THE RETURN OF GABRIEL
'My dear Daisy, I am sorry you are going away, as it has been a great
pleasure for me to have you in my house. I hope you will visit me again
next year, and then you may be more fortunate.'
Mrs Pansey made this amiable little speech--which nevertheless, like a
scorpion, had a sting in its tail--to Miss Norsham on the platform of
the Beorminster railway station. After a stay of two months, the town
mouse was departing as she had come--a single young woman; and Mrs
Pansey's last word was meant to remind her of failure. Daisy was quick
enough to guess this, but, displeased at the taunt, chose to understand
it in another and more gracious sense, so as to disconcert her spiteful
friend.
'Fortunate! Oh, dear Mrs Pansey, I have been very fortunate this time.
Really, you have been most kind; you have given me everything I wanted.'
'Excepting a husband, my dear,' rejoined the archdeacon's widow,
determined that there should be no misunderstanding this time.
'Ah! it was out of your power to give me a husband,' murmured Daisy,
wincing.
'Quite true, my dear; just as it was out of your power to gain one for
yourself. Still, I am sorry that Dr Alder did not propose.'
'Indeed!' Daisy tossed her head. 'I should certainly have refused him
had he done so. A woman may not marry her grandfather.'
'A woman may not, but a woman would, rather than remain single,' snapped
Mrs Pansey, with considerable spite.
Miss Norsham carefully inserted a corner of a foolish little
handkerchief into one eye. 'Oh, dear, I do call it nasty of you to speak
to me so,' said she, tearfully. 'You needn't think, like all men do,
that every woman wants to be married. I'm sure I don't.'
The old lady smiled grimly at this appalling lie, but thinking that she
had been a little hard on her departing guest, hastened to apologise.
'I'm sure you don't, dear, and very sensible it is of you to say so.
Judging from my own experience with the archdeacon, I should certainly
advise no one to marry.'
'You are wise after the event,' muttered Daisy, with some anger, 'but
here is my train, Mrs Pansey, thank you!' and she slipped into a
first-class carriage, looking decidedly cross and very defiant. To fail
in husband-hunting was bad enough, but to be taunted with the failure
was unbearable. Daisy no longer wondered that Mrs Pansey was hated in
Beorminster; her own feelings at the moment urged her to thrust the good
lady under the wheels of the engine.
'Well, dear, I'll say good-bye,' said Mrs Pansey, screwing her grim face
into an amiable smile. 'Be sure you give my love to your mother, dear,'
and the two kissed with that show of affection to be seen existing
between ladies who do not love one another over much.
'Horrid old cat!' said Daisy to herself, as she waved her handkerchief
from the now moving train.
'Dear me! how I dislike that girl,' soliloquised Mrs Pansey, shaking her
reticule at the departing Daisy. 'Well! well! no one can say that I have
not done my duty by her,' and much pleased with herself, the good lady
stalked majestically out of the station, on the lookout to seize upon
and worry any of her friends who might be in the vicinity. For his sins
Providence sent Gabriel into her clutches, and Mrs Pansey was transfixed
with astonishment at the sight of him issuing from the station.
'Mr Pendle!' she said, placing herself directly in his way, 'I thought
you were at Nauheim. What is wrong? Is your mother ill? Is she coming
back? Are you in trouble?'
Gabriel could not answer all, or even one of these questions on the
instant, for the sudden appearance and speech of the Beorminster
busybody had taken him by surprise. He looked haggard and white, and
there were dark circles under his eyes, as though he suffered from want
of sleep. Still, the journey from Nauheim might account for his weary
looks, and would have done so to anyone less suspicious than Mrs Pansey;
but that good lady scented a mystery, and wanted an explanation. This,
Gabriel, with less than his usual courtesy, declined to furnish.
However, to give her some food for her mind, he answered her questions
categorically.
'I have just returned from Nauheim, Mrs Pansey,' he said hurriedly.
'There is nothing wrong, so far as I am aware. My mother is much better,
and is benefiting greatly by the baths. She is coming back within the
month, and I am not in trouble. Is there anything else you wish to
know?'
'Yes, Mr Pendle, there is,' said Mrs Pansey, in no wise abashed. 'Why do
you look so ill?'
'I am not ill, but I have had a long sea-passage, a weary railway
journey, and I feel hot, and dirty, and worn out. Naturally, under the
circumstances, I don't look the picture of health.'
'Humph! trips abroad don't do _you_ much good.'
Gabriel bowed, and turned away to direct the porter to place his
portmanteau in a fly. Offended by his silence, Mrs Pansey shook out her
skirts and tossed her sable plumes. 'You have not brought back French
politeness, young man,' said Mrs Pansey, acridly.
'I have been in Germany,' retorted Gabriel, as though that fact
accounted for his lack of courtesy. 'Good-bye for the present, Mrs
Pansey; I'll apologise for my shortcomings when I recover from my
journey.'
'Oh, you will, will you?' growled the archdeacon's widow, as Gabriel
lifted his hat and drove off; 'you'll do more than apologise, young man,
you'll explain. Hoity-toity! here's brazen assurance,' and Mrs Pansey,
with her Roman beak in the air, marched off, wondering in her own
curious mind what could be the reason of Gabriel's sudden return.
Her curiosity would have been gratified had she been present in Dr
Graham's consulting-room an hour later; for after Gabriel had bathed and
brushed up at his lodgings, he paid an immediate visit to the little
doctor. Graham happened to be at home, as he had not yet set out on his
round of professional visits, and he was as much astonished as Mrs
Pansey when the curate made his appearance. Also, like Mrs Pansey, he
was struck by the young man's worn looks.
'What! Gabriel,' he cried, when the curate entered, 'this is an
unexpected pleasure. You look ill, lad!'
'I am ill,' replied Gabriel, dropping into a chair with an air of
fatigue. 'I feel very much worried, and I have come to ask for your
advice.'
'Very pleased to give it to you, my boy, but why not consult the
bishop?'
'My father is the last man in the world I would consult, doctor.'
'That is a strange speech, Gabriel,' said Graham, with a keen look.
'It is the prelude to a stranger story! I have come to confide in you
because you have known me all my life, doctor, and because you are the
most intimate friend my father has.'
'Have you been getting into trouble?'
'No. My story concerns my father more than it does me.'
'Concerns your father!' repeated the doctor, with a sudden recollection
of the bishop's secret. 'Are you sure that I am the proper person to
consult?'
'I am certain of it. I know--I know--well, what I do know is something I
have not the courage to speak to my father about. For God's sake,
doctor, let me tell you my suspicions and hear your advice.'
'Your suspicions!' said Graham, starting from his chair, with a chill in
his blood. 'About--about--that--that murder?'
'God forbid, doctor. No! not about the murder, but about the man who was
murdered.'
'Jentham?'
'Yes, about the man who called himself Jentham. Are you sure we are
quite private here, doctor?'
Graham nodded, and walking to the door turned the key. Then he came back
to his seat and fixed his eyes on the perturbed face of the young man.
'Does your father know that you are back?' he asked.
'No one knows that I am here save Mrs Pansey.'
'Then it won't be a secret long,' said Graham, drily; 'that old magpie
is as good as the town-crier. You left your mother well?'
'Quite well; and Lucy also. I made an excuse to come back.'
'Then your mother and sister do not know what you are about to tell me?'
Gabriel made a gesture of horror. 'God forbid!' said he again, then
clasped his hands over his white face and burst into half hysterical
speech. 'Oh, the horror of it, the horror of it!' he wailed. 'If what I
know is true, then all our lives are ruined.'
'Is it so very terrible, my boy?'
'So terrible that I dare not question my father! I must tell you, for
only you can advise and help us all. Doctor! doctor! the very thought
drives me mad--indeed, I feel half mad already.'
'You are worn out, Gabriel. Wait one moment.'
The doctor saw that his visitor's nerves were overstrained, and that,
unless the tension were relaxed, he would probably end in having a fit
of hysteria. The poor young fellow, born of a weakly mother, was
neurotic in the extreme, and had in him a feminine strain, which made
him unequal to facing trouble or anxiety. Even as he sat there, shaking
and white-faced, the nerve-storm came on, and racked and knotted and
tortured every fibre of his being, until a burst of tears came to his
relief, and almost in a swoon he lay back limply in his chair. Graham
mixed him a strong dose of valerian, felt his pulse, and made him lie
down on the sofa. Also, he darkened the room, and placed a wet
handkerchief on the curate's forehead. Gabriel closed his eyes, and lay
on the couch as still as any corpse, while the doctor, who knew what he
suffered, watched him with infinite pity.
'Poor lad!' he murmured, holding Gabriel's hand in his firm, warm clasp.
'Nature is indeed a harsh stepmother to you. With your nerves, the
pin-prickles of life are so many dagger-thrusts. Do you feel better
now?' he asked, as Gabriel opened his eyes with a languid sigh. 'Much
better and more composed,' replied the wan curate, sitting up. 'You have
given me a magical drug.'
'You may well call it that. This particular preparation of valerian is
nepenthe for the nerves. But you are not quite recovered yet; the swell
remains after the storm, you know. Why not postpone your story?'
'I cannot! I dare not!' said Gabriel, earnestly. 'I must ease my mind by
telling it to you. Doctor, do you know that the visitor who made my
father ill on the night of the reception was Jentham?'
'No, my boy, I did not know that. Who told you?'
'John, our old servant, who admitted him. He told me about Jentham just
before I went to Nauheim.'
'Did Jentham give his name?'
'No, but John, like many other people, saw the body in the dead-house.
He there recognised Jentham by his gipsy looks and the scar on his face.
Well, doctor, I wondered what the man could have said to so upset the
bishop, but of course I did not dare to ask him. By the time I got to
Germany the episode passed out of my mind.'
'And what recalled it?'
'Something my mother said. We were in the Kurgarten listening to the
band when a Hiedelberg student, with his face all seamed and slashed,
walked past us.'
'I know; students in Germany are proud of those duelling scars. Well,
Gabriel, and what then?'
The curate quivered all over, and instead of replying directly, asked
what seemed to be an irrelevant question. 'Did you know that my mother
was a widow when my father married her?' he demanded in low tones.
'Of course I did,' replied Graham, cheerily. 'I was practising in
Marylebone then, and your father was vicar of St Benedict's. Why, I was
at his wedding, Gabriel, and very pretty your mother looked. She was a
Mrs Krant, whose husband had been killed while serving as a volunteer in
the Franco-Prussian War!'
'Did you ever see her husband?'
'No; she did not come to Marylebone until he had left her. The rascal
deserted the poor young thing and went abroad to fight. But why do you
ask all these questions? They cannot but be painful.' 'Because the
sight of that student's face recalled her first husband to my mother.
She said that Krant had a long scar on the right cheek. I immediately
thought of Jentham.'
'Good God!' cried Graham, pushing back his chair. 'What do you mean,
lad?'
'Wait! wait!' said Gabriel, feverishly. 'I asked my mother to describe
the features of her first husband. Not suspecting my reason for asking,
she did so. Krant, she said, was tall, lean, swart and black-eyed, with
a scar on the right cheek running from the ear to the mouth. Doctor!'
cried Gabriel, clutching Graham's hand, 'that is the very portrait of
the man Jentham.'
'Gabriel!' whispered the little doctor, hoarsely, 'do you mean to say--'
'I mean to say that Krant did not die, that Jentham was Krant, and that
when he called on my father he appeared as one from the dead. He is dead
now, but he was alive when my mother became my father's wife.'
'Impossible! Impossible!' repeated Graham, who was ashy pale, and shaken
out of his ordinary self. 'Krant died--died at Sedan. Your father went
over and saw his grave!'
'He did not see the corpse, though. I tell you I am right, doctor. Krant
did not die. My mother is not my father's wife, and we--we--George, Lucy
and myself are in the eyes of the law--nobody's children.' The curate
uttered these last words almost in a shriek, and fell back on the couch,
covering his face with two trembling hands.
Graham sat staring straight before him with an expression of absolute
horror on his withered brown face. He recalled Pendle's sudden illness
after Jentham had paid that fatal visit; his refusal to confess the real
cause of his attack; his admission that he had a secret which he did not
dare to reveal even to his oldest friend, and his strange act in sending
away his wife and daughter to Nauheim. All these things gave colour to
Gabriel's supposition that Jentham was Krant returned from the dead; but
after all it was a supposition merely, and quite unsupported by fact.
'There is no proof of it,' said Graham, hoarsely; 'no proof.'
'Ask my father for the proof,' murmured Gabriel. 'I dare not!'
The doctor could understand that speech very well, and now saw the
reason why Gabriel had chosen to speak to him rather than to the bishop.
It might be true, after all, this frightful fact, he thought, and as in
a flash he saw ruin, disaster, shame, terror following in the train of
its becoming known. This, then, was the bishop's secret, and Graham in
his quick way decided that at all costs it must be preserved, if only
for the sake of Mrs Pendle and her children. The first step towards
attaining this end was to see the bishop and hear confirmation or denial
from his own lips. Once Graham knew all the facts he fancied that he
might in some way--at present he knew not how--help his wretched friend.
With characteristic promptitude he decided on the spot how to act.
'Gabriel,' he said, bending over the unhappy young man, 'I shall see
your father about this at once. I cannot, I dare not believe it to be
true, unless with his own lips he confirms the identity of Krant with
Jentham. You wait here until I return, and sleep if you can.'
'Sleep!' groaned Gabriel. 'Oh, God! shall I ever sleep again?'
'My friend,' said the little doctor, solemnly, 'you have no right to
doubt your father's honour until you hear what he has to say. Jentham
may not be Krant as you suspect. It may be a chance likeness--a--'
Gabriel shook his head. 'You can't argue away what I know to be true,'
he muttered, looking at the floor with dry, wild eyes. 'See my father
and tell him what I have told you. He will not be able to deny his shame
and the disgrace of his children.'
'That we shall see,' said Graham, with a cheerfulness he was far from
feeling. 'I shall see him at once. Gabriel, my boy, hope for the best!'
Again the curate shook his head, and with a groan flung himself down on
the couch with his face to the wall. Seeing that words were vain, the
doctor threw one glance of pity on his prostrate form, and with a sigh
passed out of the room.