THE OUTCAST'S BROTHER
When the drunken comrade mutters and the great
guard-lantern gutters,
And the horror of our fall is written plain,
Every secret, self-revealing, on the aching, whitewashed ceiling,
Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?
--RUDYARD KIPLING.
The master of Normansgrave had come in from his golf, had been
upstairs, made the necessary change in his dress, and returned to the
hall, where he stood in the light of the fire, reading the
_Spectator_. He was a young man of medium height, medium complexion,
and medium looks. If it were added that his intellect also was of a
medium quality, it would describe him pretty accurately. He was
neither good nor bad, able nor foolish, handsome nor ugly. Just one
of those men whose bent is determined largely by circumstances.
Circumstances had made him master of a comfortable though not
extensive property. Circumstances had placed him always in strong
and virtuous opposition to a rowdy stepmother and an impossible
half-brother. Circumstances also made him one of the county
eligibles. And this, perhaps, was the unkindest trick that
Circumstance had played him.
The ruling motive of his conduct was a terrible fear of throwing
himself away. He did not put it like that. He would have said, to
anybody who might be interested, that, with the sad example of so
good a man as his father before him, and the risk of the old estates
descending to Felix, it behoved him to be peculiarly careful. But
the real truth was that he thought nobody good enough to be mistress
of himself and Normansgrave combined. He used to lament the
inadequacy of modern young ladies from time to time to Miss Rawson,
who gave her sympathy with a twinkle in her eye, and longed to see
the correct young man deeply in love with an unsuitable person.
In fact, she had lately begun to be of the opinion that it was high
time her nephew, who was now past thirty, ranged himself. That very
day, before going out in her motor, she had arranged a little
house-party, to include one or two nice girls, and determined to urge
Denzil to permit her to invite them forthwith.
But now the clock was moving perilously near the sacred dinner-hour;
and Miss Rawson was not in, said the correct butler, who was, like
his master, a study in mediocrity.
As he decorously swept a few ashes from the red tiles of the warm
hearth, the purring of the motor sounded without; and in a minute or
so Miss Rawson came in, a few flakes of snow powdering her furs.
"My dear boy, I am more than sorry. A case of sickness, and I used
the motor to take it to the Cottage Hospital----"
Denzil's eyes expressed horror--almost dismay.
"My dear Aunt Bee--was it infectious?"
"Infectious? Oh, no, it was an accident. Such a curious, mysterious
thing--such a wonderful, simply wonderful girl--I must tell you all
about it! I found her lying among some hay in a canal barge. Wait a
few minutes--I'll not keep you," and she went flying upstairs like a
young woman, calling her maid as she ran.
"You have quite stimulated my curiosity," said Denzil later, as he
helped her to soup. "A wonderful girl in a canal barge? Tell me all
about it."
"Smith is the name--not very romantic," said Miss Rawson between her
spoonfuls. "The brother rushed up for Dr. Causton, just as I was in
the surgery talking to him about old Lambert. He--the brother--was a
dirty young ruffian, but seemed in great distress, and said his
sister had fallen from a window while cleaning it, and that she had
injured herself, he feared, internally. They had, apparently, no
idea that the injury was so serious, and he thought if he took her
out into the country and the fresh air, and she rested, it would get
well. She had a horror, it seems, of going to a hospital; that would
have meant leaving her alone in London, as he had to go with the
barge. So I went on board with the doctor, and there she was lying
among the hay in a high fever--104 point two, Dr. Causton says--and
we saw she must be taken to the hospital, so off we rushed in the
motor. Then, when Sister Agnes undressed her, she told me the girl
was no common girl--her underclothes were beautiful, she was
carefully nurtured. She keeps on talking of a convent school, and
calling for the Reverend Mother. Sister Agnes and I believe that she
has run away, and probably got hurt in escaping from a window. Don't
you think that sounds probable?"
"Possible, certainly," said Denzil. "But what about the man?"
"Well, he looked a regular ruffian to me, but the doctor says some of
that was put on. He says once, when he was off his guard, he spoke
with a clear, educated accent."
"Why, you have got hold of a romance," said Denzil, with interest.
"Shall I go down to the wharf and have a look at him?"
"Oh, you won't find him! They go on to Basingstoke at once. But on
his return journey he will come to see if she is well enough to be
moved. You ought to go and look at her, Denzil, she is most
remarkable. She is not grown up yet, but she is going to be a lovely
woman--such hair--a dark, rich chestnut, not a bit red, but like
Romney's 'Lady Hamilton.' And dark blue eyes--what a novelist might
call violet, I should think--and very remarkable, expressive
features. When she is conscious and out of pain, she ought to be
worth looking at."
"Were they alone on the barge?" asked Denzil.
"Oh, no, the master was there too. He said the boy had worked for
him three years, and was a very good boy. Poor old man, he seemed
quite upset; he said he was as fond of the girl as if she had been
his own."
"Well, that doesn't seem to favor your escape theory."
"No, it doesn't," said she, thoughtfully; "but there is something odd
about them, I feel sure."
The subject was of such interest that they talked of it all
dinner-time. The Cottage Hospital was as much his hobby as it was
hers, and they were full of simple pleasure and self-congratulation
that its walls should have been waiting, in all their new and dainty
cleanliness, to shelter the pretty stranger girl in her extremity.
Miss Rawson promised her nephew that he should visit her as soon as
the doctor would permit--and then she resolutely changed the subject
to that of inviting a few people to stay.
Denzil was willing to consent. He usually went abroad for a month in
March and April, because he had an idea that persons of means and
culture were in the habit of visiting Italy and the South of Europe
at that time. But his chief friend, a parson of independent means,
upon whose art opinion he depended in great measure, would not be
able to accompany him that spring. So the invitations were to go
out, and Denzil dwelt with pleasure upon the prospect of once more
meeting Myrtle, daughter of Colonel Bentley, a nice-looking girl who
did district visiting and read Tennyson, a blend which seemed to
Denzil eminently suited to his notions of what might fitly become the
future mistress of Normansgrave.
It was the custom of the aunt and nephew to drink their coffee in the
hall, before going to the little drawing-room in which they passed
the evenings when alone. Aunt Bee sipped her coffee and looked at
the papers, while Denzil smoked one cigarette--at times two--and also
looked at the papers. In this way, if anybody happened to come to
the door during this quarter of an hour, they were in full view.
But, as a rule, nobody ever came to the front door between half-past
eight and nine. To-night was an exception. The bell rang. Chant,
the correct manservant, came with an expression of martyrdom from the
servants' hall, where he had just sat down to supper. He was heard
talking, somewhat eagerly they thought, to somebody in the porch; and
after a pause, in which the master of the house stood with his
coffee-cup raised and his attitude that of suspense, he came back
with a disturbed countenance and nervous manner.
"It's Mr. Gregory, sir, to see you."
"Gregory!" This was the village constable.
"Yes, sir, it's important, please, sir, I understood him to say."
Denzil turned swiftly to Miss Rawson. "Something about your
mysterious Lady of the Barge," he said, with a smile. "Tell Gregory
to step inside, please, Chant."
The constable entered, buttoned up tight in his uniform, which had
apparently been constructed when he was less stout. He made his bow,
and glanced diffidently at Miss Rawson.
"Well, Gregory, is your business with me very private?"
Gregory grew red. His message distressed him, for the Vanstons were
respected in the village. "It's about Mr. Felix, sir."
Denzil's heart turned over. He might have guessed. This was not the
first time the shadow of police-courts had overspread the home of his
ancestors. The bitterness of what he had been through--the memory of
his first hearing the news of his brother's arrest--his hurried
journey to London to retain counsel for the defense--the fiery and
insolent demeanor of the foolish young culprit--the horror of those
days in the close, stifling air of the Law Courts--and the final
humiliation of hearing Felix Vanston sentenced. All broke at once
upon the memory of the young man with a stroke like that of a whip
falling on bare flesh. He grasped the high mantel, felt a sickness
creep over him, sank into a chair, and looked stonily at his aunt.
"About Felix!" he said, hoarsely.
Aunt Bee laid aside her paper and turned to face poor Gregory, who
stood miserably toying with some folded papers.
"Dear, dear, Gregory," she said, nervously, "have you bad news for
us?"
"I'm afraid so, miss. Mr. Felix, since he came out on his
ticket-of-leave"--Denzil winced--"he's been trying to make a little
money by--by writing of books, sir, what I can make of it in the
account here." He adjusted his spectacles with what seemed like
maddening slowness to the two watching. "He's lodged, sir, in
Poplar, in Bow, in the Borough, and now at last in Deptford--No. 6,
Hawkins Row. He was there a matter of ten days, and on Monday last
he paid his rent. The woman thinks he pawned an overcoat and one or
two things to pay it. He also, sir--he also bought some laudanum."
"Denzil!" cried Miss Rawson, appealing. "I told you your last letter
was too hard!"
"Too hard!" Denzil turned eyes of dignified reproach upon his aunt.
"You say, _too hard_! After what he has called upon me to endure! I
have many things with which to reproach myself, but being hard upon
Felix is not one of them."
Gregory had been fumbling with his papers, and now at last succeeded
in extracting and bringing out the one he sought. "They have sent
down an officer from Scotland Yard, sir," he said, "but me knowing
the family, if I may venture to say so, I thought you would maybe be
better pleased if I came along myself with the noos, sir. There's no
such thing as breaking noos, sir, I know that. But a stroke comes
easier sometimes if brought by one that has the welfare of the family
at heart."
Denzil did not hear the tremulous speech. He had snatched the
letter--the terrible letter--which Felix had left upon the table in
his room. "Dear Pharisee."
The epithet thundered at him. He read the reckless, unjust words
over and over.
He read it once--twice--then he rose, held it out to Miss Rawson,
and, slowly turning, sank in his chair with his face hidden upon his
arms.
"Oh, heavens!" he cried aloud, "I have not--no, I have not deserved
this!"
It was a characteristic cry. What had he done, he the blameless, the
well-conducted; he who had endured at his stepmother's hand treatment
that might well have soured a sweeter nature than his own; he who
knew, concerning that same stepmother, things that might have wrecked
her chance of inheriting anything, had he told his father of them!
He had behaved, so it seemed to him, with a wonderful Christian
fortitude and forbearance. And this horrible suicide, this
outrageous indictment, was his reward.
The constable was speaking. "He seems to have burnt all his papers,
sir, in the grate first. The grate was full of burnt paper and the
hearth, too. The officer thinks he burnt the manuscript of a book,
sir. The empty bottles of laudanum, and the empty mug out of which
he drank it, sir, were on the table. There was not a morsel of food,
nor any clothes at all in the room, nor any luggage."
Vanston made an effort, and managed to say, "I told the police-court
missionary to look after him. I put money in his hands for him."
"He had not seen him, sir, for two months. He offered Mr. Felix
work, and he declined it."
There was a silence. Miss Rawson could not speak. She had read the
letter, and was inexpressibly shocked. Knowing what she did of
Felix, she had thought Denzil quite justified in declining to receive
him until he should have shown some signs of regretting the dishonor
he had brought upon the family.
Denzil sat staring straight before him into the fire. He remembered
what a pretty little chap Felix used to be, and that he had been glad
to have a small admiring brother to trot after him round the gardens
and imitate all he did, and take his word for law. A sharp pain
constricted his heart; he felt inclined to break down and weep like a
woman.
"What time--when--is the inquest?" he asked. "I must go to town at
once."
"This is the strange part of the story, sir," said Gregory. "The
inquest can't be held until they find the body."
Denzil had risen, and stood with his hand stretched out towards the
bell. He stared at the constable in a dazed fashion.
"Until they find the body?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Felix was not there, in his room, when they searched
it."
Denzil still stared.
"What they think, sir, is that Mr. Felix, after drinking his dose,
went out and jumped into the river. Same as the young man did last
Tuesday was a month, at Norwich. Perhaps you read about it, sir.
Took the stuff, went out, and as soon as he got sleepy rolled into
the water. Laudanum don't always act, sir, not by itself. The water
makes sure."
Denzil raised his hand and looked at the letter. That left no doubt
at all as to the intentions of the writer. He meant to commit
suicide. His destruction of everything, the purchase of the little
bottles, which had taken a fortnight to collect, told of the extreme
deliberation of the plan. The fact that, so far, the body had not
been recovered did not seem to him to leave much hope. Gregory said
the London police had not much hope, either. He said nothing about
the disappearance of the girl from the room above, for the excellent
reason that the police knew nothing of it. To bring themselves into
prominence in the matter was no part of the programme of the two
worthies who were interested in Rona's future career. The landlady
of the house whence the disappearance took place was also only too
glad to hold her tongue. She and the two men both thought that the
girl's vanishing must be connected with that of young Vanston. But
as they dared ask no questions, they had no clew. As long as there
was no inquest the landlady could not be put into the witness-box,
and nothing could appear in the Press which would give to the
fugitives, should they be alive and together, the very least idea
that they were associated in the mind of anybody.
Levy, the scoundrel who had purchased Rona, argued that young Vanston
was a gentleman, and had relatives who would make an effort to find
him. Let them do this. If they found him, ten to one they found
her. Money and time would be saved to himself and Rankin Leigh.
They could remain in the background, and reap the benefit of anything
the police discovered.
As to what had actually happened they themselves were in a state of
uncertainty. The window of Felix's room had been found fastened on
the inside. Nobody had seen the two or either of them leave the
house. The door of the room wherein the girl had been confined was
locked. There were no traces of her having fallen out of the window,
though this must have been her way of escape. But had she thrown
herself out she must have been killed or seriously injured; and of
her having lowered herself by a rope or any other means there was no
trace. Their exhaustive inquiry into accident cases at adjacent
hospitals had led to nothing. A young man could not have carried off
a badly injured girl without attracting notice. Had she fallen upon
the railway lines her body would certainly have been found.
The morning papers all published the curious story of the
disappearance of a suicide. They printed in full the two
letters--that of Denzil to Felix; that of Felix to Denzil. The
evening papers even had leading articles arguing as to whether the
elder brother had or had not behaved with harshness to the younger.
No information was forthcoming as to where Felix had spent the last
few hours of his life. For the newspapers did not know, and the
police did not know, that all-important fact, which would have meant
so much to Denzil and his aunt, that there had been two suicides, and
not only one. And Comrade Dawkes was not one to court publicity.
If the crew of the _George Barnes_ had but known the story of the
girl who dropped out of the window! But they did not know it. So in
London the police searched, and Denzil advertised, and Levy and
Rankin Leigh waited for the upshot of it all. But nothing happened.
No body was discovered in the Thames; no young man under the
influence of laudanum was to be found in any police-station or
hospital.
The invitations for the house-party at Normansgrave were not
dispatched. The Squire retired in bitterness of spirit to his study,
where he sat up half the night, and departed to London next morning
by an early train.
And down in the cottage hospital at Aylfleet lay Veronica Leigh, for
two days delirious, for two or three days more weak and hardly
conscious; and then, again, for some days slowly gaining strength and
grip on life.
An interest in her recovery and in hearing reports of her progress
was the only thing which at that time could divert the mind of Denzil
Vanston from its continual preoccupation concerning his brother's
fate. Awful as suicide is, it yet almost seemed to him as if he
would rather be sure of the worst than continue in uncertainty. If
Felix were dead, he would have to alter his will. There were very
few Vanstons living, but there were two or three descendants of his
grandfather in a remote county. The dissatisfaction with which he
thought of them brought clearly home to him the fact that he must
marry. As soon as it should be decent, that house-party must be
collected. As soon as people had left off talking to him about his
brother's fate and the unkind publication of the two letters left
upon the table, he would turn his attention to his duties in
providing an heir to rule after him at Normansgrave. He would not
put on mourning, nor allow Miss Rawson to do so until he had some
proof that Felix was actually dead. But his restlessness and
depression grew from day to day; and at last, to distract him and
give his thoughts a new turn, Miss Rawson said to him:
"Drive me down to Aylfleet this afternoon, and we will look in upon
the little Smith girl. I want to know whether you agree with me as
to her being unusually fascinating. Dr. Causton does."
The motor was ordered, and they went off.
The spring was coming, and the trees beginning to tremble into leaf.
In the pretty red-gabled cottage hospital the windows were open, and
the sweet air flooded the place.
The walls of the room where Veronica lay were tinted like a
hedge-sparrow's egg. The coverlet of her narrow bed was scarlet, and
she wore a bed-jacket the collar of which was embroidered with briar
roses. Sister Agnes was so proud of her lovely hair that she had
brushed it all out and left it unfilleted, showering over the pillow.
In spite of an air of great fragility, there was a delicate bloom on
the oval face, and the eyes were preternaturally large and clear.
She was lying very still, as she mostly did, neither reading nor
speaking. Her eyes turned wistfully to the door every time it was
opened. The sight of Miss Rawson was a pleasure, evidently. Her
face lit up. But when she saw that a young man followed, there flew
into her thin cheeks a flag of pure rich color; she raised herself in
the bed, though with difficulty. Her lips parted in a smile of eager
welcome, she stretched out her hand.... Then it all died away. She
realized, with a stab of disappointment, that this was a stranger who
came. But how curious--she could have declared!
Now, why? This man was of a different height, complexion, and
manner. He did not even resemble the man whom she expected, whom she
wished to see. Why was it, how could it have happened, that when he
first appeared she actually mistook him for the other?
Her agitation and bewilderment made her prettier and shyer than Miss
Rawson had ever seen her.
Denzil, as he approached and looked down upon her, felt such an
access of emotion as never in all his staid existence had visited him
before. This was no barge girl, but a dainty lady, for whose high
birth he would have gladly vouched--no young servant injured in
cleaning windows, but a princess out of a fairy tale!