Sir Philip Vining tried the door again and again, shaking it loudly, and
repeating his son's name; but there was no reply.
What should he do--summon assistance and have the room broken open? He
dreaded calling for aid, to bring up the curious to gaze upon his
anguish, and perhaps upon--
He seemed to check his thoughts there by a tremendous effort, and
turning round, he gazed in both directions along the well-lit
thickly-carpeted corridor.
There was no one in sight, neither could he hear a sound.
Then he tried to look through the keyhole of the door, but something
arrested his vision. He knocked and called again and again, but there
was not even the sound of breathing to be detected on the other side;
and at last, roused to frenzy. Sir Philip turned the handle, and then
dashed his shoulder with all his might against the panelling.
He was not strong, but the sudden sharp shock made the little bolt by
which the door was secured give way, when, rushing in, Sir Philip
hastily closed the door behind him, anxious even now to hide from the
public eye any blur that might have fallen upon the Vinings' name.
There was a small globe lamp burning upon the table, but the room seemed
empty, and the bed was impressed; but on hurrying round to the foot,
there on a couch lay Charley, his coat and vest thrown off, his collar
and neckband unfastened, and his pale handsome face turned towards the
light. His lips were just parted, and his leaden-hued eyelids barely
closed; but upon Sir Philip throwing himself on his knees by the figure
of his son, he could just detect a faint breathing, and upon hastily
drawing his watch and holding it near his lips, the bright gold back was
slightly dimmed.
"O, that it should have come to this!" groaned Sir Philip; and raising
his clenched hand, for a moment it was as though he were about to call
down Heaven's bitterest curse upon the head of the gentle girl to whom
he attributed all this pain and suffering. But as he did so, his hand
fell again to his side, and the recollection of the fair, soft, pleading
face he had last looked upon, with its gentle eyes and pale cheeks, and
then the scene of her fainting when he tottered back to kiss her glossy
hair--all came back most vividly, and he groaned aloud.
And then he seemed to awaken to the necessity for instant action, and
running to the bell, he tore at it furiously.
But there was pride still busy in the old man's brain, in spite of the
shock: the world must not know what was wrong; and hastily looking
round, he saw upon the dressing-table, lying in company with the young
man's watch, with the thick gold chain carelessly thrown around it, a
small graduated bottle--Time and Eternity, so it seemed, side by side.
Sir Philip was not surprised. He seemed to know intuitively what was
coming. He had suspected it when downstairs, but in a more horrible
manner; and as soon as he had thrust the bottle into his pocket, he
shudderingly closed and locked the dressing-case upon the table, where,
glittering and bright, lay amongst velvet several unused keen-bladed
means of avoiding the pains and suffering of this world.
The next minute there was a knock at the bedroom-door, and the
chamber-maid appeared.
"Quick!" exclaimed Sir Philip--"the nearest doctor directly. My son is
dangerously ill!"
The woman hurried out, but returned directly.
"I have sent, sir. But can I do anything? Has he taken too much?"
"Too much! Too much what?" cried Sir Philip angrily, resenting the
remark. "What do you mean, woman?"
"He has been taking it now for above a fortnight, sir," said the maid.
"Poor gentleman! he's in trouble, I think, and takes it to quiet
himself."
"What?" cried Sir Philip, but this time with less anger in his tones.
"Morphy, I think it's called, sir--a sort of spirits of laudanum; and I
suppose it's awful strong. Surely, poor gentleman, he ain't over-done
it!"
"Are you sure that he has been in the habit of taking it?" said Sir
Philip.
"O, yes, sir. I've often seen the bottle on the dressing-table.
`Morphy: to be used with great care,' it said on the label. I don't
fancy he's so bad as you think, sir."
Sir Philip, still trembling with anxiety, knelt by his son's couch, to
be somewhat reassured by a deep sigh which the young man now drew; and
five minutes after, the doctor came in, black, smooth, and silent--a
very owl amongst men--bowed to Sir Philip, and then looked at his
patient.
"How long has he been like this?"
"I found him so a quarter--half an hour since," said Sir Philip. "He
had left me an hour before that."
"Humph!" said the doctor. "Any reason for thinking he would commit
suicide?"
"H'm--no!" said Sir Philip, hesitating; "but he has, I fear, been
suffering a great deal of mental pain."
"Any bottle or packet about?" said the doctor--"bottle, I should say.
No strong odour existent; but it seems like a narcotic poison at work."
"I found this," said Sir Philip, producing the little flask he had taken
from the table.
"To be sure--exactly--graduated too! My dear sir, I don't think there
is any cause for alarm. He has evidently taken a strong dose; but, you
see, here are ample instructions, and the bottle is nearly empty."
"But he may have taken all that," said Sir Philip anxiously.
"My dear sir," said the doctor, "if he had taken one-eighth part, he
would not be lying as you now see him. Depend upon it, that after a few
hours he will wake calm and composed, when, if you are, as I suppose
from the likeness,"--here the doctor bowed,--"his father, a little quiet
advice would not be out of place. It is a bad sign for a fine young man
like this to be resorting to such subtle agencies to procure rest.
Depend upon it, his brain is in a sad state. I should advise change."
"But do you not think that you had better wait?" said Sir Philip
anxiously.
"I would do so with pleasure," said the doctor; "but really, my dear
sir, there is not the slightest necessity, and, besides, I am within
easy call."
The doctor departed softly, as he had arrived; and taking his seat by
the couch, Sir Philip watched hour after hour, forgetful of his own
fatigue, till towards morning, when Charley turned, sighed deeply, and
then sat up to gaze anxiously in his father's face.
"You here, dad?" he said lightly.
"My dear boy--at last!" cried Sir Philip. "You have alarmed me
terribly! Why do you take that?" And he pointed to the bottle.
"To keep myself sane, father," said Charley sadly--"because I have lain
here night after night waiting for the sleep that would not come. I've
smoked; I've drunk heavily; I've walked and ridden till so tired I could
hardly stand; and then I've lain here through the long dreary nights,
till I felt that I should lose my head altogether."
The old gentleman rose and began to pace the room.
"But there," cried Charley cheerfully, "I've kept you up too. So now go
to your room, and I'll turn over a new leaf, dad. Look here!"
As he spoke, he took up the little bottle from where it had been placed
by the doctor, and threw it sharply into the grate, where it was smashed
to atoms.
"There, I'll be a coward no longer, sir! I'm going to begin a clean
page of the book to-morrow. No more blots and random writing, but all
ruled fair and straight. There, good-night, or, rather, good-morning!
Breakfast at ten, mind!"
Sir Philip left the room, and Charley plunged his face into a basin of
cold water before sitting down quietly to think; and as he thought, he
turned over and over again his intentions for the future.
It did seem now certain that Max Bray had supplanted him--there could be
hardly a doubt of it, but still there was that shade; and till he was
certain he would still hold to his faith. He told himself that he was
wanting in no way, that he had done all that man could do; but still he
must have the final certainty before he would hide for ever in his
breast the sharply-cut wound, and trust to time to do something towards
alleviating his suffering.
Then he thought of Max Bray, and his brow lowered as he recalled his
words, till those floated before his mind respecting Laura, and his
treatment of her.
It was absurd, certainly, but the whole family must have supposed that
he had intended to ask her hand. But he had never said word of love to
her. What, though, of the lady? There was no doubt that Laura did love
him, poor girl! perhaps very earnestly; and if so, he was sorry for her;
for it was not his wish to give her pain.
Then once more he thought of Ella. Would she have accepted him, he
would have set the world at defiance; but no--under the guise of a
modest retirement, she had rejected him to accept Max Bray.
But was it so? No, _no_, no! He would not believe it. He would hold
to his faith in her till the last came, and then he knew that he should
be a changed man.
Once more he asked himself whether he had done all that man could do;
and his heart honestly replied that he had--everything.
"Then my policy now is, to wait and see," said Charley aloud, and with a
bitterness in his tones that told how what he had seen rankled in his
breast. Then, throwing himself on his bed, he said once more aloud, "It
can't be long now before I have some proof, and after that--"
He did not finish his sentence--he could not; for "after that" seemed to
him to be such a weary blank, that he almost wondered whether he would
be able to live through it all. And there he lay, sleepless now,
awaiting the convincing proof; a proof that was to come sooner even than
he anticipated.
Volume 2, Chapter XXIII.