"Lady Bevere, sir, is Roger's mother and my sister. I shall write
to-day."
Mr. Brandon had an appointment with his lawyers that morning and went
out with the Squire to keep it, leaving me with the patient. "And take
care you don't let him talk, Johnny," was his parting injunction to me.
"Keep him perfectly quiet."
That was all very well, and I did my best to obey orders; but Roger
would not be kept quiet. He was for ever sighing and starting, now
turning to this side, now to that, and throwing his undamaged arm up
like a ball at play.
"Is it pain that makes you so restless?" I asked.
"Pain, no," he groaned. "It's the bother. The pain is nothing now to
what it was."
"Bother of what?"
"Oh--altogether. I say, what on earth brought Uncle John to London just
now?"
"A matter connected with my property. He is my guardian and trustee, you
know." To which answer Bevere only groaned again.
After taking a great jorum of beef-tea, which Mrs. Mapping brought up
at mid-day, he was lying still and tranquil, when there came a loud
knock at the street-door. Steps clattered up the stairs, and a tall,
dark-haired young man put his head into the room.
"Bevere, old fellow, how are you? We've been so sorry to hear of your
mishap!"
There was nothing alarming in the words and they were spoken gently; or
in the visitor either, for he was good-looking; but in a moment Bevere
was sitting bolt upright in bed, gazing out in fright as though he saw
an apparition.
"What the deuce has brought you here, Lightfoot?" he cried, angrily.
"Came to see how you were getting on, friend," was the light and
soothing answer, as the stranger drew near the bed. "Head and arm
damaged, I hear."
"Who told you where to find me?"
"Scott. At least, he----"
"Scott's a false knave then! He promised me faithfully not to tell a
soul." And Bevere's inflamed face and passionate voice presented a
contrast to his usual mild countenance and gentle tones.
"There's no need to excite yourself," said the tall young man, sitting
down on the edge of the bed and taking the patient's hand. "Dick Scott
let fall a word unawares--that Pitt was attending you. So I came up to
Pitt's just now and got the address out of his surgery-boy."
"Who else heard the chance word?"
"No one else. And I'm sure you know that you may trust me. I wanted
to ask if I could do anything for you. How frightened you look, old
fellow!"
Bevere lay down again, painfully uneasy yet, as was plain to be seen.
"I didn't want any one to find me out here," he said. "If some--some
people came, there might be the dickens to pay. And Uncle John is up
now, worse luck! He does not understand London ways, and he is the
strictest old guy that ever wore silver shoe-buckles--you should see him
on state occasions. Ask Johnny Ludlow there whether he is strait-laced
or not; he knows. Johnny, this is Charley Lightfoot: one of us at
Bart's."
Charley turned to shake hands, saying he had heard of me. He then set
himself to soothe Bevere, assuring him he would not tell any one where
he was lying, or that he had been to see him.
"Don't mind my temper, old friend," whispered Bevere, repentantly,
his blue eyes going out to the other's in sad yearning. "I am a bit
tried--as you'd admit, if all were known."
Lightfoot departed. By-and-by the Squire and Mr. Brandon returned, and
Mrs. Mapping gave us some lunch in her parlour. When the Squire was
ready to leave, I ran up to say good-bye to Roger. He gazed at me
questioningly, eyes and cheeks glistening with fever. "Is it true?" he
whispered.
"Is what true?"
"That Uncle John has written for my mother?"
"Oh yes, that's true."
"Good Heavens!" murmured Bevere.
"Would you not like to see her?"
"It's not that. She's the best mother living. It is--for fear--I didn't
_want_ to be found out lying here," he broke off, "and it seems that all
the world is coming. If it gets to certain ears, I'm done for."
Scarlet and more scarlet grew his cheeks. His pulse must have been
running up to about a hundred-and-fifty.
"As sure as you are alive, Roger, you'll bring the fever on again!"
"So much the better. I do--save for what I might say in my ravings," he
retorted. "So much the better if it carries me off! There'd be an end to
it all, then."
"One might think you had a desperate secret on your conscience," I said
to him in my surprise. "Had set a house on fire, or something as good."
"And I have a secret; and it's something far more dreadful than setting
a house on fire," he avowed, recklessly, in his distress. "And if it
should get to the knowledge of Uncle John and the mother--well, I tell
you, Johnny Ludlow, I'd rather die than face the shame."
Was he raving now?--as he had been on the verge of it, in the fever,
a day or two ago. No, not by the wildest stretch of the fancy could I
think so. That he had fallen into some desperate trouble which must be
kept secret, if it could be, was all too evident. I thought of fifty
things as I went home and could not fix on one of them as likely. Had he
robbed the hospital till?--or forged a cheque upon its house-surgeon?
The Squire wanted to know why I was so silent.
When I next went to Gibraltar Terrace Lady Bevere was there. Such a nice
little woman! Her face was mild, like Roger's, her eyes were blue and
kind as his, her tones as genial. As Mary Brandon she had been very
pretty, and she was pleasing still.
She had married a lieutenant in the navy, Edmund Bevere. Her people did
not like it: navy lieutenants were so poor, they said. He got on better,
however, than the Brandons had thought for; got up to be rear-admiral
and to be knighted. Then he died; and Lady Bevere was left with a lot of
children and not much to bring them up on. I expect it was her brother,
Mr. Brandon, who helped to start them all in life. She lived in
Hampshire, somewhere near Southsea.
In a day or two, when Roger was better and sat up in blankets
in an easy-chair, Mr. Brandon and the Squire began about his
shortcomings--deeming him well enough now to be tackled. Mr. Brandon
demanded where his lodgings were, for their locality seemed to be a
mystery; evidently with a view of calling and putting a few personal
questions to the landlady; and Roger had to confess that he had had no
particular lodgings lately; he had shared Dick Scott's. This took Mr.
Brandon aback. No lodgings of his own!--sharing young Scott's! What was
the meaning of it? What did he do with all the money allowed him, if he
could not pay for rooms of his own? And to the stern questioning Roger
only answered that he and Scott liked to be together. Pitt laughed a
little to me when he heard of this, saying Bevere was too clever for the
old mentors.
"Why! don't you believe he does live with Scott?" I asked.
"Oh, he may do that; it's likely enough," said Pitt. "But medical
students, running their fast career in London, are queer subjects, let
me tell you, Johnny Ludlow; they don't care to have their private
affairs supervised."
"All of them are not queer--as you call it, Pitt."
"No, indeed," he answered, warmly: "or I don't know what would become of
the profession. Many of them are worthy, earnest fellows always, steady
as old time. Others pull up when they have had their fling, and make
good men: and a few go to the bad altogether."
"In which class do you put Roger Bevere?"
Pitt took a minute to answer. "In the second, I hope," he said. "To
speak the truth, Bevere somewhat puzzles me. He seems well-intentioned,
anxious, and can't have gone so far but he might pull-up if he could.
But----"
"If he could! How do you mean?"
"He has got, I take it, into the toils of a fast, bad set; and he
finds their habits too strong to break through. Any way without great
difficulty."
"Do you think he--drinks?" I questioned, reluctantly.
"No mistake about that," said Pitt. "Not so sharply as some of them do,
but more than is good for him."
I'm sure if Roger's pulling-up depended upon his mother, it would have
been done. She was so gentle and loving with him; never finding fault,
or speaking a harsh word. Night and morning she sat by the bed, holding
his hands in hers, and reading the Psalms to him--or a prayer--or a
chapter in the Bible. I can see her now, in her soft black gown and
simple little white lace cap, under which her hair was smoothly braided.
* * * * *
Whatever doubts some of us might be entertaining of Roger, nothing
unpleasant in regard to him transpired. Dreaded enemies did not find
him out, or come to besiege the house; though he never quite lost his
undercurrent of uneasiness. He soon began to mend rapidly. Scott visited
him every second or third day; he seemed to be fully in his confidence,
and they had whisperings together. He was a good-natured, off-hand kind
of young man, short and thick-set. I can't say I much cared for him.
The Squire had left London. I remained on with Miss Deveen, and went
down to Gibraltar Terrace most days. Lady Bevere was now going home and
Mr. Brandon with her. Some trouble had arisen about the lease of her
house in Hampshire, which threatened to end in a lawsuit, and she
wanted him to see into it. They fixed upon some eligible lodgings for
Roger near Russell Square, into which he would move when they left. He
was sufficiently well now to go about; and would keep well, Pitt said,
if he took care of himself. Lady Bevere held a confidential interview
with the landlady, about taking care of her son Roger.
And she gave a last charge to Bevere himself, when taking leave of him
the morning of her departure. The cab was at the door to convey her and
Mr. Brandon to Waterloo Station, and I was there also, having gone
betimes to Gibraltar Terrace to see the last of them.
"For my sake, my dear," pleaded Lady Bevere, holding Roger to her, as
the tears ran down her cheeks: "you will do your best to keep straight
for my sake!"
"I will, I will, mother," he whispered back in agitation, his own eyes
wet; "I will keep as straight as I can." But in his voice there lay, to
my ear, a ring of hopeless despair. I don't know whether she detected
it.
She turned and took my hands. She and Mr. Brandon had already exacted a
promise from me that once a-week at least, so long as I remained in
London, I would write to each of them to give news of Roger's welfare.
"You will be sure not to forget it, Johnny? I am very anxious about
him--his health--and--and all," she added in a lowered voice. "I am
always fearing lest I did not do my duty by my boys. Not but that I ever
tried to do it; but somehow I feel that perhaps I might have done it
better. Altogether I am full of anxiety for Roger."
"I will be sure to write to you regularly as long as I am near him, dear
Lady Bevere."
* * * * *
It was on a Tuesday morning that Lady Bevere and Mr. Brandon left
London. In the afternoon Roger was installed in his new lodgings by Mr.
Pitt, who had undertaken to see him into them. He had the parlour and
the bed-chamber behind it. Very nice rooms they were, the locality and
street open and airy; and the landlady, Mrs. Long, was a comfortable,
motherly woman. Where his old lodgings had been situated, he had never
said even to me: the Squire's opinion was (communicated in confidence to
Mr. Brandon), that he had played up "Old Gooseberry" in them, and was
afraid to say.
I had meant to go to him on the Wednesday, to see that the bustle of
removal had done him no harm; but Miss Deveen wanted me, so I could not.
On the Thursday I got a letter from the Squire, telling me to do some
business for him at Westminster. It took me the whole of the day: that
is, the actual business took about a quarter-of-an-hour, and waiting to
see the people (lawyers) took the rest. This brought it, you perceive,
to Friday.
On that morning I mounted to the roof of a city omnibus, which set me
down not far off the house. Passing the parlour-windows to knock at the
door, I saw in one of them a card: "Apartments to let." It was odd, I
thought, they should put it in a room that was occupied.
"Can I see Mr. Bevere?" I asked of the servant.
"Mr. Bevere's gone, sir."
"Gone where? Not to the hospital?" For he was not to attempt to go there
until the following week.
"He is gone for good, sir," she answered. "He went away in a cab
yesterday evening."
Not knowing what to make of this strange news, hardly believing it, I
went into the parlour and asked to see the landlady--who came at once.
It was quite true: Bevere had left. Mrs. Long, who, though elderly, was
plump and kindly, sat down to relate the particulars.
"Mr. Bevere went out yesterday morning, sir, after ordering his
dinner--a roast fowl--for the same hour as the day before; two o'clock.
It was past three, though, before he came in: and when the girl brought
the dinner-tray down, she said Mr. Bevere wanted to speak to me. I came
up, and then he told me he was unexpectedly obliged to leave--that he
might have to go into the country that night; he didn't yet know. Well,
sir, I was a little put out: but what could I say? He paid me what was
due and the rent up to the week's end, and began to collect his things
together: Sarah saw him cramming them into his new portmanteau when she
brought his tea up. And at the close of the evening, between the lights,
he had a cab called and went away in it."
"Alone?"
"Quite alone, sir. On the Wednesday afternoon Dr. Pitt came to see him,
and that same evening a young man called, who stayed some time; Scott,
I think the name was; but nobody at all came yesterday."
"And you do not know where Mr. Bevere is?--where he went to?"
"Why no, sir; he didn't say. The cab might have taken him to one of the
railway-stations, for all I can tell. I did not ask questions. Of course
it is not pleasant for a lodger to leave you in that sudden manner,
before he has well been three days in the house," added Mrs. Long,
feelingly, "especially with the neighbours staring out on all sides, and
I might have asked him for another week's rent in lieu of proper notice;
but I couldn't be hard with a well-mannered, pleasant young gentleman
like Mr. Bevere--and with his connections, too. I'm sure when her
ladyship came here to fix on the rooms, she was that kind and affable
with me I shall never forget it--and talked to me so lovingly about
him--and put half-a-crown into Sarah's hand when she left! No, sir, I
couldn't be hard upon young Mr. Bevere."
Mrs. Long had told all she knew, and I wished her good-day. Where to
now? I deliberated, as I stood on the doorstep. This sudden flight
looked as though Roger wanted to avoid people. If any one was in the
secret of it, it would be Richard Scott, I thought; and I turned my
steps to St. Bartholomew's Hospital.
I suppose I interrupted Scott at some critical performance, for he came
to me with his coat-cuffs turned up and no wristbands on.
"Glad to see you, I'm sure," cried he; "thought it might be an
out-patient. Bevere?--oh, do you want him?" he ran on, not giving
himself time to understand me perfectly, or pretending at it. "Bevere is
at his new lodgings near Russell Square. He will not be back here until
next week."
"But he is not at his new lodgings," I said. "He has left them."
"Left!" cried Scott, staring.
"Left for good, bag and baggage. Gone altogether."
"Gone where?" asked Scott.
"That's what I have come to ask you. I expect you know."
Scott's face presented a puzzle. I wondered whether he was as innocent
as he looked.
"Let us understand one another," said he. "Do you tell me that Bevere
has left his _new_ lodgings?"
"He has. He left them last night. Ran away from them, as one may say."
"Why, he had only just got into them! Were the people sharks? I was with
him on Wednesday night: he did not complain of anything then."
"He must have left, I fancy, for some private reason of his own. Don't
you _know_ where he is gone, Scott? You are generally in his
confidence."
"Don't know any more than the dead."
To dispute the declaration was not in my power. Scott seemed utterly
surprised, and said he should go to Mrs. Long's the first leisure moment
he had, to see if any note or message had been left for him. But I had
already put that question to the landlady, and she answered that neither
note nor message of any kind had been left for anybody. So there we
were, nonplussed, Scott standing with his hands in his pockets. Make the
best of it we would, it resolved itself into nothing more than this:
Bevere had vanished, leaving no clue.
From thence I made my way to Mr. Pitt's little surgery near Gibraltar
Terrace. The doctor was alone in it, and stood compounding pills behind
the counter.
"Bevere run away!" he exclaimed at my first words. "Why, what's the
meaning of that? _I_ don't know anything about it. I was going to see
him this afternoon."
With my arms on the counter, my head bending towards him, I recounted
to Pitt the particulars Mrs. Long had given me, and Scott's denial of
having any finger in the pie. The doctor gave his head a twist.
"Says he knows no more than the dead, does he! That may be the case; or
it may _not_. Master Richard Scott's assertions go for what they are
worth with me where Bevere's concerned: the two are as thick as thieves.
I'll find him, if I can. What do you say?--that Bevere would not conceal
himself from me? Look here, Johnny Ludlow," continued Pitt rapidly,
bringing forward his face till it nearly touched mine, and dropping his
voice to a low tone, "that young man must have got into some dangerous
trouble, and has to hide himself from the light of day."
Leaving Pitt to make his patients' physic, I went out into the world,
not knowing whether to seek for Bevere in this quarter or in that. But,
unless I found him, how could I carry out my promise of writing to Lady
Bevere?
I told Miss Deveen of my dilemma. She could not help me. No one could
help, that I was able to see. There was nothing for it but to wait
until the next week, when Bevere might perhaps make his appearance at
the hospital. I dropped a note to Scott, asking him to let me know of it
if he did.
But of course the chances were that Bevere would not appear at the
hospital: with need to keep his head en cachette, he would be no more
safe there than in Mrs. Long's rooms: and I might have been hunting for
him yet, for aught I can tell, but for coming across Charley Lightfoot.
It was on the following Monday. He was turning out of the
railway-station near Miss Deveen's, his uncle, Dr. Lightfoot, being
in practice close by. Telling him of Roger Bevere's flight, which he
appeared not to have heard of, I asked if he could form any idea where
he was likely to have got to.
"Oh, back to the old neighbourhood that he lived in before his accident,
most likely," carelessly surmised Lightfoot, who did not seem to think
much of the matter.
"And where is that?"
"A goodish distance from here. It is near the Bell-and-Clapper Station
on the underground line."
"The Bell-and-Clapper Station!"
Lightfoot laughed. "Ironically called so," he said, "from a bell at the
new church close by, that claps away pretty well all day and all night
in the public ears."
"Not one of our churches?"
"Calls itself so, I believe. I wouldn't answer for it that its clergy
have been licensed by a bishop. Bevere lived somewhere about there; I
never was at his place; but you'll easily find it out."
"How? By knocking at people's doors and inquiring for him?"
Lightfoot put on his considering-cap. "If you go to the refreshment-room
of the Bell-and-Clapper Station and ask his address of the girls there,"
said he, "I dare say they can give it you. Bevere used to be uncommonly
fond of frequenting their company, I believe."
Running down to the train at once I took a ticket for the
Bell-and-Clapper Station, and soon reached it. It was well named: the
bell was clanging away with a loud and furious tongue, enough to drive
a sick man mad. What a dreadful infliction for the houses near it!
Behind the counter in the refreshment-room stood two damsels,
exchanging amenities with a young man who sat smoking a cigar, his legs
stretched out at ease. Before I had time to speak, the sound of an
up-train was heard; he drank up the contents of a glass that stood at
his elbow, and went swiftly out.
It was a pretty looking place: with coloured decanters on its shelves
and an array of sparkling glass. The young women wore neat black gowns,
and might have looked neat enough altogether but for their monstrous
heads of hair. That of one in particular was a sight to be seen, and
must have been copied from some extravagant fashion plate. She was
dark and handsome, with a high colour and a loud voice, evidently a
strong-minded young woman, perfectly able to take care of herself. The
other girl was fair, smaller and slighter, with a somewhat delicate
face, and a quiet manner.
"Can you give me the address of Mr. Roger Bevere?" I asked of this
younger one.
The girl flushed scarlet, and looked at her companion, who looked back
again. It was a curious sort of look, as much--I thought--as to say,
what are we to do? Then they both looked at me. But neither spoke.
"I am told that Mr. Bevere often comes here, and that you can give me
his address."
"Well, sir--I don't think we can," said the younger one, and her speech
was quite proper and modest. "We don't know it, do we, Miss Panken?"
"Perhaps you'll first of all tell me who it was that said we could give
it you," cried Miss Panken, in tones as strong-minded as herself, and as
though she were by a very long way my superior in the world.
"It was one of his fellow-students at the hospital."
"Oh--well--I suppose we can give it you," she concluded. "Here, I'll
write it down. Lend me your pencil, Mabel: mine has disappeared. There,"
handing me the paper, "if he is not there, we can't tell you where he
is."
"Roger Bevary, 22, New Crescent," was what she wrote. I thanked her and
went out, encountering two or three young men who rushed in from another
train and called individually for refreshment.
New Crescent was soon found, but not Bevere. The elderly woman-servant
who answered me said Mr. Bevere formerly lived with them, but left about
eighteen months back. He had not left the neighbourhood, she thought,
as she sometimes met him in it. She saw him only the past Saturday night
when she was out on an errand.
"What, this past Saturday!" I exclaimed. "Are you certain?"
"To be sure I am, sir. He was smoking a pipe and looking in at the
shop windows. He saw me and said, Good-night, Ann: he was always very
pleasant. I thought he looked ill."
Back I went to the refreshment-room. Those girls knew his address well
enough, but for some reason would not give it--perhaps by Bevere's
orders. Two young men were there now, sipping their beer, or whatever
it was, and exchanging compliments with Miss Panken. I spoke to her
civilly.
"Mr. Bevere does not live at New Crescent: he left it eighteen months
ago. Did you not know that? I think you can give me his address if you
will."
_She did not answer me at all._ It may be bar-room politeness. Regarding
me for a full minute superciliously from my head to my boots, she slowly
turned her shoulders the other way, and resumed her talk with the
customers.
I spoke then to the other, who was wiping glasses. "It is in Mr.
Bevere's own interest that I wish to find him; I wish it very
particularly indeed. He lives in this neighbourhood; I have heard that:
if you can tell me where, I shall be very much obliged to you."
The girl's face looked confused, timid, full of indecision, as if she
knew the address but did not know whether to answer or not. By this time
I had attracted attention, and silence fell on the room. Strong-minded
Miss Panken came to the relief of her companion.
"Did you call for a glass of ale?" she asked me, in a tone of incipient
mockery.
"Nor for soda?--nor bitters?--not even cherry-brandy?" she ran on. "No?
Then as you don't seem to want anything we supply here, perhaps you'll
take yourself off, young man, and leave space for them that do. Fancy
this room being open to promiscuous inquirers, and us young ladies being
obliged to answer 'em!" added Miss Panken affably to her two friends.
"I'd like to see it!"
Having thus put me down and turned her back upon me, I had nothing to
wait for, and walked out of the lady's presence. The younger one's eyes
followed me with a wistful look. I'm sure she would have given the
address had she dared.
After that day, I took to haunt the precincts of the Bell-and-Clapper,
believing it to be my only chance of finding Bevere. Scott had a brief
note from him, no address to it, stating that he was not yet well enough
to resume his duties; and this note Scott forwarded to me. A letter also
came to me; from Lady Bevere asking what the matter was that I did not
write, and whether Roger was worse. How _could_ I write, unless I found
him?
So, all the leisure time that I could improvise I spent round about the
Bell-and-Clapper. Not inside the room, amid its manifold attractions:
Circe was a wily woman, remember, and pretty bottles are insidious. That
particular Circe, also, Miss Panken, might have objected to my company
and ordered me out of it.
Up one road, down another, before this row of houses and that, I hovered
for ever like a walking ghost. But I saw nothing of Bevere.
Luck favoured me at last. One afternoon towards the end of the week, I
was standing opposite the church, watching the half-dozen worshippers
straggling into it, for one of its many services, listening to the
irritating ding-dong of its bell, and wondering the noise was put up
with, when suddenly Richard Scott came running up from the city train.
Looking neither to the right nor the left, or he must inevitably have
seen me, he made straight for a cross-road, then another, and presently
entered one of a row of small houses whose lower rooms were on a level
with the ground and the yard or two of square garden that fronted them.
"Paradise Place." I followed Scott at a cautious distance.
"Bevere lives there!" quoth I, mentally.
Should I go in at once boldly, and beard him? While deliberating--for
somehow it goes against my nature to beard anybody--Scott came striding
out and turned off the other way: which led to the shops. I crossed over
and went in quietly at the open door.
The parlour, small and shabby as was Mrs. Mapping's in Gibraltar
Terrace, was on the left, its door likewise open. Seated at a table,
taking his tea, was Roger Bevere; opposite to him, presiding over the
ceremonies, sat a lady who must unquestionably have been first-cousin
to those damsels at the Bell-and-Clapper, if one might judge by the
hair.
"Roger!" I exclaimed. "What a dance you have led us!"
He started up with a scarlet face, his manner strangely confused, his
tongue for the moment lost. And then I saw that he was without his coat,
and his arm was bandaged.
"I was going to write to you," he said--an excuse invented on the spur
of the moment, "I thought to be about before now, but my arm got bad
again."
"How was that?"
"Well, I hurt it, and did not pay attention to it. It is properly
inflamed now."
I took a seat on the red stuff sofa without being invited, and Bevere
dropped into his chair. The lady at the tea-tray had been regarding me
with a free, friendly, unabashed gaze. She was a well-grown, attractive
young woman, with a saucy face and bright complexion, fine dark eyes,
and full red lips. Her abundant hair was of the peculiar and rare colour
that some people call red and others gold. As to her manners, they were
as assured as Miss Panken's, but a great deal pleasanter. I wondered who
she was and what she did there.
"So this is Johnny Ludlow that I've heard tell of!" she exclaimed,
catching up my name from Bevere, and sending me a gracious nod. "Shall
I give you a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you," was my answer, though all the while as thirsty as a
fish, for the afternoon was hot.
"Oh, you had better: don't stand on ceremony," she said, laughing.
"There's nothing like a good cup of tea when the throat's dry and the
weather's baking. Come! make yourself at home."
"Be quiet, Lizzie," struck in Bevere, his tone ringing with annoyance
and pain. "Let Mr. Ludlow do as he pleases." And it struck me that he
did not want me to take the tea.
Scott came in then, and looked surprised to see me: he had been out to
get something for Bevere's arm. I felt by intuition that he had known
where Bevere was all along, that his assumption of ignorance was a
pretence. He and the young lady seemed to be upon excellent terms, as
though they had been acquainted for ages.
The arm looked very bad: worse than it had at Gibraltar Terrace. I
stood by when Scott took off the bandages. He touched it here and there.
"I tell you what, Bevere," he said: "you had better let Pitt see to this
again. He got it right before; and--I don't much like the look of it."
"Nonsense!" returned Bevere. "I don't want Pitt here."
"I say nonsense to that," rejoined Scott. "Who's Pitt?--he won't hurt
you. No good to think you can shut yourself up in a nutshell--with such
an arm as this, and--and--" he glanced at me, as if he would say, "and
now Ludlow has found you out."
"You can do as much for the arm as Pitt can," said Bevere, fractiously.
"Perhaps I could: but I don't mean to try. I tell you, Bevere, I do
not like the look of it," repeated Scott. "What's more, I, not being a
qualified practitioner yet, would not take the responsibility."
"Well, I will go to Pitt to-morrow if I'm no better and can get my coat
on," conceded Bevere. "Lizzie, where's the other bandage?"
"Oh, I left it in my room," said Lizzie; and she ran up the stairs in
search of it.
So she lived there! Was it her home, I wondered; or Bevere's; or their
home conjointly? The two might have vowed eternal friendship and set up
housekeeping together on a platonic footing. Curious problems do come
into fashion in the great cities of this go-ahead age; perhaps that one
had.
Scott finished dressing the arm, giving the patient sundry cautions
meanwhile; and I got up to leave. Lizzie had stepped outside and was
leaning over the little wooden entrance-gate, chanting a song to herself
and gazing up and down the quiet road.
"What am I to say to your mother?" I said to Bevere in a low tone. "You
knew I had to write to her."
"Oh, say I am all right," he answered. "I have written to her myself
now, and had two letters from her."
"How do the letters come to you? Here?"
"Scott gets them from Mrs. Long's. Johnny"--with a sharp pressure of
the hand, and a beseeching look from his troubled blue eyes--"be a good
fellow and don't talk. _Anywhere._"
Giving his hand a reassuring shake, and lifting my hat to the lady at
the gate as I passed her, I went away, thinking of this complication and
of that. In a minute, Scott overtook me.
"I think you knew where he was, all along," I said to him; "that your
ignorance was put on."
"Of course it was," answered Scott, as coolly as you please. "What would
you? When a fellow-chum entrusts confidential matters to you and puts
you upon your honour, you can't betray him."
"Oh, well, I suppose not. That damsel over there, Scott--is she his
sister, or his cousin, or his aunt?"
"You can call her which you like," replied Scott, affably. "Are you very
busy this afternoon, Ludlow?"
"I am not busy at all."
"Then I wish you would go to Pitt. I can't spare the time. I've a heap
of work on my shoulders to-day: it was only the pressing note I got
from Bevere about his arm that brought me out of it. He is getting a bit
doubtful himself, you see; and Pitt had better come to it without loss
of time."
"Bevere won't thank me for sending Pitt to him. You heard what he said."
"Nonsense as to Bevere's thanks. The arm is worse than he thinks for. In
my opinion, he stands a good chance of losing it."
"No!" I exclaimed in dismay. "Lose his arm!"
"Stands a chance of it," repeated Scott. "It will be his own fault. A
week yesterday he damaged it again, the evening he came back here, and
he has neglected it ever since. You tell Pitt what I say."
"Very well, I will. I suppose the account Bevere gave to his mother and
Mr. Brandon--that he had been living lately with you--was all a fable?"
Scott nodded complaisantly, striding along at the pace of a
steam-engine. "Just so. He couldn't bring them down upon him here, you
know."