EVERY day for a fortnight William went to the Hospital, only
to be denied a sight of the patient. June was fighting for life. And
even when the crisis was passed and it began to appear that the fight
would be successful, she had to face an issue just as critical and yet
more terrible, for the fear remained that she would lose her reason.
In this time of darkness William was most unhappy. But as far as he
was concerned, events moved quickly. He said good-bye to his master,
removed his belongings from Number Forty-six, New Cross Street, and
entered the employ of a neighbouring dealer, a man of far more liberal
mind than S. Gedge Antiques; one who, moreover, well understood the
value of such a servant.
For William, it was a terrible wrench. He was like a plant whose roots
have been torn from the soil. With the ardour of a simple character he
had loved his master, trusting and believing in him to an extent only
possible to those endowed with rare felicity of nature. In spite of
himself he was now forced to accept the hard and bitter truth that the
old man upon whom he had lavished affection was not only a miser, but
something worse. When the passion which ruled his life was fully roused
he was tempted to anything.
Life, felt William, could never be the same again. There was still the
beauty of the visible universe, the pageantry of the seasons to adore;
the harmony and colour of the world’s design might still entrance the
senses of an artist, but not again must he surrender his being entire
to the joy of abounding in these wonders. It was the duty of every man
who dwelt upon the earth, however humbly, to learn something of the
hearts of others. One could only live apart, it seemed, at one’s peril.
While in the lower depths and beginning to despair of seeing June
again, he called as usual at the Hospital one afternoon, to be greeted
by the long-hoped-for news that the patient had taken a turn for the
better. Moreover she had begged to be allowed to see him; and this
permission was now given.
Carrying the daily bunch of flowers, by means of which June had already
recognized his care for her, he was led along the ward to the bed
in which she lay. The change in her appearance startled him. Little
remained of the whimsical yet high-spirited and practical girl who
had mocked his inefficiency in regard to the world and its ways. To
see those great eyes with the horror still in them and that meagre
face, dead white amid the snow of its pillows, was to feel a tragic
tightening of the heart.
Tears ran down June’s cheeks at the sight of the flowers. “I don’t
deserve your goodness,” she said. “You can’t guess how wicked I am.”
As she extended to him her thin arms he found it hard to rein back his
own tears. What suffering he had unwittingly brought upon this poor
thing. But it was impossible to keep track of her mind which even now
was in the thrall of an awful nightmare. God knew in what darkness it
was still plunged.
Shuddering convulsively at the memories his voice and his presence
brought to her, the words that came to her lips tore his heart. “Am I
struck? Am I like the Hoodoo? Am I like Uncle Si?”
To him, just then, this wildness was hardly more than a symptom of
a mind deranged. His great distress did not allow him to pursue its
implication, nor could he understand the nadir of the soul from which
it sprang. Yet many times in the days to follow he was haunted by those
words. They came to him in his waking hours and often in lieu of sleep
at night.
Returning from this short and unhappy interview to his new home at
Number 116, New Cross Street, he found a surprise in store. A visitor
had called to see him and, at the moment of his arrival, was on the
point of going away.
His late master, looking very grey and frail, had come to beg him to
return. He declared that he was now too old to carry on alone. Sight
and hearing were growing worse. He had another quarrel with the char
and had been obliged to send her permanently away, although the truth
of the matter was that an oppressed female had risen at last against
his tyranny and had found a better place.
S. Gedge Antiques was now a figure for pity, but William, fresh from
the lacerating presence of the niece whom he had so cruelly thrown out
of doors, had none to give.
The whine and snuffle of their last meeting, at whose remembrance rose
the gorge of an honest man, were no more. Instead of the crocodile
tricks were now the slow tears of a soul in agony. The truth was, this
childless and friendless old man, who in the grip of the passion that
had eaten away his life, had never been able to spare a thought for his
kind, simply could not do without the one human being he had learned to
love.
Their relations, as the old miser had discovered, were much closer than
those of servant and master. William stood for youth, for the seeing
mind, for cheerful, selfless giving, for life itself. The tones of his
voice, his kindly readiness, his tolerance for an old man’s megrims;
even the sound of this good fellow moving furniture in the next room
and the sense of him about the place had grown to mean so much that,
now they were withdrawn, all other things grew null.
The old man felt now that he could not go on, and at any other moment,
the force of his appeal might have touched the gentle nature to whom
it was made. But the stars in their courses fought against S. Gedge
Antiques. He was a figure to move the heart, as he stood in the shop of
a rival dealer, the slow tears staining his thin cheeks, but William
had the shadow of that other figure upon him. The wreck of youth, of
reason itself, seemed infinitely more tragic than the falling of the
temple upon the priest of Baal whose wickedness had brought the thing
to pass.
William denied his master. And yet hearing him out to the bitter end,
he was unable to withhold a little pity. All feeling for the old man
was dead; the bedside from which he had just come had finally destroyed
the last spark of his affection, yet being the creature he was, he
could not sit in judgment.
“I’ll pay you twice what you are getting now if you’ll return to me,”
said the old man. “As I say, I can’t go on.” He peered into that face
of ever-deepening distress. “What do you say, boy?” He took the hand
of the young man in his own, as a father might take that of a beloved
son. “I’ll give you anything--if you’ll come back. I haven’t long to
live. Return to-night and I’ll leave you the business. Now what do you
say?”
Had it been human to forgive at such a moment, S. Gedge Antiques would
have been forgiven. But William could only stand dumb and unresponsive
before the master he had loved.
“I’m a warm man.” The voice of the old dealer who had made money his
god, sank to a whisper becoming a theme so sacred. “My investments have
turned out well. There’s no saying what I _am_ worth--but this
I’ll tell you in strict confidence--I own property.” The hushed tone
was barely audible. “In fact I own nearly half my own side of this
street. Now what do you say? Promise to come back to me to-night and
I’ll go right now and see my lawyer.”
The young man stood the image of unhappiness.
“Only speak the word and you shall inherit every stick and stone.”
It was a moment to rend the heart of both, but the word was not spoken.
For the second time that afternoon William was hard set to rein back
his tears; but he had not the power to yield to this appeal.
Overborne by the knowledge that the hand of Fate was upon him, S. Gedge
Antiques, leaning heavily on his knotted stick, moved feebly towards
the dark street.