SUSPENSE
BY
HENRY SETON MERRIMAN
AUTHOR OF 'YOUNG MISTLEY,' 'THE PHANTOM FUTURE'
ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.
LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1890
[_All rights reserved_]
Some there are who laugh and sing
While compassed round by sorrow;
To this ev'ning's gloom they bring
The sunshine of to-morrow.
CONTENTS OF VOL. III
CHAPTER
I. THE SPORT OF FATE
II. BREAKING IT
III. MRS. WYLIE TAKES THE OFFENSIVE
IV. AN INTERVIEW
V. SOUTHWARD
VI. THEODORE TRIST IS AROUSED
VII. A LESSON
VIII. HICKS' SECRET
IX. WYL'S HALL
X. DIPLOMACY
XI. GOOD-BYE!
XII. AT WORK
XIII. PLEVNA
XIV. THE PUZZLE OF LIFE
XV. THE END OF IT ALL
SUSPENSE
CHAPTER I.
THE SPORT OF FATE.
Theodore Trist did not attempt to blind himself as to the
difficulties attending his strange undertaking, but he was prepared
to face them courageously.
'If,' he said to himself, 'I can only find him ... _sober_ ... I will
manage the rest.'
Without doubt this silent man was ready to speak at last--to tear
aside the veil of reserve, behind which he was wont to take refuge.
And this to the eyes of Alice Huston's husband. His was a nature
capable of immense self-sacrifice, and to this capability had been
added an almost exaggerated sense of discipline. That which he
thought right he would probably do--not on the spur of the moment,
but with deliberate purpose, and without fear of subsequent regret.
As has been mentioned, he was never under the influence of sudden
enthusiasm; and, as a rule, his errors arose more from too great
conscientiousness in setting both sides of a question equally before
his own judgment than from rash partisanship.
Even as he passed down the broad staircase, against a stream of
gaily-dressed guests, he was mentally apologizing to Hicks for having
harboured a vague feeling of dislike against him. If there had been
any distinct motive for this dislike, he would never have withdrawn
it, but he recognised that it was without ground. Hicks was not a
man after his own heart; he was neither a sportsman nor a soldier--in
fact, he was what is euphoniously called a 'muff'; but these charges
were merely negative in their bearing. Mrs. Wylie might have told
him that he had come into closer familiarity with Hicks at a
propitious moment, when the young artist was finding his own level
and laying aside unconsciously his small affectations one by one, but
of this Trist had no suspicion.
He called a hansom, and drove to the club of which the books showed a
subscription as due from Captain Huston. In return for this
privilege its doors were still thrown open to the disgraced soldier.
Careful inquiries at the door elicited the information that Huston
had been there.
'He was took ... he went away with a friend a good half-hour ago,
sir,' the porter added, with a curious smile.
The smile did not escape the questioner's glance, and, in consequence
of it, Trist went upstairs to the smoking-room. He was not a member
of the club, but his name was a power in military circles.
The information he gathered from friends upstairs was not of an
encouraging nature. One young blade, with downy lip and weak,
dissipated eyes, volunteered the statement that Huston had gone home
to his diggings as tight as a drum. This news was apparently of an
hilarious drift, because the youthful speaker finished with a roar of
throaty laughter. An older man looked up over his evening paper, and
nodded a grave acquiescence in reply to Trist's raised eyebrows.
'Does anybody know his address?' inquired the correspondent.
Nobody did.
Upon inquiry at the door, Trist made the discovery that the porter
had fortunately been asked to give the direction to the driver of the
cab in which Huston had been taken away. The address was one hardly
known to the war-correspondent--a small street, leading out of
another small street, near the Strand.
In his calm way he suddenly determined to follow Huston. He lighted
a cigar at the spirit-lamp affixed to the door-post, and then called
a cab.
'I am not,' he reflected with some truth as he descended the steps,
'I am not an imaginative person, nor very highly strung; but .... I
feel .... somehow .... as if something were going to happen.'
There was a considerable delay in the Strand, where the traffic was
much congested owing to the out-pouring theatres. A fog was hovering
round the lamps already, and would soon envelop everything. The
first keen frost of the season was at hand, with its usual disastrous
effects to London lungs. Amidst the confusion, the roar of traffic,
the deafening shouts of drivers, policemen, and runners with latest
editions of evening papers, Trist sat forward, with his arms upon the
closed door of the hansom, and enjoyed his cigar. All this rush of
life and confusion of humanity thrilled him. He almost felt as if he
were at work again, making his way to the front through the wild
mêlée of a disorganized and retreating army; cavalry and infantry,
baggage and artillery, all hopelessly inter-mingled. As he
progressed he noted with admiration the cool skill of the policemen,
each man alone acting on his own responsibility, and yet connected by
the invisible links of discipline.
At length the driver escaped into a narrow street, and, turning
sharply to the right, drew up before a tall narrow house, bearing, on
a dingy lamp above the door, the legend 'No. 32, Private Hotel.' A
hopeless waiter, with shuffling shoes and a shirt-front of uncertain
antecedents, answered the summons of a melancholy bell, which seemed
to tinkle under strong protest, and as briefly as possible.
'Captain Huston living here?' inquired Trist.
'Yess'r. Er you the doctor?'
The war-correspondent hesitated for a moment. Then he stepped into
the narrow hall.
'Yes,' he said.
''E's got it bad this time, sir,' volunteered the waiter, with
melancholy effusion.
'What?'
'D. T., sir.'
Trist nodded his head shortly, and laid aside his hat.
'Take me to his room, please,' he said.
The waiter shuffled on in front, and the young fellow followed him up
the dingy stairs, walking lightly where the polished knots of
pinewood peeped through the clammy oilcloth.
And now, reader mine, on the threshold of the drunkard's room let us
understand each other. I am not going to take you across the
boundary. The door will, with your permission, remain closed. There
are certain things in life which are better left unstudied--certain
dirty corners where the dust lies thickly. It is better to let it
accumulate. Some of us have seen these things; some foot has been
across the threshold; but this is no realistic novel; and in life, as
in a story, there are details which (however powerful in themselves)
in no way help forward the narrative or beautify the narration.
There is assuredly nothing to be gained by dredging human nature. As
a man, the present writer is influenced by a strong _esprit de
corps_. It is not his wish to trample upon fallen human nature. We
are not what we ought to be, but there is nothing to be gained by
flaunting the seamy side before the world. This volume may fall into
the hands of some young woman, or some youth to whom man is still
something of an ideal. God forbid that any word of mine should
dispel illusions which, though they be but hollow, are at least
joyous.
Therefore we will let Theodore Trist enter that room alone. His walk
in life had not been in the flowery part of the garden, but through
the rougher growths, where good is sometimes hidden beneath a hideous
exterior, and he knew already how slight a division there is between
_man_ and _brute_. Any battle-field would have taught him that.
The doctor came, and stayed longer than he could conscientiously
spare out of his busy life. It was half-past one o'clock in the
morning before he went away, leaving Trist alone with Huston, to whom
sleep had come at last. Before leaving he promised, however, to send
an experienced nurse.
The war-correspondent sat in a deep leather-covered arm-chair before
the smouldering fire, contemplating his own shoes. A man of many
resources, he had found himself in many strange situations during his
short thirty years. He had made the best of more than one awkward
dilemma by going straight ahead in his patient, steady way. He
listened to the stertorous breathing of the sick man, and never
thought of his own fatigue. There was no suggestion of complaint in
his mind that his evening of pleasure should have had such an
unpleasant finish. He did not even look at his own dress-clothes
contrasting with the dingy surroundings, and appreciate the dramatic
force of it all as Hicks might have done. It was merely an incident
in his life, another opportunity to exercise for his own satisfaction
that power of adaptability to environment which was in reality his
chief aid to success in the peculiar surroundings of his varied life.
The nurse could scarcely be expected for half an hour or so, and
there was nothing else to do but keep faithfully the watch that was
his in the meantime. It was rather strange that Trist should have
saved twice within a month the worthless life of this man who had
done his best to throw it away. As has already been stated, this
student of Death had his own views upon the worth of human life--a
semi-Oriental philosophy which would not bear setting forth here in
black and white to sensitive Western minds. There is no doubt that
familiarity with death breeds a contempt for life. I cannot explain
this, but it is so. Doctors and soldiers have a different view of
human life from that held by the rest of mankind; but there is
something in us which is stronger than the strongest views--namely,
the instinct of preserving life. Theodore Trist knew that the
miserable existence to which was attached the name Alfred Huston was
in every way valueless. To its possessor it was a source of
wretchedness, a constant struggle against the overpowering odds of
evil. To others his death would be a mercy. He knew this; he valued
his life lightly--and yet he staved off this death twice.
As he sat and thought over these things, the fire-light flickered
rosily upon his face; it gleamed in his womanly eyes, glowed upon his
broad high forehead. He was quite absorbed in his reflections, and
never glanced towards the bed which was within the deep crimson
shadow. He judged from the heavy respiration that Huston was asleep;
in this, however, he was mistaken. The ex-soldier lay on his back,
but his face was turned towards the fire, and his bloodshot eyes were
wide open. His lips moved restlessly, but no sound came from them
beyond the strong indrawing of the sodden air. His wavering glance
wandered from Trist's head to his feet, restless and full of an
insatiable hatred. Upon the dirty white coverlet his fingers moved
convulsively, as if clutching and losing hold of something by turns.
It was a terrible picture, and one that could not fail to arouse in
thoughtful minds a hopeless sense of despair. No one could look on
it and say that human life is a success. We may paint the good
points as brilliantly as we like, slur over the misery as quickly as
we can, but, my brothers and sisters, the fact remains that we, as a
race, are an utter failure.
Presently there was a soft knock at the front-door, and Trist rose
from his chair. His watch was over; the hospital nurse had arrived,
with her soft brave eyes, her quick, fearless fingers. As he left
the room, Trist turned and glanced towards the bed. Huston lay there
with closed eyes, unnaturally still.
Then the war-correspondent left the room on tiptoe. No sooner had
the door closed than the sick man's eyes opened. There was a
peculiar shifty light in the expanded pupils, and the man's horrible
lips moved continuously. He sat up in bed.
'Ah!' he mumbled thickly; 'I know him. That's the man ... that's the
man who's in love with my wife.'
The fire rose and fell with merry crackle--for Trist had drawn the
coals together noiselessly before leaving the room--and in the
semi-darkness a strange unsteady form moved to and fro.
'I know him,' mumbled the horrible voice, 'and ... I'm going to shoot
him.'
There was a slight sound as if a drawer were being searched in a
table or piece of furniture which was not quite firm upon its base,
and a moment later the door was opened without noise. In the passage
a single jet of gas burnt mournfully, and threw a flood of light
through the open doorway.
Upon the threshold stood Huston, quaking and swaying from side to
side. In his trembling fingers he held a large Colt's revolver of
the cavalry pattern. The tips of the conical bullets peeped from the
chambers threateningly. His clumsy hands were fumbling with the
hammer, which was stiff and deeply sunk within the lock; the light
was bad. He raised the pistol closer to his swimming eyes, and the
barrel, gleaming blue and brown alternately, wavered in the air.
'D--n the thing!' he muttered hoarsely.
The next instant there was a terrific report through the silent house.
* * * *
A moment later Trist and the nurse were at the head of the stairs;
they had raced up side by side. The woman seized a worn sheepskin
mat that lay at the door of an empty bedroom, and, drawing her skirts
aside, knelt down and raised the mutilated face.
'Don't let it run on the floor,' she gasped, 'it is so horrible!'
They were both old hands and callous enough to be very quick. By the
time that the startled household was aroused, the dead man (for the
great bullet had passed right through his brain) was laid upon his
bed, and Trist had already gone for the doctor.
'No one must go in,' said the nurse, standing upon the threshold and
barring the way. 'He is dead. There is nothing to be done. Wait
until the doctor comes.'
Presently Trist returned, bringing with him the surgeon and a
police-inspector. They all went into the room together and closed
the door. Trist turned up the gas and watched the movements of the
surgeon, who was already at the bedside.
'Where is the bullet?' asked the inspector.
'In the woodwork of the door,' answered Trist.
The doctor left the bedside and came into the middle of the room,
standing upon the hearthrug with his back towards the fire.
'I should be of opinion,' he said, 'that it was an accident.'
The inspector nodded his head, and looked from the nurse to Trist.
'Does anybody,' he asked, 'know who he is, or anything about him?'
'I know who he is and all about him,' answered the war-correspondent.
Note-book in hand, the inspector glanced keenly at the speaker.
'And ... who are ... you?' he asked, writing.
'Theodore Trist.'
'Ah!' murmured the doctor.
The inspector drew himself up and continued writing.
'Do you know, sir, what he was doing with the pistol? Had he any
intention of using it upon himself or upon any other?'
Trist looked at his questioner calmly.
'I do not know,' he answered.