by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE RETURN OF GABRIEL
'My dear Daisy, I am sorry you are going away, as it has been a greatpleasure for me to have you in my house. I hope you will visit me againnext year, and then you may be more fortunate.'
Mrs Pansey made this amiable little speech--which nevertheless, like ascorpion, had a sting in its tail--to Miss Norsham on the platform ofthe Beorminster railway station. After a stay of two months, the townmouse was departing as she had come--a single young woman; and MrsPansey's last word was meant to remind her of failure. Daisy was quickenough to guess this, but, displeased at the taunt, chose to understandit in another and more gracious sense, so as to disconcert her spitefulfriend.
'Fortunate! Oh, dear Mrs Pansey, I have been very fortunate this time.Really, you have been most kind; you have given me everything I wanted.'
'Excepting a husband, my dear,' rejoined the archdeacon's widow,determined that there should be no misunderstanding this time.
'Ah! it was out of your power to give me a husband,' murmured Daisy,wincing.
'Quite true, my dear; just as it was out of your power to gain one foryourself. Still, I am sorry that Dr Alder did not propose.'
'Indeed!' Daisy tossed her head. 'I should certainly have refused himhad he done so. A woman may not marry her grandfather.'
'A woman may not, but a woman would, rather than remain single,' snappedMrs Pansey, with considerable spite.
Miss Norsham carefully inserted a corner of a foolish littlehandkerchief into one eye. 'Oh, dear, I do call it nasty of you to speakto me so,' said she, tearfully. 'You needn't think, like all men do,that every woman wants to be married. I'm sure I don't.'
The old lady smiled grimly at this appalling lie, but thinking that shehad been a little hard on her departing guest, hastened to apologise.'I'm sure you don't, dear, and very sensible it is of you to say so.Judging from my own experience with the archdeacon, I should certainlyadvise no one to marry.'
'You are wise after the event,' muttered Daisy, with some anger, 'buthere is my train, Mrs Pansey, thank you!' and she slipped into afirst-class carriage, looking decidedly cross and very defiant. To failin husband-hunting was bad enough, but to be taunted with the failurewas unbearable. Daisy no longer wondered that Mrs Pansey was hated inBeorminster; her own feelings at the moment urged her to thrust the goodlady under the wheels of the engine.
'Well, dear, I'll say good-bye,' said Mrs Pansey, screwing her grim faceinto an amiable smile. 'Be sure you give my love to your mother, dear,'and the two kissed with that show of affection to be seen existingbetween ladies who do not love one another over much.
'Horrid old cat!' said Daisy to herself, as she waved her handkerchieffrom the now moving train.
'Dear me! how I dislike that girl,' soliloquised Mrs Pansey, shaking herreticule at the departing Daisy. 'Well! well! no one can say that I havenot done my duty by her,' and much pleased with herself, the good ladystalked majestically out of the station, on the lookout to seize uponand worry any of her friends who might be in the vicinity. For his sinsProvidence sent Gabriel into her clutches, and Mrs Pansey was transfixedwith astonishment at the sight of him issuing from the station.
'Mr Pendle!' she said, placing herself directly in his way, 'I thoughtyou were at Nauheim. What is wrong? Is your mother ill? Is she comingback? Are you in trouble?'
Gabriel could not answer all, or even one of these questions on theinstant, for the sudden appearance and speech of the Beorminsterbusybody had taken him by surprise. He looked haggard and white, andthere were dark circles under his eyes, as though he suffered from wantof sleep. Still, the journey from Nauheim might account for his wearylooks, and would have done so to anyone less suspicious than Mrs Pansey;but that good lady scented a mystery, and wanted an explanation. This,Gabriel, with less than his usual courtesy, declined to furnish.However, to give her some food for her mind, he answered her questionscategorically.
'I have just returned from Nauheim, Mrs Pansey,' he said hurriedly.'There is nothing wrong, so far as I am aware. My mother is much better,and is benefiting greatly by the baths. She is coming back within themonth, and I am not in trouble. Is there anything else you wish toknow?'
'Yes, Mr Pendle, there is,' said Mrs Pansey, in no wise abashed. 'Why doyou look so ill?'
'I am not ill, but I have had a long sea-passage, a weary railwayjourney, and I feel hot, and dirty, and worn out. Naturally, under thecircumstances, I don't look the picture of health.'
'Humph! trips abroad don't do _you_ much good.'
Gabriel bowed, and turned away to direct the porter to place hisportmanteau in a fly. Offended by his silence, Mrs Pansey shook out herskirts and tossed her sable plumes. 'You have not brought back Frenchpoliteness, young man,' said Mrs Pansey, acridly.
'I have been in Germany,' retorted Gabriel, as though that factaccounted for his lack of courtesy. 'Good-bye for the present, MrsPansey; I'll apologise for my shortcomings when I recover from myjourney.'
'Oh, you will, will you?' growled the archdeacon's widow, as Gabriellifted his hat and drove off; 'you'll do more than apologise, young man,you'll explain. Hoity-toity! here's brazen assurance,' and Mrs Pansey,with her Roman beak in the air, marched off, wondering in her owncurious mind what could be the reason of Gabriel's sudden return.
Her curiosity would have been gratified had she been present in DrGraham's consulting-room an hour later; for after Gabriel had bathed andbrushed up at his lodgings, he paid an immediate visit to the littledoctor. Graham happened to be at home, as he had not yet set out on hisround of professional visits, and he was as much astonished as MrsPansey when the curate made his appearance. Also, like Mrs Pansey, hewas struck by the young man's worn looks.
'What! Gabriel,' he cried, when the curate entered, 'this is anunexpected pleasure. You look ill, lad!'
'I am ill,' replied Gabriel, dropping into a chair with an air offatigue. 'I feel very much worried, and I have come to ask for youradvice.'
'Very pleased to give it to you, my boy, but why not consult thebishop?'
'My father is the last man in the world I would consult, doctor.'
'That is a strange speech, Gabriel,' said Graham, with a keen look.
'It is the prelude to a stranger story! I have come to confide in youbecause you have known me all my life, doctor, and because you are themost intimate friend my father has.'
'Have you been getting into trouble?'
'No. My story concerns my father more than it does me.'
'Concerns your father!' repeated the doctor, with a sudden recollectionof the bishop's secret. 'Are you sure that I am the proper person toconsult?'
'I am certain of it. I know--I know--well, what I do know is something Ihave not the courage to speak to my father about. For God's sake,doctor, let me tell you my suspicions and hear your advice.'
'Your suspicions!' said Graham, starting from his chair, with a chill inhis blood. 'About--about--that--that murder?'
'God forbid, doctor. No! not about the murder, but about the man who wasmurdered.'
'Jentham?'
'Yes, about the man who called himself Jentham. Are you sure we arequite private here, doctor?'
Graham nodded, and walking to the door turned the key. Then he came backto his seat and fixed his eyes on the perturbed face of the young man.'Does your father know that you are back?' he asked.
'No one knows that I am here save Mrs Pansey.'
'Then it won't be a secret long,' said Graham, drily; 'that old magpieis as good as the town-crier. You left your mother well?'
'Quite well; and Lucy also. I made an excuse to come back.'
'Then your mother and sister do not know what you are about to tell me?'
Gabriel made a gesture of horror. 'God forbid!' said he again, thenclasped his hands over his white face and burst into half hystericalspeech. 'Oh, the horror of it, the horror of it!' he wailed. 'If what Iknow is true, then all our lives are ruined.'
'Is it so very terrible, my
boy?'
'So terrible that I dare not question my father! I must tell you, foronly you can advise and help us all. Doctor! doctor! the very thoughtdrives me mad--indeed, I feel half mad already.'
'You are worn out, Gabriel. Wait one moment.'
The doctor saw that his visitor's nerves were overstrained, and that,unless the tension were relaxed, he would probably end in having a fitof hysteria. The poor young fellow, born of a weakly mother, wasneurotic in the extreme, and had in him a feminine strain, which madehim unequal to facing trouble or anxiety. Even as he sat there, shakingand white-faced, the nerve-storm came on, and racked and knotted andtortured every fibre of his being, until a burst of tears came to hisrelief, and almost in a swoon he lay back limply in his chair. Grahammixed him a strong dose of valerian, felt his pulse, and made him liedown on the sofa. Also, he darkened the room, and placed a wethandkerchief on the curate's forehead. Gabriel closed his eyes, and layon the couch as still as any corpse, while the doctor, who knew what hesuffered, watched him with infinite pity.
'Poor lad!' he murmured, holding Gabriel's hand in his firm, warm clasp.'Nature is indeed a harsh stepmother to you. With your nerves, thepin-prickles of life are so many dagger-thrusts. Do you feel betternow?' he asked, as Gabriel opened his eyes with a languid sigh. 'Muchbetter and more composed,' replied the wan curate, sitting up. 'You havegiven me a magical drug.'
'You may well call it that. This particular preparation of valerian isnepenthe for the nerves. But you are not quite recovered yet; the swellremains after the storm, you know. Why not postpone your story?'
'I cannot! I dare not!' said Gabriel, earnestly. 'I must ease my mind bytelling it to you. Doctor, do you know that the visitor who made myfather ill on the night of the reception was Jentham?'
'No, my boy, I did not know that. Who told you?'
'John, our old servant, who admitted him. He told me about Jentham justbefore I went to Nauheim.'
'Did Jentham give his name?'
'No, but John, like many other people, saw the body in the dead-house.He there recognised Jentham by his gipsy looks and the scar on his face.Well, doctor, I wondered what the man could have said to so upset thebishop, but of course I did not dare to ask him. By the time I got toGermany the episode passed out of my mind.'
'And what recalled it?'
'Something my mother said. We were in the Kurgarten listening to theband when a Hiedelberg student, with his face all seamed and slashed,walked past us.'
'I know; students in Germany are proud of those duelling scars. Well,Gabriel, and what then?'
The curate quivered all over, and instead of replying directly, askedwhat seemed to be an irrelevant question. 'Did you know that my motherwas a widow when my father married her?' he demanded in low tones.
'Of course I did,' replied Graham, cheerily. 'I was practising inMarylebone then, and your father was vicar of St Benedict's. Why, I wasat his wedding, Gabriel, and very pretty your mother looked. She was aMrs Krant, whose husband had been killed while serving as a volunteer inthe Franco-Prussian War!'
'Did you ever see her husband?'
'No; she did not come to Marylebone until he had left her. The rascaldeserted the poor young thing and went abroad to fight. But why do youask all these questions? They cannot but be painful.' 'Because thesight of that student's face recalled her first husband to my mother.She said that Krant had a long scar on the right cheek. I immediatelythought of Jentham.'
'Good God!' cried Graham, pushing back his chair. 'What do you mean,lad?'
'Wait! wait!' said Gabriel, feverishly. 'I asked my mother to describethe features of her first husband. Not suspecting my reason for asking,she did so. Krant, she said, was tall, lean, swart and black-eyed, witha scar on the right cheek running from the ear to the mouth. Doctor!'cried Gabriel, clutching Graham's hand, 'that is the very portrait ofthe man Jentham.'
'Gabriel!' whispered the little doctor, hoarsely, 'do you mean to say--'
'I mean to say that Krant did not die, that Jentham was Krant, and thatwhen he called on my father he appeared as one from the dead. He is deadnow, but he was alive when my mother became my father's wife.'
'Impossible! Impossible!' repeated Graham, who was ashy pale, and shakenout of his ordinary self. 'Krant died--died at Sedan. Your father wentover and saw his grave!'
'He did not see the corpse, though. I tell you I am right, doctor. Krantdid not die. My mother is not my father's wife, and we--we--George, Lucyand myself are in the eyes of the law--nobody's children.' The curateuttered these last words almost in a shriek, and fell back on the couch,covering his face with two trembling hands.
Graham sat staring straight before him with an expression of absolutehorror on his withered brown face. He recalled Pendle's sudden illnessafter Jentham had paid that fatal visit; his refusal to confess the realcause of his attack; his admission that he had a secret which he did notdare to reveal even to his oldest friend, and his strange act in sendingaway his wife and daughter to Nauheim. All these things gave colour toGabriel's supposition that Jentham was Krant returned from the dead; butafter all it was a supposition merely, and quite unsupported by fact.
'There is no proof of it,' said Graham, hoarsely; 'no proof.'
'Ask my father for the proof,' murmured Gabriel. 'I dare not!'
The doctor could understand that speech very well, and now saw thereason why Gabriel had chosen to speak to him rather than to the bishop.It might be true, after all, this frightful fact, he thought, and as ina flash he saw ruin, disaster, shame, terror following in the train ofits becoming known. This, then, was the bishop's secret, and Graham inhis quick way decided that at all costs it must be preserved, if onlyfor the sake of Mrs Pendle and her children. The first step towardsattaining this end was to see the bishop and hear confirmation or denialfrom his own lips. Once Graham knew all the facts he fancied that hemight in some way--at present he knew not how--help his wretched friend.With characteristic promptitude he decided on the spot how to act.
'Gabriel,' he said, bending over the unhappy young man, 'I shall seeyour father about this at once. I cannot, I dare not believe it to betrue, unless with his own lips he confirms the identity of Krant withJentham. You wait here until I return, and sleep if you can.'
'Sleep!' groaned Gabriel. 'Oh, God! shall I ever sleep again?'
'My friend,' said the little doctor, solemnly, 'you have no right todoubt your father's honour until you hear what he has to say. Jenthammay not be Krant as you suspect. It may be a chance likeness--a--'
Gabriel shook his head. 'You can't argue away what I know to be true,'he muttered, looking at the floor with dry, wild eyes. 'See my fatherand tell him what I have told you. He will not be able to deny his shameand the disgrace of his children.'
'That we shall see,' said Graham, with a cheerfulness he was far fromfeeling. 'I shall see him at once. Gabriel, my boy, hope for the best!'
Again the curate shook his head, and with a groan flung himself down onthe couch with his face to the wall. Seeing that words were vain, thedoctor threw one glance of pity on his prostrate form, and with a sighpassed out of the room.
