Christmas gold, p.818
Christmas Gold, page 818
"There is nothing," remarked Alfred, "that men are more frequently mistaken about."
"Well! I was so at any rate," continued the stranger. "After a lapse of many years I met my cousin again, and found in her, qualities so irresistible, so unlike any I had met with in the world, such freshness and truth——"
"There are such women on earth," interrupted De Clerval.
"In a word," continued the other, without noticing the interruption, "I came to the conclusion that, could I ally her destiny with mine, there was a new life and a happy one yet in store for me. I believed that I should be able to shake off my old vile garments, get rid of my old bad habits, and—begin again. What a vision came up before me of a life in which SHE should lead me and help me, be my guide along a good way better known to her than to me! I determined to make the cast, and that my life should depend on the issue of the throw. It was only yesterday that the cast was made—and the consequence is, that—that I am here."
Alfred was silent; a strange feeling of pity came over him for this man. In spite of his own trouble, there seemed to be a corner in his heart that was sorry yet for his neighbour.
"At that terrible' interview," the stranger went on, "I forced the truth from her. Thérèse was not a demonstrative woman. There was a fund of reserve about her which kept her from showing herself to every one. It was a fault, and so was her pride, the besetting sin of those who have never fallen."
From the moment when the name of Thérèse had been mentioned, the attention of Alfred had been drawn with increased fixity to the narrative to which he was listening. It was with greediness that he now caught at every word which followed.
"I forced the truth from her. I believe she spoke it the less unwillingly because it was her wish to save me from any delusion in the matter, and mercifully to deprive me of hope which could never have any real foundation. I besought her to tell me, in the name of Heaven's truth, was there one in the world more favoured—one who possessed the place in her heart which I had sought to occupy? She hesitated, but I pressed her hard and wrung it from her. Yes, there was one: one who held her heart for ever. I was greedy, I would know all: his name: his condition. And I did. I got to know it all—the history of their love—the name of my rival."
"And what was it?" asked Alfred, in a voice that seemed to himself like that of another man.
"Alfred de Clerval."
Alfred sprung to his feet, and looked towards the Doctor. "She loves me," he gasped, " and I am here!"
The sudden move of De Clerval attracted all attention. "Ah! another!" the guests yelled out. "Another who does not know how to behave himself. Another who is going to scream at us and drive us mad, and die before our very faces!"
"No, no!" cried Alfred. "No, no! not die, but live! I must live. All is changed, and I call upon this Doctor here to save me."
"How do you mean that 'all is changed?'" whispered the man whose narration had brought all this about. "Changed by what I have said?"
The noise was so great that De Clerval could not for the moment answer. The self-doomed wretches round the table seemed to feel a horrible jealousy at the idea of an escape. Even the Doctor sought in vain to restore order now.
"Ah, the renegade," cried the guests, "the coward! He is afraid. He has thought better of it! Impostor, what did he ever come among us for!"
"Hold! gentlemen," cried Alfred, in a voice that made the glasses ring; "I am neither coward nor renegade. I came here to die, because I wished to die. And now I wish to live—not from caprice nor fear, but because the circumstances which made me wish to die, are changed; because I have learnt the truth but this moment, learnt it in this room, learnt it at this table, learnt it of this gentleman."
"Tell me," said the stranger, now seizing him by the arm, "what had my story to do with all this? Unless—unless——"
"Monsieur le Vicomte de Noel," replied the other, "I am Alfred de Clerval, and the story you told me was of Thérèse de Farelles. Judge whether I am anxious to live or not."
A frightful convulsion passed over the features of the Vicomte de Noel, and he fell back in his chair.
Meanwhile the uproar continued among Dr. Bertrand's guests.
"We acknowledge nothing," one of the maddened wretches cried, "as a reason for breaking faith with Death. We are all his votaries. We came together in good fellowship to do him honour. Hurrah for Death! Here is a fellow who would turn infidel to our religion. A renegade, I say again, and what should be the fate of renegades!"
"Follow me without a moment's delay," whispered a voice in Alfred's ear. "You are in the greatest danger."
It was the Doctor's familiar spirit who spoke. Alfred turned to follow him. Then he hesitated, and, hastily leaning down, said these words in De Noel's ear:
"For Heaven's sake don't let your life be sacrificed in this horrible way. Follow me, I entreat you."
"Too late! It is over," gasped the dying man. He seemed to make an ineffectual effort to say more, and then he spread his arms out on the table, and his head fell heavily upon them.
"You will be too late in another instant," said the Doctor's servant, seizing Alfred hastily by the arm. As De Clerval passed through the side-door which the man opened, sucli a rush was made towards the place as plainly showed what a narrow escape he had had. The servant, however, locked and bolted the door in time, and those poor half-poisoned and half-drunken wretches were foiled in their purpose.
And now, that escape effected, and the excitement of the previous moment at an end, a strange weakness and giddiness came over De Clerval, and he sunk upon a large sofa to which he had mechanically found his way. The room was a large one, and dimly lighted by a simple lamp, shaded, which stood upon a bureau or escritoire nearly large enough to occupy one end of the room, and covered with papers, bottles, surgical instruments, and other medical lumber. The room was filled with such matters, and it opened into another and a smaller apartment, in which were crucibles, a furnace, many chemical preparations, and a bath which could be heated at the shortest notice.
"The Doctor will, be here himself immediately," said the familiar, approaching De Clerval with a glass, in which was some compound which he had hastily mixed; "meantime, he bade me give you this."
De Clerval swallowed the mixture, and the attendant left the room. No doubt there was work enough for him elsewhere. Before leaving, however, he told Alfred that he must by all means keep awake.
In compliance with these instructions, and feeling an unwonted drowsiness creeping over him, De Clerval proceeded to walk up and down the room. He was not himself. He would stop, almost without knowing it, in the middle of his promenade, become unconscious for a moment, then would be suddenly and violently roused by finding that his balance was going, and once he did fall. But he sprang up instantly, feeling that his life depended on it. He set himself mental tasks, tasks of memory, or he would try to convince himself that he was in possession of his faculties by reasoning as to where he was, what circumstances had occurred, and the like. "I am in Dr.—Dr.—study," he would say to himself. "I know all about it— waiting to see—waiting, mind, to see—I am waiting—Dr.——" He was falling into a state of insensibility in spite of all his efforts, when Dr. Bertrand, whose approach he had not heard, stood there before him. The sight of the Doctor roused him.
"Doctor, can you save me?"
"First, I must ask you a question," replied the Doctor. " It is about one of the dishes at table—now recollect yourself. The 'Curry à l'Anglaise.' Did you partake of it?"
De Clerval was silent for a moment, making a violent effort to collect his bewildered faculties.
At last he remembered something that decided him.
"No, I did not. I remember thinking that an English dish is never good in Erance, and I let it pass."
"Then," said Dr. Bertrand, "there is good hope. Eollow me into this room."
Eor a long time Alfred de Clerval's life was in the greatest danger. Although he had not partaken of that one particular dish which Dr. Bertrand considered it beyond his power to counteract, he had yet swallowed enough that was poisonous, to make his ultimate recovery exceedingly doubtful. Probably no other man but he who had so nearly caused his death could have saved his life. But Dr. Bertrand knew what was wrong—which is not always the case with doctors—and he also knew how to deal with that wrong. So, after a long and tedious illness and convalescence, Alfred so far recovered as to be able to drop the Doctor's acquaintance, which he was very anxious to do, and to take advantage of the information he had gained from the unfortunate Vicomte de Noel.
Whether Mademoiselle de Farelles was able to pardon the crime her lover had so nearly committed, in consideration of the fact that it was love for her which had led him on to attempt it, I don't know; but my belief is that she did pardon it.
For Dr. Bertrand, his career was a short one. The practices by which he was amassing a large fortune were not long in coming to the knowledge of the police authorities, and in due time it was determined by those who had the power to carry out their conclusions, that it would be for the good of the Doctor's health that the remainder of his life should be passed in the neighbourhood of Cayenne, where, if he chose, he might give dinners to such of the convicts as could be the most easily spared by government.
Chapter III.
Another Past Lodger Relates His Experience as a Poor Relation
Table of Contents
Rosa Mulholland
The evening was raw and there was snow on the streets, genuine London snow, half-thawed, and trodden, and defiled with mud. I remembered it well, that snow, though it was fifteen years since I had last seen its cheerless face. There it lay, in the same old ruts, and spreading the same old snares on the side-paths. Only a few hours arrived from South America via Southampton, I sat in my room at Morley's Hotel, Charing Cross, and looked gloomily out at the fountains, walked up and down the floor discontentedly, and fiercely tried my best to feel glad that I was a wanderer no more, and that I had indeed got home at last.
I poked up my fire, and took a long look backward upon my past life, through the embers. I remembered how my childhood had been embittered by dependence, how my rich and respectable uncle, whose ruling passion was vainglory, had looked on my existence as a nuisance, not so much because he was obliged to open his purse to pay for my clothing and education, as because that, when a man, he thought I could reflect no credit upon his name. I remembered how in those days I had a soul for the beautiful, and a certain almost womanish tenderness of heart, which by dint of much sneering had been successfully extracted from me. I remembered my uncle's unconcealed relief at my determination to go abroad and seek my fortune, the cold good-by of my only cousin, the lonely bitter farewell to England hardly sweetened by the impatient hopes that consumed rather than cheered me—the hopes of name and gold, won by my own exertions, with which I should yet wring from those who despised me, the worthless respect which they denied me now.
Sitting there at the fire, I rang the bell, and the waiter came to me: an old man whose face I remembered. I asked him some questions. Yes, he knew Mr. George Rutland; recollected that many years ago he used to stay at Morley's when he came to London. Tiie old gentleman had always stayed there. But Mr. George was too grand for Morley's now. The family always came to town in the spring, but, at this season, "Rutland Hall, Kent," would be pretty sure to be their address.
Having obtained all the information I desired, I began forthwith to write a letter:
"Dear George,—I dare say you ^will be as much surprised to see my handwriting as you would to behold an apparition from the dead. However, you know I was always a ne'er-do-well, and I have not had the grace to die yet. I am ashamed not to be able to announce myself as having returned home with my fortune made; but mishaps will follow the most hardworking and well-meaning. I am still a young man, even though fifteen of the best years of my life may have been lost, and I am willing to devote myself to any worthy occupation. Meantime, I am anxious to see you and yours. A long absence from home and kindred makes one value the grasp of a friendly hand. I shall not wait for your reply to this, but go down to Kent the day after to-morrow, arriving, I believe, about dinner-time. You see I am making myself assured of your welcome for a few weeks, till I have time to look about me.
" I remain, dear George, "Your old friend and cousin, "GUY RUTLAND."
I folded this missive and placed it in its envelope. "I shall find out, once for all, what they are made of," I said, complacently, as I wrote the address, "George Rutland, Esq., Rutland Hall, Kent."
It was about seven on a frosty evening when I arrived at the imposing entrance of Rutland Hall. No Cousin George came rushing out to meet me. "Of course not," I thought; "I am unused to their formal manners in this country. He is lying in wait for me on the mat inside." I was admitted by a solemn person as quietly and mechanically as though my restoration to home and kindred were a thing that had happened regularly in his presence every day since his birth. He ushered me into a grand hall, but no mat supported the impatient feet of the dignified master of the house. "Ah!" said I, "even this, perhaps, were scarcely etiquette. No doubt he stands chafing on the drawing-room hearth-rug, and I have little enough time to make myself presentable before dinner." So, resigning myself to circumstances, I meekly followed a guide who volunteered to conduct me to the chamber assigned to my especial use. I had to travel a considerable distance before I reached it. "Dear me!" I remarked to myself when I did reach it, "I had expected to find the rooms in such a house more elegantly appointed than this!"
I made my toilette, and again submitting myself to my guide, was convoyed to the drawing-room door. All the way down stairs I had been conning pleasant speeches with which to greet my kinsfolk. I am not a brilliant person, but I sometimes succeed in pleasing when I try, and on this occasion I had the desire to do my best.
The drawing-room door was at the distant end of the hall, and my arrival had been so very quiet, that I conceived my expectant entertainers could hardly be aware of my presence in the house. I thought I should give them a surprise. The door opened and closed upon me, leaving me within the room. I looked around me, and saw—darkness there, and nothing more.
Ah, yes, but there was something more! There was a blazing fire which sent eddying swirls of light through the shadows, and right in the blush of its warmth a little figure was lounging in an easy-chair. The little figure was a girl of apparently about fifteen or sixteen years of age, dressed in a short shabby black frock, who was evidently spoiling her eyes by reading by the firelight. She lay with her head thrown back, a mass of fair curly hair being thus tossed over the velvet cushion on which it rested, while she held her book aloft to catch the light. She was luxuriating in her solitude, and little dreaming of interruption.
She was so absorbed in her book, the door had opened and closed so noiselessly, and the room was so large, that I was obliged to make a sound to engage her attention. She started violently then, and looked up with a nervous fearfulness in her face. She dropped her book, sat upright, and put out her hand, eagerly grasping a thing I had not noticed before, and which leaned against the chair—a crutch. She then got up leaning on it and stood before me. The poor little thing was lame, and had two crutches by her.
I introduced myself, and her fear seemed to subside. She asked me to sit down, with a prim little assumption of at-home-ness, which did not sit upon her with ease. She picked up her book and laid it on her lap; she produced a net from the recesses of her chair, and with a blush gathered up the curls and tucked them into its meshes. Then she sat quiet, but kept her hand upon her crutches, as if she was ready at a moment's notice to limp away across the carpet, and leave me to my own resources.
"Thomson thought there was nobody in the room," she said, as if anxious to account for her own presence there. "I always stay in the nursery, except sometimes when they all go out and I get this room to myself. Then I like to read here."
"Mr. Rutland is not at home?" I said.
"No, they are all out dining."
"Indeed! Your papa, perhaps, did not get my letter?"
She blushed crimson.
"I am not a Miss Rutland," she said. "My name is Teecie Ray. I am an orphan. My father was a friend of Mr. Rutland, and he takes care of me for charity."
The last word was pronounced with a certain controlled quiver of the lip. But she went on. "I don't know about the letter, but I heard a gentleman was expected. I did not think it could be to-night, though, as they all went out."
"A reasonable conclusion to come to," I thought, and thereupon began musing on the eagerness of welcome displayed by my affectionate Cousin George. If I were the gentleman expected, they must have received my letter, and in it were fully set forth the day and hour of my proposed arrival. "Ah! George, my dear fellow," I said, "you are not a whit changed!"
Arriving at this conclusion, I raised my glance, and met, full, the observant gaze of a pair of large shrewd grey eyes. My little hostess for the time being was regarding me with such a curiously legible expression on her face, that I could not but read it and be amused. It said plainly: "I know more about you than you think, and I pity you. You. come here with expectations which will not be fulfilled. There is much mortification in store for you. I wonder you came here at all. If I were once well outside these gates, I should never limp inside them again. If I knew a road out into the world you come from, I would set out bravely on my crutches. No, not even for the sake of a stolen hour like this, in a velvet chair, would I remain here."
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