Volume Two – Chapter Twelve.
A Matter-of-Fact Match
Dick Millet received a note in his uncle’s crabbed hand one morning at Hampton Court, obtained leave, and hurried up to town, calling at Grosvenor Square to hear the last news about Gertrude, but finding none.
On arriving at Wimpole Street, Vidler opened the door to the visitor, and smiled as he did so in rather a peculiar way.
“Can I speak to my uncle?” said Dick importantly. And he was shown up into the drawing-room, which seemed more gloomy now, lit as it was by four wax-candles, which were lost, as it were, in a great mist of old-time air, that had been shut up in that room till it had grown into a faded and yellow atmosphere carefully preserved from the bleaching properties of the sun.
The little opening was to his right, with the white hand visible on the ledge; but Dick hardly saw it, for, as he entered, Gertrude ran to his arms, to fall sobbing on his neck, while John Huish came forward offering his hand.
“Then it was you, John Huish, after all?” Dick exclaimed angrily, as he placed his own hand behind his back.
“Yes, it was I. What else could I do, forbidden as I was to come to the house? Come, my dear Dick, don’t be hard upon me now.”
“But,” exclaimed Dick in a puzzled way, “how was all this managed?”
“Shall we let that rest?” said Huish, smiling. “Neither Gertrude nor I are very proud of our subterfuges. But come, we are brothers now. We can count upon you, can we not, to make friends with her ladyship.”
“I – don’t know,” said Dick quietly, for his mind was busy with the thoughts of the awkward reports he had heard concerning Huish and his position at various clubs, and he asked himself whether he should be the friend and advocate of a man who was declared to be little better than a blackleg.
“Surely I can count upon you,” said Huish, after a pause.
“Suppose we step down into the dining-room,” said Dick stiffly; but he gave his sister an encouraging smile as she caught his hand.
“Dick,” she whispered, “what does this mean?”
“Only a little clearing up between John Huish and me, dear,” he said. “After that, I dare say I shall be able to tell you I’m glad you’re his wife.”
Gertrude smiled, and Huish followed down to the dining-room, which, lit by one candle, looked like a vault. Arrived here, though, Dick turned sharply upon his brother-in-law.
“Now, look here, John Huish,” he said, “I won’t quarrel about the past and this clandestine match, for perhaps, if I had been situated as you were, I should have done the same; but there is something I want cleared up.”
“Let us clear it up at once then,” said Huish, smiling. “What is it?”
“Well, there are some sinister reports about you – you see, I speak plainly.”
“Yes, of course. Go on.”
“Well, they say commonly that you have been playing out of the square at the clubs; that you’ve been expelled from two, and that your conduct has been little better than that of a blackleg. John Huish, as a gentleman and my brother-in-law, how much of this is true? Stop a moment,” he added hastily. “I know, old man, what it is myself to be pinched for money, and how a fellow might be tempted to do anything shady to get some together to keep up appearances. If there has been anything queer it must be forgiven; but you must give me your word as a man that for the future all shall be right.”
“My dear Dick,” cried Huish, “I give you my word that all in the future shall be square, as you term it; and I tell you this, that if any man had spoken such falsehoods about my wife’s brother, I should have knocked him down. There isn’t a word of truth in these reports, though I must confess they have worried me a great deal. Now, will you shake hands?”
“That I will,” cried Dick eagerly; “and I tell you now that I am glad that you have thrown dust in our eyes as you have. I always liked you, Huish, and you were about the only man from whom I never liked to borrow money.”
“Why?” said Huish, smiling.
“Because I was afraid of losing a friend. Come up now, for Gertrude will be in a fidget to know what we have been saying. – Gertrude, my dear,” he said as they re-entered the drawing-room, “it’s all right.”
An hour later Dick parted from the young couple at the little house they had taken in Westbourne Road, and cabbed back, to send her ladyship into a fainting fit by the announcement that his sister and her husband had been at his uncle’s.
“For,” said Lady Millet, “I can never forgive Gertrude; and as to that dreadful man Huish, in marrying him she has disgraced herself beyond the power to redeem her lot. Ah me! and these are the children I have nurtured in my bosom.”
It was rather hard work for Dick Millet, with his own love affairs in a state of “check,” with no probability of “mate,” but he felt that he must act; and in his newly assumed character of head of the family he determined to go and try to smooth matters over at Chesham Place, and took a hansom to see Frank Morrison, who was now back at his own house, but alone, and who surlily pointed to a chair as he sat back pale and nervous of aspect, wrapped in a dressing-gown.
“Look here, Frank,” said Dick, sitting down, and helping himself to a cigar, “we’re brothers-in-law, and I’m not going to quarrel. I’ve come for the other thing.”
“My cigars, seemingly,” said the other.
“Yes; they’re not bad. But look here, old fellow, light up; I want to talk to you.”
“If you want to borrow twenty pounds, say so, and I’ll draw you a cheque.”
“Hang your cheque! I didn’t come to borrow money. Light up.”
Morrison snatched up a cigar, bit off the end, and lit it, threw himself back in his chair, and began to smoke quickly.
“Go on,” he said. “What is it?”
“Wait a minute or two,” said Dick. “Smoke five minutes first.”
Morrison muttered something unpleasant, but went on smoking, and at last Dick, who was sitting with his little legs dangling over the side of the chair, began.
“Fact is,” he said, “I’m going to speak out. I shan’t quarrel, and I’m such a little chap that you can’t hit me.”
“No; but I could throw you downstairs,” said Morrison, who was half amused, half annoyed by his visitor’s coming, though in his heart of hearts he longed to hear news of Renée.
“I saw my uncle yesterday.”
“Indeed! Poor old lunatic! What had he got to say?”
“Ah, there you are wrong!” said Dick sharply. “He said something which you will own proved that he was no lunatic.”
“What was it?” said Morrison coldly.
“That you were a confounded scoundrel.”
Frank Morrison jumped up in his chair, scowling angrily; but he threw himself back again with a contemptuous “Pish!”
“Proves it, don’t it?”
“Look here,” cried Morrison angrily, “I’ve had about enough of your family, so please finish your cigar and go.”
“Shan’t. There, it’s no use to twist about. I’ve come on purpose to sit upon you.”
“Look here,” cried Morrison sternly, “has your sister sent you?”
“No. I’ve come of my own free will, as I tell you, to show you what a fool you are, and to try and bring you to your senses.”
“You are very ready at calling people fools,” said Morrison, biting his nails.
“Well, don’t you deserve to be called one for acting as you have acted? What did you do? Went mad after a woman who didn’t care a sou for you; neglected a dear, good girl who did care for you, and exposed her to the persecutions of a scoundrel who has no more principle than that.”
He snapped his fingers, and, instead of firing up with rage, Morrison turned his face away and smoked furiously.
“Now, isn’t that all true, Frank? Here, give me a light.”
Morrison lit a spill, passed it to his brother-in-law, and sank back in his chair.
“I say,” continued Dick, as he lit his cigar again, “isn’t it (puff) quite (puff) true?”
“I suppose so,” said the other listlessly. “She never cared for me, though, Dick. That scoundrel and she were old flames.”
“First, a lie; second, true,” said Dick quietly. “Renée is as good as gold; and when she found she was to be your wife, she accepted the inevitable and tried to do her duty, poor girl! She was already finding out what a bad one Malpas was.”
“Curse him! don’t mention his name here!” cried Morrison savagely.
“I say she was already finding out what a cursed scoundrel Malpas was when she married you.”
“She encouraged his visits afterwards,” cried Morrison fiercely. “The villain owned it to me.”
“And you didn’t thrust your fist down his throat?”
Morrison got up and paced the room.
“Look here, Frank, old fellow: you are beginning to find out what a donkey you have been. You are easy-going, and it’s no hard job to lead you away. Now tell me this: didn’t Malpas introduce you to a certain lady?”
“Yes,” was the sulky reply.
“Of course,” said Dick. “He takes you and moulds you like putty, introduces you to people so as to make your wife jealous, out of revenge for your supplanting him, and then tries to supplant you in turn.”
“Dick Millet,” cried Morrison, “you mean well, but I can’t bear this. Either be silent or go. If I think of the scene on that dreadful night when I was sent home by a note written by that scoundrel of a brother-in-law of yours – ”
“Meaning yourself?” said Dick coolly.
“I mean that double-faced, double-lived, double-dyed traitor, John Huish.”
“What!”
“The man who has fleeced me more than Malpas – curse him! – ever did.”
“Gently! I won’t sit and hear John Huish maligned like that.”
“Maligned!” cried Morrison, with a bitter laugh.
“As if anyone could say anything bad enough of the scoundrel!”
“Look here, Frank,” said Dick rather warmly, “I came here to try and do you a good turn, not to hear John Huish backbitten. He’s a good, true-hearted fellow, who has been slandered up and down, and he don’t deserve it.”
Morrison sat up, stared at him in wonder, and then burst into a scornful laugh.
“Dick Millet,” he exclaimed, “you called me a fool a little while ago. I won’t call you so, only ask you whether you don’t think you are one.”
“I dare say I am,” said Dick sharply. “But look here, are you prepared to prove all this about John Huish?”
“Every bit of it, and ten times as much,” said Morrison. “Why, this scoundrel won or cheated me of the money that paid for his wedding trip. He was with me till the last instant. Yes, and, as well as I can recollect, after he had got your sister away.”
Dick’s cigar went out, and his forehead began to pucker up.
“Look here,” he said: “you told me that he sent you the note that made you go home that night. Where were you?”
“At a supper with some actresses.”
“But John Huish was not there!”
“Not there. Why, he was present with the lady who was his companion up to the time that he honoured your sister with his name. I believe he visits her now.”
“I can’t stand this,” cried Dick, throwing away his cigar. “How a fellow who calls himself a man can play double in this way gets over me. Frank Morrison, if I did as much I should feel as if I had ‘liar’ written on my face, ready for my wife to see. It’s too much to believe about John Huish. I can’t – I won’t have it. Why, it would break poor little Gerty’s heart.”
“Break her heart!” said Morrison bitterly. “Perhaps she would take a leaf out of her sister’s book.”
“Confound you, Frank Morrison!” cried Dick, in a rage, as he jumped up and faced his brother-in-law. “I won’t stand it. My two sisters are as pure as angels. Do you dare to tell me to my face that you believe Renée guilty?”
There was a dead silence in the room, and at last Frank Morrison spoke.
“Dick,” he said, and his voice shook, “you are a good fellow. You are right: I am a fool and a scoundrel.”
“Yes,” cried Dick; “but do you dare to tell me you believe that of Renée?”
“I’d give half my life to know that she was innocent,” groaned Morrison.
“You are a fool, then,” cried Dick, “or you’d know it. There, I didn’t come to quarrel, but to try and make you both happy; and now matters are ten times worse. But I won’t believe this about John.”
“It’s true enough,” said Morrison sadly. “Poor little lass! I liked Gertrude. You should not have let that scoundrel have her.”
“We have a weakness for letting our family marry scoundrels.”
“Yes,” said Morrison, speaking without the slightest resentment; “she had better have had poor Lord Henry Moorpark.”
“Oh!” said Dick. “There, I’m going. ’Day.”
He moved towards the door, but Morrison stopped him.
“Dick,” he said; “did Renée know you were coming?”
“No,” was the curt reply.
“Is she – is she still at your uncle’s?”
“Yes, nearly always.”
“Is she – is she well?”
“No. She is ill. Heartsick and broken; and if what you say is true, she will soon have poor Gerty to keep her company.”
Dick Millet hurried away from his brother-in-law’s house, pondering upon his own love matters, and telling himself that he had more to think of than he could bear.
In happy ignorance of her ladyship’s prostrate state, John Huish, soon after his brother-in-law’s departure, hurried off to pay a hasty visit to his club, where he asked to see the secretary, and was informed that that gentleman was out. He threw himself into a cab, looking rather white and set of countenance as he had himself driven to Finsbury Square, where Daniel looked at him curiously as he ushered him into the doctor’s room.
“My dear, dear boy, I am glad!” cried the doctor, dashing down his glasses. “You did the old lady, after all, and carried the little darling off. Bless her heart! Why, the gipsy! Oh, won’t I talk to her about this. That’s the best thing I’ve known for years. What does your father say?”
“He wrote me word that he was very glad, and said he should write to Gertrude’s uncle.”
“Ah, yes. H’m!” said the doctor. “Best thing, too. They were once very great friends, John.”
“Yes, I have heard so,” said Huish. “I think Captain Millet loved my mother.”
“H’m, yes,” said the doctor, nodding. “They quarrelled. Well, but this is a surprise! You dog, you! But the secrecy of the whole thing! How snug you kept it! But, I say, you ought to have written to us all.”
“Well, certainly, I might have written to you, doctor, but I confess I forgot.”
“I say, though, you should have written to the old man.”
“We did, letter after letter.”
“Then that old – there, I won’t say what, must have suppressed them. She was mad because her favourite lost. It would have been murder to have tied her up to that wreck. I say, though, my boy,” continued the doctor seriously, “I don’t think you ought to have carried on so with Frank Morrison. He has had D.T. terribly.”
“What had that to do with me?” said Huish. “If a man will drink, he must take the consequences.”
“Exactly,” said the doctor coldly; “but his friends need not egg him on so as to win his money.”
“He should not choose scoundrels for his companions,” said Huish coldly.
“H’m, no, of course not,” said the doctor, coughing, and hurrying to change the conversation. “By the way, why didn’t you tell me all this when you came last?”
“How could I?” said Huish, smiling. “I was not a prophet.”
“Prophet, no! but why keep it secret then?”
“Secret? Well,” said Huish; “but really – I was not justified in telling it then.”
“What I not when you had been married?”
“I don’t understand you,” said Huish, with his countenance changing.
“I mean,” said the doctor, “why didn’t you tell me when you were here a fortnight ago; and – let me see,” he continued, referring to his note-book, “you were due here last Wednesday, and again yesterday.”
John Huish drew a long breath, and the pupils of his eyes contracted as he said quietly:
“Why, doctor, I told you that I had been on the Continent, and only returned two days ago.”
“Yes; of course. We know – fashionable fibs: Out of town; not at home, etcetera, etcetera.”
“My dear doctor,” said Huish, fidgeting slightly in his seat, “I have always made it a practice to try and be honest in my statements. I tell you I only came back two days ago.”
“That be hanged, John Huish!” cried the doctor. “Why, you were here a fortnight ago yesterday.”
“Nonsense,” cried Huish excitedly. “How absurd!”
“Absurd? Hang it, boy! do you think I’m mad? Here is the entry,” he continued, reading. “Seventh, John Huish, Nervous fit – over-excitement – old bite of dog – bad dreams – dread of hydrophobia. Prescribed, um – um – um – etcetera, etcetera. Now then, what do you say to that?”
“You were dreaming,” said Huish.
“Dreaming?” said the doctor, laughing. “What! that you – here, stop a moment.” He rang the bell. “Ask Daniel yourself when you were here last.”
“What nonsense!” said Huish, growing agitated. Then as the door opened, “Daniel,” he said quietly, “when was I here last?”
“Yesterday fortnight, sir,” said the man promptly.
“That will do, Daniel!” and the attendant retired as Huish sank back in his chair, gazing straight before him in a strange, vacant manner. “What a fool I am!” muttered the doctor. “I’ve led him on to it again. Hang it! shall I never understand my profession?”
“I’ll go now,” said Huish drearily, as he rose; but Dr Stonor pressed him back in his seat.
“No, no; sit still a few minutes,” he said quietly.
“I – I thought it was gone,” said Huish; “and life seemed so bright and happy on ahead. Doctor, I’ve never confessed, even to you, what I have suffered from all this. I have felt horrible at times. The devil has tempted me to do the most dreadful things.”
“Poor devil!” said the doctor. “What a broad back he must have to bear all that the silly world lays upon it!”
“You laugh. Tell me, what does it mean? How is it? Do I do things in my sleep, or when I am waking, and then do they pass completely away from my memory? Tell me truly, and let me know the worst. Am I going to lose my reason?”
“No, no, no!” cried the doctor. “Absurd! It is a want of tone in the nerves – a little absence of mind. The liver is sluggish, and from its stoppage the brain gets affected.”
“Yes; that is what I feared,” cried Huish excitedly.
“Not as you mean, my dear boy,” cried the doctor. “When we say the brain is affected, we don’t always mean madness. What nonsense! The brain is affected when there are bad headaches – a little congestion, you know. These fits of absence are nothing more.”
“Nothing more, doctor?” said Huish dejectedly. “If I could only think so! Oh, my darling! my darling,” he whispered to himself, as his head came down upon his hands for a moment when he started up, for Dr Stonor’s hand was upon his arm. “Oh, doctor!” he cried in anguished tones, “I am haunted by these acts which I do and forget. I am constantly confronted with something or another that I cannot comprehend, and the dread is always growing on me that I shall some day be a wreck. Oh, I have been mad to link that poor girl’s life to such a life as mine! Doctor – doctor – tell me – what shall I do?”
“Be a man,” said the doctor quietly, “and don’t worry yourself by imagining more than is real. You are a deal better than when I saw you last. You have not worried yourself more about the bite?”
“No, I have hardly thought of it. Dog-bite? But tell me, doctor, would the virus from a dog-bite have any effect upon a man’s mental organisation?”
“Oh no, my dear boy; but you are better in health.”
“I felt so well and happy to-day,” he cried, “that all seemed sunshine. Now all is cloud.”
“Of course; yes!” said the doctor. “That shows you how much the imagination has to do with the mental state. The greater part of my patients are ill from anxiety. Now, look here, my dear John, the first thing you have to bear in mind is that every man is a screw. There may be much or little wrong, and it may vary from a tiny discoloration from rust, up to a completely worn-out worm or a broken head. Your little ailment is distressing; but so is every disorder. Keep yourself in good health, take matters coolly, and in place of getting worse you may get better, perhaps lose the absence of mind altogether. If you do not – bear it like a man. Why trouble about the inevitable? I am getting on in years now, and, my dear fellow, I know that some time or other I shall be lying upon my deathbed gasping for the last breath I shall have to draw. Now, my dear boy, do I sit down and make my life miserable because some day I have got to die? Does anybody do so except a fool, and those weakly-strung idiots who make death horrible when it is nothing but the calm rest and sleep that comes to the worn-out body? No; we accept the inevitable, enjoy life as it is given us, make the best of our troubles and pains, and thank God for everything. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, doctor, yes,” said the young man sadly. “But this is very dreadful!”
“So is a bad leg,” said the doctor sharply. “There, I’ll speak frankly to you if you’ll sit up and look me full in the face. Come, for your young wife’s sake, shake off this weak nervousness, and be ready to fight. Don’t lie down and ask disease to conquer you. Why, my dear boy, speaking as an old fisherman, you’re as sound as a roach, and as bright as a bleak. Be a man, for your wife’s sake, be a man!”
Huish drew a long breath. The doctor had touched the right chord, and he sat up, looking pale but more himself.
“Now then,” said the doctor, “I speak to you fairly as one who has had some experience of such matters, but who honestly owns that he finds life too short to master a thousandth part of what he ought to know. I say, then, look here,” he continued, thrusting his hands through his crisp hair, “your state puzzles me: pulse, countenance, eye, all say to me that you are quite well; but you every now and then contradict it. What I tell you, then, is this, and of it I feel sure. It lies in your power to follow either of two roads you please: You can be a healthy, vigorous man, clear of intellect, save a cloud or two now and then which you must treat as rainy days, or you can force yourself by your despondency into so low a mental state that you may become one of my patients. Now, then, which is it to be, my sturdy young married man? Answer for Gertrude’s sake.”
“There is only one answer,” cried Huish, springing up. “For Gertrude’s sake.”
“That’s right,” cried the doctor, shaking his hand warmly. “Spoken like a man.”
“But will you prescribe? Shall I take anything?”
“Bah! Stuff! Doctor’s stuff,” he added, laughing. “My dear boy, that dearly beloved, credulous creature, the human being, is never happy unless he is taking bottles and bottles of physic, and boxes and boxes of pills. Look at the fortunes made by it. Human nature will not believe that it can be cured without medicine, when in most cases it can. Why, my dear boy, your daily food is your medicine, your mental and bodily food. There, be off, go and enjoy the society of your dear little wife. Go and row her up the river, or drive her in the park; go in the country and pick buttercups, and run after butterflies, and eat bread-and-butter; sleep well, live well and innocently, and believe in the truest words ever written: ‘Care killed the cat!’ Don’t let it kill you.”
“No, I can’t afford to let it kill me,” said Huish, smiling.
“Never mind your sore finger, my boy; everybody has got a sore place, only they are divided into two classes: those who show them, and those who do not so much as wear a stall. Good-bye; God bless you, my boy! I wish I had your youth and strength, and pretty wife, and then – ”
“Then what, doctor?” said Huish, smiling, and looking quite himself.
“Why, like you, you dog, I should not be satisfied. Be off; I shall come and see you soon. Where’s your address? Love to my little Gertrude; and John, tell her if – eh? – by-and-by – ”
“Nonsense!” cried Huish, flushing with pleasure. “I shall tell her no such thing.”
“You will,” said the doctor, grinning. “Oh, that’s the address, eh? Westbourne Road. Good-bye.”
“I don’t understand him,” said the doctor thoughtfully, as soon as he was alone. “He is himself to-day; last time he was almost brutal. Heaven help him, poor fellow! if – No, no; I will not think that. But he is terribly unhinged at times.”