ANOTHER PROBLEM
It was about ten days after the evening of which mention has been
made in the last chapter, and Amy was again seated by herself before
the fire in her cosy dining-room. In her hand she held a letter, the
writing and spelling of which left much to be desired. She had found it
on her arrival home that evening, and, having opened it, had said to
her father:
“Oh, it’s from old Martha; she seems to have got another place, and
thinks it is going to suit her.”
“I’m sure I hope it may. At her age she is not everyone’s servant.
Where has she gone to now?”
“Chippenham, with one old lady, who has a small house where there are
few stairs, so it won’t be such a trial for her legs as at her last
place.”
“Sounds better,” said the major, returning to his paper. “She isn’t
begging, I hope?”
“Oh, no; old Martha would have to come very low indeed before she did
that, poor old soul! Even after Carry’s death, when she was so long out
of a place, she did not do so. I think she would almost starve before
her pride would allow her to ask for charity.”
“Yes, yes; she’s a good old thing. You might do worse than have her
here with us.”
“I have thought of that, but I’ve no fault to find with Mary, and when
we were wanting a servant Martha was engaged. So I hope things will
go on all right with her now.” And Amy left the room to change her
things, placing the letter in her pocket. She had only glanced at it
hurriedly, and it was not till her father had retired for the night,
and she had the dining-room to herself, that she read it carefully.
Ignoring the bad grammar and curious spelling, it ran as follows:
“Spring Cottage,
Chippenham,
Tuesday.
“DEAR MISS AMY,—I thank you for your letter, and hope this will find
you as it leaves me at present. I am in a comfortable place as above,
and few stairs, with a Miss Warnford, who has plenty of money, but
no legs, not to speak of, through rheumatism. Likewise her temper
is awkward at times when it’s bad. But I can put up with that, and
humouring her she soon comes round.”
“You ask me about your cousin, Miss Carry Dean. As you will remember,
I was only with her a fortnight before she was taken bad for the
last time. It was very good of you to get me the place, and I should
have been very happy and comfortable there if things had gone right.
But it was not to be, and, poor soul, she’s gone, so I say nothing
against her. She was took bad one evening after her supper at seven
o’clock, and not liking the looks of her I ran to the cottage next
us, and sent Tom Harris, who lodged there, for her doctor, Mr. Duke,
who lived in the village. He was away at a case, and they did not
know when he would be back. Tom came and told me, and, Miss Carry
getting worse, I told him to get a horse or something and go to
Exeter and fetch one of the doctors there. He said he knew one what
had cured a mate of his—a Doctor Hodge, I think it was—so I told him
to fetch him. Off he goes, and Miss Carry was getting worse and
worse; and there was I awaiting and awaiting, till at last I heard
the horse outside. Tom had come back and no doctor. He’d seen him, he
said, and he would be here well-nigh as soon as he was. But he didn’t
come. I waited an hour or more, and my mistress getting worse and
worse; and then I was going down to see Tom and send him off again,
when she just gave a great sigh and was gone. And the strangest thing
was that when they came to call Tom next morning he was dead, too.”
“When Mr. Duke came that morning he said nothing could have saved my
mistress, but that I did quite right to send Tom off to Exeter; but
he made a rare fuss about no doctor coming, but Tom being dead no
one knew what doctor he had been to. I thought Hodge was the name he
said, but being that flustered I couldn’t be sure; and then it turned
out there was no doctor of that name in the town. They didn’t have
an inquest, as Dr. Duke could sign for her, and everything went off
quietly, and I stayed and took care of the house till matters were
settled up; and then, as you know, Miss, I was out of a place for
some time, and that’s all I can tell you; but if you want to know
anything more, and will drop me a line, I’ll try and tell you. So no
more at present from—Yours respectful—MARTHA GREEN.”
Having finished the perusal, Amy laid the two sheets in her lap and sat
motionless, staring into the fire. There was a hard look on her face,
and her brows were contracted into deep lines. She was thinking, and
her thoughts were not of the pleasantest.
“I’m certain that picture in the _Reflector_ was taken from the
likeness I saw in the photographer’s in Exeter,” she muttered. “I had
completely forgotten it till I saw the reproduction in the paper, and
then it came to my mind in an instant. It’s curious that though I had
seen him several times, the fact that I had seen his photograph at
Exeter never occurred to me until I saw his portrait in the paper, and
that not a good one. And then—then if it were he. And yet I can’t—no,
I can’t—think that he would do such a thing. Still, what I saw in the
lines of his hand that first evening he came to see my father——” And
again there was silence, broken only by a deep sigh.
Once again the girl spoke. She had a habit of talking to herself when
alone. It had commenced during her studies in the mystic in India, and
lately she had found it growing upon her.
“It wouldn’t be fair to judge him on a supposition only; and yet I
cannot put the question to him, for, after all, it has nothing to
do with me. He would resent it, naturally. He has attended father
professionally, and has called once or twice since, but that is all.”
And she shrugged her shapely shoulders in a manner that conveyed much.
Still she sat on, gazing into the fast dying fire.
“Had this man, Tom, lived everything would have been explained, no
doubt; as it is, the uncertainty remains, and, considering the time
that has passed since then, it is not likely to be cleared up—at any
rate, down there.” She gave a little laugh as the idea of what some of
her clients would think of her powers did they know how uncertain and
ignorant she felt at that moment. And that laugh seemed to break the
thread of her cogitations for she rose and, switching off the light,
left the room.
But she could not switch off her thoughts as easily as she did the
light, and for hours she lay awake, turning over and over in her mind a
problem that refused to be solved.
It was with very mixed thoughts and a feeling of resentment against
herself that she rose the following morning, after a disturbed and
wakeful night. She was angry with herself at the interest she found she
was taking in this acquaintance she had formed with a young suburban
doctor, whose portrait, she was now convinced, she had first come
across a long time previously in a photographer’s shop during a casual
visit to Exeter.
She had been strolling down the main street, and pausing to glance in
the window had been struck by a collection of portraits in a pierced
mount, in a single frame, and headed, “The Committee” of something or
other—she could not remember what. She had paid no particular attention
to it, and not one of the other likenesses remained in her mind; and
yet, directly she had seen the illustration in the _Reflector_, she had
felt sure she had seen somewhere the original portrait of which it was
a reproduction, and gradually it came to her that it was in the Exeter
shop.
It was curious, inexplicable.
There was something here that she could not fathom. When her father had
been taken ill, why had she selected as the doctor to be called in a
man whose name she had only seen on a brass plate some distance from
where they lived? And why had she felt so confident that he was the
_one_ man she ought to send for? And again, why, on that evening, when
her father was better, had she so far departed from her rule of strict
incognito when away from business as to reveal herself to him and
attempt to give him a specimen of her powers? Had she been prompted by
pride or a feeling of curiosity, and a wish to gather something of his
former life?
These were questions she could not answer. All she knew was that there
was something at the back of her mind that was defying her and causing
her uneasiness. And, try as she would, she could not drive out thoughts
of the young doctor.
That morning, before leaving Plevna Gardens for business, she did two
things. She looked out in an old album a portrait of her dead cousin,
Carry Dean, and, fitting it into a silver frame, from which she removed
the likeness of an old schoolfellow, placed it on a side table; and she
wrote the following note, to be posted on her way to Bond Street:
“2, Plevna Gardens, W.,
Thursday.
“DEAR DOCTOR ODD,—It is now some time since we had the pleasure
of seeing you. Why is this? My father has often wondered when you
were coming to have a chat with him again, and both he and I are
anxious to have the chance of offering you our congratulations on the
performance of a very brave action, and of hearing further and fuller
details at first hand. As you know, we are almost invariably at home
in the evening, so come when most convenient to yourself. My father
unites with me in kind regards.—Sincerely yours,”
“AMY GORDON.”
She had just finished this, and was placing it in an envelope, when
her father entered the room. In walking round the table to take up the
paper his eye caught sight of the photo of his dead niece.
“Why, my dear, what’s the meaning of this? What have you brought out
poor Carry for?”
“Fancy, father, fancy. I thought I should like to have her there for a
time, at any rate.”
“Very well, dear, by all means.” And taking up the frame and walking to
the window: “Poor thing, poor thing; she went very suddenly, didn’t
she? and only old Martha with her. Very sad, very sad, and she was such
a bright, merry girl when she was young;” and, replacing the frame,
“just off, dear? Well, take care of yourself. I think I shall run up to
the club this morning, it’s such a fine day.”
“The very thing; it would do you good. By the bye, father, I’ve sent a
line to Dr. Odd, suggesting he should look us up when he has time.”
“That’s right. I’m longing for a chat with him. He’s one of the best.
Good-bye, child, good-bye.” And with a kiss to her father Amy left the
room.
* * * * *
“And now you’re feeling none the worse for your efforts, eh, doctor?”
said the major.
“No, thank you. I was a little stiff the next morning, but that was
all. If it had been ten years ago I don’t suppose I should have noticed
it. And really, I hate all the fuss that was made over it, for the fact
that I am a good swimmer—I don’t say this in self-praise—reduces my
action to nothing out of the ordinary.”
“No, no; we don’t admit that, do we, Amy? It _was_ something very much
out of the ordinary, something that not one man in ten would have taken
on.”
“Then more shame for the ten, either for not having learnt to swim, or,
having done so, being afraid to put their powers to a proper use.”
“Well, well, I’m glad it was you and not I to whom the chance came.”
Owen Odd had looked in on the major and his daughter, and the trio were
seated round the fire, for the evening was chilly, the two men enjoying
their pipes.
“It was kind of you, Miss Gordon, to write to me, though without your
invitation I had meant to call; but I fear you are tired this evening,
are you not?” for the girl had spoken little.
“Oh, no, nothing to speak about. I had rather a full day, certainly,
but I’m thankful to say I often have.”
“Then I ought not to stay,” replied Owen, making a movement to rise.
“No, no; don’t think of such a thing. Please go on talking; I was
anxious to hear all about it,” and a smile drove away the somewhat
constrained look that had rested on her face.
“Oh, yes, doctor, sit still. Amy and I were quite excited about it.
But, tell me, you were precious near done when they got you out, were
you not?”
“I was, I admit. You see, I haven’t had much practice of late, and
to keep oneself afloat in one’s clothes takes some exertion, to say
nothing of having to support the dead weight of a body as well. But one
does not think of that at the time. I don’t quite know what one does
think about, except there is the feeling that one won’t be beaten, and
you keep on going to the last gasp.”
“And how is the boy you saved?” asked the girl.
“Oh, I have called at his house since, and found him as well as ever,
the young rascal. And didn’t I give him a rare jacketing for all the
trouble he has caused?”
“Was he duly penitent?”
“Not as he ought to have been; he seemed to regard it as a joke, and
considered himself more of a hero than anything else. However, I think
he’ll be precious careful in future when playing on the banks.”
“They certainly did not flatter you in the _Reflector_ portrait,” said
Amy, joining in the conversation once more.
“No; wasn’t it awful. And how those journalistic folk manage to get
hold of the portraits they do is a puzzle to me. That one was from a
photo I had done in Exeter some years ago, and it was considered rather
a good one at the time.”
“Oh, yes, I know it. At least, I’ve seen it before,” said the girl,
raising her eyes and looking Owen straight in the face.
“You know it, Miss Gordon!” and Amy fancied she detected a look of
uneasiness as he uttered the words in a constrained tone.
“Yes, I think I saw it in a shop in Exeter.”
“Then you know the place?”
“I can’t say I do, not really. I’ve been there once or twice, but it is
some time ago. I have no friends there.”
“Ah, wasn’t the water cold that night!” said the doctor with a shudder,
changing the trend of the conversation abruptly. “It was that that
tried me as much as anything, I think.”
“It must have been. I wonder you did not get the cramp. If you had——”
“I should not be enjoying myself here to-night,” replied Owen with a
laugh. “But it is not a matter to joke about, and I’m most thankful
things turned out as they did, and that I was able to save a life that
in the end may do some good in the world.”
“Yes; that must be a splendid feeling, and one you doctors have more
opportunities of experiencing than laymen,” said the major. “Speaking
as a military man, our object is to take life, while yours is to save
it. What a difference! And yet we are both doing our duty, in opposite
ways.”
“It seems to me that the doctor’s feeling must be the higher of the
two, though as a soldier’s daughter perhaps I ought not to say so.”
“I don’t know that, my dear,” replied the major. “Duty is duty in
whatever direction it may lie.”
“And how many of us can truthfully say we have always performed it,”
said the girl, with her eyes still upon Owen. “By the bye, doctor, did
you know a practitioner in Exeter of the name of Hodge?” she continued.
“Hodge, Hodge, not while I was there. But, of course, that was some
time ago,” and again Owen turned the conversation by some remarks to
the major, and for a time Amy remained silent. Nor did Owen try to draw
her into the conversation. He had a feeling that all was not right;
there was a cloud over the gathering that he had never noticed on
former occasions. In some way a barrier had arisen between the girl and
himself. Outwardly there was nothing that could be noticed, and yet it
was there, and he was convinced she was aware of it as well as himself.
He could not account for it, nor was it of his raising; therefore, it
must be her doing. It worried him, and he was ill at ease.
For some time longer he sat talking to the major, but on his part the
conversation was forced, and he feared it might be noticed.
At length, in connection with a remark that had been made respecting
some well known man, Miss Gordon said:
“May I trouble you, doctor, to hand me ‘Who’s Who’? You’ll see it on
that side table.”
Owen rose at once, and in order to take it had to move the photo that
Amy had recently placed there. She was watching him closely. A strong
light fell upon it, and as he moved it she saw him glance at it in a
casual way and put it aside, but without any sign of recognition or
interest.
“That is a cousin of mine who died,” she said. “Do you see any likeness
to me in it?”
He handed her the book, and, returning to the table, took up the frame
and brought it under the light, examining it closely.
“Not the slightest, Miss Gordon. She looks very delicate,” and he
replaced it. He did not resume his seat, but, after talking for a
few minutes, shook hands with his host and hostess and bade them
“Good-night.”
The major soon after this retired, leaving his daughter still sitting
before the fire.
Again she was deep in thought. She had laid a little plot, and it had
not come off; or had there been no groundwork on which to construct it?
She was uncertain, and this it was that was exercising her mind. As she
thought over the events of the evening she grew angry with herself.
She blamed herself for allowing her thoughts to dwell on a man she knew
so little of, and whose acquaintance she had so recently made, for she
could not hide from herself the fact that they certainly did circle
round one point in a way they had never done previously.
Again and again, during her interviews with her clients in Bond Street,
she found his strong, virile features rising between her eyes and the
hand she was examining; and the fact lowered her self-esteem. In her
own mind she called it weakness, and determined to conquer it. He had
been kind to her father, and she liked him. His society made pleasant
break in their evenings _a deux_, but it should remain at this. She
would draw a line over which he should not pass.
Every girl at a certain age has the intuitive knowledge when a man
finds in her something more than he finds in other girls, and Amy was
no exception to the rule. She knew that she had already become a very
important factor in the life of Owen Odd. In a measure the knowledge
gave her pleasure, yet, on the other hand, she was not sure that she
would allow matters thus to remain. Her character, owing to her
experiences in India, differed a good deal from that of a homebred
girl. She was accustomed to read more beneath the surface, and she
was convinced that there was something in the past connected with her
father’s friend that was hidden from the world; and this, in spite of
her Yogli training, she was unable to arrive at.
On arriving at his rooms Owen was surprised to find Dick awaiting him.
The two friends had not met for some little time, for both had been
much engaged on their own affairs.
“Hallo, my gallant Leander,” exclaimed Dick, rising from the armchair
in which he had been lounging. “I felt I must come and see if you had
wrung yourself dry again by now after your swim.”
“Now, then, no chaff, Dick. That’s an old story, and, as far as I am
concerned had better be forgotten. I’m about sick of it. One can have
too much of a good thing.”
“All right, old fellow; I quite understand. You always were so modest,”
and Dick laughed loudly as he slapped his friend on the back. “And,
apart from that little incident, how have things been going with you,
eh?”
“Fairly well. I haven’t made a fortune yet, if that is what you mean.
They’re not to be picked up in Hammersmith—at least, not every day. And
you——?”
“Oh, much the same as usual. I’ve been doing a bit of motoring now and
then, and knocking about generally. You know Thyra and her father are
in town, I suppose?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well they are, and Peter Sundt as well.”
“Really, we only want one or two more, and the whole of our Arctic
Circle will have come south,” replied Owen, with a laugh. “I suppose
you’ve been showing them round?”
“Some of them. But new friends don’t blot out old ones, there’s room in
my heart for both, and I want you to give me a little of your company
to-night.”
“New friend. Great Scot! I didn’t know you placed that scarlet-faced
Sundt in that category.”
“I don’t. The beast! I hate that fellow, Owen, hate him like poison.
Bah! it leaves a nasty taste in my mouth even to mention his name, so
let’s drop him. Keep your coat on, and let’s be off to more habitable
regions for an hour or two. I hate Hammersmith.”
“You appear to have a wave of general hate flooding you this evening,
Dick. What’s the matter?”
“I’m hanged if I know. I feel I’ve got the hump, but for no particular
reason. I do get like that sometimes, as you know. I tell you
what; we’ll take the Tube to Leicester Square and look in at the
Empire—there’s a turn I rather want to see. It may be rotten, but the
fellows are talking about it a bit, so I must see it. What do you say?”
“I’m game, if you think we shall be in time. When does it come on?”
“Ten forty-five.”
“Then we can do it if we look sharp. The Empire will be a bit of
a change after this confounded place,” and, after giving some
instructions to Margaret, the two friends left the house and made their
way to the Tube station in the Broadway.
During the journey their conversation was limited, for the “pipes” that
now riddle subterranean London do not tend to promote conversation; but
arriving towards the conclusion of the ballet, and having made their
way to the promenade, they were able to chat to their heart’s content,
and at the same time watch the show.
The turn Dick was anxious to sample came on directly afterwards, and
neither of them was particularly struck with it.
It merely exemplified the knots into which the female body may, by
early and consistent training, be tied and was more curious than
graceful.
“Well,” exclaimed Dick, as the curtain hid the panting performer, “I
hope she’ll get something to eat now; she can’t have had much before
the show. What do you say, doctor?”
“Probably not. These people must have hard lives. It’s wonderful what
some of us will do for money.”
“It is, and there are many less honest ways of making it than the one
that girl follows.”
Owen turned sharply at these words, and looked hard at Dick, but he was
lighting a cigarette at the moment, and did not notice the action of
his friend. “Have you had enough? Well, then, come on, and we’ll look
in at the club and have a drink before travelling West again.”
“Right you are—an excellent programme. Let’s walk; I want a breath of
fresh air after all this smoke, and it isn’t far.”
They had left the glare of the lights in front of the Empire behind
them, and were proceeding along Coventry Street, when Dick said:
“Did you notice those two fellows we passed just now? One of them
seemed to know you, Owen.”
“No. Where are they?” looking round.
Dick also turned. “They’ve vanished. I thought as we passed them they
didn’t want to be seen. They’d a shifty, hang-dog look.”
“Did you know them?” asked Owen.
“Don’t think so; and yet I almost fancy I’ve seen one of them before
somewhere.”
Several times, as they made their way through the Circus, either Dick
or his friend looked round, but noticed nothing unusual, and by the
time they reached the club they had forgotten the incident.
They stayed there chatting till it was time to make their way to Dover
Street for the last train to Hammersmith, and then, as they were just
about to cross Piccadilly, Dick exclaimed:
“There’s one of those fellows!” and dashed back, threading his way
quickly through the gaily bedizened throng that lingered on the
pavement.
Owen was too startled to move for a moment, and had hardly turned to
follow his friend when he found him again at his side.
“Missed him. He dodged me, and disappeared somewhere. I’m certain he
was following us, or he wouldn’t have bolted as he did when he saw he
was spotted. But come along, Owen, or it will mean a cab. We’ve only
got a minute or two.” And hurrying on, the friends just managed to
catch their train, and eventually parted in the Broadway.
As Owen walked to his rooms he several times looked back over his
shoulder. He was fearful lest he should be followed.