THE OLD STORY.
Katerfelto's business seemed to bring him in contact with persons of
every class and character. Men and women were coming to the surgery at
all hours of the day and night; the former generally armed, the latter
sometimes masked, all muffled in cloaks or riding-hoods, as if their
purpose necessitated secrecy and disguise. It did not escape John
Garnet's observation, lying idle on his sick bed, that the conversations
he overheard were carried on in a subdued voice, and that everything
connected with the doctor's house in Deadman's Alley seemed tainted with
a breath of mystery, suspicion, and intrigue.
To this effect he unburthened his mind while watching Waifs stealthy
movements as she arranged the room some few mornings after his arrival,
and insisted by word and gesture on the necessity of his lying perfectly
still if he wanted to get well.
"Waif," said he, in that pleasant, careless voice, which had already
taught the girl's eye to brighten and her heart to leap, "is the Patron
a wizard, a Jacobite agent, a second Guy Fawkes, or only a great prince
in disguise? Why is everything in this house, even to laying the plates
for dinner, done with secrecy and caution? Why does nobody speak but in
whispers, and why is each succeeding visitor kept waiting in the
passage till his predecessor has been dismissed? Why do the ladies come
here on foot, my pretty lass, and what does it all mean?"
"Don't call me that!" she exclaimed impatiently. "I'm _not_ a pretty
lass! It's the way you would speak to a milkmaid. Call me Waif."
"Waif," he repeated. "There's another mystery. Who ever heard of a girl
like you being called Waif? Who gave you that name? Not that you ever
had godfathers or godmothers, I suppose. But where did you get it and
how?"
"The Patron has called me Waif ever since I was a little child," said
she simply. "I was known as Thyra with our own people, but of course,
when he bought me, he was bound to change my name."
"Bought you!" John Garnet gasped for breath and gave such a bounce among
the bed-clothes as to loosen his bandages. Her clever fingers readjusted
them without delay.
"Bought me," she repeated, "and took me away with him the same day. I
cried to leave Fin and old Broomstick, but to be sure I was very little
and it was very cold."
"Oh! you cried to leave Fin and old Broomstick," said he in undisguised
astonishment. "May I ask who _they_ were?"
"Fin was one of our own lads," she answered; "they said I was to be his
wife when we grew up. I don't think I minded leaving Fin so much, but
Broomstick had carried me ever since I was born, and my heart was sore
to wish the poor old donkey good-bye."
"But how could all this be done against your will?" continued John
Garnet.
"I had no will one way nor the other," she answered. "Of course when I
was paid for he might do as he chose. I felt the change at first, but I
liked it well enough after a time. I am very glad of it now."
This last with her face turned away, and in a whisper that escaped his
notice.
"Was he good to you?" asked the other, feeling his free British
instincts sadly outraged by the girl's disclosures. "If he wasn't, he
ought to have his neck wrung!"
"Oh, yes!" she replied, eagerly, but with a shrinking look in her bright
black eyes. "I have nothing to complain of from the Patron. Nothing! I
hated my shoes at first, and eating with a knife and fork; but the
Patron gave me beautiful clothes, and ornaments of gold, real gold. I
soon learned to like being well-dressed, and after a time I didn't so
much mind sleeping under a roof. But oh! how I missed the lights in the
sky! I used to wake up in the night crying, because I thought they had
gone out for ever, and I should see them shining no more."
"But what on earth did he want you for?" was the natural inquiry. "What
did he do with you after he bought and carried you away?"
"We didn't always live here," she answered. "We do not always live here
now. At first, the Patron took me about all over the country. I daresay
I know a good many more places than you do. We went to every fair and
merry-making, down in the West, as far as the Land's End. It must be a
very dark night for me to lose my way on Dartmoor, or anywhere in the
Valley of the Exe, or among the coombes between Badgeworthy water and
Taunton town. That was the first place I danced at to please the people
in the fair. The Patron gave me this gold collar next morning, and I've
worn it ever since. Would you like me to dance for you now, or sing? Or
shall I tell you your fortune? I'll do anything to please you. Only say
what it shall be."
The shy and pleading glance that accompanied this accommodating avowal
would have melted a harder heart than John Garnet's.
"Tell me of yourself," was his answer; "that pleases me more than
anything else you can talk about."
Her bright smile revealed a dazzling row of teeth. "There is not much to
tell," said she. "We made money, and we spent money. Sometimes we went
to the races, and the Patron used to come in to supper with his pockets
full of gold. Sometimes the people laughed at us, and then we never
stayed till nightfall. Once--it was at Devizes--they hooted us out of
the town; a man threw a stone at me which struck me in the shoulder. It
bled a good deal. Look, there's the mark!"
She pulled her dress down and revealed a cicatrice on a shape that would
have made a model for a sculptor. "I flew at him!" she continued, with a
fierce glitter in her eyes, "and drew my knife. I would have stabbed
him, but the Patron pulled me away. I should like to see that man again.
I should know his face among ten thousand, and I would kill him wherever
we met. Then we came here and the Patron left off travelling so much. He
says he began at the wrong end, and went to seek the fools, instead of
letting the fools come and seek him. I used to think I liked moving
about better than always sticking in the same place, but I don't think
so now."
"And the fools that come so readily to seek the Patron," asked John
Garnet--"what sort of fools are these?"
"The wisest sort," answered the girl. "Many a time I have heard him say
that those who come for information, begin by telling him all they want
to know. The Patron never seems to listen, but his ears are very sharp.
Besides, he can always find out things in a hundred ways, watching the
fire and the stars, or reading the cards. The last is the easiest, only
they sometimes come up wrong, but the stars _never_ deceive."
She spoke with implicit faith. For this girl, there was an inscrutable
power that ruled supreme over all earthly fortunes, and dominated all
mortal efforts. She called it Fate, and believed that its decrees were
revealed in the cracklings of a wood fire, the combinations on a table
of numerals, the presence of the knave of spades in a hand of diamonds,
no less than in those tablets of fire that her ancestors had studied,
when the Pyramids were as yet unfinished, when the Chaldæan was still
learning the alphabet of that wondrous language he discovered in the
stars of heaven.
"Then the Patron is a fortune-teller," continued John Garnet, looking
with undisguised admiration in his companion's face. "I thought he was a
doctor--I am sure he has doctored _me_ to some purpose. I feel as if I
should be out of bed to-morrow, and in the saddle next day. Perhaps it's
your nursing, pretty Waif; but I seem to get stronger every hour."
It was a tell-tale face, and changed colour often under the clear,
swarthy skin. John Garnet, however (and perhaps this was why women liked
him well), detected but slowly the interest he created in the opposite
sex; and Waif might have blushed till she was scarlet before he found
out the truth, had she not pressed both hands to her bosom with a
gesture of pain, and exclaimed, in a choking voice:
"Then you will go away, and I shall never see you again!"
He glanced sharply in her face. The black eyes were fixed and tearless,
but there was a world of patient, hopeless sorrow in their gaze; and
through John Garnet's heart ran a thrill of something sweeter and keener
than pity--something not far removed from love.
"Waif," said he, in the kind, mellow tones she knew so well, "Waif, my
pretty maid, shall you be sorry when I have to go away?"
She looked straight in his eyes while he could have counted ten. Then
over her dark, delicate face came, as it were, a ripple, that told how
deeply she was moved. One instant her slender figure waved like a willow
in the wind, the next she had fallen forward on her knees, clasping his
hand to her lips and forehead, while she wept convulsively; but, before
he had recovered his astonishment sufficiently to soothe her with word
or caress, she leaped to her feet, and glided like a phantom from the
room.
"Here's a coil!" said John Garnet to himself, making an abortive effort
to rise, that sufficiently convinced him he had over-rated his strength.
"Why the devil couldn't I let her go on, and keep my own foolish tongue
between my teeth? It's always the way with _me_. I speak, and then I'm
sorry for it. Am I sorry for it now? I doubt if I am. She's the
prettiest lass, for all her tawny skin, I've seen since I came out of
the North; and there's no harm done after all. I wonder how long I shall
be kept lying here? A week more, at least. Say a week. The time will
pass all the quicker with this gipsy beauty to talk to; and if she _do_
care for me a little more than is good for her, why I suppose she can't
help it. No more can I. What eyes she has, and what hair! I could find
it in my heart to wish she was not quite so handsome; but that's not my
fault. Thyra's a pretty name, though outlandish--much better than Waif.
I shall call her Thyra when she comes back. It won't be long first, I'll
wager a guinea!"
But he would have lost his guinea. Noon passed, and afternoon, and day
drew to an end, but brought no Waif with its lengthening shadows. When
his usual supper-time arrived, he began to grow fretful and impatient,
as much perhaps from cravings of the stomach as the heart. A step in the
passage, the bump of a tray against his door, restored him to good
humour; but it was with a feeling of disappointment, keen enough to dull
the vigorous appetite of convalescence, that he saw the skull-cap and
velvet gown of his host, instead of Waif with her scarlet draperies and
jetty gold-studded hair. When a girl has told a man she likes him, he
always wants to hear the avowal again.
"My young friend," said Katerfelto, in the low grave voice to which he
owed so much of his influence, "I have brought you to eat and drink:
food plain and nourishing, drink that shall restore, and not inflame.
The tongue is clean, the eye clear, the pulse full, if a little
irregular. My coming into the room suddenly flurried you, no doubt. If
you go on well through the night, to-morrow I shall pronounce you
convalescent. I never speak without being sure. When Constantine
Katerfelto uses the word 'convalescent,' a patient may order his boots
to be blacked and his spurs cleaned."
"You've brought me through right well, Doctor," replied John Garnet,
glancing at the door, "you and Waif together. You must give the nurse
some of the credit! She's been very careful and attentive. I think she
has hardly left me for an hour at a time, till--till to-day."
How differently thirty and sixty look upon the absence of eighteen!
"Waif's a good girl," answered the Doctor, coolly; "and for a mere
child, shows a fair amount of intelligence. I am glad you are satisfied
with her."
"She--she's not ill to-day, I hope," hazarded the patient, eating,
however, heartily enough, notwithstanding the anxiety to be inferred
from his inquiry.
"Ah!" was the answer; "you know very little of Waif, or you would
scarcely ask such a question. None of her race are ever _ill_, any more
than the beasts of prey. They die, indeed, but it is like the wolf and
the jackal, in some forest-den. Skill, science, experience, are of no
avail. It's in the blood--nothing can cure them when they have once lain
down. I've tried it a score of times, and failed."
"Is she a thorough-bred gipsy?" he asked, for it was pleasant to talk of
her, even to this unsympathising old man.
"As the Queen of Sheba," assented the other. "Some day, perhaps, when we
are better acquainted, I may tell you more of her history; but I give
not my friendship lightly," he added, with a scrutinising glance from
his shining grey eyes; "it is offered only to those who owe me, or to
whom I owe, a heavy debt of gratitude."
"I am sure I ought to be grateful to you," said John Garnet, "and so I
_am_; but I can do nothing to prove it till you get me off this bed, and
out of this room. Then, Doctor, speak up boldly. Say what you want, and
I am your man!"
The other laughed a noiseless laugh, peculiar to himself. "You owe me
but little as yet," said he; "perhaps you may live to be deeper in my
debt than for the healing of a scratch. Not that I mean to say the
scratch was a trifling one. I tell you honestly, many a surgeon would
have given your case up as hopeless; and you ought to be thankful, if
you young men ever _are_ thankful, that you fell into my hands. No; for
a bold, enterprising fellow, in the prime of life and strength, whose
fingers, as I guess, close round his hilt pretty readily, I might do
something better than stop a hole in the side. There are paths to
fortune, plenty of them, for men who look upward and onward, steep it
may be, and leading through miry places, not seldom slippery with blood.
To a bold spirit this is half the charm! You are lying here, unable to
leave your bed to-day; but do you not long for the time when you shall
be riding wild horses, pledging lawless healths, drinking, dicing, and
brawling once more? When the frost is bitter, and the earth white with
snow, and the robin hops to your window for crumbs, do you not look
forward to the opening spring, the soft south wind, the coming of the
blackbird at last?"
A look of intelligence passed between them, and the sick man's eye
brightened. It was the pass-word of a losing, nay, of a ruined cause.
The handful of Jacobites remaining in England had not yet relinquished
all hope of his return, who had proved indeed a bird of ill-omen,
blacker than night, to those whose loyalty waged life and lands on his
behalf.
"Nay, Doctor," said the other, with a flush of pride on his face, "the
blackbird's whistle has cost us simply all we had, but not one of us
ever complained; we bought defeat too dear."
"I know you, John Garnet," answered Katerfelto. "You come of a trusty
race."
"Know me!" repeated the other, "How did you find me out? I would have
told you without hesitation, but you never asked my name--no more did
Waif."
"I know a great many things," replied the charlatan. "In many ways you
could not understand, unless you had studied, as I have, the hidden
mysteries of Heaven and Earth, and of places under the Earth. I know
that the Garnets lost titles and lands for the--for the Black-bird--we
will say. I know that the last of them would leap from that bed,
bandages and all, to burn powder and draw steel if the yellow beak did
but so much as whistle from its garden in the South."
"You learned all that in the 'Annual Register' or the 'North Britain,'"
said John Garnet, proudly, "but how did you guess I belonged to the
family who have been so loyal, so constant, and proved themselves
such--fools?"
Katerfelto smiled. "Fools," he replied, "are my special study. As the
worm feeds the blackbird, so the fool feeds the philosopher. You are no
fool notwithstanding, and yet I know all about you. There was a
supper-party t'other night--a jest--an altercation--a duel--without
witnesses--without witnesses, mark you. When a man is killed under those
circumstances, the law sometimes brings it in--murder!"
John Garnet turned pale. The truth of his host's surmises affected him
no less than the consideration of the danger he had incurred. It did not
strike him that Katerfelto's guesses, however shrewd, were the mere
offspring of analogy and observation. A wounded man at midnight inferred
an after-supper brawl, while the fact of his staggering into Deadman's
Alley faint from loss of blood, alone and unassisted, argued the absence
of seconds, one of whom would doubtless have conveyed his principal to a
place of safety, while the identity of that principal must long since
have become the talk of this town.
"You know everything," he murmured. "Everything--I wish you could tell
me whether the poor fellow I ran through the brisket is alive."
For reasons of his own the charlatan was anxious to impress his patient
with a conviction of his powerful character and superior intelligence.
"Not so," said he, with an air of extreme frankness. "I have no
knowledge, for I have taken no trouble to learn. If I can spare the time
to-night, when the moon goes down, I will set those to work who shall
bring me all the information I require in less than forty-eight hours."
John Garnet, though scarcely a model Christian, was a good Catholic. He
crossed himself and faltered a feeble protest against the employment of
evil spirits or unorthodox powers of the air.
"I had rather not get well at all," said he, "than be cured by magic or
witchcraft! I would leave the house this minute if I believed you were
more than a doctor! I'll wager a fair stake and risk my life any day,
but I won't sit down to play for my soul!"
"Your soul!" echoed Katerfelto, with his characteristic laugh. "My young
friend, what should I do with your soul if I won it? My concern is with
men's bodies, their energies, their courage, and their intellect. I
shall set you on your legs in a week, and you can carry your soul about
with you, if you have one, wherever you like. In the meantime keep
quiet, take your medicine, drugs of the veriest earth--earthy; eat your
food and drink your posset, prepared by no fairy hands, but those of a
woman, real flesh and blood, with a human temper, worse, I daresay, than
that of many average fiends, and so get well. In a few days I will talk
to you again on matters of business to our mutual advantage. Meantime I
relegate you once more to the care of Waif."
His spirits rose at once, and he bade the charlatan good-night with an
excess of cordiality not lost on that shrewd observer, who was as good
as his word, for his voice could be heard in the passage bidding Waif
hasten her house-work and watch by the patient till he slept, a mandate
the gipsy-girl obeyed to the letter, returning without delay to her
former post, but taking up a station in the obscurity where John Garnet
could not see her face. Neither did she vouchsafe a syllable of greeting
or explanation, so that the patient felt uncomfortably hurt and
perplexed.
"Have I offended you?" he asked at length, in an humble tone,
contrasting piteously with the coldness of that in which she replied.
"Who am I, to be offended? My only business is to obey. The Patron bids
me watch here till you sleep."
So he shut his eyes, yet not too tight, and scanned her the while
covertly beneath their lids, thus detecting on her face, when she turned
it towards him, a look of tender wistful longing, that told only too
plainly the secret of her love.
Then he drew a deep breath of relief and contentment, satisfied he would
rise a winner from the unequal game and so fell sound asleep.