Ineluctabile Fatum.
It was fortunate that Mrs. Jobson was a practical woman of resources
and presence of mind, for the first thing she did was to fling the
contents of the water-jug over Lloyd's head (he was a favourite with
her, or she would scarcely have risked damaging the carpet by such a
proceeding); the second was to open the window; and the third was to
loosen his collar, and raise him into a half-sitting position. She
then called out to the servant to run for the doctor; but Lloyd, who
had by this time opened his eyes and come to his senses, vehemently
opposed this suggestion, declaring himself to be quite recovered, and
leading Mrs. Jobson to believe that these were attacks to which he was
by no means unaccustomed--which, though unpleasant to the lookers-on,
were not dangerous to the sufferer, and that he knew how to treat
himself, to prevent the recurrence of the seizure for some time to
come. Mrs. Jobson was much pleased to hear this, for, with all her
practicality, she had that vague fear of sudden death, and its
necessitated coroner's inquest, which is so often found among people
of her class. After her fashion, too, she really liked her lodger, for
Gilbert Lloyd had always been civil and agreeable--had given little
trouble, and paid his way with consistent punctuality; so she was glad
to find him looking something like himself, and lightly treating what
she had at first imagined would be a very serious matter.
But when he was left to himself, and the reaction after the cold
water, and the mental spurt which he had put on to talk to the
landlady, set in, Gilbert Lloyd felt that the blow which for the last
few days he had been certain was impending, had fallen at last. The
depression under which he had been recently labouring was then
accounted for; that attempted crime, which had brought upon him the
sentence of banishment from his father's house, the loss of his
ancestral name and family position, which had sent him forth into the
wilderness of the world, there to stand or fall entirely by his own
arts or luck,--this crime was to be visited on him again, just at the
very time when everything else was going wrong with him!
Lord Sandilands, then, was the friend to whom his father had confided
that horrible secret. He had often wondered to whom his father's
letter had alluded, but had never thought of identifying the bland,
pleasant old nobleman with the man who held the history of his
dishonour in his keeping. His father's letter had said, "This friend
is not acquainted with your personal appearance, and cannot therefore
recognise you, should your future conduct enable you to present
yourself in any place where he may be found." Even in the desperate
circumstances in which he was placed, Gilbert Lloyd almost laughed as
he recalled these words, and thought how frequently his conduct had
"enabled him to present himself" in places where old Sandilands was to
be found; how, indeed, he had been a leader and prime favourite in the
very society which the old nobleman most affected. "Not acquainted
with his personal appearance:" of course not, or Lord Sandilands would
never have consented to meet him on the terms on which they had met,
and which, though not intimate, were sufficiently familiar; would
never have suffered him to be the second-self of Lord Ticehurst--his
lordship could endure Gilbert Lloyd the turfite, but Geoffrey
Challoner--How had he learned about Geoffrey Challoner, then?--whence
had come this secret information? Not from Gertrude: that little fact
was yet to be broken to her, he thought with bitter delight. Who had
been Lord Sandilands' informant? Miles, of course!--he had forgotten
him, his dear, charming brother Miles! O, that boyish hatred had not
been misplaced; there was something in it beyond the mere desire to
get rid of one who stood between him and the estate. If Miles had been
nothing to him, he should have hated him. Miles, of course! His
father's letter had told him that this friend would be "always in
close and constant intercourse with my son." Close and constant
intercourse!--that was true enough; and now this precious pair had put
their heads together for the purpose of his humiliation. Why just at
that time? It could only have been recently that Miles had told the
old gentleman, though he had known it so long ago. Why had he only
just told Lord Sandilands, when he had known it ever since Gertrude's
first appearance at Carabas House? Gertrude--and Miles! was that the
clue? Miles was desperately in love with Gertrude--he had seen that
with his own eyes; and, besides, Toshington--everybody--had told him
so. In their confidence on this point, can Miles have revealed this
fact to his old friend? Gilbert did not see what end could have been
gained by that, more especially as the greatest secret of all--the
existence of the marriage between him and Gertrude--was evidently not
yet known to Miles.
And Gertrude was Lord Sandilands' daughter? That was a surprise to
Gilbert. That the old nobleman would have adopted her, and made her
his heiress, Lloyd had expected; but the thought that she was his
natural daughter had never suggested itself to him. Ah, what an
infernal fool he had been! All these years he had been congratulating
himself on his good fortune, and now he found he had been merely
running after the shadow and neglecting the substance. What a dolt he
had been to allow Gertrude to leave him at all! He might have lived on
her in a princely manner--first on the money which she made by her
profession, and secondly by properly working this secret of her
relationship to Lord Sandilands. And now he had lost all!
His time was come, he thought. _Venit summa dies et ineluctabile
fatum!_ That line remained haunting his brain. He felt that matters
were closing round him very rapidly. What was that he had read in Lord
Sandilands' letter about that cursed Brighton business with Harvey
Gore? He could not distinctly recollect; he would read the letter
again. He turned round to look for it; it was nowhere to be found.
He hunted for it high and low; searched every portion of the room
again and again; examined, as people will do in the desperation of
such circumstances, the most impossible places. He did not like to ask
Mrs. Jobson about it. If she had seen it her curiosity might have been
aroused; she might have read it, and then--At length he rang his bell,
and Mrs. Jobson appeared; and Gilbert saw in an instant by her face
that whatever might have happened she had not read the letter.
"When you were good enough to come to my assistance just now, Mrs.
Jobson, when I had that little attack, did you happen to see an open
letter lying about?" said Gilbert.
"A letter, sir?" said Mrs. Jobson dubiously; "there were no letter
that I saw, 'cept the one in your hand."
"In my hand?"
"Clinched tight up, as was both your fists, so that I could hardly
uncrook your fingers; and in one of 'em there _was_ a letter all
squeezed up."
"That must have been it. What did you do with it?"
"Put it on to the table by the window, just as it might be there,"
said Mrs. Jobson, taking an exact aim, and marking a particular spot
on the table with her finger.
"It's no good looking there," said Gilbert testily--for Mrs. Jobson
still kept peering on the table, as though she expected to see the
letter swim up to the surface through the wood--"it's not there. What
can have become of it?"
"Well, now I recollect," said Mrs. Jobson slowly, "that I thought you
would be all the better for a puff of fresh air, so I opened the
window, and the paper might have blowed out."
"Good God, woman, what have you done!" cried Gilbert, starting up and
rushing towards the street, pushing past Mrs. Jobson, who this time
began to be seriously alarmed, thinking her lodger was going out of
his mind.
The street was tolerably empty when Gilbert Lloyd reached it. There
is not much doing in Duke-street, St. James's, in the month of
September--a slack season, when even the livery-stable-keepers'
helpers are probably out of town, and there were but few people about
to express surprise at seeing a gentleman fly out of a house, and
begin searching the pavement and the kennel with intense anxiety and
perseverance. In the season, a dozen young gutter-bloods, street-boys,
would have been round him in a moment, all aiding in the search for an
unknown something, the probable finding of which, if seen, would bring
them a few coppers, the possible stealing of which, unseen, might fill
their pockets. But on this calm September morning a Jew clothesman
going his rounds, the servant of a lodging-house opposite, and an
elderly-gentleman lodger, who never went out of town, and who in the
winter never got out of bed, and who at the then moment was calmly
looking on at Lloyd's proceedings as at a show, were all the
spectators of the hunt for the missing paper, in which none of them
evinced anything but the most cursory interest.
Not so the seeker. He hunted up and down, poked in wind-swept corners,
peered down rusty gratings, seemed to have at one time a vague idea of
following the chase up the livery-stableman's yard, and glared at the
barrel swinging in mid-air from the crane outside the oilman's
warehouse-door, as though it might have sucked up the precious
document. He must have it, Gilbert Lloyd kept repeating to himself; he
must have it. But he could not find it, and at the end of an hour's
search he returned to the house, worn out with fatigue, and in a state
of feverish anxiety.
If it had blown out of the window, as the woman had suggested, into
the street--and the probabilities were that it had done so--somebody
must have picked it up. There was no wet or mud to discolour the paper
or efface the writing; it was a peculiar and striking-looking letter,
and anyone finding it would doubtless read it through. If such had
been the case it was lost--irretrievably, for ever. Great beads of
perspiration stood upon his pallid forehead as this notion flashed
across him. His name headed the letter, the name of his accuser was
signed at its foot, and its contents plainly set forth one attempted
crime and hinted at the knowledge of another, which had been more than
attempted, which had been carried into effect. Anyone reading this
would see the whole state of affairs at a glance, would feel it
incumbent on them to give information to the police, and--he was a
dead man! What was that Lord Sandilands had said about further
inquiries relative to Harvey Gore? Foxey had been doing his best to
find out something definite in that quarter, and had failed; but then
Lord Sandilands was a man of influence, with plenty of money, which he
would not scruple to spend freely in any matter such as this. That
made all the difference; they might succeed in tampering with that
wretched doctor fellow, who plainly had had his suspicions--Gilbert
had often recalled his expression about the _rigor mortis_--and there
would be an end of it. Pshaw! what a fool he was! He passed his hand
across his damp brow, sprang from the chair on which he had been
sitting, and commenced pacing the room. An end of it? No, not yet. He
had always had his own notion of how that end should be brought about,
if the pressure upon him became unbearable. Most men leading such
precarious shifty lives have thus thought occasionally, and made odd
resolves in regard to them. But there was hope yet. He was seedy,
weak, and unhinged; a glass of brandy would set him all right, and
then he would go off to Hill-street, look through the accounts, draw
on the bankers to the uttermost farthing, and start for America. It
was hard lines to leave town, where he had played the game so long and
so successfully. However, that was all over, he should never play it
any more, and so he might as well--better, much better--begin his new
life in a fresh place.
He dressed himself, got into a cab, and drove to Hill-street. The
house had been left in charge of some of those wonderful people who
occupy houses during the temporary absence of their legitimate owners;
but when Gilbert rang the bell the door was opened, to his intense
surprise, by Martin, Lord Ticehurst's valet, whom he had left behind
with his lordship at Baden.
"You here, Martin!" said Lloyd with an astonishment mingled with an
uncomfortable sensation which he could not conceal. "Why, when did you
arrive, and what has brought you?"
"Arrived last night, sir," said Martin with a jaunty air, very
different from his usual respectful bearing. "Came by his lordship's
orders."
"By his lordship's orders?" echoed Lloyd. "That was rather sudden,
wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir; very sudden, sir; done all in a hurry, sir; after a long
talk with Mr. Clarke the lawyer, sir."
"With Mr. Clarke, eh?" again echoed Lloyd, feeling more and more
uncomfortable. "Well, no matter; it's all right, I suppose. Just come
up to my room and tell me all about it;" and he was passing on into
the house.
"Beg pardon, sir," said Martin, placing himself before him and barring
the way; "beg pardon, sir, but you're not to come in; his lordship's
orders, sir."
"Not to come in!" cried Lloyd, white with passion; "what the devil do
you mean?"
"Just what I say, sir," replied Martin, with perfect coolness; "his
lordship's orders, sir; last words he said to me. Got a note here for
you, sir. Lordship said if you was here I was to give it you at once;
if you wasn't, I wasn't to trouble about finding you until you came
here."
"Give it here!" said Lloyd savagely; and Martin dived in his pocket,
fetched out the note, and handed it to him with a polite bow. It was
in Ticehurst's unformed round schoolboy hand, which Gilbert knew so
well; was very short, but very much to the purpose. It said that Lord
Ticehurst had given orders that Mr. Lloyd should be denied access to
the house in Hill-street; the question of accounts between them could
be gone into on Lord Ticehurst's return from the Continent, which
would be in the course of the ensuing week. Lord Ticehurst would
remain a couple of days in London on his way to his place in Sussex,
and would devote those days to settling all matters with Mr. Lloyd. It
would be advisable, in the mean time, that Mr. Lloyd should draw no
cheques on the account hitherto open to his signature at Lord
Ticehurst's bankers, as Lord Ticehurst had given instructions to his
bankers to close that account so far as Mr. Lloyd was concerned.
"That's that infernal Clarke's doing," said Gilbert to himself;
"Etchingham's writing, certainly, but Clark's suggestion and
dictation; Etchingham would not have thought of the idea, and could
not have expressed it half so succinctly. There's a chance yet. That
order to the bankers could not have been sent by telegram. They would
not have risked that. Perhaps I'm in time.--Martin, did you bring any
other letters to England?"
"Yes, sir; one from his lordship to Messrs. Tilley and Shoveller.
Delivered it at the bank at nine this morning, sir."
"Thanks; I'll write to his lordship. Good-day, Martin." He saw the man
bow ironically and stick his tongue in his cheek, but he took no
notice. He turned round, but had to make an effort to gather all his
strength together and walk away without staggering. The pavement
surged up in front of him; the houses on either side threatened to
topple over him. When he got out of sight of the valet still lingering
at the door, he stopped, and leaned against some railings to recover
himself.
It was all over, then! The last chance had been tried, and failed. A
day sooner, and he could have carried out his notion of drawing on the
bankers and escaping to America. That accursed couple--his wife and
his brother--had been against him in that, as well as in all his other
misfortunes lately. If he had not waited for that answer from
Gertrude,--that answer which, when it came, filled him with so much
anxiety,--he would have gone to Hill-street on the previous day,
before Martin had arrived, have drawn his cheques, and made all
square. Curses on them both! That letter from Gertrude--from Lord
Sandilands rather--this last business in Hill-street had driven from
his mind; but the thought of it now returned in tenfold agony. It was
lost, with all its terrible accusations! Had been found and read, and
was probably now in the hands of the police. And he had no means for
providing for flight. The few pounds in his purse were all he
possessed in the world. He should be taken, and have to die on the
scaffold! No, not that; he knew a better trick than that yet.
Once again he had to stop. His legs failed him; his head was burning;
he felt his heart beating with loud thick throbs. A dizziness came
over him, and it needed all his strength to prevent himself from
falling. After a minute or two he felt a little relieved. He called a
cab, and was driven to his club. The porter was away from his post,
and his deputy, one of the page-boys, failed to recognise the dashing
Mr. Lloyd in the pallid man who passed him with unsteady gait, and
asked him for his name. He went into the deserted coffee-room,
swallowed a glass of brandy, which revived him, then made his way to
the writing-room, and wrote a note. It was to a sporting acquaintance
of his, who happened at the time to be house-surgeon to one of our
largest hospitals, and ran as follows:
"_Private_.
"Dear Pattle--A nag that has carried my lord (and master) for ten
years has become past work, and is dangerous to ride. But his l'ship
won't give him up, and some day he'll get his neck broken for his
pains. To prevent this I want to put the poor beast quietly out of the
way, and I can't trust our vet., who is a blab. Nor do I want to buy
any 'stuff' at a chemist's, as, if anything came of it, and it got
wind, chemist might peach. Can you manage to send me a small bottle of
strychnine by bearer? Do so; and the next good thing that comes off,
you shall stand in with the profit. _Keep it dark_.
"Yours,
"GILBERT LLOYD."
"That's vague enough," said Lloyd, as he read the letter before
placing it in an envelope. "But Pattle's a great ass; he'll be
flattered to think he is helping my Lord Ticehurst's 'confederate,'
and he'll have a dim idea that there's a chance of making some
money--quite enough to make him do it." And Gilbert was right. He
stopped the cab outside the hospital, and sent in the note. Within
five minutes the porter appeared at the door with a parcel, which he
handed in "With Mr. Pattle's compliments," and with which Lloyd drove
off to his lodgings.
His haggard looks on alighting alarmed Mrs. Jobson, who expressed a
hope that he had been to see a doctor. This gave him the opportunity
for making an explanation which he had been seeking to bring about, as
he came along in the cab. He told the worthy landlady that he had
consulted his physician, who told him that the attacks, one of which
she had been a witness to, were highly dangerous, and that every means
should be taken to check them. With this view the doctor had
recommended him, if he felt one coming on, as was not unlikely,
judging from the present deranged state of his health, to take a
slight quantity of the medicine which he prescribed for him, and which
would give him instant relief. Upon which Mrs. Jobson remarked that of
course the doctors knew best. She did not herself "hold with"
sedatives, confessing at the same time that her experience as regarded
their application was confined to certain interesting cases, in which
she looked upon the taking of them as flying in the face of
Providence, which would not have sent pain if it was not meant to be
endured.
Gilbert Lloyd retired to his room, and did not see his landlady again
until about nine o'clock that evening, when he sent for her to tell
her that he felt a renewal of the symptoms of his attack, that he
should at once get to bed, and that he begged he might not be
disturbed. This Mrs. Jobson promised, and took her leave. When she was
gone Gilbert opened his despatch-box, and commenced the following
letter:
"My Dear Lord--You tell me you hear that my relations with Lord
Ticehurst are at an end, and you ask me if I will undertake the
management of your stud, and personally supervise your affairs. I need
scarcely say that I am highly flattered by the proposal, thus
repeated, I believe, for the third time. At present, however, I must,
in all respect, decline to entertain it. I have been so far lucky that
my circumstances are such as to prevent any necessity for my doing any
more work for the remainder of my life, while my state of health,
especially during the last few weeks, peremptorily forbids my doing
anything but nurse myself for some time to--"
Here he finished abruptly, leaving the sheet on the blotting-pad, by
the side of the open, despatch-box.
"They'll not be able to get over that," he said with a shudder; "and
the woman's testimony will be concurrent. It's an odd thing that a man
who can do it should care about what people say of him after it's
done."
He shuddered again as from his dressing-case he took a small phial of
medicine which he had purchased at a chemist's for the purpose, and
from the drawer in which he had locked it the strychnine-bottle, and
placed them side by side on the table. He then leisurely undressed
himself, turned the bedclothes back, and rumpled the bed to give it
the appearance of having been slept in; then he extinguished the
light, took the phial of strychnine in his hand, lifted it to his
mouth, drained it, and with one convulsive spring managed to throw
himself on the bed.
"And he's quite gone, sir?" inquired weeping Mrs. Jobson the next
morning of the doctor who had been hastily summoned.
"Gone, madam!" said the doctor, who was a snuffy Scotchman of the old
school--"he's as dad as Jullius Cæsar. And this is another case o' the
meschief of unauthorised parsons doctorin' themsalves and takkin'
medicines in the dark."