A SINE QUÂ NON.
BARBARA was on her way home from Ashburton. She had attended her aunt’s
funeral, and knew that a little sum of about fifty pounds per annum
was hers, left her by her aunt. She was occupied with her thoughts.
Was there any justification for Jasper? The father was hateful. She
could excuse his leaving home; that was nothing; such a home must be
intolerable to a young man of spirit—but to rob his father was another
matter. Barbara could not quite riddle the puzzle out in her mind. It
was clear that Mr. Babb had confided the fifteen hundred pounds to
Jasper, and that Jasper had made away with them. He had been taken and
sent to prison at Prince’s Town. Thence he had escaped, and whilst
escaping had met with the accident which had brought him to become an
inmate of Morwell House. Jasper’s story that he had lost the money was
false. He had himself taken it. Barbara could not quite make it out;
she tried to put it from her. What mattered it how the robbery had been
committed?—sufficient that the man who took the money was with her
father. What had he done with the money? That no one but himself could
tell, and that she would not ask him.
It was vain crying over spilt milk. Fifteen hundred pounds were gone,
and the loss of that money might affect Eve’s prospects. Eve was
already attracting admiration, but who would take her for her beauty
alone? Eve, Barbara said to herself, was a jewel that must be kept in a
velvet and morocco case, and must not be put to rough usage. She must
have money. She must marry where nothing would be required of her but
to look and be—charming.
It was clear to Barbara that Mr. Coyshe was struck with her sister, and
Mr. Coyshe was a promising, pushing man, sure to make his way. If a man
has a high opinion of himself he impresses others with belief in him.
Mr. Jordan was loud in his praises; Barbara had sufficient sense to
dislike his boasting, but she was influenced by it. Though his manner
was not to her taste, she was convinced that Mr. Coyshe was a genius,
and a man whose name would be known through England.
What was to be done? The only thing she could think of was to insist on
her father making over Morwell to Eve on his death; as for herself—she
had her fifty pounds, and she could go as housekeeper to some lady; the
Duchess of Bedford would recommend her. _She_ was was not likely to be
thought of by any man with only fifty pounds, and with a plain face.
When Barbara reached this point she laughed, and then she sighed. She
laughed because the idea of her being married was so absurd. She sighed
because she was tired. Just then, quite uncalled for and unexpected,
the form of Jasper Babb rose up before her mind’s eye, as she had last
seen him, pale, looking after her, waving his hat.
She was returning to him without a word from his father, of
forgiveness, of encouragement, of love. She was scheming a future for
herself and for Eve; Jasper had no future, only a horrible past, which
cast its shadow forward, and took all hope out of the present, and
blighted the future. If she could but have brought him a kind message
it would have inspired him to redeem his great fault, to persevere in
well-doing. She knew that she would find him watching for her return
with a wistful look in his dark full eyes, asking her if she brought
him consolation.
Then she reproached herself because she had left his parting farewell
unacknowledged. She had been ungracious; no doubt she had hurt his
feelings.
She had passed through Tavistock, with her groom riding some way
behind her, when she heard the sound of a trotting horse, and almost
immediately a well-known voice called, ‘Glad to see your face turned
homewards, Miss Jordan.’
‘Good evening, Mr. Coyshe.’
‘Our roads run together, to my advantage. What is that you are
carrying? Can I relieve you?’
‘A violin. The boy is careless, he might let it fall. Besides he is
burdened with my valise and a bundle.’
‘What? has your aunt bequeathed a violin to you?’
A little colour came into Barbara’s cheeks, and she answered, ‘I am
bringing it home from over the moor.’ She blushed to have to equivocate.
‘I hope you have had something more substantial left you than an old
fiddle,’ said the surgeon.
‘Thank you, my poor aunt has been good enough to leave me something
comfortable, which will enable my dear father to make up to Eve for the
sum that has been lost.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Mr. Coyshe. ‘Charmed!’
‘By the way,’ Barbara began, ‘I wanted to say something to you, but I
have not had the opportunity. You were quite in the wrong about the
saucer of sour milk, though I admit there was a stocking—but how you
saw that, passes my comprehension.’
‘I did not see it, I divined it,’ said the young man, with his
protruding light eyes staring at her with an odd mischievous expression
in them. ‘It is part of the mysteries of medicine—a faculty akin to
inspiration in some doctors, that they see with their inner eyes what
is invisible to the outer eye. For instance, I can see right into your
heart, and I see there something that looks to me very much like the
wound I patched up in Mr. Jasper’s pate. Whilst his has been healing,
yours has been growing worse.’
Barbara turned cold and shivered. ‘For heaven’s sake, Mr. Coyshe, do
not say such things; you frighten me.’
He laughed.
She remained silent, uneasy and vexed. Presently she said, ‘It is not
true; there is nothing the matter with me.’
‘But the stocking was under the sofa-cushion, and you said, Not true,
at first. Wait and look.’
‘Doctor, it is not true at all. That is, I have a sort of trouble or
pain, but it is all about Eve. I have been very unhappy about the loss
of her money, and that has fretted me greatly.’
‘I foresaw it would be lost.’
‘Yes, it is lost, but Eve shall be no loser.’
‘Look here, Miss Jordan, a beautiful face is like a beautiful song,
charming in itself, but infinitely better with an accompaniment.’
‘What do you mean, Mr. Coyshe?’
‘A sweet girl may have beauty and amiability, but though these may be
excellent legs for the matrimonial stool, a third must be added to
prevent an upset, and that—metallic.’
Barbara made no reply. The audacity and impudence of the young surgeon
took the power to reply from her.
‘You have not given me that fiddle,’ said Coyshe.
‘I am not sure you will carry it carefully,’ answered Barbara;
nevertheless she resigned it to him. ‘When you part from me let the boy
have it. I will not ride into Morwell cumbered with it.’
‘A doctor,’ said Coyshe, ‘if he is to succeed in his profession, must
be endowed with instinct as well as science. A cat does not know what
ails it, but it knows when it is out of sorts; instinct teaches it to
swallow a blade of grass. Instinct with us discovers the disorder,
science points out the remedy. I may say without boasting that I am
brimming with instinct—you have had a specimen or two—and I have passed
splendid examinations, so that testifies to my science. Beer Alston
cannot retain me long, my proper sphere is London. I understand the
Duke has heard of me, and said to someone whom I will not name, that
if I come to town he will introduce me. If once started on the rails
I must run to success. Now I want a word with you in confidence, Miss
Jordan. That boy is sufficiently in the rear not to hear. You will be
mum, I trust?’
Barbara slightly nodded her assent.
‘I confess to you that I have been struck with your sister, Miss Eve.
Who could fail to see her and not become a worshipper? She is a radiant
star; I have never seen anyone so beautiful, and she is as good as she
is beautiful.’
‘Indeed, indeed she is,’ said Barbara, earnestly.
‘Montecuculli said,’ continued the surgeon, ‘that in war three things
are necessary: money; secondly, money; thirdly, money. In love it is
the same. We may regret it, but it is undeniable.’
Barbara did not know what to say. The assurance of the young man
imposed on her; she did not like him particularly, but he was superior
in culture to most of the young men she knew, who had no ideas beyond
hunting and shooting.
After a little while of consideration, she said, ‘Do you think you
would make Eve happy?’
‘I am sure of it. I have all the instincts of the family-man in me. A
man may marry a score of times and be father of fifty children, without
instinct developing the special features of domesticity. They are born
in a man, not acquired. _Pater-familias nascitur, non fit._’
‘Have you spoken to my father?’
‘No, not yet; I am only feeling my way. I don’t mind telling you what
brought me into notice with the Duke. He was ill last autumn when down
at Endsleigh for the shooting, and his physician was sent for. I met
the doctor at the Bedford Inn at Tavistock; some of us of the faculty
had an evening together, and his Grace’s condition was discussed,
casually of course. I said nothing. We were smoking and drinking rum
and water. There was something in his Grace’s condition which puzzled
his physician, and he clearly did not understand how to treat the case.
_I_ knew. I have instinct. Some rum had been spilled on the table; I
dipped the end of my pipe in it, and scribbled a prescription on the
mahogany. I saw the eye of the doctor on it. I have reason to believe
he used my remedy. It answered. He is not ungrateful. I say no more. A
city set on a hill cannot be hid. Beer Alston is a bushel covering a
light. Wait.’
Barbara said nothing. She rode on, deep in thought. The surgeon jogged
at her side, his protruding water-blue eyes peering in all directions.
‘You think your sister will not be penniless?’ he said.
‘I am certain she will not. Now that my aunt has provided for me, Eve
will have Morwell after my father’s death, and I am sure she is welcome
to what comes to me from my aunt till then.’
‘Halt!’ exclaimed the surgeon.
Barbara drew rein simultaneously with Mr. Coyshe.
‘Who are you there, watching, following us, skulking behind bushes and
hedges?’ shouted Coyshe.
‘What is it?’ asked Miss Jordan, surprised and alarmed.
The surgeon did not answer, but raised to his shoulder a stick he
carried.
‘Answer! Who are you? Show yourself, or I fire!’
‘Doctor Coyshe,’ exclaimed Barbara, ‘forbear in pity!’
‘My dear Miss Jordan,’ he said in a low tone, ‘set your mind at rest. I
have only an umbrella stick, of which all the apparatus is blown away
except the catch. Who is there?’ he cried, again presenting his stick.
‘Once, twice!’—click went the catch. ‘If I call three and fire, your
blood be on your own head!’
There issued in response a scream, piercing in its shrillness, inhuman
in its tone.
Barbara shuddered, and her horse plunged.
A mocking burst of laughter ensued, and then forth from the bushes
into the road leaped an impish boy, who drew a bow over the catgut of
a fiddle under his chin, and ran along before them, laughing, leaping,
and evoking uncouth and shrill screams from his instrument.
‘A pixy,’ said the surgeon. ‘I knew by instinct one was dodging us.
Fortunately I could not lay my hand on a riding whip this morning, and
so took my old umbrella stick. Now, farewell. So you think Miss Eve
will have Morwell, and the matrimonial stool its golden leg? That is
right.’