Land was not so valuable when Queen Charlotte's Road was built, and
people who directed letters to their friends in that locality did not
then place the letters "S.E." at the bottom of the address. In fact, so
low in price was the land that the speculative builder of that day--
whose name, by the way, was not Jeremiah, or Jerry, for the houses are
still standing--gave to each of the double-barrelled, or semi-detached
cottages, a goodly piece of garden back and front; and, instead of
piling up so many rooms by the side of a fire-escape sort of staircase,
planted them, for the most part, side by side, and ran a good broad
veranda along the front. He or his tenants planted trees as well--trees
that once gave the straight broad road which ran down to the strawberry
and rhubarb fields quite a countrified air.
The houses are there still, but many of them have been found substantial
enough to bear a couple of floors on the top of the old structure; and
some of the trees are still in their old places--vigorous old fellows of
artful nature, who declined to trust their roots where they would be
poisoned by the company's gas mains or cut off by the picks and shovels
of the navvies at work on the main drainage scheme. Consequently, they
lived, though in a sad, decrepit, mutilated way; bent back, beheaded,
carved and cropped--limbless dwarfs, for the most part, but always ready
to put forth plenty of tender, green leaves in the spring-time, and to
make a litter of the dead early in the autumn, while the country trees
were still in full costume.
The road--which ran at right angles out of what was once a highly
respectable retired-tradesman thoroughfare, with gardens rich in lilac
and laburnum, now all busy shops--no longer lost itself in rhubarb
gardens, but was carried on through miles of crowded streets; and it was
through these, by an ingenious short cut and long fare process, that a
hansom cab was being driven, till Queen Charlotte's Road was reached,
and a signal given for the man to stop by a semaphore use of Brettison's
gouty umbrella.
Stratton gazed wonderingly at the neat, green-verandahed cottage,
half-hidden by the cropped trees and a well kept privet hedge, and noted
as they entered the gate that there was a cane armchair just outside the
French window, sheltered by the broad veranda, and that there were many
wheel-marks on the gravel, suggestive of perambulators and children;
but, in its well painted, clean windows, carefully tended garden, and
general aspect of comfort, the place was anything but that where
Stratton had expected to find an escaped convict confined.
Hardly a word had been said during the drive out, but Stratton had quite
made up his mind what to do. He felt that he would be running counter
to his friend's wishes, and might seem unmerciful, but at the cost of
any suffering to Myra he felt that it was the best thing, and would
result in saving her future cares.
They were met at the door by the comely looking grey-haired woman who
had played the part of nurse, and she drew back, smiling, to show them
into a cheerful sitting room, well-furnished, with a canary on one side
of the window and a particularly sage-looking starling in a wicker cage
on the other.
"Ah, Dick!" said Brettison, rubbing his finger along the sides of the
canary's cage. "Well, Jack!"
The yellow bird burst into song, and the speckled starling uttered a
sharp, jarring sound, and set up all its sharp-pointed, prickly looking
plumes till it resembled a feathered porcupine.
"Not such an uncomfortable place for a man to live in, eh?" said
Brettison cheerily. "Better than our dull, dusty chambers, eh?"
Stratton's eyes were wandering about, noting a clay tobacco pipe on the
hob, a jar on the table, and an easy-chair and spittoon by the
fireplace, while flowers were in a vase on the table, and a couple of
solemn looking, swollen-eyed, pompous goldfish sailed round and round
their little crystal globe, as if it were their world, and nothing
outside were of the least consequence, unless it might have been the fat
cat, with fish-hook claws, half asleep where the sun made a patch on the
stone outside the French window.
"Like this place better than the old street, eh, Mary?" said Brettison.
"Oh, indeed yes, sir! It's quite like being in the country, and yet
with all the advantages of town."
"As the house agent said in his advertisement, eh? Well, where is Mr
Cousin?"
"Only gone to get his morning shave, sir. He'll be back soon."
"Humph! Pretty well?"
"Oh, yes, sir; he's nicely, thank you. Really, sir, I don't think he
wants the chair at all. It's only because he likes it and has grown
used to it."
"Yes, yes; I suppose so. Creatures of habit, Mary. Want any money--any
rates or taxes due? Coal cellar all right--want another ton?"
"Oh, no, sir, thank you. I haven't near got through the last money
yet."
"Mary, you're a paragon of economy," said Brettison. "There, that will
do now. I'll sit down and have a chat with my friend till he comes
back."
There was a smile and a courtesy, and the woman withdrew.
"Sit down, my dear boy. No use to make a labour of our task. Not bad
quarters, eh? Not to be changed lightly for the locks and bars of The
Foreland, eh?"
Stratton looked at him reproachfully.
"Are you not taking all this too lightly?" he said.
"Oh, I hope not. But we shall see. I'm afraid that I should never have
done for a judge, Malcolm. I should have let all the prisoners off with
light sentences. Ah, here he comes!"
For there was the sound of wheels, a faint creaking, and from where
Stratton sat, with his back to the window, he could hear the brushing of
a light vehicle against the shrubs, as it was evidently being pushed up
to the side door.
Stratton's first impulse was to turn round and gaze out at the man he
had come to see, but he mastered his desire and sat up rigidly, with his
eyes fixed upon the door, and the scenes of the past flitting before him
in a rapid sequence. Now he was listening to the flushed, coarse
looking, brutalised scoundrel, boasting of his position and power to
wreck the future of a beautiful, innocent woman; then they were talking
fiercely together, and there was the struggle. And, again, that
horrible scene--with the smoke gradually spreading through the room,
while Barron lay prone upon the carpet, with a little thread of blood
slowly trickling down from behind his ear. This gave place, as there
was a rustling in the entry, to a picture of the moments when there was
another terrible rustling as he dragged the body into the bath-closet
and strove so hard to hide all traces of the catastrophe.
Then the door slowly opened, there was the thumping of a couple of
sticks, and, in utter astonishment, Stratton was gazing at a
grey-haired, cleanly shaven, heavy looking man, whose pallid face had a
peculiar, inanimate aspect, and who came in, making no sign of
recognition, but walked slowly across the room to the easy-chair by the
fireside. He stood his two crutch-handled sticks by the mantelpiece,
and subsided into the chair with a sigh of content, and began passing
his hand over his smoothly shaven face, as if in search of stubble that
the razor had missed.
Stratton was astounded. He had expected an angry start as a precursor
to a fierce scene between them; but the man paid not the slightest heed
to either of the visitors. There was a dreamy look in his lack-lustre
eyes, and his heavy lips moved slightly, as if he were whispering to
himself.
The man seemed to be imbecile, and Stratton grasped now his friend's
object in bringing them face to face. It was to show him how little so
mindless a creature ought to influence the future of two people's lives,
and to consult with him as to what ought to be done.
Brettison watched his friend closely to see what effect the meeting had
upon him, but directly after he was as keenly noting every movement and
look of James Barron, to see if there was the slightest shade of
recognition.
At last, apparently satisfied, he said aloud:
"Well, Mr Cousin, been for your morning visit?"
Barron seemed as if an appeal to his ear was the way to attract his
attention, and not to the eyes; for he looked up with a slight display
of animation, and he nodded.
"Yes," he said, "been to get shaved--been to get shaved."
He reached over to the fireplace and took the pipe, tapped it slowly on
the hob, sat back, passed his hand over his face again in search of the
stubble, and then leaned forward to get the jar from the table; after
which he began to fill his pipe by pinching out a sufficient quantity
from the jar, placing it in his left palm; and applying the opening of
the bowl thereto, worked it round and round till the whole of the
tobacco had been worked in, when, after a finishing pressure with one
finger, he took a match-box from his pocket and began to smoke in placid
content.
Brettison still watched his friend intently, to see the effect of all
this upon him; and after a quick and meaning glance, he turned to
Barron.
"Tobacco good?" he said,
"Tobacco? Yes, capital tobacco. Have a pipe?"
"Not now. I've brought a friend to see you."
"Friend? Where is he?" said Barron, peering round through the smoke.
"Ho, there! How do--how do? Have a pipe?"
Stratton made no reply, but gazed at the man in horror.
"Never been shot, I suppose?" said Barron suddenly.
Stratton started as if he had been stung.
"No, no," said Brettison hastily. "My friend has never been shot."
"Ho! pity. Can't grasp it, then. You've never been shot either, but
you do. Wonderful case mine, eh?"
"Yes, very," said Brettison.
"Can't find the bullet, you know. Big bullet shot me; I want it to have
it set for my watch chain--I say."
"Yes."
"Doctor's very proud of me, eh!"
"Yes; he considers yours a wonderful case."
"Yes; wonderful case."
"How did it happen?" said Brettison, with a glance at his friend.
"Happen? Ah! I can't find out how it happened. Must have been before
I was born."
This last in a very thoughtful tone; and then, more loudly:
"Of course, if it had happened since, I should have known, eh?"
"Very probably," said Brettison.
"I often try to think about it; but it don't matter. I say."
"Yes."
"Doctor's very proud of my case, isn't he?"
"Oh, yes, very."
"Don't think he has stolen the bullet, do you?"
"Oh, no, no; not likely."
"No, of course not," said Barron thoughtfully, as he sank back in his
chair and went on smoking.
Brettison spoke to him again and again, but his words had not the
slightest effect; the man seemed perfectly unconscious of all that was
said, and at last there was a tap at the door, and the nurse entered
with a tray, and a little tureen of beef tea, with thin slices of toast.
"He always has this, sir, about this time," said the nurse
apologetically, "and the doctor said that it must be given regularly."
"Quite right, Mary. Of course."
"He has been talking a little, sir?"
"Oh, yes, for a time, and then he finished; and we have not had a word
since."
"No, sir, and you would not till to-morrow now, when he'll wake up a
little again, and talk about what a wonderful case his is."
"Poor fellow!" said Brettison compassionately.
"And he always seems to have got that bullet on his brain, sir."
"Naturally," muttered Brettison.
"And, if you'll believe me, sir, if he didn't ask me to confess
yesterday that I'd stolen it to show to people, because his was such a
curious case."
Stratton glanced at the man seated there, still smoking placidly, and
evidently not grasping a word that was said.
The tray was taken to him, and he submitted to the pipe being removed
from his hand, after which, in perfect silence, and in the most
mechanical manner, he went on with his meal, while, after a few more
words with the nurse, Brettison led the way out into the road, and he
and Stratton went back toward the West End.
"Now," said Brettison at last, "you have seen our deadly enemy--the
being who crushes down the future of two people I love. What do you
say?"
Stratton was silent for a few moments.
"Will he recover?" he said at last.
"Not in this world. The bullet lodged somewhere about the brain, and it
has produced, by its pressure, this peculiar form of imbecility. The
past is an utter blank to him, and it is only for a short time every
morning that he has the power of expressing himself at all."
"You feel certain that he will not recover?"
"I have had the opinions of two of our most famous specialists, and they
say it is impossible. The man is, to all intents and purposes, mentally
dead. Now, then, as an enemy, Myra has no cause to fear him."
"None."
"He can never trouble you or her for blackmail, even if he had dared,
after what has passed; so I think he may be left out of the question
altogether. You will not, I am sure, think of handing the man over to
the police."
Stratton was silent for a few moments.
"No," he said at last; "it is impossible."
"I thought you would feel like this," said Brettison. "Let the poor
wretch end his days in peace."
"At your cost?" said Stratton sharply.
"Oh, pooh! A mere nothing, my dear boy," cried Brettison; "and I am not
poor."
"I cannot allow that," said Stratton, after a few moments' thought; "and
we must do something else. There should be no risk of those two ever
coming face to face again."
"Well, is it likely? West End and East End do not often mix."
"No, but there is always the possibility. An accident might bring Myra
to some spot where he had been taken. Who can guard against such
things?"
"None of us; but I thought I had taken precautions enough."
"But we must take the greatest," said Stratton excitedly.
"What would you do?"
Stratton made no reply, and seemed so plunged in thought that Brettison
respected his silence, and they rode back together, with the old man's
face lighting up as he felt more at rest and satisfied with the way in
which matters had shaped themselves.
They reached the narrow entrance to the inn in due course, and Stratton
led the way up into his chambers, closed the door, and pointed to a
seat, but kept on pacing the room himself; thoughtful and silent, as if
some doubt as to his course were still lingering in his mind.
At last he threw himself into a chair.
"This is neither the time nor place to talk of your devotion to me,
Brettison. Heaven reward you for it! You have brought me back to a
new, even if hopeless, life. Let us now talk of the future."
"Yes, yes," said Brettison eagerly, for he had grown uneasy at his
friend's words.
"There must never be the slightest risk of Myra and that man meeting
again. Here in England it would always be possible."
"No, no; don't say you will send the poor wretch back to the prison."
"No; as I have said before, that is out of the question now, but he must
leave England."
"Yes; but how?"
"You must help me again, Brettison."
"Of course, boy; but how?"
"You are a wanderer; ready to go anywhere to study plant life?"
"Yes."
"Then you must select some place to begin with and settle there for a
time--say in Brittany, inland or on the coast. Let that man be with
you, and his nurse, and always under your eye."
"Willingly."
"When tired of one place go to another; but he must not be left."
"I'll do it," said Brettison eagerly.
"I knew you would. But listen; I shall share your task. I'll give up
everything to guard against that horror. Will you help me?"
"My boy, I tell you, yes; and gladly, too, now that this black shadow is
being swept from your life."
"Thank you, Brettison. We will start to-morrow, if possible; if not, as
soon as it is."
"Good. He will be no trouble, and it will be like old times again,
Malcolm. Bless you, my boy! It gives me life to see you growing firm
and like yourself again. Who's that?"
He started as he stood up and clasped Stratton's hand, for there was a
sharp double knock at the outer door.
"Guest," said Stratton. "There, our plans are made. They are for
ourselves alone I trust Guest, but not yet with this."
He threw open the inner door, and unfastened the outer, which was drawn
from his hand, and the man regarding whom they had been planning,
looking intent and strange, strode into the room.
"James Barron!"
"Yes; I have business with you, sir," he said, in quite his old tone.
"Mr Malcolm Stratton, I believe?"