CHAPTER IV.
The Rape Of The Rose.
I.
Bill was away from home, the maid who answered the door told George; Mrs. Wyvern was out; the Professor was in his study.
George found the great biologist warming his chilly old bones in a vast armchair before a fire.
With a twinkling of his sky-blue eyes that spoke to pleasant temper, the Professor greeted George; nodded him into an opposite seat.
“I am reading a letter,” he announced. This man spoke very slowly, never abbreviated; had now an air of child-like happiness. “It is a letter from Bill.”
George said: “Ah, what is Bill doing? I've not seen him for days.”
Professor Wyvern chuckled away and fumbled with clumsy old fingers among the closely-written sheets on his lap. One he selected and inclined towards George. Its upper half was thickly lettered in heavy red type, prominent among which there bawled forth in wavy capitals, thickly underscored:
“THE DAILY.” EVERYBODY'S PAPER. PRICE 1/2d.
“Hot stuff!” George cried. “Is old Bill on the staff of the Daily?”
“Old Bill is on the staff of the Daily,” the Professor returned with more chuckling. “You have heard of it?”
“Well, it's advertised everywhere. You can't get away from it. First number out to-morrow, isn't it?”
“Yes, it is. I think it will be a very terrible production—a very horrible production indeed. But I am an annual subscriber because of Bill, and I have written a short article for the first issue also because of Bill. Bill says” (the Professor fumbled again; ran his nose twice up and down each sheet; finally struck the passage) “Bill says, 'You were a brick, dear old governor, to send that article. It is a most thundering scoop for the Daily, and made the Boss most awfully bucked up with me. You are a brick, dear old Governor.”
A little tear rolled out of Professor Wyvern's silly old eye, and he blew his nose in a series of terrific thunder-claps.
“There!” he said. “You see how pleased Bill is with himself. I am afraid he uses the most terrible expressions in his letters, but he does not use them when he is writing his stories. He is a clever boy, and I am very proud of him. Now let me tell you.” He fell to nosing the sheets again. “All this first part is about his dogs. '... if Abiram and Dathan start scrapping, just hoof Abiram—it's his fault.'”
The Professor looked up at George. “I would more readily kick a police constable than I would kick Abiram,” he said. “I must tell Hocken all this.”
He continued, “'... see that Korah is kept short of meat for a bit ... when they are exercising, for goodness' sake don't let them be taken down Windmill Lane. There is a collie there that they have got a grudge against and will tear to bits if they catch.'”
The Professor paused. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I must give all this part to Hocken to keep. Ah! Now here is about his work. They have engaged him at four pounds a week. He does not know exactly what he is. Not a sub-editor. Not a reporter. He thinks they will put him on to what he calls 'special jobs,' or he may have to do what he calls 'ferret round' and find jobs for himself. The understanding is that he is only on probation. If he does anything very good they will put him on the permanent staff; if not, he is liable to go at a week's notice. Then he says, 'Tell all this to George, and give him my love. He was up for his exam—'”
Professor Wyvern broke off. “Dear me!” he cried; “oh, dear me, I have forgotten! You have been up for your examination?”
George nodded.
Kindly old Professor Wyvern misinterpreted the lack of enthusiasm. “When I was a medical student,” he said, “I failed dozens of times in my final examination—dozens. It's no criterion of knowledge, you know: it is just luck. Never let examination failure dishearten you. Go along happily, George, and take your chance when it comes.”
“It's come,” George said, beaming; recollection of his splendid success temporarily overshadowed recollection of his tragic failure.
“You have qualified?”
“Yes.”
The Professor's sky-blue eyes danced with glee. He struggled on to his tottery old legs; before George could save him the exertion, had hobbled over the hearth-rug and was wringing his hand in tremendous pleasure.
“Well done, George!” he bubbled. “Well done! Well done! It is the most splendid news. I have not had such a happy day for a long time. Qualified! Well, that is splendid! Splendid!”
He fell back into his chair, panting with his excitement. “Ring that bell, George. We must celebrate this.”
A maid appeared. “Susan,” said the Professor, “bring up a small bottle of champagne and two glasses. Mr. George has passed his examination. Be very quick, Susan.”
Susan was very quick. The cork popped; the glasses foamed and fizzed. “Now we will have one glass each,” the Professor said. “I think, it will kill me at this hour, and if my wife catches me she will send me to bed; so we must be very quick. Now, this is your health, George. God bless you and good luck!”
He drained his glass like the brave old boy that he was; and when his eyes had done streaming, and he had finished gasping and choking, bade Susan hurry away the signs of the dreadful deed before her mistress should catch her.
“And now tell me your plans, George. Which road to Harley Street, eh?”
Then George poured into those kindly old ears all the tragic story—the girl he was going to marry; the practice he was going to buy; the wrecker who had wrecked his fair ships ere ever he had put to sea.
There were in the Professor's nature no sympathies that enabled him even to comprehend miserliness in any degree. Made aware of the taint in Mr. Marrapit, he became red and furious in his abhorrence of it. With snorts and fumes he punctuated the recital; when it closed, burst out: “Why, but it is yours! the money is yours. It is misappropriation.”
“That's just what I say.”
“Well, he must be made to give it you.” George laughed grimly. “I say that, too. But how?”
“Are you certain of your facts, George?”
“I've been to Somerset house and seen my mother's will.”
“Legally, then—we'll get it out of him by law.”
“I've thought of that,” George said. “I don't think it is possible. Look, the passage runs like this. I have it word for word. 'To my brother Christopher Marrapit 4000 pounds, and I desire him to educate in the medical profession my son George.' Not even 'with which I desire him,' you see. I don't think there's any legal way of getting the money I want—the five hundred.”