IN BLACK AND WHITE
We must return to London, and more particularly to Hammersmith.
Owen’s action in placing the matter of the annoying letters in the
hands of the police had led to nothing, so far as the discovery of the
writer was concerned. He still remained unfound. And the authorities
owned themselves baffled.
But there seemed to be one good result from his so doing: the letters
had ceased as suddenly as they had commenced. After the one that
arrived on the evening of Dick’s amateur effort at detective work, Owen
had received no more, and the annoyance was fading from his mind, the
more so as his friend was away in France, and he had no one with whom
to discuss the incident, as for certain reasons of his own he would not
revert to the matter with the major.
At first he had worried himself a good deal over it, but when the
infliction ceased he grew to look on it as the work of some lunatic who
had wished to have a joke at his expense, and was satisfied with the
result.
And there was another matter which occupied his mind a good deal. His
relations with the Gordons were not as pleasant as they had been at
first. Not that he could complain of anything on the part of the major;
he was always friendly and glad to see him. But with the daughter
it was different, and yet Owen could hardly say in what way the
difference lay, except that he appeared to be making no headway with
her. She was coolly polite when they met, and when he spent the evening
at their flat she would remain in the room working, but her share in
the conversation would be very slight.
As he expressed it, “she suffered him,” and he could find nothing
definite in her manner with which to find fault, at least openly. Her
father did not seem to notice anything, so what could he say? Yet a
lover is more exigeant than a man in his right senses, and looks for
more. Owen was far from contented, the thing worried him, he felt there
was no reason for her thus to treat him, and that she was not dealing
fairly with him.
He did not care to allude to the matter to the major; it was something
between Amy and himself, and between themselves it should remain.
At last his mind was made up, and, having a few hours to spare, he took
the “Tube” up to Bond Street and paid a call on Madame Juliette. He
found the waiting-room unoccupied, and her attendant informed him that
she had a client with her, but that she would see him next.
It was the first time he had paid a visit to her professional
apartments, and he was struck with the semi-oriental manner in which
they were furnished. All the luxuries and glamour of the East seemed
to be gathered there, and in the subdued light shed by the shaded
lamps—for the daylight was excluded by thick hangings over the
windows—it was easy to imagine he had been transported to the heart of
India.
But he had not long to wait before he was summoned by the
silent-footed, dark-skinned boy to follow him along a short passage,
at the end of which he drew back a door, and, raising a thick curtain,
Owen found himself in the presence of Miss Gordon. She rose from a low
divan upon which she had been sitting and bowed, but did not offer her
hand.
Owen took his cue from her, and, waiting till he heard the door close,
said:
“I trust you will excuse my calling on you here, Miss Gordon, but
there is a matter on which I wished to have a few words with you, and
I thought we might find more privacy here than at Plevna Gardens.” Amy
made no reply, merely bowing again, and Owen continued:
“It is impossible for me, Miss Gordon, to have failed to notice the
change in your manner towards me. When I had the honour of making your
acquaintance you were most kind and friendly, and I will not hide from
you the pleasure this gave me; but since then, from some cause, I know
not what, you have entirely changed, and, to speak honestly and openly,
I don’t think you are treating me fairly. I may have done something to
offend you, but, if so, it has been unwittingly, and I am entitled to
know what it is.”
Beyond a slight increase in colour which showed plainly beneath the
stain with which her face was darkened, Amy had heard him apparently
unmoved, but now that he paused she said quietly:
“What you say is quite true, Dr. Odd. For a time your acquaintance gave
me great pleasure, I admit; but does not your own conscience give you a
clue to the change you have remarked in me?”
“Honestly and truthfully, it does not. I am utterly and completely
unable to account for it.”
“I did not say anything to you,” she continued, “because the change
arose from a professional incident, which I felt in a sense no concern
of mine, and concerned you before we came to know you. Besides that, at
first it was only a conjecture on my part of which I had no proof.”
“And now you have?” replied Owen.
“I think so.”
“Then I demand to know what it may be,” said Owen sternly.
There was silence for a few moments while the girl was thinking deeply,
and then she continued:
“You were in practice in Exeter?”
“I was.”
“And your practice had not a high reputation?”
“I don’t think you have a right to say that, Miss Gordon. Unfortunately
my partner turned out far from what I had hoped, since he did not bear
the highest character for sobriety, but I don’t think anyone could say
anything against me.”
The girl nodded, then said: “You knew a Miss Dean, I believe?”
“I don’t recall the name.”
“Miss Carry Dean.”
“No, I think not.”
“Think again, Dr. Odd. She died.”
“No,” after a moment’s thought; “I’m sure I did not know her.”
“It may be so. Yet you were called in by her.”
“I think not.”
“Did you ever go by the name of Hodge?”
A smile flickered over Owen’s face at these words as he replied:
“I have certainly been called by that name by some of my poorer
patients. You see, my own name is an uncommon one, and the other would
be more familiar to them. But what has this to do with it?”
“Doctor, I have perhaps been hardly fair to you, and ought not to
have remained silent, but for my father’s sake I took a course which
I considered best, seeing he had made a friend of you, and your
society gave him pleasure. But now I will be quite open.” And Amy gave
her visitor a full account of her cousin’s sudden death between the
promised visit of the “Dr. Hodge” and the arrival of her own attendant,
continuing, “Since the letter I received from Martha Green, I have made
inquiries in Exeter, but the incident took place some time ago, and the
information I was able to gather was vague and unsatisfactory, and did
not serve to satisfy my mind.”
“It would have been much more fair had you applied to me as the
fountain head in the first place, I think,” replied Owen hotly.
“I see it now. It would have been. However, I did not. And lately I
have received from an unknown quarter a letter which went some way
further in confirming the suspicions that were in my mind.”
“I demand to see that letter. You owe me that at least,” said Owen
sternly. And Amy had never liked the man so well as now, when, with
anger blazing in his eyes, he was fighting for his character and
reputation. Gazing at him she hesitated for a moment or two, and then,
going to a drawer in her bureau, took from it a sheet of paper, and
handed it to him.
A single glance was sufficient. “Ah,” he exclaimed, “another of these
vile innuendos. I am sorry—very sorry, you should have allowed yourself
to be influenced by a thing of this kind. A stab in the back, given by
a coward.”
The girl had no answer ready. Her conduct was now placed before her in
its true light, and she saw where she was miserably at fault.
“But it shall not rest here,” continued Owen. “I have been traduced,
and you have sided with my traducer without giving me a chance of being
heard. Apart from my friendship with your father, this must be cleared
up. As a medical man I will not suffer this stain on my character to
go unchallenged. Now, Miss Gordon, putting aside all thoughts of the
friendship which I had hoped might perhaps in time have grown into
something stronger and closer between us, I ask from you the fullest
particulars regarding the death of your cousin, and my supposed summons
to her bedside.”
The girl’s answer was a burst of passionate tears. The lawful
indignation, and the straightforward accusation against herself by the
man in whom she was taking a greater interest than she cared to admit,
was more than she could bear in silence, and she broke down miserably.
Her tears gave Owen the sharpest pain, but he would not give way. She
had been unfair to him, and must take the consequences. He waited till
she had regained command over herself, and then quietly put to her
question after question till he was thoroughly conversant with all the
details. And then, as he was preparing to leave, he said:
“And now, Miss Gordon, you must leave the matter with me. I shall not
hesitate to apply to you if I see that you can in any way assist me,
but till I can get to the bottom of this foul charge I shall not accept
either your or your father’s hospitality. I do not wish to appear hard
or cruel to you, but you must see the case in its true light, and how
it is absolutely essential that I should clear myself. Good afternoon,”
and he would have left the room; but Amy, holding out her hand to him,
said:
“One moment, doctor. You have been far kinder to me than I deserve;
extend your kindness a little longer. Do not be too hard on me. As I
once told you, I am not like other girls, my training in the East has
made me suspicious and easily influenced. You will come to the truth,
ay, sooner than you think—I feel it, I know it——”
“How do you know it?” asked Owen sharply.
“I cannot tell, but I do know it. It is my mind.”
“If you can _know_ these things, why did you not know that you were
thinking wrongly of me?” asked Owen, with a sneer, for which he was
sorry directly afterwards. “Forgive me,” he continued, “I should not
have said that. Till I have come on the truth I must keep away from
you,” and, hesitating no longer, he left the apartment.
Taking the “Tube” to Shepherd’s Bush, he set out to walk from there to
his rooms. He wished to think.
He had learnt something, he had learnt the secret of Amy’s behaviour
towards him. He thought he had learnt something more, namely that,
in spite of what passed, there was deep hidden in her heart a warmer
feeling towards him than she was disposed to admit even to herself.
And then came the thought that even if she were in time to return the
passion which, in spite of her conduct, he still felt towards her, how
could he, with his indefinite prospects and meagre resources, aspire to
her hand? But—well, “sufficient for the day,” etc., and he strode on.
By the time he reached Hammersmith evening had fallen, and the electric
lamps were lit. He was approaching a poor side street when there
emerged from it a figure of a man, bent as though with weakness and
tottering in his steps. It caught Owen’s eye, and he was thinking
something must be amiss, when, after swaying a moment, the legs
collapsed, and the figure sank in a heap on the pavement.
Owen hurried up, and, raising the head, from which the hat had fallen,
from the stone, exclaimed:
“Good heavens! Jakes, it is you!”
There was no answer. The man was unconscious. At first Owen thought him
dead, but, ascertaining his heart was still beating, he appealed to
some of the crowd that had quickly gathered to help to carry him to his
surgery, which was only a few yards distant. Laying him on the couch,
and having got rid of the helpers, with the exception of the policeman
who stayed for the doctor’s verdict, he applied restoratives, and soon
the colour began to return to his face, and his eyes slowly opened.
“He’ll do now, constable. You can leave him with me; I’ll look after
him till he’s better. You might give me a call later to hear how he
gets on. But for the present what he requires is absolute quiet.”
“Right, sir, I’ll look in on my way to the station on going off duty,
so that I can make my report. Good evening.”
Left alone with his former partner, Owen sat by his side, watching
him carefully. The change in him was so great he had been startled at
first. The last time he had seen him he had been a stout man; now he
had shrunk away to almost nothing. His cheeks had fallen in, and his
eyes were hollow, while his skin, a sallow colour, hung in folds about
his jaws.
It was some time before he was sufficiently recovered to speak, and
when he did it was in anything but a pleasant manner.
“Odd! is that you? Curse you! What am I doing here? I’m not going to
let you——” and he made an effort to rise.
“Lie still, old man,” said Owen, pushing him back. “It’s all right. I’m
looking after you. You’ve not been well, but you’ll soon be better.
Here, drink this,” handing him a glass. “It’s not whisky,” with a
smile. “You shall have some of that later on.”
The sick man looked up doubtfully at the face that was bending over
him, and then, having taken the draught, sank back with a sigh and
closed his eyes.
Owen waited patiently, for the man seemed to have fallen asleep. At
length the eyes opened once more. “Now you’re feeling a bit better,
aren’t you? Eh, old man?”
“Yes; but what have you got to do with me? Where am I?”
“In my surgery. You fainted in the street, and I was passing and had
you brought here. I’ll take care of you.”
“I’ll be hanged if you do. I’m going,” and once more he tried to rise,
but sank back with a groan.
“Don’t be a fool, Jakes. You’re not fit to move yet, and you’re all
right here.”
“Honour bright? Is it all square?”
“Rather. What do you take me for? Surely I can look after an old chum?”
“You always were about as good as they make ’em, Odd, and I’ll take
your word.”
“That’s right. You just trust me, and I’ll soon have you on your legs
again.” Though in his heart Owen much doubted his ability to do so.
It was an hour later, and Jakes was sitting up. He was better, but far
from right.
“Look here, Odd,” he was saying, “I can’t stand this—your doing all
this for me.”
“Nonsense, man, you’re in my hands now, and, what’s more, you’re not
going to leave this place to-night. Where are you living. I’ll send
round for your things; I’ve got a spare room you can have, and then I
can keep my eye on you. Old fellow, you want tinkering up a bit. Where
am I to send?”
Jakes gave vent to a bitter laugh. “You can send to 10, Milton Street,
but they won’t let you have anything of mine. I owe them a couple of
weeks’ rent, and, after all, I’ve got nothing but a pair of worn-out
boots and a shirt or two there. I’m on my beam ends, fair stony, Odd.”
“All right, old chap, I can lend you what you want for the time, so
we won’t trouble them. My supper will be ready soon, and you’re going
to have a little soup then, and after that off to bed with you. A
good night’s rest will be everything,” and Owen left the room to give
directions to Margaret.
He was away five minutes or more, and when he re-entered the surgery
it was to find his late partner leaning forward, with his head on his
hands, sobbing like a child.
“Steady, old fellow, steady; this won’t do. Drink some of this at once.
You’re over-strained. Lie back again. We’ll have our supper here, and
then it will only be one move to your room.”
Jakes did as he was told, and gradually regained command of himself.
Owen would not suffer him to talk much, but he could not stop him from
saying:
“If you knew what an infernal cur I am, Odd, you wouldn’t be doing all
this for me; you’d kick me into the street, and I deserve it.”
Owen looked at him sharply for a moment or two, and then said, with a
laugh:
“Should I? Wait and see. But to-night I listen to nothing. To-morrow
will be soon enough to hear your story. And now, if you’ve finished,
I’ll help you to your room, and put you to bed, for I’ve got to go out
to a patient.”
“Ah, you’re not one to neglect a summons; I remember that in the old
days.”
“I hope not. Now come along,” and together the two men slowly made
their way to the upper storey.
Owen’s call did not take him long, and when he got back he paid a visit
to his patient, and found him sleeping calmly. He returned to the
surgery to smoke his last pipe, and sat for a long time wondering and
thinking.
Jakes spent a good night. Owen had been able to make a thorough
examination of him, but the result had not been satisfactory. In his
own mind, Jake’s fate was sealed. He was suffering badly from Bright’s
disease, and it was only a question of—it might be—days.
Owen had broken the fact to him as kindly as he could, and Jakes had
been prepared for it.
“Just what I expected,” he said. “A fellow couldn’t live as I’ve done
without something of this kind, and I’ve gone it pretty warmly since
you and I parted. I’ve been down on my luck for some time, and have
lived on drink, not _food_, when I’d anything to buy it with, and, damn
it, man, you’ve behaved like a trump to me, and I can’t keep it any
longer. It was I who sent you those letters, meaning to get something
out of you, but you weren’t to be drawn.”
“You, Jakes?”
“Yes, I. Now kick me out.”
“Kick you out? Not I. No, I don’t treat an old friend like that, for
we _were_ friends in the old days; but there is one thing I am going
to do, and that is get you into a hospital, where you will be properly
looked after and nursed far better than you could be here.”
“I’ll go, Odd. I shan’t be a burden to anyone long, but I’ll be none at
all to you; you’ve been too good to me as it is.”
Owen made no answer; he was thinking. Suddenly he said:
“Jakes, do you know a Miss Gordon?”
“Yes, I do. Your Miss Gordon. I traced her out, and sent her a letter.
I’m going to hide nothing. I meant to queer your pitch there, to spite
you, and make you attend to my demands.”
“Do you know who she is?” asked Owen, rising and pacing the room, for
he felt his temper was in danger of giving way.
“Yes, a cousin of that Miss Carry Dean who sent for you, or, as the man
she sent called you, Dr. Hodge. I answered in your name, and promised
to go at once, but I’d had more than enough then, and forgot all about
it till the next morning; and then when I drove over to the village and
asked for her house and I was told she was dead, I saw the best thing
was to lie low and say nothing about it. I often wondered why there was
no row about that afterwards.”
“The man who came for you died as soon as he got back, that’s why,”
said Owen.
“What luck!”
“But how was it I knew nothing about this?”
“You were away in France, on that one holiday you took.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“Certain.”
“Will you put it down in black and white?”
After a moment’s hesitation: “Yes, I owe it to you; but make it as easy
for me as you can, Odd.”
“It won’t be used against you, if you mean that. I only want to clear
myself.”
“Get a sheet of paper and write what I dictate; I’ll sign it.”
Owen readily did as requested, and within a few minutes was in
possession of a document that he felt sure would set him right in the
eyes of the girl he loved so passionately.
As to the wreck of humanity, Jakes, the following day Owen was enabled
to gain him admission to an hospital where, after lingering for a week,
constantly visited by his former and forgiving partner, he died.
* * * * *
Once more Owen was in the sanctum of Madame Juliette, in Bond Street,
but with what different feelings from those he had experienced on the
former occasion!
Miss Gordon was seated on the divan, with a paper in her hand which she
had been reading.
“Forgive me, Doctor Odd. I can say no more,” she murmured, looking up,
her lovely eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Your suspicions are at rest, Miss Gordon?” inquired Owen calmly.
“Completely. They should never have arisen.”
“They should not but, as they did, you should have applied to me at
once to allay them. But I will not say any more. We are all apt to make
mistakes, and that you of all people in the world should have done so
in the matter hurt me more than I can tell you. There, I have had my
say, and shall not refer to it again. We will bury the incident, and
try to forget it. And we are friends once more?”
“If in your generosity you can really overlook what I have done, and
can accord me that privilege,” continued the girl, her countenance
showing plainly the emotion she was suffering.
“My heart contains no dearer wish,” said Owen, taking the hand she had
all unconsciously held towards him. “And at some future time, should
Fortune smile more kindly on me than she has done in the past, it
may be that you will——But at present I have no right to ask anything
further. I must be content with what I already possess, to me a most
precious guerdon.”
At these words the eyes of the girl fell, and a deeper colour suffused
her cheeks and neck, but she made no answer, only allowing her hand to
remain where it rested. They stood thus for some moments in absolute
silence, and then Owen said:
“And now I may resume my visits as formerly?”
“As often as you care to come. My father—and I—will always be delighted
to see you, you may be sure.”
“Thank you, Miss Gordon, it will be a pleasure on my part that I have
sadly missed of late. I shall take advantage of your permission and
look in this evening. For the present Au revoir, Amy,” and without
another word Owen left the room, and the girl sank back on the divan
with a happy sigh that told of the lifting of a cloud that for some
time past had overshadowed her otherwise happy life.