A MORAL DUEL.
“Dr. Hildyard wishes to see you, sir.”
“Where is the doctor?” Hugh asked, putting aside the notebook in which
he was writing.
A short, square man, with shaggy grey hair and keen blue eyes, came
bustling in.
“How are you, Paull? Want a few words with you on private business.”
“Certainly,” said Hugh, bringing up a chair; but the doctor impatiently
waved his hand.
“No, no! I ought to be miles away as it is. Do you remember that case of
Sir Roderick Pym?”
Did he remember it? But the doctor was utterly unconscious that he was
ironical.
“Ah! Well, you pulled him round, and watched his progress so closely
that I should be glad of your opinion in a case of mine, very like his.”
Dr. Hildyard detailed the case, which was one of concussion similar to
Sir Roderick’s; and the next time Hugh was off duty he accompanied the
well-known specialist to see his patient, a middle-aged lady, whose
brougham had been overturned by collision with a dray-cart.
He felt the distinction of his opinion being sought by so great a man
keenly, but kept this most unusual honour a secret, even when writing
home. Meanwhile, he gave his opinion modestly, but firmly. That opinion
was in favour of a different course of treatment to the one pursued by
Dr. Hildyard.
Dr. Hildyard modified his treatment, and liked the young man all the
more for speaking frankly. A frank, bold man himself, he hated
sycophants.
When, a few weeks later, the patient died, he said:
“Perhaps, after all, Paull, your treatment might have brought her
round.”
Events worked curiously in Hugh’s life from first to last. Sir
Roderick’s accident had brought about his meeting with Lilia, of whom he
constantly thought, although he had not written—after his first note to
announce his safe return to Sir Roderick—and he had not received any
communication from the Pinewood. It had also led to this special notice
from Dr. Hildyard; and that special notice brought about a strange
_rencontre_, which was destined to be of lasting import in his
extraordinary life.
It had been an unusually busy time in the hospital. Still, he was so
much haunted by thoughts and memories of the Pinewood, and his
experiences there, that, to distract himself, he gave every spare hour
to the treatise he was writing when Sir Roderick’s accident changed the
current of his thoughts.
He was at his desk one morning, when a note was brought to him from Dr.
Hildyard, asking him, as a special favour, to dine with him that evening
(one of his “evenings off”).
Seven o’clock found him dining _tête-à-tête_ with the genial specialist,
in his house in B—— Street. The family were away.
The doctor, never at any time a lover of social ceremony, dismissed the
servants as soon as possible, and then told Hugh what he wanted of him.
“I have a most interesting but puzzling case,” he said. “There are some
nice people I know in the neighbourhood, the widow of a general
practitioner and her two daughters, who add to a small income by letting
lodgings. I generally send them patients of mine who come up from the
country for treatment. The other day a doctor in Stainbury, an old
friend of mine, wrote to me. A sad accident had occurred at the theatre
there, during the performance of an opera by a travelling company. A
scenic staircase, or tower, or something, had given way, and the young
lady who was singing had a remarkably awkward fall. Her spine was not
fatally injured, but the concussion had been followed by symptoms so new
to him that he wished to send the case on to me, provided he could raise
a subscription. The girl was poor and friendless, etcetera. Well, of
course, I was only too glad to do what I could. I wrote back, if he
would see to her removal here, and could get some of his rich friends
and patients to help a bit, I would see to her for nothing, and her
lodging could be paid out of a fund I keep going for poor patients. You
see, Paull, sometimes matters go very well very unexpectedly with my
special cases. (I was going to say _our_ special cases, for I see you
are doomed to nerve specialism.) Then the patient’s friends often get
gushing. Some gush in words, but some wish to ‘give me some little
token,’ as they call it. Then, when I know they can afford it, I bring
out the account book of the poor patients’ fund, and get a handsome
subscription or donation, or both. Well, the girl came up, and has been
with Mrs. Draper for the last three weeks. They are very kind to her.
She has a nurse, of course. But we make no progress. To-day I feared she
was sinking.”
At first, Hugh excused himself, almost with a fear that Dr. Hildyard’s
opinion of his ability was a hallucination.
Did some warning of the influence this incident was to have upon his
future make him feel so strong a disinclination to meet the doctor’s
wishes to-night, and visit his interesting patient with him? Oftentimes,
in after years, he thought back, and asked himself that question, which
none could answer.
It was bad enough to be called upon to pronounce on a case which had
been a perplexing one to Dr. Hildyard.
It was only after further talk on the part of the doctor, who insisted
on the fact of the peculiar insight Hugh had shown on various occasions
being no credit to its owner—in fact, being perhaps somewhat of a
drawback to the development of talents which were necessary to the
making of a sound medical man, that the young surgeon gave way.
Almost as soon as he had reluctantly consented, the butler announced
that the carriage was at the door.
“It is a mere stone’s-throw,” said Dr. Hildyard, as they drove through
the lamplit streets. “We might have walked; but it is raining very fast
now, and I promised to drive you back, if you remember.” Then he chatted
away very fast till the brougham turned the corner and stopped before a
tall house in a street leading out of a well-known West-end square.
“Here we are,” said the doctor. “How is Miss Morton to-night?” he asked
of the neat parlourmaid, who opened the door. “Oh, there is nurse!”
A tall young lady, in the dark dress and picturesque cap and apron of a
professional nurse, appeared on the first landing.
“Come up,” said Dr. Hildyard to Hugh, running up the stairs. “Nurse,
this is the medical friend I spoke about this morning.”
Hugh followed the nurse and doctor, feeling as if in some strange dream.
Truly, of late, his hitherto humdrum and monotonous life had changed—had
utterly changed.
“As if Fate had overlooked me—poor insignificant unit—until now, and had
pounced upon me with a vengeance, and intent to make up for lost time,”
he thought.
They were conducted to a second-floor sitting-room—a comfortable room
enough, with flowers and pretty knick-knacks about—while the nurse went
into the next room, the sick chamber.
Coming back, “She is quite ready,” she said, addressing Dr. Hildyard.
“_You_ see her,” he said, shortly, to Paull.
“Without you?” Hugh was astonished.
“Certainly.”
Dr. Hildyard sat down at the table and took up a newspaper that was
lying there. There was a peremptoriness in his voice and manner which
forbade Hugh’s further questioning. He paused a moment, then turned and
followed the nurse into the next room.
It was large, bright, airy, and cheerful, with its light maple furniture
and white hangings. Coloured engravings of pleasant subjects hung on the
walls. After the bare wards of the hospital, Hugh felt that it would be
almost a luxury to go through an illness here.
He changed his mind when he saw his patient. No face among the many he
had watched lying on the hospital pillows had looked as pitiable as
this. The girl was beautiful, even now that the pallor of her oval face
was as the pallor of the dead, that her delicately-shaped nose was
pinched and transparent in the light of the shaded lamp at her bedside;
and her large, dark eyes had the solemn, wondering expression he had so
often seen on the faces of the dying. In health she must have
been—lovely, a “perfect woman, nobly planned.”
She made no remark when the nurse told her it was Dr. Hildyard’s wish
that this gentleman should see her, but meekly submitted, answering
Hugh’s questions in a clear though feeble voice. In about twenty minutes
Hugh returned to Dr. Hildyard.
“Well?” said the doctor.
Hugh closed the door and came towards him. “I cannot find the slightest
physical cause for this extraordinary debility,” he said. Then he was
silent.
“And that is all you can say?” asked Dr. Hildyard.
“All—but—something very unscientific.”
Dr. Hildyard uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “Well! but, my dear
fellow, it is just your impressions that I want,” he said, almost
impatiently. “I can form conclusions for myself. In fact, I want your
medical instinct.”
“I—know,” said Hugh, deprecatingly. His eyes had the glaze of intense
preoccupation. “Of—course—you—have formed scientific conclusions. I—only
seem to—see. And I saw—a peculiarly delicate and sensitive temperament,
with a deep, strong _ego_ beneath. The girl has been deeply wounded, so
deeply—I am speaking of her mental nature, not of her body—that, if I
were you, I should think it cruel to keep her alive.”
They talked in subdued tones for some minutes. They continued the
discussion while Dr. Hildyard accompanied Hugh to the hospital gates,
which he entered, pledged to the physician to watch the case for the
next few days.
The next day he appropriated the dining hour of the hospital staff to
his visit to the sick girl. The nurse was reading to her when he entered
the room. She was an intelligent, sweet-faced woman, and spoke quite
tenderly of her charge when she followed Hugh into the sitting-room,
after he had concluded his visit to the patient.
“I cannot understand the poor girl, Mr. Paull,” she said,
confidentially. “She seems slowly sinking. The first animation she has
shown was to-day, when I was trying to cheer her up a bit by telling her
some little family anecdotes. I was just showing her the portrait of a
scapegrace brother of mine, who ran away and enlisted, when she gave a
start—a wild look at me—and fainted.”
Hugh asked to see the portrait. It was the photograph of a young man in
uniform—an ugly likeness of the nurse’s, his sister. He was evidently
quite young, and very uninteresting in appearance.
“He is not much like you,” said Hugh, cautiously. “I seem to know that
uniform, though. What is his regiment?”
“The 45th Fusiliers,” she said. “They are at Aldershot now. My brother
called here to see me the other day.”
“Can there—could there, by any possibility, be any acquaintance between
your brother and our patient?” suggested Hugh.
Nurse Bryant completely negatived the idea. Her brother had enlisted in
a huff. He had been very silly about his employer’s daughter, and there
had been a family row, which was the actual cause of his taking the
Queen’s shilling.
“Has she not confided in you—I mean about her family—her affairs?” asked
Hugh. “Has she told you—nothing?”
“Not—one—word—not even a hint,” emphatically said the nurse.
Miss Bryant confessed herself more absolutely ignorant of the dying
girl’s antecedents, as well as of her actual thoughts and feelings, than
she had been of those of any patient up to the present time.
“Try and gain her confidence,” was Hugh’s urgent advice to the nurse. He
returned to the hospital more than usually thoughtful.
Next day, when he visited her, he asked her whether she had any dread as
to the termination of her illness.
A faint colour rose to her cheek. “Oh!” she said, clutching nervously at
the sheet with her emaciated fingers, “_do_ you think I shall die?”
It was the hopeful eagerness with which patients generally asked him,
“Do you think I shall get well?” Hugh began to see light.
“You speak almost as if you did not wish to live,” he said gravely.
“Surely that cannot be. You are young, and neither I nor Dr. Hildyard
think that there is any real reason why you should not be restored to
your old active life, and to your friends.”
Her eyelids drooped. “I have—no—friends,” she said, with effort. “I left
my elder sister and brother, and went on the stage. They have not
forgiven me. I have no parents. They are dead.”
“But——” Hugh hesitated a moment. “You know I have heard all about you,”
he said. “You were making success after success in various provincial
towns—you must have already had scores of admiring friends among the
public when that unfortunate accident occurred.”
“Accident!” she said, scornfully. “That was no accident.”
“It could not possibly have been anything else,” said, Hugh, warmly. “No
human being could have been so brutal——”
“No one—was—brutal,” she said; her breathing rapid with the fatigue and
excitement of speaking. “I—did it—myself. I—flung myself down—and pulled
the scene—with me. It came to me—suddenly. I felt I could not
live—any—longer.”
Her great shining eyes were dry—but their agonising wistfulness was more
piteous than tears. Hers was evidently some incurable grief. Hugh felt
disinclined to probe further. Still, he spoke gently and comfortingly to
the poor child—the friendless, motherless girl. He said, truly, that he
felt no doubt but that her rash act was the consequence of overstrain.
Were she to die now, or later on, she would not, in his opinion, be
guilty of the frightful crime of self-murder. Then he asked her, seeing
that her troubled expression remained, whether she would like to see a
clergyman.
“Then you do believe I shall die?” she said, a sudden light crossing her
face like a sunbeam. “Oh, thank God!”
Hugh nearly started up from his chair. Certainly the mental state of
this poor young creature was a new experience. What should he say—or do?
She saved any hesitation by seizing his hand in her burning fingers.
“Promise me,” she said, “that you will do something for me after I am
dead.”
Once more Hugh hesitated. He would not promise anything, or bind himself
to anything, until he knew the whole truth about that which he might
undertake (he would even not say _would_ undertake).
Then the truth came out. It was the old story—love, deception, and the
inevitable parting of sinner and sinned against. Olive (that was his
patient’s Christian name) had met her hero at a musical party. He had
been interested in her singing, and had become a frequent visitor at her
brother’s house. He persuaded her brother to allow her to live in London
for a time, to study, and himself recommended persons who would, he
said, care for her as their own daughter during that time.
She went to London, and saw her lover as often as he could contrive to
come to town. She considered herself engaged to him; he even went so far
as to fix their marriage. But all was to be kept secret. Her preparation
for the stage was also kept secret, her future husband promising her
marriage immediately after her first appearance. This she made at a
theatre in Ireland. Her lover was present—but the next morning she
received a letter from him telling her that all must be over between
them. He found that their marriage would ruin his career, and he begged
her, if she had any affection for him at all, never to see or write to
him again, and, forgetting him, to accept the profession he had planned
for her instead of a husband. Brokenhearted, she wrote a long letter to
her sister, which was answered by her brother in the harshest terms,
telling her she had made her own bed and must lie on it.
After that she roused herself, worked hard, and achieved many triumphs.
Then came bitterness, desolation of soul, and the sudden fit of
despairing frenzy during which she had attempted suicide on the stage.
She entreated Hugh to take charge of a sealed packet after her death.
There would be no address on the outside—but she begged him, after
breaking the seals, to send the packet, unopened, to the person to whom
it was addressed on the inside envelope, and never, under any
circumstances whatever, to mention her story to anyone.
Hugh promised. After all, it was little that she asked; and, as her
exhausted brain became confused, she forgot to exact any further
promises as to his future conduct in respect to the man who had treated
her as unscrupulous men mostly treat loving, generous, and unprotected
women. When the nurse, directed by her patient, found the sealed packet
and placed it in Hugh Paull’s hands, the dying girl’s false-hearted
lover was virtually at his mercy.
After a long and fatiguing evening—there had been more casualties in the
district than usual—Hugh was leaning out of his bedroom window, smoking
and gazing down upon the moonlit quadrangle, when there was a knock at
his door.
It was a special messenger with this note from Dr. Hildyard:—
“Thursday, 9 p.m.
“Dear Paull,—Shortly after you left to-day our patient succumbed to
syncope of the heart. I have given certificate of death. But, wiring
to Dr. Bartlett, at Stainbury, he wires back that he knows nothing of
her personally, and has no idea who she is. The theatrical manager,
now in Liverpool, was wired to and returned similar reply. The nurse
has informed me you have a sealed packet, and can doubtless give us
clue to her identity. Messenger will wait for your reply.
“Yours always faithfully,
“CHAS. HILDYARD.”
Hugh conducted the man who had brought the letter to his sitting-room
below, lit the gas, opened the safe, and took out the sealed packet. He
turned it over with a strange reluctance. He felt he could not open it
then and there, with strange eyes watching him; so, giving the man some
newspapers to look at, he took it upstairs with him, and by the
uncertain light of a flickering candle broke the many seals of the
packet which contained the dead girl’s secret.
What was it? Was some demon mocking him? There, staring him in the face,
were the words—distinctly written on the packet—
CAPTAIN RODERICK PYM,
_45th Fusiliers_.
He mechanically whispered the name to himself as he sank into a chair,
staring at the package.
“Captain—Roderick—Pym,” he repeated, as a horrified, stunned feeling
brought cold sweat upon his forehead. “What—how—when?”
His eyes felt as if stiffening in his head. The candle seemed to burn a
dull red; the bed, chairs, chest of drawers to tremble and swim in the
moonlight.
“Come, come,” he said to himself. “This will never do. It is a
coincidence, that is all. Society is made up of tiny circles. This is
the most ordinary coincidence, such as happens to everyone at least once
or twice in a lifetime.”
Pulling himself together, he forced himself to grasp the situation. The
unidentified corpse lying, a burden to strangers, in a London
lodging-house. Dr. Hildyard, overweighted with work and all sorts of
responsibilities, awaiting the return of the messenger below before the
dead girl could be coffined. And upon himself depended the clue that
would make proceedings easy.
Roderick—Pym! Lilia’s cousin and possible future husband, Sir Roderick’s
nephew and favourite, the dastard who ruined that fair young life? It
was impossible. Utterly impossible—an idea untenable for a moment—he
told himself, as he feverishly paced his room.
Roderick was possibly a mutual friend of the actors in that wretched
little tragedy. He did not believe that the poor young creature who had
shown no symptoms of anger, no suspicion of revenge, would trust the
identity of the man whom she loved, although he had illtreated her, to a
mere stranger—although she might to a mutual friend. No. Roderick Pym
was most likely the confidant, the bosom friend—some evil feeling
suggested the Mephistopheles—of the love story. At all events, he must
not betray him in the affair. He must temporise.
By the time he had arrived at this conclusion, Hugh was more himself. He
got out writing materials, and presently sent back Dr. Hildyard’s
messenger with the following note:—
“Dear Dr. Hildyard,—It is true that your patient entrusted me with a
sealed packet, but I am in honour bound only to confide the packet,
secretly, to another person. All I can do is to communicate at once
with that person. I hope the upshot will be that I may speedily assure
you as to the identity of the deceased lady.
Yours most faithfully,
“HUGH PAULL.
“I will write, or see you, as soon as I have any information.”
The messenger despatched, Hugh considered what was next to be done. His
first impulse was to take the last train to Aldershot, and see Captain
Pym. Second thoughts forbade this hasty move.
“I know little or nothing of these military men,” he thought.
His own code of morals and theirs must certainly differ. Still it was
essential that he should gain some knowledge by means of that package,
which most probably contained letters. After consideration, he resolved
to surprise Roderick Pym into some admission. Unpleasant though it was
to him to act, to use subterfuge, he told himself that his only course
was to be diplomatic.
Looking at his watch, he saw that to telegraph to Aldershot that night
he must seek some central office. Fortunately, there was one not very
far distant, from which he despatched this message:—
“_To Roderick Pym, Captain — Division_,
“_45th Fusiliers, The Camp, Aldershot_.
“_Can I see you here to-morrow on most important and serious business?
If you cannot leave, I must go to you._
_Hugh Paull_,
“_The S—— Hospital_.”
“I think that will fetch him,” he thought, as he returned through the
silent City streets. “He will think it is something connected with the
state of his uncle’s health—with Lilia.” He smiled bitterly to himself.
“Heavens! how dare I suspect him of being that villain?” he thought.
“Yet, would not any ordinary person do so? Can he be a near relation of
that poor girl’s? I must not think of it all! Come what may, I must keep
my head clear.”
Next morning the return telegram came:—
“_Will be at your place about ten. Must be back here at three._”
It was well for Hugh that Friday was a busy morning, besides there being
extra work on in consequence of yesterday’s influx of accidents; for,
despite the close attention he must pay to his arduous occupation, his
nervous agitation as ten o’clock struck from the tower above the
entrance to the hospital was great.
At ten minutes past the hour he was fetched. “The gentleman” had
arrived.
“He is ashamed of sending in his card,” thought Hugh. “Am I not good
enough for him? Or has he an uneasy conscience?”
Captain Pym was in the hall, standing in an easy attitude, his hands
behind him, swinging his cane, ostensibly studying the notices and
regulations on the green-baize-covered board. He turned to meet Hugh
with an amused smile.
“What laws of the Medes and Persians!” he said, airily, as he shook
hands. “Ours in the service are mere child’s play in comparison! Well,
what does the mysterious summons portend?”
His whole appearance—he wore a light shooting-coat and delicacies
in ties and gloves—his flippant manner, just tinged with
condescension—chilled Hugh, especially when he thought of that
pale corpse, lying straight and still, whose poor thin hand had
written the name of this human butterfly for the last time.
“If you will come to my room, I will explain,” he said, leading the way
through the hall and up the stone staircase.
He had intended to suddenly produce the packet of letters and watch the
effect upon Roderick. But, as he mounted the staircase, a better idea
occurred to him.
“I suppose it is something about my uncle—poor old fellow,” said Captain
Pym, as soon as they had fairly entered Hugh’s sitting-room, throwing
himself into a chair. “Gad! How close it is to-day! Thunder about, I
should say.”
“Very likely,” said Hugh, dryly, as he produced brandy and a siphon of
seltzer, which seemed to suit his guest’s ideas, for he assumed a less
patronising manner, even saying, “Thanks, old fellow,” quite familiarly
as Hugh handed him the tall tumbler. “No, Captain Pym; I did not
telegraph to you on the subject of Sir Roderick. The fact is, Dr.
Hildyard has a patient who has had to do with the regiment—your
regiment, I mean—and whom you can possibly identify.”
“Well——” Captain Pym paused, evidently annoyed. “Excuse me, Paull, if I
say that I think that is about the coolest proceeding I ever heard of in
my life! I am to be wired for because some fellow in the hospital wants
identification! Why didn’t you write? I’d have sent up a non-com. to
oblige you. But—really——”
“I think—that your friend—is an officer, Captain Pym.”
“Oh—well!”—Roderick tossed off his seltzer and brandy, and smiled
somewhat sourly. “It was a curious thing to do—but you hospital fellows
have ways of your own, I expect. Can’t be expected to know what’s what,
of course. Where is the fellow? I don’t remember anyone I was
particularly friendly with, by the way.”
“Your—acquaintance—is not here, Captain Pym,” said Hugh, hating the part
he was playing—sickened as he felt by the young man’s manner, which was
utterly different to that of the Roderick Pym he had met at the
Pinewood. “The case is being privately nursed. If you would accompany
me, a hansom will take us and bring us back within the hour.”
Roderick’s face brightened. He glanced at the clock.
“An hour!” he said. “I mean to make a holiday of what time I’ve got. You
must lunch with me, Paull! We ought to be chums, you know, you being
everybody at the Pinewood now. Why, my nose is quite out of joint. What
a devil of a hurry you are in, man!” (Hugh had seized his hat, and had
opened the door.) “The fellow, whoever it is, isn’t dying, I suppose?”
“No,” said Hugh, going rapidly downstairs and feeling that at least this
was absolutely true.
Speeding along in a hansom, his volatile companion’s spirits rose; he
laughed and chaffed and told anecdotes, rallying Hugh on his gravity.
“You medicos seem to me to think a lot more of death than we army
fellows,” he said, as they neared the house with the lowered blinds. “I
have a horror of killing: I acknowledge that. But as for death itself,
what is a corpse, after all? A mere empty envelope. The likeness of the
human being is the address; but the contents—the letter itself—is gone.”
Here Hugh shouted to the driver to stop, and without glancing at his
companion, paid the fare and mounted the steps of No. 99. The
sympathetic landlady had drawn down her blinds in respect to the dead
girl, but Captain Pym did not notice this, he was looking after the
departing hansom.
“You might have kept the fellow,” he said, discontentedly, as they
entered the house.
Hugh muttered something about hansoms being plentiful in that
fashionable quarter, and hurried upstairs, bidding Roderick follow.
The utter unsuspiciousness of Lilia’s cousin cut him to the quick. Yet,
what was he to do? As he opened the door of the bedroom, he consoled
himself by thinking how lightly Captain Pym had but a few minutes
previously spoken of death.
Turning to hold open the door of the darkened room, he saw Roderick
pause—his expression change. He looked sternly, distrustfully, at Hugh.
“What does this mean?” he said, entering and glancing from the bed,
where a still, straight figure was visible under a sheet, to Paull. “The
man, whoever he may be, is dead, and you must have known it.”
“I did know it,” said Hugh, calmly drawing up the blind of the window
nearest the bed.
“Do you take me for a coward, then?” sneered Roderick.
“I will answer your questions presently,” said Hugh, watching Captain
Pym closely, and throwing back the sheet to disclose the waxen, lovely
face of the girl.
There was a calm about the large sunken eyelids, with their dark lashes
blackly defined against the ivory cheek—about the pale forehead,
surrounded by a glossy wreath of black plaits—about the arms, crossed
upon her breast over sprays of white lilies; and upon the closely-shut,
beautiful dead lips was the set, strange smile that seems to express:
“Fear not—none can harm me, now.”
For one instant, Roderick swerved. He could not be said to shudder, or
to start—he swerved, as if he had made a false step. Then, visibly
paler, but perfectly composed, he leant forward, his arms upon the brass
rail.
“You—recognize her?” asked Hugh.
Either this young man was the most accomplished and hardened
hypocrite—or he was not the villain of the story. He felt puzzled.
“I—do,” said Roderick, straightening himself and looking Hugh full in
the face. “But—excuse me—I cannot understand why it should have fallen
upon me to identify her. Where are her friends?”
“The only person connected with her whose name we have—is yours, Captain
Pym.”
Roderick shrugged his shoulders.
“It is a mystery,” he said. “I knew her brother and her sister. I knew
her—also—slightly.”
Evidently he began to feel that this was a verbal duel. He spoke
cautiously, choosing his words, and he kept his eyes fixed upon Hugh.
“Slightly?” asked Hugh, doubtfully. “Perhaps you will be so good as to
explain?”
“You will be so good as to explain first, if you please, Mr. Paull. I
cannot tell what this lady may have led you to understand. She was, as
far as I can judge, impulsive and imaginative to a degree.”
“Do not asperse the dead, Captain Pym,” said Hugh, contemptuously. “A
corpse is but a poor shield for a man’s conduct. To shorten matters, let
me tell you that this young lady has told me—all.”
“All?” said Roderick, raising his eyebrows. “Allow me to congratulate
you on your knowledge, then. I have not seen her for nearly a year—since
which she may doubtless have had an interesting history of which I am
absolutely ignorant. The last time I saw her she was acting and singing
in an Irish theatre, and I was one of the audience.”
“And wrote her a merciless letter next morning,” said Hugh, confronting
him and speaking in a low, stern voice. “You—under promise of
marriage—oh, do not lose your temper, Captain Pym; you cannot frighten
me! Under promise of marriage you persuaded this unhappy girl to leave
her home and study, secretly, for the stage; you assisted her to make
the appearance on the stage which separated her from her family
forever—and then—you left her to her fate!”
“I admire your romance—I mean, _the_ romance,” said Roderick, calmly,
turning his back upon the bed. “I am sorry you should be so credulous,
Mr. Paull; that is all I feel upon the subject. I will give you any
information I can. Meanwhile, as I have never given the lie to a living
woman, it is scarcely likely I shall do so to a dead one. Cannot we end
our discussion in another room? Such talk is scarcely seemly here.”
“I will come,” said Hugh, wrathfully. “But, once more, do not insult the
dead, Captain Pym. Your—letters—to this—lady—are in my possession.”
Roderick’s pallor assumed a greenish yellow.
“After you, Mr. Paull,” he said, bowing slightly, and casting an
ironical glance at the sweet young corpse. “I cannot blame you. Only I
hope you may never be dragged into committing yourself out of foolish
good nature, as I appear to have done.” And replacing his hat, he walked
towards the door.
“Good God—what a fiend!” thought Hugh, with a pitying glance towards the
corpse. “Poor—unhappy—child!”
He had often been deeply touched by the innocent trustfulness of young
children about to undergo terrible operations that meant kill or cure;
he had frequently been shamed for his own impatience by the cheerful
resignation of the sick and dying poor. But he had never felt such
chivalrous sympathy as that which made him stoop—before he reverently
re-covered that solemn, smiling dead face—and gently touch one thin cold
hand with his lips.
Though he was neither kith nor kin to her—not even an acquaintance—her
honour was safe with him, and he felt he would have staked his very life
upon her truth.
He motioned Roderick to follow him, took him into the little
sitting-room, closed the door, and faced him with righteous indignation.
“You are in my hands, Captain Pym, and at my mercy,” he said, harshly.
“Only the truth can save you from exposure. It lies with Dr. Hildyard
and myself whether there shall be an inquest or no; the cause of the
patient’s death is sufficiently obscure to warrant legal investigation.
As you know, every scrap of evidence must then be brought forward. Your
letters will be produced. You will find yourself in an awkward
position.”
This last blow, given literally in the dark, went home. Roderick bit his
lip and looked dangerously at Hugh. For a full quarter of a minute the
men’s eyes met, unflinching, then Roderick began to pace the room.
“One would think you had tampered with the woman yourself—at least, I
might think so—only I happen to know you have succumbed to the
fascinations of my cousin,” he said, sneeringly. “It is to this, I
suppose, I owe your zeal on behalf of this young person.”
“Let us keep ladies’ names out of the conversation, Captain Pym,” said
Hugh, who had flinched at the bare mention of Lilia. “Tell me the truth,
like a man, and I will restore you your letters and bid you
good-morning. But one condition will I make.”
Roderick paused, and looked full in his antagonist’s face.
“And that?” he said.
“You will entirely renounce all idea of marrying your cousin,” said
Hugh.
It was his turn to pale to an ashen tint.
“Upon my word!” Roderick threw himself into a chair, and gave a scornful
laugh. “By what right do you forbid the banns?”
“While I live, Captain Pym, she shall not marry you.”
“Then my promises are scarcely necessary, are they?” he asked, looking
mockingly up and tilting his chair. “You have only to tell your
wonderful tale to my uncle, and shew him your beautiful documents. Do
so, and go to the devil!”
“As you please,” said Hugh, somewhat astonished. “Unfortunately, in
telling the news to Sir Roderick, it must be told to the world, and your
family name dragged through the mud.”
Captain Pym had risen to go. He paused.
“What do you want me to say?” he said, savagely. “Tell me what you
accuse me of, and I will answer.”
“That is by far more sensible,” said Hugh, seating himself at the table,
and drawing an inkstand and blotting-case nearer to him. “Now that you
are inclined to listen to reason, the affair assumes a different aspect.
You will find that, if you confide in me, I will hold my peace, while
you hold the scheme of marriage with your cousin Lilia Pym in abeyance.
Think! Can you give me your word?”
Roderick gazed gloomily at the one window. A canary was busily pecking
at a morsel of sugar between the bars of its cage; below, in a mews, a
man was whistling while he swept the pavement with a bass broom.
What, thought Hugh, was passing in that mind? Was it possible for some
good to be left in that careless, cruel nature?
“I will give you my word,” said Roderick at last, somewhat sullenly.
“You give me my letters, and I will not advance a step in the matter of
marriage with Lilia. Heavens! do you doubt my word?”
“I will not,” said Hugh. “I will hope for better things than to find you
utterly unworthy.”
At least, the young man had no depth of cunning; for it was he himself
who had informed Hugh that he _had_ written compromising letters to the
dead girl.
“Come,” said Paull, more cheerfully, “tell me her name?”
“Her name is Olivia Fenton,” said Roderick. “Her parents are dead. I met
her when I was at the Curragh. Her brother holds a living near there.
She had a fine voice, and yearned to make use of it; but her brother and
sister were against any idea of the sort. She appealed to me, and I
helped her to come to London, and got people to look after her. During
the time she was studying she, unfortunately, took a fancy to me. I
liked and admired her; but as to marrying her, I knew such a thing was
utterly out of the question. When I found that that was what she
expected of me, I was horrified. She was on the eve of going on the
stage, and I thought better to leave matters as they were until after
her _debût_. She was successful, fortunately, and then I cut the whole
thing.”
“As you ought to have done before,” said Hugh, sternly. “The old
story—shut the stable door when the steed is stolen.”
“You did not gather that from my letters!” he cried, the blood rushing
to his face. “The treacherous puss——”
“Hush! We are speaking of the dead,” said Hugh.
He was firm, composed. He knew as much now as it was necessary to know.
He obtained the address of the brother and sister, pocketed it, and they
left the house.
The sun was shining. In the full light of day Roderick looked ghastly.
He stared vacantly at the life of the busy streets, and mechanically
followed his companion. During their rapid drive back to the hospital
[Hugh had chosen a hansom with a good horse, who covered the ground
about as quickly as it could be done] Captain Pym said not one word.
Arrived, Hugh found himself demanded on all sides. The matron, coming
out of the accident ward, met him with a disgusted frown; one of the
ward Sisters, seeing him pass, hurried out, “Oh, Mr. Paull!” The
dispenser was waiting outside his room door with a bundle of papers. He
waved them all away. “He would be with them in a minute.” Then shutting
himself in with Roderick, he unlocked his safe, and took out the packet
of letters entrusted to him by Olivia Fenton.
“Before I give you these,” he said, earnestly to Roderick, “you must
pledge yourself to give up all thoughts of marriage with your cousin.
Oh! I exact no formal oath. A man’s word should be as good as his bond!
Did I not still trust you to this extent, I should act very
differently.”
Roderick held out his hand.
“I promise,” he said, with some show of emotion; then he eyed the
letters greedily.
For one moment Hugh faltered in his determination. His fingers closed
upon the packet; then he fulfilled his promise to his dead patient, and
handed them to the man she had so fatally loved.
The captain glanced at the superscription, then at the seal; then he
turned upon Hugh, his blue eyes aflame with anger.
“Good God! you have been lying!” he cried, wrathfully. “This is her
seal—I know it—unbroken, and you said you had read the letters!”
He positively trembled with rage, and gnawed his fair moustache as he
pushed the packet down into the inner breast-pocket of his coat.
“I made no such statement, Captain Pym,” said Hugh, calmly, leaning up
against the mantelpiece and watching the young man’s ignoble exhibition
of feeling. “I inferred that you might be the writer of them—that was
all. The cap fitted, and you yourself voluntarily acknowledged their
contents.”
“If you had been straightforward,” said Roderick, fiercely, “I should
have been so, also. Now, look to yourself! This is my last word to you;”
and seizing his hat, he hurried from the room.