Seized by the throat by the most frightful of agonies, Lucien tried to
utter a cry, and, in the effort which he made, awoke from his nightmare
on the club settee, on which he had gone to sleep a little before
midnight, and where the attendant who had quitted the house last had
left him out of charity.
The misty dawn of a December morning was greying the window-panes.
Lucien went out into the street, pledged his watch, took a bath,
breakfasted, and then went to the recruiting-office, and signed an
engagement as volunteer in the 1st Regiment of Chasseurs d'Afrique.
At the present time Lucien Hem is a lieutenant; he has only his pay to
live upon, but he contrives to make it suffice, being a very steady
officer and never touching a card. It appears even that he has found the
means of saving, for the other day, at Algiers, one of his comrades who
was following him, at a few paces distant, in one of the hilly streets
of the Kasba, saw him give something in charity to a little Spanish girl
sleeping in a doorway, and had the indiscretion to see what it was that
Lucien had given to the child.
Great was his surprise at the poor lieutenant's generosity.
Lucien Hem had put into the hand of the poor child a _piece of gold_!
[Illustration]
_The Voice of Science._
MRS. ESDAILE, of the Lindens, Birchespool, was a lady of quite
remarkable scientific attainments. As honorary secretary of the ladies'
branch of the local Eclectic Society, she shone with a never-failing
brilliance. It was even whispered that on the occasion of the delivery
of Professor Tomlinson's suggestive lecture "On the Perigenesis of the
Plastidule" she was the only woman in the room who could follow the
lecturer even as far as the end of his title. In the seclusion of the
Lindens she supported Darwin, laughed at Mivart, doubted Haeckel, and
shook her head at Weissman, with a familiarity which made her the
admiration of the University professors and the terror of the few
students who ventured to cross her learned but hospitable threshold.
Mrs. Esdaile had, of course, detractors. It is the privilege of
exceptional merit. There were bitter feminine whispers as to the
cramming from encyclopædias and text-books which preceded each learned
meeting, and as to the care with which in her own house the conversation
was artfully confined to those particular channels with which the
hostess was familiar. Tales there were, too, of brilliant speeches
written out in some masculine hand, which had been committed to memory
by the ambitious lady, and had afterwards flashed out as extempore
elucidations of some dark, half-explored corner of modern science. It
was even said that these little blocks of information got jumbled up
occasionally in their bearer's mind, so that after an entomological
lecture she would burst into a geological harangue, or _vice versâ_, to
the great confusion of her audience. So ran the gossip of the malicious,
but those who knew her best were agreed that she was a very charming and
clever little person.
[Illustration: "SCIENTIFIC PROOF."]
It would have been a strange thing had Mrs. Esdaile not been popular
among local scientists, for her pretty house, her charming grounds, and
all the hospitality which an income of two thousand a year will admit
of, were always at their command. On her pleasant lawns in the summer,
and round her drawing-room fire in the winter, there was much high talk
of microbes, and leucocytes, and sterilised bacteria, where thin,
ascetic materialists from the University upheld the importance of this
life against round, comfortable champions of orthodoxy from the
Cathedral Close. And in the heat of thrust and parry, when scientific
proof ran full tilt against inflexible faith, a word from the clever
widow, or an opportune rattle over the keys by her pretty daughter Rose,
would bring all back to harmony once more.
Rose Esdaile had just passed her twentieth year, and was looked upon as
one of the beauties of Birchespool. Her face was, perhaps, a trifle long
for perfect symmetry, but her eyes were fine, her expression kindly, and
her complexion beautiful. It was an open secret, too, that she had under
her father's will five hundred a year in her own right. With such
advantages a far plainer girl than Rose Esdaile might create a stir in
the society of a provincial town.
A scientific conversazione in a private house is an onerous thing to
organise, yet mother and daughter had not shrunk from the task. On the
morning of which I write, they sat together surveying their accomplished
labours, with the pleasant feeling that nothing remained to be done save
to receive the congratulations of their friends. With the assistance of
Rupert, the son of the house, they had assembled from all parts of
Birchespool objects of scientific interest, which now adorned the long
tables in the drawing-room. Indeed, the full tide of curiosities of
every sort which had swelled into the house had overflowed the rooms
devoted to the meeting, and had surged down the broad stairs to invade
the dining-room and the passage. The whole villa had become a museum.
Specimens of the flora and fauna of the Philippine Islands, a ten-foot
turtle carapace from the Gallapagos, the os frontis of the Bos montis as
shot by Captain Charles Beesly in the Thibetan Himalayas, the bacillus
of Koch cultivated on gelatine--these and a thousand other such trophies
adorned the tables upon which the two ladies gazed that morning.
"You've really managed it splendidly, ma," said the young lady, craning
her neck up to give her mother a congratulatory kiss. "It was so brave
of you to undertake it."
"I think that it will do," purred Mrs. Esdaile complacently. "But I do
hope that the phonograph will work without a hitch. You know at the last
meeting of the British Association I got Professor Standerton to repeat
into it his remarks on the life history of the Medusiform Gonophore."
"How funny it seems," exclaimed Rose, glancing at the square box-like
apparatus, which stood in the post of honour on the central table, "to
think that this wood and metal will begin to speak just like a human
being."
"Hardly that, dear. Of course the poor thing can say nothing except what
is said to it. You always know exactly what is coming. But I do hope
that it will work all right."
"Rupert will see to it when he comes up from the garden. He understands
all about them. Oh, ma, I feel so nervous."
Mrs. Esdaile looked anxiously down at her daughter, and passed her hand
caressingly over her rich brown hair. "I understand," she said, in her
soothing, cooing voice, "I understand."
"He will expect an answer to-night, ma."
"Follow your heart, child. I am sure that I have every confidence in
your good sense and discretion. I would not dictate to you upon such a
matter."
"You are so good, ma. Of course, as Rupert says, we really know very
little of Charles--of Captain Beesly. But then, ma, all that we do know
is in his favour."
"Quite so, dear. He is musical, and well-informed, and good-humoured,
and certainly extremely handsome. It is clear, too, from what he says,
that he has moved in the very highest circles."
"The best in India, ma. He was an intimate friend of the
Governor-General's. You heard yourself what he said yesterday about the
D'Arcies, and Lady Gwendoline Fairfax, and Lord Montague Grosvenor."
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Esdaile resignedly, "you are old enough to know
your own mind. I shall not attempt to dictate to you. I own that my own
hopes were set upon Professor Stares."
"Oh, ma, think how dreadfully ugly he is."
"But think of his reputation, dear. Little more than thirty, and a
member of the Royal Society."
"I couldn't, ma. I don't think I could, if there was not another man in
the world. But, oh, I do feel so nervous; for you can't think how
earnest he is. I must give him an answer to-night. But they will be here
in an hour. Don't you think that we had better go to our rooms?"
The two ladies had risen, when there came a quick masculine step upon
the stairs, and a brisk young fellow, with curly black hair, dashed into
the room.
"All ready?" he asked, running his eyes over the lines of relic-strewn
tables.
"All ready, dear," answered his mother.
"Oh, I am glad to catch you together," said he, with his hands buried
deeply in his trouser pockets, and an uneasy expression on his face.
"There's one thing that I wanted to speak to you about. Look here,
Rosie; a bit of fun is all very well; but you wouldn't be such a little
donkey to think seriously of this fellow Beesly?"
"My dear Rupert, do try to be a little less abrupt," said Mrs. Esdaile,
with a deprecating hand outstretched.
"I can't help seeing how they have been thrown together. I don't want to
be unkind, Rosie; but I can't stand by and see you wreck your life for a
man who has nothing to recommend him but his eyes and his moustache. Do
be a sensible girl, Rosie, and have nothing to say to him."
"It is surely a point, Rupert, upon which I am more fitted to decide
than you can be," remarked Mrs. Esdaile, with dignity.
"No, mater, for I have been able to make some inquiries. Young
Cheffington, of the Gunners, knew him in India. He says--"
But his sister broke in upon his revelations. "I won't stay here, ma, to
hear him slandered behind his back," she cried, with spirit. "He has
never said anything that was not kind of you, Rupert, and I don't know
why you should attack him so. It is cruel, unbrotherly." With a sweep
and a whisk she was at the door, her cheek flushed, her eyes sparkling,
her bosom heaving with this little spurt of indignation, while close at
her heels walked her mother with soothing words, and an angry glance
thrown back over her shoulder. Rupert Esdaile stood with his hands
burrowing deeper and deeper into his pockets, and his shoulders rising
higher and higher to his ears, feeling intensely guilty, and yet not
certain whether he should blame himself for having said too much or for
not having said enough.
[Illustration: "I WON'T STAY HERE TO HEAR HIM SLANDERED."]
Just in front of him stood the table on which the phonograph, with
wires, batteries, and all complete, stood ready for the guests whom it
was to amuse. Slowly his hands emerged from his pockets as his eye fell
upon the apparatus, and with languid curiosity he completed the
connection, and started the machine. A pompous, husky sound, as of a man
clearing his throat proceeded from the instrument, and then in high,
piping tones, thin but distinct, the commencement of the celebrated
scientist's lecture. "Of all the interesting problems," remarked the
box, "which are offered to us by recent researches into the lower orders
of marine life, there is none to exceed the retrograde metamorphosis
which characterises the common barnacle. The differentiation of an
amorphous protoplasmic mass--" Here Rupert Esdaile broke the connection
again, and the funny little tinkling voice ceased as suddenly as it
began.
The young man stood smiling, looking down at this garrulous piece of
wood and metal, when suddenly the smile broadened, and a light of
mischief danced up into his eyes. He slapped his thigh, and danced round
in the ecstasy of one who has stumbled on a brand-new brilliant idea.
Very carefully he drew forth the slips of metal which recorded the
learned Professor's remarks, and laid them aside for future use. Into
the slots he thrust virgin plates, all ready to receive an impression,
and then, bearing the phonograph under his arm, he vanished into his own
sanctum. Five minutes before the first guests had arrived the machine
was back upon the table, and all ready for use.
There could be no question of the success of Mrs. Esdaile's
conversazione. From first to last everything went admirably. People
stared through microscopes, and linked hands for electric shocks, and
marvelled at the Gallapagos turtle, the os frontis of the Bos montis,
and all the other curiosities which Mrs. Esdaile had taken such pains to
collect. Groups formed and chatted round the various cases. The Dean of
Birchespool listened with a protesting lip, while Professor Maunders
held forth upon a square of triassic rock, with side-thrusts
occasionally at the six days of orthodox creation; a knot of specialists
disputed over a stuffed ornithorhynchus in a corner; while Mrs. Esdaile
swept from group to group, introducing, congratulating, laughing, with
the ready, graceful tact of a clever woman of the world. By the window
sat the heavily-moustached Captain Beesly, with the daughter of the
house, and they discussed a problem of their own, as old as the triassic
rock, and perhaps as little understood.
"But I must really go and help my mother to entertain, Captain Beesly,"
said Rose at last, with a little movement as if to rise.
"Don't go, Rose. And don't call me Captain Beesly; call me Charles. Do,
now!"
"Well, then, Charles."
[Illustration: "Call me Charles. Do now."]
"How prettily it sounds from your lips! No, now, don't go. I can't bear
to be away from you. I had heard of love, Rose; but how strange it seems
that I, after spending my life amid all that is sparkling and gay,
should only find out now, in this little provincial town, what love
really is!"
"You say so; but it is only a passing fancy."
"No, indeed. I shall never leave you, Rose--never, unless you drive me
away from your side. And you would not be so cruel--you would not break
my heart?"
He had very plaintive, blue eyes, and there was such a depth of sorrow
in them as he spoke that Rose could have wept for sympathy.
"I should be very sorry to cause you grief in any way," she said, in a
faltering tone.
"Then promise----"
"No, no; we cannot speak of it just now, and they are collecting round
the phonograph. Do come and listen to it. It is so funny. Have you ever
heard one?"
"Never."
"It will amuse you immensely. And I am sure that you would never guess
what it is going to talk about."
"What then?"
"Oh, I won't tell you. You shall hear. Let us have these chairs by the
open door; it is so nice and cool."
The company had formed an expectant circle round the instrument. There
was a subdued hush as Rupert Esdaile made the connection, while his
mother waved her white hand slowly from left to right to mark the
cadence of the sonorous address which was to break upon their ears.
"How about Lucy Araminta Pennyfeather?" cried a squeaky little voice.
There was a rustle and a titter among the audience. Rupert glanced
across at Captain Beesly. He saw a drooping jaw, two protruding eyes,
and a face the colour of cheese.
[Illustration: "WHO WAS IT WHO HID THE ACE?"]
"How about little Martha Hovedean of the Kensal Choir Union?" cried the
piping voice.
Louder still rose the titters. Mrs. Esdaile stared about her in
bewilderment. Rose burst out laughing, and the Captain's jaw drooped
lower still, with a tinge of green upon the cheese-like face.
"Who was it who hid the ace in the artillery card-room at Peshawur? Who
was it who was broke in consequence? Who was it----?"
"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Esdaile, "what nonsense is this? The machine
is out of order. Stop it, Rupert. These are not the Professor's remarks.
But, dear me, where is our friend Captain Beesly gone?"
"I am afraid that he is not very well, ma," said Rose. "He rushed out of
the room."
"There can't be much the matter," quoth Rupert. "There he goes, cutting
down the avenue as fast as his legs will carry him. I do not think,
somehow, that we shall see the Captain again. But I must really
apologise. I have put in the wrong slips. These, I fancy, are those
which belong to Professor Standerton's lecture."
* * * * *
Rose Esdaile has become Rose Stares now, and her husband is one of the
most rising scientists in the provinces. No doubt she is proud of his
intellect and of his growing fame, but there are times when she still
gives a thought to the blue-eyed Captain, and marvels at the strange and
sudden manner in which he deserted her.
[Illustration]
_Camille._