A CHAT OVER OLD TIMES.
There is a quiet little road in St. John’s Wood which seems specially
to have been designed for ladies and gentlemen of a retiring
disposition, who wish for a peaceful arcadia at a convenient distance
from trams, omnibuses, and railways. You turn out of the main
thoroughfare to find yourself suddenly shut in between a double row of
small villas, all well set back in high-walled gardens, and further
protected from the gaze of the curious by luxuriant foliage.
The Arcadian inhabitants of this out-of-the-world by-way—a by-way so
narrow that a hansom cab can scarcely be driven down it without getting
on to the kerb—seem to be slightly suspicious of visitors. The villas
are constructed on a system of defence not unpopular during the middle
ages. There is no room for a drawbridge or a moat, but this deficiency
is supplied by a very high and solid garden gate, which effectually
bars the progress of the attacking party—and not only his progress but
his view.
Over the tops of the trees in the front garden, if you stand well back
on the opposite side, you may catch sight of the tops of the villa
chimney-pots, but of the villas themselves you can see nothing.
The garden gate affords you no better standpoint. It is a solid piece
of woodwork, grim and forbidding as a prison door.
If you knock and ring with the idea that the gate will be opened, and
you will thus get a glimpse within, you are wofully mistaken.
Your summons may be answered or not, as the case may be. If it is, a
small wooden flap at the back of an iron grill is let down, and a face
appears blocking up the aperture. The eyes of this face regard you
carefully, and if these eyes fail to recognise you the lips move and
request to know your business. If your explanation is satisfactory, you
may be admitted; if it is not, up goes the wooden flap again with a
bang, and silence reigns around.
At the gate of one of these curious and secluded little villas, which
by the inscription on the door-posts we learn is called ‘The Lodge,’
and by the brass plate on the door we find is inhabited by Dr. Oliver
Birnie, there stands a gentleman whom we have seen before.
He is a tall, good-looking fellow, very shabby about the clothes, and
not particularly tidy about the hair and beard.
The face which blocks up the little peephole of The Lodge is a female
face of the domestic servant order, and it evidently regards the
visitor with some suspicion. There has been a preliminary verbal
passage of arms, and the female face is hot and angry-looking.
‘If you can’t tell me your name, I shan’t go and disturb master,’ say
the lips.
‘You go and tell your master what I say,’ answers the shabby
gentleman—‘that an old friend from abroad wishes to see him.’
The lips move again—this time in a curled-up and scornful manner.
‘People as is ashamed o’ their names ain’t no friends o’ master’s, I’m
sure.’
‘That’s more than you know, you impertinent hussy! Take my message.’
‘Shan’t!’
With that the flap goes to with a bang.
The shabby gentleman is not in the least abashed. He takes the
bell-handle calmly and proceeds to tug at it.
He continues tugging till the female face, hotter and angrier than
ever, once more appears at the peephole.
‘If you don’t go away I shall send for the perlice.’
‘Will you take my message?’
‘No, master ain’t at home.’
‘Then why the devil didn’t you say so before?’
‘Cus I didn’t choose. P’raps you’d like to know where he is, and where
he was borned, Mr. Impertinence; and how many times he’s been
waksinated, and what he had for dinner o’ Sunday. Come, what is it?
’Ave you called to see the meter and help yourself to the hovercoats;
or d’ye want to be shown in and see which is the heasiest way through
the back window on sone futur’ ercashun?’
The domestic was fully roused now, and she let the shabby gentleman
have it. She knew a thing or two; and she wasn’t going to be made a
fool of, like the silly girls master read to her about in the
newspapers.
Her particular instructions were never, under any circumstances, to
admit a visitor when her master was out, and she meant to obey them.
Besides, what could a shabby fellow like this want but what he’d no
right to?
The shabby gentleman wasn’t angry in the least. He accepted the attack
with a smile.
‘Bravo, Jemima! or whatever your name is,’ he said. ‘You are a shrewd
girl, and deserve encouragement. I’ll report to the doctor, when I see
him, what an admirable watch-dog you make.’
‘Dog yourself! and my name ain’t Jemima; and if it was, I shouldn’t be
ashamed on it, like you are o’ yourn. Go away. There ain’t nothing to
be got here.’
Bang went the flap, and the shabby gentleman was still on the wrong
side of the door.
He was about to stroll away when a carriage came dashing down the
narrow roadway, and was pulled up in front of The Lodge. Dr. Birnie
jumped out, the carriage drove off, and then the shabby gentleman,
coming close up to the doctor as he was putting his latchkey into the
garden gate, touched him gently on the arm.
The doctor turned.
For a moment he hesitated and turned slightly pale, then he looked
closely into the shabby gentleman’s face and gasped out: ‘Good God,
Marston! I thought you were dead.’
Edward Marston smiled.
‘Not yet, Birnie. I’ve been very near it, though, once or twice.’
‘How strangely things happen,’ thought Birnie to himself. ‘I’ve been to
Heckett’s and Egerton’s to-day, and now here’s Marston dropped from the
skies, as if to complete the circle.’
The doctor glanced at his visitor’s costume, and then at his face
again.
‘Hard up, I suppose?’ he said uneasily.
‘Devilish hard up, old man. So hard up that I have called for that bob
you owe me for directing you to Little Queer Street the other night.’
The doctor started.
‘Good gracious, man! you don’t mean to say that was you?’
‘It was. Here’s the card you gave me. I’ve given you three days credit
as it is.’ Marston drew the card from his pocket and give it to Birnie.
‘That’s how I knew where to find you. Deuced funny how things come
about, isn’t it?’
Marston laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh, and the doctor didn’t respond
to it.
He looked very uncomfortable, and hesitated for a moment; then,
assuming an air of nonchalance, he said, with an affectation of
cheeriness:
‘Well, old fellow, I’m glad to see you. Will you come in and have a
chat?’
‘Just what I should like,’ answered Marston; ‘especially if there’s
anything to eat with the chat.’
‘Certainly, my dear boy. Come along.’
The doctor pushed his gate open and walked in, followed by Marston. As
they entered the house the servant came running to the doctor to tell
him of the pertinacious shabby gentleman’s visit. The look of disgust
on her face when she saw the shabby gentleman in the hall, was intense.
She tossed her head, muttered, ‘Well, I’m sure!’ and rushed downstairs
to the kitchen to protect the spoons and forks.
‘And so you’ve come back again, Ned?’ said Dr. Birnie, as, a few
minutes later, he sat in his library with the shabby gentleman.
‘Yes, I have. But pleasure before business, please.’
Mr. Marston was enjoying some cold meat and pickles, which the servant
had been ordered to bring him up, much to her disgust.
When he had finished he leaned back in the chair and fetched a deep
breath.
‘By Jove, Birnie,’ he said, ‘that’s the first good meal I’ve made for a
month!’
‘Can I order a little more for you?’
‘No, my boy; I won’t spoil my dinner.’
Mr. Marston had evidently made up his mind that he was not going short
of good meals again in a hurry.
Birnie eyed him nervously, and waited for him to grow communicative. He
wasn’t comfortable. He was playing a game without knowing his
opponent’s cards, and that was a style of play which had never suited
Oliver Birnie. He had not long to wait.
Do you know, it’s ten years since I left England,’ said Marston
presently. ‘By Jove! there must have been some changes in our little
party since then.’
‘Indeed there have.’
‘I come back and I find you a doctor, with a carriage and pair, a nice
quiet villa, and a thundering cheeky slavy; I heard abroad that Gurth
had got a windfall and was a regular tiptop swell now, and I’ll bet old
Heckett hasn’t been behindhand in making hay. I’m the only one of the
lot that’s down on my luck. I’ve been the scapegoat—that’s what I’ve
been—and I assure you, my dear boy, I’ve grown tired of the character.
I’ve come back to change places with one of you, and I’m not particular
which.’
Birnie shot a keen, searching glance at his visitor.
‘Look here, Ned, before we go any further, suppose we clear the ground
a little. I suppose, from your being here and walking about openly,
it’s quite safe for you to have come back?’
‘Quite.’
‘Well, then, why did you go away so suddenly?’
‘Not for what you think, Nolly, my boy. That’s where you’ve all been
wrong, I guess. When that little affair was on and I bolted suddenly,
you put two and two together and fancied I’d broken the law. Now the
boot was on the other trotter. The law broke me.’
‘How?’
‘You know that my father had gone to America to prosecute the big
lawsuit which was to make us all millionaires, and put me straight for
ever?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he lost the day, and I went out at once to him.’
‘Good heavens, Marston! Don’t say that your mysterious departure was
due to filial affection!’
‘No, I don’t. You wouldn’t believe me if I did. I went out to stop the
old man making a fool of himself, and carry the case further still. I
wanted something saved out of the fire for myself.’
‘Did you succeed?’
‘No. Got there to find the old man dead, and every blessed halfpenny of
his property gone in the law-costs.’
‘You’ll excuse me, old fellow, if I suggest that there must have been
another motive behind.’
‘All right; if there was, find it out. It wasn’t the bill business.’
‘I always thought it was.’
‘You were wrong, then. Every acceptance old Isaacs discounted for me
was genuine—as genuine as this one.’
Mr. Marston drew gently from his waistcoat-pocket a dirty and creased
piece of paper, and held it out for Dr. Birnie to read.
It was Birnie’s acceptance for £500.
The doctor looked at it, read it, as Marston held it out before him.
‘You didn’t discount that, then?’ he said quietly. ‘I wondered it had
never been presented.’
‘Isaacs wouldn’t take it. He said it wasn’t worth the stamp it was
written on.’
‘It wasn’t,’ said Birnie, with a smile.
‘But it is now,’ replied Marston, folding it up carefully and putting
it into his pocket.
‘You are wrong,’ said the doctor quietly. ‘It was worth nothing then
because I was a penniless adventurer. It is worth nothing now because
it is ten years old, and your claim is barred by the Statute of
Limitations.’
For a moment the two men sat eyeing each other in silence. Marston was
the first to break it.
‘I think you’ll pay it, in spite of the statute.’
‘Well,’ answered the doctor, taking a pipe from the mantelshelf and
filling it, ‘I may, or I may not. That depends on you. I suppose you’ve
something better to offer me than this worthless piece of paper for
£500?’
‘Perhaps I have.’
‘Take a pipe from the rack,’ said the doctor. ‘Here’s some tobacco.
Tobacco is a wonderful sedative, and we want to talk this matter over
calmly.’
Marston lit his pipe and settled himself down in an arm-chair. He was
quite ready for a combat, if combat it was to be.
‘Let us review the situation, Ned,’ said the doctor. ‘Some years ago
you left this country suddenly. At that time we were all down on our
luck. You had run through your money leading a fast life, so had I, so
had Gurth Egerton. We were all gamblers and loose fish, and our
principal haunt was Josh Heckett’s betting-office and gambling den in
Soho. There was only one rich man among us, and we turned rooks to make
him our pigeon. That was Ralph Egerton, Gurth’s cousin. He was a
drunken, reckless fool, and we thought him an easy prey. He came night
after night to the den, but he didn’t seem to care for play; he lost
with a good grace, and we never could quite make out why he came. One
night there was a furious quarrel there; blows were struck in the
struggle, the table was knocked over, and the light extinguished.
Suddenly Ralph Egerton shrieked out that he was stabbed, and when a
light was struck we found him lying on the floor with a knife in his
breast and the lifeblood pouring out. No one knew who had struck the
blow. He could not say. There were half-a-dozen strangers present, and
they got away directly, fearing to be mixed up in a gambling-house
scandal. The knife was one which had been used to cut the corks of the
champagne-bottles, and had been lying on the table.’
‘Well, I know all about that,’ interrupted Marston.
‘Excuse me; let me review the situation my own way. We were all
terrified, for we knew what would come out if an inquest was held. Old
Heckett was like a madman, and beside himself with terror. Gurth
Egerton was as white as a ghost, and stood trembling like a child. You
and I were the only ones who kept our heads. I was just admitted to the
profession, and I examined the wound, and found that it was a bad one.
We held a council and agreed what to do. I bandaged the wound up
tightly and swathed the body round so that no blood could escape; then
you went and got a four-wheel cab, and we put him in. We carried him
between us, talking to him as if he were a drunken man, to deceive the
cabman. We drove here, to this very villa, which was his house, and
carried him in. I am quite correct in my story so far, am I not?’
‘Quite,’ answered Marston, lazily puffing his pipe. ‘Up to this point
you’ve told me nothing I couldn’t have told you. Go on.’
‘Here your part of the transaction ended,’ continued the doctor, ‘and
the rest was left to me. Ralph Egerton died. I was with him to the
last. I performed the last offices myself, and when the undertaker came
he found only a neatly shrouded body. Everything was done in my
presence, and no one ever had the slightest suspicion of foul play. The
death was duly registered, and my certificate accepted as that of the
medical man who had attended the deceased during his last illness.’
Dr. Birnie went to his writing-table, undid a drawer, and handed a
piece of paper to Marston.
‘Here is a copy of the certificate,’ he said.
Marston read it. It was to the effect that Ralph Egerton had been
attended for so many days by Oliver Birnie, his regular medical
attendant, and had died from a complication of diseases—the diseases
which a life of drinking and dissipation would probably culminate in.
‘All this had occurred before I left England,’ he said, as he handed it
back to the doctor. ‘I don’t see what it has to do with my £500.’
The doctor threw his tobacco-pouch across to him.
‘Have another pipe, and be patient. You’ll see directly. Well, after
Ralph Egerton had been buried, it was found that Gurth was his next
heir, and came into all the property; and a nice little haul it was.
There was a lot of ready money, and some comfortable house property,
and no end of stocks and shares.’
‘I didn’t know that Gurth was the heir when I left,’ said Marston.
‘Of course you didn’t. You might not have gone if you had known, eh?’
‘That’s a matter I won’t discuss now,’ answered Marston. ‘All I know is
that I’m back again, that I haven’t got a mag in the world, and that,
as you and Egerton seem to have done so well, perhaps you’ll come down
handsomely for an old friend.’
‘My dear fellow, that’s just where you make the mistake. I am not a
rich man. I’ve got a little practice, and I have a carriage and pair
for appearance sake, in the hope of working up a better. It isn’t mine.
I hire it when I want it, and use it as an advertisement. This house I
have lived in since Ralph died here. Gurth let it to me cheap on a long
lease. Gurth has behaved very handsomely to me, and, as a matter of
fact, that is the reason I have been able to appear well-to-do on a
practice which really is not lucrative.’
‘I don’t suppose generosity had much to do with it,’ growled Marston.
‘As you will, my boy. It isn’t worth while discussing the motive—the
fact remains. Gurth has done well since you left. I have only done well
through Gurth.’
‘I see what you are driving at,’ said Marston. ‘You mean that if I want
help Gurth is the man I ought to go to. Well, where is he?’
‘At the bottom of the sea,’ answered the doctor, knocking the ashes out
of his pipe.
Ned Marston jumped up in a rage and strode across the room to where
Birnie sat.
‘Look here, Oliver Birnie,’ he cried, clutching his arm, ‘this game
doesn’t suit me. I’m not to be humbugged by your cool as a cucumber
business. I’m back in London, and I’ve got to live. I look for my old
friends, and I can find only one of them—you. You owe me £500, statute
or no statute—are you going to pay it?’
‘My dear fellow, it was only a gambling debt in the first place, and in
the second it’s not recoverable on account of its age.’
‘I only ask you for £500 for this bit of paper. Give me that, and I’ll
make a fair start, and go ahead right enough. I’ve got my wits about
me, and pluck enough for a dozen man. Give me the money, and you won’t
be troubled with me any more.’
‘Sit down and talk sensibly,’ said the doctor quietly, ‘and I’ll see
what I can do for an old comrade in distress.’
The doctor and his visitor were closeted together in earnest
conversation for over an hour. When Marston went out through the garden
gate, Rebecca looked after him with as much scorn as her features could
assume.
‘He ain’t been here for no good, I’ll wager,’ she said to herself. ‘If
he ain’t got something in his pocket as he didn’t bring in with him my
name ain’t Rebeccer.’
Rebecca was quite right. Mr. Marston had something in his pocket that
he didn’t bring in with him. It was a cheque for £500.
In spite of his non-lucrative practice, Dr. Birnie evidently had a
balance at his banker’s.