“Coward and liar!” he muttered, as he thought of the man he was about to punish. “He shall pay for his dastardly falsehood — by Jove he shall! It’ll be a precious long time before he shows himself in society any more!”
Then he addressed Lorimer. “You may depend upon it he’ll shout ‘police! police!’ and make for the door,” he observed. “You keep your back against it, Lorimer! I don’t care how many fines I’ve got to pay as long as I can thrash him soundly!”
“All right!” Lorimer answered, and they quickened their pace. As they neared the chambers which Sir Francis Lennox rented over a fashionable jeweller’s shop, they became aware of a small procession coming straight towards them from the opposite direction. Something was being carried between four men who appeared to move with extreme care and gentleness, — this something was surrounded by a crowd of boys and men whose faces were full of morbid and frightened interest — the whole cortége was headed by a couple of solemn policemen. “You spoke of a walking funeral just now,” said Lorimer suddenly. “This looks uncommonly like one.”
Errington made no reply — he had only one idea in his mind, — the determination to chastise and thoroughly disgrace Sir Francis. “I’ll hound him out of the clubs!” he thought indignantly. “His own set shall know what a liar he is — and if I can help it he shall never hold up his head again!”
Entirely occupied as he was with these reflections, he paid no heed to anything that was going on in the street, and he scarcely heard Lorimer’s last observation. So that he was utterly surprised and taken aback, when he, with Lorimer, was compelled to come to a halt before the very door of the jeweller, Lennox’s landlord, while the two policemen cleared a passage through the crowd, saying in low tones, “Stand aside, gentlemen, please! — stand aside,” thus making gradual way for four bearers, who, as was now plainly to be seen, carried a common wooden stretcher covered with a cloth, under which lay what seemed, from its outline, to be a human figure.
“What’s the matter here?” asked Lorimer, with a curious cold thrill running through him as he put the simple question.
One of the policemen answered readily enough.
“An accident, sir. Gentleman badly hurt. Down at Charing Cross Station — tried to jump into a train when it had started, — foot caught, — was thrown under the wheels and dragged along some distance — doctor says he can’t live, sir.”
“Who is he, — what’s his name?”
“Lennox, sir — leastways, that’s the name on his card — and this is the address. Sir Francis Lennox, I believe it is.”
Errington uttered a sharp exclamation of horror, — at that moment the jeweller came out of the recesses of his shop with uplifted hands and bewildered countenance.
“An accident? Good Heavens! — Sir Francis! Up-stairs! — take him up-stairs!” Here he addressed the bearers. “You should have gone round to the private entrance — he mustn’t be seen in the shop — frightening away all my customers — here, pass through! — pass through, as quick as you can!”
And they did pass through, — carrying their crushed burden tenderly along by the shining glass cases and polished counters, where glimmered and flashed jewels of every size and lustre for the adorning of the children of this world, — slowly and carefully, step by step, they reached the upper floor, — and there, in a luxurious apartment furnished with almost feminine elegance, they lifted the inanimate form from the stretcher and laid it down, still shrouded, on a velvet sofa, removing the last number of Truth, and two of Zola’s novels, to make room for the heavy, unconscious head.
Errington and Lorimer stood at the doorway, completely overcome by the suddenness of the event — they had followed the bearers up-stairs almost mechanically, — exchanging no word or glance by the way, — and now they watched in almost breathless suspense while a surgeon who was present, gently turned back the cover that hid the injured man’s features and exposed them to full view. Was that Sir Francis? that blood-smeared, mangled creature? — that the lascivious dandy, — the disciple of no-creed and self-worship? Errington shuddered and averted his gaze from that hideous face, — so horribly contorted, — yet otherwise deathlike in its rigid stillness. There was a grave hush. The surgeon still bent over him — touching here, probing there, with tenderness and skill, — but finally he drew back with a hopeless shake of his head.
“Nothing can be done,” he whispered. “Absolutely nothing!”
At that moment Sir Francis stirred, — he groaned and opened his eyes; — what terrible eyes they were, filled with that look of intense anguish, and something worse than anguish, — fear — frantic fear — coward fear — fear that was almost more overpowering than his bodily suffering.
He stared wildly at the little group assembled — strange faces, so far as he could make them out, that regarded him with evident compassion, — what — what was all this — what did it mean? Death? No, no! he thought madly, while his brain reeled with the idea — death? What was death? — darkness, annihilation, blackness — all that was horrible — unimaginable! God! he would not die! God! — who was God? No matter — he would live; — he would struggle against this heaviness, — this coldness — this pillar of ice in which he was being slowly frozen — frozen — frozen! — inch by — inch! He made a furious effort to move, and uttered a scream of agony, stabbed through and through by torturing pain.
“Keep still!” said the surgeon pityingly.
Sir Francis heard him not. He wrestled with his bodily anguish till the perspiration stood in large drops on his forehead. He raised himself, gasping for breath, and glared about him like a trapped beast of prey.
“Give me brandy!” he muttered chokingly. “Quick — quick! Are you going to let me die like a dog? — damn you all!”
The effort to move, — to speak, — exhausted his sinking strength — his throat rattled, — he clenched his fists and made as though he would spring off his couch — when a fearful contortion convulsed his whole body, — his eyes rolled up and became fixed — he fell heavily back, — dead!
Quietly the surgeon covered again what was now nothing, — nothing but a mutilated corpse.
“It’s all over!” he announce briefly.
Errington heard these words in sickened silence. All over! Was it possible? So soon? All over! — and he had come too late to punish the would-be ravisher of his wife’s honor, — too late! He still held the whip in his hand with which he had meant to chastise that — that distorted, mangled lump of clay yonder, . . . pah! he could not bear to think of it, and he turned away, faint and dizzy. He felt, — rather than saw the staircase, — down which he dreamily went, followed by Lorimer.
The two policemen were in the hall scribbling the cut-and-dry particulars of the accident in their note-books, which having done, they marched off, attended by a wandering, bilious-looking penny-a-liner who was anxious to write a successful account of the “Shocking Fatality,” as it was called in the next day’s newspapers. Then the bearers departed cheerfully, carrying with them the empty stretcher. Then the jeweller, who seemed quite unmoved respecting the sudden death of his lodger, chatted amicably with the surgeon about the reputation and various demerits of the deceased, — and Errington and Lorimer, as they passed through the shop, heard him speaking of a person hitherto unheard of, namely, Lady Francis Lennox, who had been deserted by her husband for the past six years, and who was living uncomplainingly the life of an art-student in Germany with her married sister, maintaining, by the work of her own hands, her one little child, a boy of five.
“He never allowed her a farthing,” said the conversational jeweller. “And she never asked him for one. Mr. Wiggins, his lawyer — firm of Wiggins & Whizzer, Furnival’s Inn, — told me all about his affairs. Oh yes — he was a regular “masher” — tip-top! Not worth much, I should say. He must have spent over a thousand a year in keeping up that little place at St. John’s Wood for Violet Vere. He owes me five hundred. However, Mr. Wiggins will see everything fair, I�
�ve no doubt. I’ve just wired to him, announcing the death. I don’t suppose any one will regret him — except, perhaps, the woman at St. John’s Wood. But I believe she’s playing for a bigger stake just now.” And, stimulated by this thought, he drew out from a handsome morocco case a superb pendant of emeralds and diamonds — a work of art, that glittered as he displayed it, like a star on a frosty night.
“Pretty thing, isn’t it?” he said proudly. “Eight hundred pounds, and cheap, too! It was ordered for Miss Vere, two months ago, by the Duke of Moorlands. I see he sold his collection of pictures the other day. Luckily they fetched a tidy sum, so I’m pretty sure of the money for this. He’ll sell everything he’s got to please her. Queer? Oh, not at all! She’s the rage just now, — I can’t see anything in her myself, — but I’m not a duke, you see — I’m obliged to be respectable!”
He laughed as he returned the pendant to its nest of padded amber satin, and Errington, — sick at heart to hear such frivolous converse going on while that crushed and lifeless form lay in the very room above, — unwatched, uncared-for, — put his arm through Lorimer’s and left the shop.
Once in the open street, with the keen, cold air blowing against their faces, they looked at each other blankly. Piccadilly was crowded; the hurrying people passed and re-passed, — there were the shouts of omnibus conductors and newsboys — the laughter of young men coming out of the St. James’s Hall Restaurant; all was as usual, — as, indeed, why should it not? What matters the death of one man in a million? unless, indeed, it be a man whose life, like a torch, uplifted in darkness, has enlightened and cheered the world, — but the death of a mere fashionable “swell” whose chief talent has been a trick of lying gracefully — who cares for such a one? Society is instinctively relieved to hear that his place is empty, and shall know him more. But Errington could not immediately forget the scene he had witnessed. He was overcome by sensations of horror, — even of pity, — and he walked by his friend’s side for some time in silence.
“I wish I could get rid of this thing!” he said suddenly, looking down at the horsewhip in his hand.
Lorimer made no answer. He understood his feeling, and realized the situation as sufficiently grim. To be armed with a weapon meant for the chastisement of a man whom Death had so suddenly claimed was, to say the least of it, unpleasant. Yet the horsewhip could scarcely be thrown away in Piccadilly — such an action might attract notice and comment. Presently Philip spoke again.
“He was actually married all the time!”
“So it seems;” and Lorimer’s face expressed something very like contempt. “By Jove, Phil! he must have been an awful scoundrel!”
“Don’t let’s say any more about him — he’s dead!” and Philip quickened his steps. “And what a horrible death!”
“Horrible enough, indeed!”
Again they were both silent. Mechanically they turned down towards Pall Mall.
“George,” said Errington, with a strange awe in his tones, “it seems to me to-day as if there were death in the air. I don’t believe in presentiments, but yet — yet I cannot help thinking — what if I should find my Thelma — dead?”
Lorimer turned very pale — a cold shiver ran through him, but he endeavored to smile.
“For God’s sake, old fellow, don’t think of anything so terrible! Look here, you’re hipped — no wonder! and you’ve got a long journey before you. Come and have lunch. It’s just two o’clock. Afterwards we’ll go to the Garrick and have a chat with Beau Lovelace — he’s a first-rate fellow for looking on the bright side of everything. Then I’ll see you off this afternoon at the Midland — what do you say?”
Errington assented to this arrangement, and tried to shake off the depression that had settled upon him, though dark forebodings passed one after the other like clouds across his mind. He seemed to see the Altenguard hills stretching drearily, white with frozen snow, around the black Fjord; he pictured Thelma, broken-hearted, fancying herself deserted, returning through the cold and darkness to the lonely farm-house behind the now withered pines. Then he began to think of the shell-cave where that other Thelma lay hidden in her last deep sleep, — the wailing words of Sigurd came freshly back to his ears, when the poor crazed lad had likened Thelma’s thoughts to his favorite flowers, the pansies— “One by one you will gather and play with her thoughts as though they were these blossoms; your burning hand will mar their color — they will wither and furl up and die, — and you — what will you care? Nothing! No man ever cares for a flower that is withered, — not even though his own hand slew it!”
Had he been to blame? he mused, with a sorrowful weight at his heart. Unintentionally, had he, — yes, he would put it plainly, — had he neglected her, just a little? Had he not, with all his true and passionate love for her, taken her beauty, her devotion, her obedience too much for granted — too much as his right? And in these latter months, when her health had made her weaker and more in need of his tenderness, had he not, in a sudden desire for political fame and worldly honor, left her too much alone, a prey to solitude and the often morbid musings which solitude engenders?
He began to blame himself heartily for the misunderstanding that had arisen out of his share in Neville’s unhappy secret. Neville had been weak and timid, — he had shrunk nervously from avowing that the notorious Violet Vere was actually the woman he had so faithfully loved and mourned, — but he, Philip, ought not to have humored him in these fastidious scruples — he ought to have confided everything to Thelma. He remembered now that he had once or twice been uneasy lest rumors of his frequent visits to Miss Vere might possibly reach his wife’s ears, — but, then, as his purpose was absolutely disinterested and harmless, he did not dwell on this idea, but dismissed it, and held his peace for Neville’s sake, contenting himself with the thought that, “If Thelma did hear anything, she would never believe a word against me.”
He could not quite see where his fault had been, — though a fault there was somewhere, as he uneasily felt — and he would no doubt have started indignantly had a small elf whispered in his ear the word “Conceit.” Yet that was the name of his failing — that and no other. How many men, otherwise noble-hearted, are seriously, though often unconsciously, burdened with this large parcel of blown-out Nothing! Sir Philip did not appear to be conceited — he would have repelled the accusation with astonishment, — not knowing that in his very denial of the fault, the fault existed. He had never been truly humbled but twice in his life, — once as he knelt to receive his mother’s dying benediction, — and again when he first loved Thelma, and was uncertain whether his love could be returned by so fair and pure a creature. With these two exceptions, all his experience had tended to give him an excellent opinion of himself, — and that he should possess one of the best and loveliest wives in the world, seemed to him quite in keeping with the usual course of things. The feeling that it was a sheer impossibility for her to ever believe a word against him, rose out of this inward self-satisfaction — this one flaw in his otherwise bright, honest, and lovable character — a flaw of which he himself was not aware. Now, when for the third time his fairy castle of perfect peace and pleasure seemed shaken to its foundations, — when he again realized the uncertainty of life or death, he felt bewildered and wretched. His chiefest pride was centred in Thelma, and she — was gone! Again he reverted to the miserable idea that, like a melancholy refrain, haunted him— “What if I should find her dead!”
Absorbed in painful reflections, he was a very silent companion for Lorimer during the luncheon which they took at a quiet little restaurant well known to the habitués of Pall Mall and Regent Street. Lorimer himself had his own reasons for being equally depressed and anxious, — for did he not love Thelma as much as even her husband could? — nay, perhaps more, knowing his love was hopeless. Not always does possession of the adored object strengthen the adoration, — the rapturous dreams of an ideal passion have often been known to surpass reality a thousandfold. So the two friends exch
anged but few words, — though they tried to converse cheerfully on indifferent subjects, and failed in the attempt. They had nearly finished their light repast, when a familiar voice saluted them.
“It is Errington, — I thocht I couldna be mistaken! How are ye both?”
Sandy Macfarlane stood before them, unaltered, save that his scanty beard had grown somewhat longer. They had seen nothing of him since their trip to Norway, and they greeted him now with unaffected heartiness, glad of the distraction his appearance afforded them.
“Where do you hail from, Mac?” asked Lorimer, as he made the new-comer sit down at their table. “We haven’t heard of you for an age.”
“It is a goodish bit of time,” assented Macfarlane, “but better late than never. I came up to London a week ago from Glasgie, — and my heed has been in a whirl ever since. Eh, mon! but it’s an awful place! — maybe I’ll get used to’t after a wee whilie.”
“Are you going to settle here, then?” inquired Errington, “I thought you intended to be a minister somewhere in Scotland?”
Macfarlane smiled, and his eyes twinkled.
“I hae altered ma opee-nions a bit,” he said. “Ye see, ma aunt in Glasgie’s deed—”
“I understand,” laughed Lorimer. “You’ve come in for the old lady’s money?”
“Puir body!” and Sandy shook his head gravely. “A few hours before she died she tore up her will in a screamin’ fury o’ Christian charity and forethought, — meanin’ to mak anither in favor o’ leavin’ a’ her warld’s trash to the Fund for Distributin’ Bible Knowledge among the Heathen — but she never had time to fulfill her intention. She went off like a lamb, — and there being no will, her money fell to me, as the nearest survivin’ relative — eh! the puir thing! — if her dees-imbodied spirit is anywhere aboot, she must be in a sair plight to think I’ve got it, after a’ her curses!”
“How much?” asked Lorimer amused.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 126
