, and at last the man crept
sullenly between the rumpled sheets.
Guy put things straight in a simple, man-like way. The doctor's
instructions were quite clear. If any sign of excitement or mental
unrest manifested itself, the sleeping-draught contained in a small
bottle on the mantelpiece was to be administered at once, or the
consequences would be fatal. But Thomas Oscard refused to take it. He
seemed determined to kill himself. The son stood over him and tried
threats, persuasion, prayers; and all the while there was in his heart
the knowledge that, unless his father could be made to sleep, the
reputed three thousand a year would be his before the morning.
It was worse than the actual physical struggle on the floor. The
temptation was almost too strong.
After a while the sick man became quieter, but he still refused to take
the opiate. He closed his eyes and made no answer to Guy's repeated
supplication. Finally he ceased shaking his head in negation, and at
last breathed regularly like a child asleep.
Afterwards Guy Oscard reproached himself for suspecting nothing. But
he knew nothing of brain diseases--those strange maladies that kill the
human in the human being. He knew, however, why his father had tried to
kill himself. It was not the first time. It was panic. He was afraid of
going mad, of dying mad like his father before him. People called him
eccentric. Some said that he was mad. But it was not so. It was only
fear of madness. He was still asleep when the nurse came back from the
pantomime in a cab, and Guy crept softly downstairs to let her in.
They stood in the hall for some time while Guy told her in whispers
about the belladonna liniment. Then they went upstairs together and
found Thomas Oscard--the great historian--dead on the floor. The
liniment bottle, which Guy had left on the mantelpiece, was in his
hand--empty. He had feigned sleep in order to carry out his purpose.
He had preferred death, of which the meaning was unknown to him, to the
possibility of that living death in which his father had lingered for
many years. And who shall say that his thoughts were entirely selfish?
There may have been a father's love somewhere in this action. Thomas
Oscard, the eccentric savant, had always been a strong man, independent
of the world's opinion. He had done this thing deliberately, of mature
thought, going straight to his Creator with his poor human brain full of
argument and reason to prove himself right before the Judge.
They picked him up and laid him reverently on the bed, and then Guy went
for the doctor.
“I could,” said the attendant of Death, when he had heard the whole
story--“I could give you a certificate. I could reconcile it, I mean,
with my professional conscience and my--other conscience. He could not
have lived thirty hours--there was an abscess on his brain. But I should
advise you to face the inquest. It might be”--he paused, looking keenly
into the young fellow's face--“it might be that at some future date,
when you are quite an old man, you may feel inclined to tell this
story.”
Again the doctor paused, glancing with a vague smile towards the woman
who stood beside them. “Or even nurse--” he added, not troubling to
finish his sentence. “We all have our moments of expansiveness. And it
is a story that might easily be--discredited.”
So the “eccentric Oscard” finished his earthly career in the
intellectual atmosphere of a coroner's jury. And the world rather liked
it than otherwise. The world, one finds, does like novelty, even in
death. Some day an American will invent a new funeral, and if he can
only get the patent, will make a fortune.
The world was, moreover, pleased to pity Guy Oscard with that pure and
simple sympathy which is ever accorded to the wealthy in affliction.
Every one knew that Thomas Oscard had enjoyed affluence during his
lifetime, and there was no reason to suppose that Guy would not step
into very comfortably lined shoes. It was unfortunate that he should
lose his father in such a tragic way, and the keen eye of the world
saw the weak point in his story at once. But the coroner's jury was
respectful, and the rest of society never so much as hinted at the
possibility that Guy had not tried his best to keep his father alive.
Among the letters of sympathy, the young fellow received a note from
Lady Cantourne, whose acquaintance he had successfully renewed, and in
due course he called at her house in Vere Gardens to express somewhat
lamely his gratitude.
Her ladyship was at home, and Guy Oscard was ushered into her presence.
He looked round the room, with a half-suppressed gleam of searching
which was not overlooked by Millicent Chyne's aunt.
“It is very good of you to call,” she said, “so soon after your poor
father's death. You must have had a great deal of trouble and worry.
Millicent and I have often talked of you, and sympathised with you. She
is out at the moment, but I expect her back almost at once. Will you sit
down?”
“Thanks,” he said; and after he had drawn forward a chair he repeated
the word vaguely and comprehensively--“Thanks”--as if to cover as many
demands for gratitude as she could make.
“I knew your father very well,” continued the lady, “when we were young.
Great things were expected of him. Perhaps he expected them himself.
That may have accounted for a tone of pessimism that always seemed
to pervade his life. Now, you are quite different. You are not a
pessimist--eh?”
Guy gravely examined the back of his gloved hand. “Well, I am afraid I
have not given much thought to the question.”
Lady Cantourne gave him the benefit of a very wise smile. She was
unrivalled in the art of turning a young man's mind inside out and
shaking it.
“No! you need not apologise. I am glad you have given no thought to it.
Thought is the beginning of pessimism, especially with young men; for if
they think at all, they naturally think of themselves.”
“Well, I suppose I think as much of myself as other people.”
“Possibly; but I doubt it. Will you ring the bell? We will have some
tea.”
He obeyed, and she watched him with approval. For some reason--possibly
because he had not sought it--Lady Cantourne had bestowed her entire
approval on this young man. She had been duly informed, a few weeks
before this visit, that Miss Millicent Chyne had engaged herself to be
married to Jack Meredith whenever that youth should find himself in
a position to claim the fulfilment of her promise. She said nothing
against the choice or the decision, merely observing that she was sorry
that Jack had quarrelled with his father. By way of counsel she advised
strongly that the engagement be kept as much in the background as
possible. She did not, she said, want Millicent to be a sort of red rag
to Sir John, and there was no necessity to publish abroad the lamentable
fact that a quarrel had resulted from a very natural and convenient
attachment. Sir John was a faddist, and, like the rest of his kind,
eminently pig-headed. It was more than likely that in a few months he
would recall his son, and, in the meantime, it never did a girl any good
to be quarrelled over.
Lady Cantourne was too clever a woman to object to the engagement. On
the contrary, she allowed it to be understood that such a match was
in many ways entirely satisfactory. At the same time, however, she
encouraged Guy Oscard to come to the house, knowing quite well that he
was entirely unaware of the existence of Jack Meredith.
“I am,” she was in the habit of saying, “a great advocate for allowing
young people to manage their affairs themselves. One young man, if he be
the right one, has more influence with a girl than a thousand old women;
and it is just possible that he knows better than they do what is for
her happiness. It is the interference that makes mischief.”
So she did not interfere. She merely invited Guy Oscard to stay to tea.