give them a fair account of his escape and subsequent adventures, at
which even their sympathy could not restrain delighted shouts of
laughter--though Paul himself saw little enough in it all to laugh at;
they asked his name, which he thought more prudent, for various reasons,
to give as "Jones," and other details, which I am afraid he invented as
he went on, and altogether they reached Kentish Town in a state of high
satisfaction with themselves and their protege.
At Kentish Town there was one more danger to be encountered, for with
the ticket collector there appeared one of the station inspectors. "Beg
pardon, gentlemen," said the latter, peering curiously in, "but does
that young gent in the corner happen to belong to either of you?"
The white-whiskered gentleman seemed a little flustered at this
downright inquiry, but the other was more equal to the occasion. "Do you
hear that, Johnny, my boy," he said, to Paul (whom they had managed
during the journey to brush and scrape into something approaching
respectability), "they want to know if you belong to me. I suppose
you'll allow a son to belong to his father to a certain extent, eh?" he
asked the inspector.
The man apologised for what he conceived to be a mistake. "We've orders
to look out for a young gent about the size of yours, sir," he
explained; "no offence meant, I'm sure," and he went away satisfied.
A very few minutes more and the train rolled in to the terminus, under
the same wide arch beneath which Paul had stood, helpless and
bewildered, a week ago.
"Now my advice to you, young man," said Mr. Goldicutt, as he put Paul
into a cab, and pressed half-a-sovereign into his unwilling hand, "is to
go straight home to Papa and tell him all about it. I daresay he won't
be very hard on you--here's my card, refer him to me if you like.
Good-night, my boy, good-night, and good luck to you. Gad, the best joke
I've had for years!"
And the cab rolled away, leaving them standing chuckling on the
platform, and, as Paul found himself plunging once more into the welcome
roar and rattle of London streets, he forgot the difficulties and
dangers that might yet lie before him in the thought that at last he was
beyond the frontier, and, for the first time since he had slipped
through the playground gate, he breathed freely.
17. _A Perfidious Ally_
"But homeward--home--what home? had he a home?
His home--he walk'd;
Then down the long street having slowly stolen,
His heart foreshadowing all calamity,
His eyes upon the stones, he reached his home."
Paul had been careful, whilst in the hearing of his friends, to give the
cabman a fictitious address, but as soon as he reached the Euston Road,
he stopped the man and ordered him to put him down at the church near
the south end of Westbourne Terrace, for he dared not drive up openly to
his own door.
At last he found himself standing safely on the pavement, looking down
the long line of yellow lamps of his own terrace, only a few hundred
yards from home.
But though his purpose was now within easy reach, his spirits were far
from high; his anxiety had returned with tenfold power; he felt no
eagerness or exultation; on the contrary, the task he had set himself
had never before seemed so hopeless, so insurmountable.
He stood for some time by the railing of the church, which was lighted
up for evening service, listening blankly to the solemn drone of the
organ within, unable to summon up resolution to move from the spot and
present himself to his unsuspecting family.
It was a cold night, with a howling wind, and high in the blue black sky
fleecy clouds were coursing swiftly along; he obliged himself to set out
at last, and walked down the flags towards his house, shivering as much
from nervousness as cold.
There was a dance somewhere in the terrace that evening, a large one; as
far as he could see there were close ranks of carriages with blazing
lamps, and he even fancied he could hear the shouts of the link-boys and
the whistles summoning cabs.
As he came nearer, he had a hideous suspicion, which soon became a
certainty, that the entertainment was at his own house; worse still, it
was of a kind and on a scale calculated to shock and horrify any prudent
householder and father of a family.
The balcony above the portico was positively hung with gaudy Chinese
lanterns, and there were even some strange sticks and shapes up in one
corner that looked suspiciously like fireworks. Fireworks in Westbourne
Terrace! What would the neighbours think or do?
Between the wall which separates the main road from the terrace and the
street front there were no less than four piano-organs, playing, it is
to be feared, by express invitation; and there was the usual crowd of
idlers and loungers standing about by the awning stretched over the
portico, listening to the music and loud laughter which came from the
brilliantly lighted upper rooms.
Paul remembered then, too late, that Barbara in that memorable letter
of hers had mentioned a grand children's party as being in
contemplation. Dick had held his tongue about it that morning; and he
himself had not thought it was to be so soon.
For an instant he felt almost inclined to turn away and give the whole
thing up in sick despair--even to return to Market Rodwell and brave the
Doctor's anger; for how could he hope to explain matters to his family
and servants, or get the Garuda Stone safely into his hands again before
all these guests, in the whirl and tumult of an evening party?
And yet he dared not, after all, go back to Crichton House--that was too
terrible an alternative, and he obviously could not roam the world to
any extent, a runaway schoolboy to all appearance, and with less than a
sovereign in his pocket!
After a short struggle, he felt he must make his way in, watch and wait,
and leave the rest to chance. It was his evil fate, after all, that had
led him on to make his escape on this night of all others, and had
allowed him to come through so much, only to be met with these
unforeseen complications just when he might have imagined the worst was
over.
He forced his way through the staring crowd, and went down the steps
into the area; for he naturally shrank from braving the front door, with
its crowd of footmen and hired waiters.
He found the door in the basement open, which was fortunate, and slipped
quietly through the pantry, intending to reach the hall by the kitchen
stairs. But here another check met him. The glass door which led to the
stairs happened to be shut, and he heard voices in the kitchen, which
convinced him that if he wished to escape notice he must wait quietly in
the darkness until the door was opened for him, whenever that might be.
The door from the pantry to the kitchen was partly open, however, and
Mr. Bultitude could not avoid hearing everything that passed there,
although every fresh word added to his uneasiness, until at last he
would have given worlds to escape from his involuntary position of
eavesdropper.
There were only two persons just then in the kitchen: his cook, who,
still in her working dress, was refreshing herself after her labours
over the supper with a journal of some sort, and the housemaid, who, in
neat gala costume, was engaged in fastening a pin more securely in her
white cap.
"They haven't give me a answer yet, Eliza," said the cook, looking up
from her paper.
"Lor, cook!" said Eliza, "you couldn't hardly expect it, seeing you only
wrote on Friday."
"No more I did, Eliza. You see it on'y began to come into my mind sudden
like this last week. I'm sure I no more dreamt----. But they've answered
a lady who's bin in much the same situation as me aperiently. You just
'ark to this a minute." And she proceeded to read from her paper:
"'_Lady Bird._--You ask us (1) what are the signs by which you may
recognise the first dawnings of your lover's affection. On so delicate a
matter we are naturally averse from advising you; your own heart must be
your best guide. But perhaps we may mention a few of the most usual and
infallible symptoms'--What sort of a thing is a symptim, Eliza?"
"A symptim, cook," explained Eliza, "is somethink wrong with the inside.
Her at my last place in Cadogan Square had them uncommon bad. She was
what they call aesthetical, pore young thing. Them infallible ones are
always the worst."
"It don't seem to make sense though, Eliza," objected cook doubtfully.
"Hear how it goes on: 'Infallible symptoms. If you have truly inspired
him with a genuine and lasting passion' (don't he write beautiful?)
'passion, he will continually haunt those places in which you are most
likely to be found' (I couldn't tell you the times master's bin down in
my kitching this last week); 'he will appear awkward and constrained in
your presence' (anything more awkward than master _I_ never set eyes on.
He's knocked down one of the best porcelain vegetables this very
afternoon!); 'he will beg for any little favours, some trifle, it may
be, made by your own hand' (master's always a-asking if I've got any of
those doughnuts to give away); 'and, if granted, he will treasure them
in secret with pride and rapture' (I don't think master kep' any of them
doughnuts though, Eliza. I saw him swaller five; but you couldn't
treasure a doughnut, not to mention---- I'll make him a pincushion when
I've time, and see what he does with it). 'If you detect all these
indications of liking in the person you suspect of paying his addresses
to you, you may safely reckon upon bringing him to your feet in a very
short space of time. (2) Yes, fuller's earth will make them exquisitely
white.'"
"There, Eliza!" said cook, with some pride, when she had finished; "if
it had been meant for me it couldn't have been clearer. Ain't it written
nice? And on'y to think of my bringing master to my feet! It seems
almost too much for a cook to expect!"
"I wouldn't say so, cook; I wouldn't. Have some proper pride. Don't let
him think he's only to ask and have! Why, in the _London Journal_ last
week there was a dook as married a governess; and I should 'ope as a
cook ranked above a governess. Nor yet master ain't a dook; he's only in
the City! But are you sure he's not only a-trifling with your
affections, cook? He's bin very affable and pleasant with all of us
lately."
"It ain't for me to speak too positive, Eliza," said cook almost
bashfully, "nor to lay bare the feelings of a bosom, beyond what's right
and proper. You're young yet, Eliza, and don't understand these
things--leastways, it's to be hoped not" (Eliza having apparently tossed
her head); "but do you remember that afternoon last week as master
stayed at home a-playin' games with the children? I was a-goin' upstairs
to fetch my thimble, and there, on the bedroom landin', was master all
alone, with one of Master Dick's toy-guns in his 'and, and a old slouch
'at on his head.
"'Have you got a pass, cook?' he says, and my 'art came right up into my
mouth, he looked that severe and lofty at me. I thought he was put out
about something."
"I said I didn't know as it was required, but I could get one, I says,
not knowing what he was alludin' to all the same."
"But he says, quite soft and tender-like," (here Paul shivered with
shame), "'No, you needn't do that, cook, there ain't any occasion for
it; only,' he says, 'if you haven't got no pass, you'll have to give me
a kiss, you know, cook!' I thought I should have sunk through the
stairs, I was that overcome. I saw through his rouge with half an eye."
"Why, he said the same to me," said Eliza, "only I had a pass, as luck
had it, which Miss Barbara give me. I'd ha' boxed his ears if he'd tried
it, too, master or no master!"
"You talk light, Eliza," said the cook sentimentally, "but you weren't
there to see. It wasn't only the words, it was the way he said it, and
the 'ug he gave me at the time. It was as good as a proposial. And, I
tell you, whatever you may say--and mark my words--I 'ave 'opes!"
"Then, if I was you, cook," said Eliza, "I'd try if I could get him to
speak out plain in writing; then, whatever came of it, there'd be as
good as five hundred pounds in your pockets."
"Love-letters!" cried the cook, "why, Lord love you, Eliza---- Why,
William, how you made me jump! I thought you was up seein' to the
supper-table."
"The pastrycook's man is looking after all that, Jane," said Boaler's
voice. "I've been up outside the droring-room all this time, lookin' at
the games goin' on in there. It's as good as a play to see the way as
master is a unbendin' of himself, and such a out and out stiff-un as he
used to be, too! But it ain't what I like to see in a respectable house.
I'm glad I give warning. It doesn't do for a man in my position to
compromise his character by such goings on. I never see anything like it
in any families I lived with before. Just come up and see for yourself.
You needn't mind about cleanin' of yourself--they won't see you."
So the cook allowed herself to be persuaded by Boaler, and the two went
up to the hall, and, to Mr. Bultitude's intense relief, forgot to close
the glazed door which cut him off from the staircase.
As he followed them upstairs at a cautious interval, and thought over
what he had just so unwillingly overheard, he felt as one who had just
been subjected to a moral showerbath. "That dreadful woman!" he groaned.
"Who would have dreamed that she would get such horrible ideas into her
head? I shall never be able to look either of those women in the face
again: they will both have to go--and she made such excellent soup, too.
I do hope that miserable Dick has not been fool enough to write to
her--but no, that's too absurd."
But more than ever he began to wish that he had stayed in the
playground.
When he reached the hall he stood there for some moments in anxious
deliberation over his best course of proceeding. His main idea was to
lie in wait somewhere for Dick, and try the result of an appeal to his
better feelings to acknowledge his outcast parent and abdicate
gracefully.
If that failed, and there was every reason to expect that it would fail,
he must threaten to denounce him before the whole party. It would cause
a considerable scandal no doubt, and be extremely repugnant to his own
feelings, but still he must do it, or frighten Dick by threatening to do
it, and at all hazards he must contrive during the interview to snatch
or purloin the magic stone; without that he was practically helpless.
He looked round him: the study was piled up with small boys' hats and
coats, and in one corner was a kind of refined bar, where till lately a
trim housemaid had been dispensing coffee and weak lemonade; she might
return at any moment, he would not be safe there.
Nor would the dining-room be more secluded, for in it there was an
elaborate supper being laid out by the waiters which, as far as he could
see through the crack in the door, consisted chiefly of lobsters,
trifle, and pink champagne. He felt a grim joy at the sight, more than
he would suffer for this night's festivities.
As he stole about, with a dismal sense of the unfitness of his sneaking
about his own house in this guilty fashion, he became gradually aware of
the scent of a fine cigar, one of his own special Cabanas. He wondered
who had the impudence to trespass on his cigar-chest; it could hardly be
one of the children.
He traced the scent to a billiard room which he had built out at the
side of the house, which was a corner one, and going down to the door
opened it sharply and walked in.
Comfortably imbedded in the depths of a long well-padded lounging chair,
with a spirit case and two or three bottles of soda water at his elbow,
sat a man who was lazily glancing through the _Field_ with his feet
resting on the mantelpiece, one on each side of the blazing fire. He was
a man of about the middle size, with a face rather bronzed and reddened
by climate, a nose slightly aquiline and higher in colour, quick black
eyes with an uneasy glance in them, bushy black whiskers, more like the
antiquated "Dundreary" type than modern fashion permits, and a wide
flexible mouth.
Paul knew him at once, though he had not seen him for some years; it was
Paradine, his disreputable brother-in-law--the "Uncle Marmaduke" who, by
importing the mysterious Garuda Stone, had brought all these woes upon
him; he noticed at once that his appearance was unusually prosperous,
and that the braided smoking coat he wore over his evening clothes was
new and handsome. "No wonder," he thought bitterly, "the fellow has been
living on me for a week!" He stood by the cue-rack looking at him for
some time, and then he said with a cold ironic dignity that (if he had
known it) came oddly from his boyish lips: "I hope you are making
yourself quite comfortable?"
Marmaduke put down his cigar and stared: "Uncommonly attentive and
polite of you to inquire," he said at last, with a dubious smile, which
showed a row of very white teeth, "whoever you are. If it will relieve
your mind at all to know, young man, I'm happy to say I am tolerably
comfortable, thanks."
"I--I concluded as much," said Paul, nearly choked with rage.
"You've been very nicely brought up," said Uncle Marmaduke, "I can see
that at a glance. So you've come in here, like me, eh? because the
children bore you, and you want a quiet gossip over the world in
general? Sit down then, take a cigar, if you don't think it will make
you very unwell. I shouldn't recommend it myself, you know, before
supper--but you're a man of the world and know what's good for you. Come
along, enjoy yourself till you find yourself getting queer--then drop
it."
Mr. Bultitude had always detested the man--there was an underbred
swagger and familiarity in his manner that made him indescribably
offensive; just now he seemed doubly detestable, and yet Paul by a
strong effort succeeded in controlling his temper.
He could not afford to make enemies just then, and objectionable as the
man was, his astuteness made him a valuable ally; he determined, without
considering the risk of making such a confident, to tell him all and ask
his advice and help.
"Don't you know me, Paradine?"
"I don't think I have the privilege--you're one of Miss Barbara's
numerous young friends, I suppose? and yet, now I look at you, you
don't seem to be exactly got up for an evening party; there's something
in your voice, too, I ought to know."
"You ought," said Paul, with a gulp. "My name is Paul Bultitude!"
"To be sure!" cried Marmaduke. "By Jove, then, you're my young nephew,
don't you know; I'm your long-lost uncle, my boy, I am indeed (I'll
excuse you from coming to my arms, however; I never was good at family
embraces). But, I say, you little rascal, you've never been asked to
these festivities, you ought to be miles away, fast asleep in your bed
at school. What in the name of wonder are you doing here?"
"I've--left school," said Paul.
"So I perceive. Sulky because they left you out of all this, eh? Thought
you'd turn up in the middle of the banquet, like the spectre
bridegroom--'the worms they crawled in, and the worms they crawled out,'
eh? Well, I like your pluck, but, ahem--I'm afraid you'll find they've
rather an unpleasant way of laying your kind of apparitions."
"Never mind about that," said Paul hurriedly; "I have something I must
tell you--I've no time to lose. I'm a desperate man!"
"You are," Paradine assented with a loud laugh, "oh, you are indeed! 'a
desperate man.' Capital! a stern chase, eh? the schoolmaster close
behind with the birch! It's quite exciting, you know, but, seriously,
I'm very much afraid you'll catch it!"
"If," began Mr. Bultitude in great embarrassment, "if I was to tell you
that I was not myself at all--but somebody else, a--in fact, an entirely
different person from what I seem to you to be--I suppose you would
laugh?"
"I beg your pardon," said his brother-in-law politely, "I don't think I
quite catch the idea."
"When I assure you now, solemnly, as I stand here before you, that I am
not the miserable boy whose form I am condemned to--to wear, you'll say
it is incredible?"
"Not at all--by no means, I quite believe you. Only (really it's a mere
detail), but I should rather like to know, if you're not that particular
boy, what other boy you may happen to be. You'll forgive my curiosity."
"I'm not a boy at all--I'm your own unhappy brother-in-law, Paul! You
don't believe me, I see."
"Oh, pardon me, it's perfectly clear! you're not your own son, but your
own father--it's a little confusing at first, but no doubt common
enough. I'm glad you mentioned it, though."
"Go on," said Paul bitterly, "make light of it--you fancy you are being
very clever, but you will find out the truth in time!"
"Not without external assistance, I'm afraid," said Paradine calmly. "A
more awful little liar for your age I never saw!"
"I'm tired of this," said Paul. "Only listen to reason and common
sense!"
"Only give me a chance."
"I tell you," protested Paul earnestly, "it's the sober awful truth--I'm
not a boy, it's years since I was a boy--I'm a middle-aged man, thrust
into this, this humiliating form."
"Don't say that," murmured the other; "it's an excellent fit--very
becoming, I assure you."
"Do you want to drive me mad with your clumsy jeers?" cried Paul. "Look
at me. Do I speak, do I behave, like an ordinary schoolboy?"
"I really hope not--for the sake of the rising generation," said Uncle
Marmaduke, chuckling at his own powers of repartee.
"You are very jaunty to-day--you look as if you were well off," said
Paul slowly. "I remember a time when a certain bill was presented to me,
drawn by you, and appearing to be accepted (long before I ever saw it)
by me. I consented to meet it for my poor Maria's sake, and because to
disown my signature would have ruined you for life. Do you remember how
you went down on your knees in my private room and swore you would
reform and be a credit to your family yet? You weren't quite so well
off, or so jaunty then, unless I am very much mistaken."
These words had an extraordinary effect upon Uncle Marmaduke; he turned
ashy white, and his quick eyes shifted restlessly as he half rose from
his chair and threw away his unfinished cigar.
"You young hound!" he said, breathing hard and speaking under his
breath. "How did you get hold of that--that lying story? Your father
must have let it out! Why do you bring up bygones like this? You--you're
a confounded, disagreeable little prig! Who told you to play an
ill-natured trick of this sort on an uncle, who may have been wild and
reckless in his youth--was in fact--but who never, never misused his
relation towards you as--as an uncle?"
"How did I get hold of the story?" said Paul, observing the impression
he had made. "Do you think if I were really a boy of thirteen I should
know as much about you as I do? Do you want to know more? Ask, if you
dare! Shall I tell you how it was you left your army coach without going
up for examination? Will you have the story of your career in my old
friend Parkinson's counting-house, or the real reason of your trip to
New York, or what it was that made your father add that codicil, cutting
you off with a set of engravings of the 'Rake's Progress,' and a guinea
to pay for framing them? I can tell you all about it, if you care to
hear."
"No!" shrieked Paradine, "I won't listen. When you grow up, ask your
father to buy you a cheap Society journal. You're cut out for an editor
of one. It doesn't interest me."
"Do you believe my story or not?" asked Paul.
"I don't know. Who could believe it?" said the other sullenly. "How can
you possibly account for it?"
"Do you remember giving Maria a little sandal-wood box with a small
stone in it?" said Paul.
"I have some recollection of giving her something of that kind. A
curiosity, wasn't it?"
"I wish I had never seen it. That infernal stone, Paradine, has done all
this to me. Did no one tell you it was supposed to have any magic
power?"
"Why, now I think of it, that old black rascal, Bindabun Doss, did try
to humbug me with some such story; said it was believed to be a
talisman, but the secret was lost. I thought it was just his stingy way
of trying to make the rubbish out as something priceless, as it ought to
have been, considering all I did for the old ruffian."
"You told Maria it was a talisman. Bindabun what's-his-name was right.
It is a talisman of the deadliest sort. I'll soon convince you, if you
will only hear me out."