CHAPTER XXIII. AN AWKWARD QUESTION.
When the ladies left the dining-room, a spirit very different from the kindly geniality, conventionally supposed to belong to the Christmas season, reigned over the revels there. Alfred Marrable was, under the influence of the best dinner he had tasted for a long time, merry enough and to spare; while Donald also found happiness in French plums and champagne. But a spirit of mischief looked out of Mr. Graham-Shute’s grey eyes, while John Bradfield himself sat on thorns. For Marrable would take no hint to be more reserved. As he would have expressed his feelings had he been asked, this child of misfortune was, for once in a way, enjoying himself, and he did not mean to let his enjoyment be interfered with. So, having got a sympathetic ear, as he thought, into which to pour his troubles, he maundered on about the old times to his heart’s content; for John Bradfield, who knew how obstinate his cousin could be, and how maliciously bent he was on encouraging Marrable, dared not bring worse upon himself by active interference.
“Yes,” murmured he, with a mournful sigh, as Mr. Graham-Shute filled his proffered glass for him, “some are born lucky, and some unlucky, there’s no denying that. Now to see all of us three together, Gilbert Wryde, our friend John there, and your humble servant, I don’t think anybody could have foretold how we were going to end. You might have known that Wryde would get on, perhaps—he was a clever fellow, with a head on his shoulders—but take old John and me, now! Not that I’m saying John hasn’t got a head on his shoulders—he’s proved it, we’ll all admit; but he didn’t bear his head so bravely in those days, didn’t dear old John, when he was down on his luck out in Melbourne. Why, many’s the time I’ve said to him, ‘Pluck up, old chap, there’ll be piping times for us yet,’ and the piping times have come sure enough, haven’t they, dear old chap?”
As each mention of his host’s name grew more familiar, and more affectionate than the last, the scowl on John Bradfield’s face grew blacker, and the mischievous twinkle in Mr. Graham-Shute’s eyes grew more evident. Even Donald began to look from one to the other, and to say to himself, with the innocent enjoyment of sport peculiar to youth, that there “would be a jolly shindy presently.”
The first thunder-clap came from Mr. Bradfield, who suggested at an unusually early stage of proceedings, an adjournment to the drawing-room. But the period of Alfred Marrable’s modest reticence was over, and he protested, with indecorous loudness:
“No—no, dear old chap, not yet. Just when we’re beginning to enjoy ourselves!” He was not in a condition to observe that this was by no means the case with all of them. “Let’s be happy while we can, and let’s get thoroughly warmed before we have to meet Old Mother Iceberg again!” added Marrable, with a chuckle, believing himself to be uttering a witticism which the company would fully appreciate, and forgetting, poor man, the relationship in which “Old Mother Iceberg” stood to two of them.
A slight pause followed this speech; but Marrable was too happy in the sound of his own voice again to remain long silent.
“Yes, as I was saying,” he pursued, shaking his head sagely, and wondering what it was that made the nuts slip through the crackers instead of letting themselves be cracked in the orthodox manner, “some are born lucky, and some of us aren’t. Here’s John, with an income like a prince’s, and not a chick or child to leave it to, while I’m struggling along, picking up a pound where I can, as I can, and with three other mouths to fill beside my own. By-the-bye, John,” and he suddenly looked up and spoke in a brighter tone under the influence of a brand new idea, “what a precious lucky chap that young son of Gilbert Wryde’s is, to come into a big fortune like his father’s without having to do a stroke of work for it.”
John Bradfield’s face grew grey at these words. His throat had become in a moment so dry, that the words he tried to utter in answer or comment would not come, but resolved themselves into a choking cough. Nobody noticed this, for the Graham-Shutes had their attention fully taken up with Marrable himself. So Alfred went on with a sentimental cheerfulness:
“Why, that young fellow was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, and no mistake. Let’s see, he must be three or four and twenty by this time. Wish I could come across him! If he’s anything like a chip of the old block, it would be a good day for me if I did. What d—d slippery nutcrackers these are of yours, John! Do you know what’s become of young Wryde, eh?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” answered John Bradfield, as, his patience worn out, he rose from the table. “As his father died in Australia, I should think your best chance of hearing of him would be to prosecute your inquiries over there.”
Alfred Marrable, who had by this time, not without a little difficulty, gained his feet, stared at his old friend and host with a sudden portentous gravity. His familiarity, his affectionateness were gone; in their place was the solemnity of outraged dignity. Supporting himself with one hand against the table, and nodding two or three times before he spoke, to prepare his friend for the awful change which had come over his sentiments, he said, in a spasmodic and tremulous voice:
“Mr. Bradfield, I beg your pardon. I repeat,” said he, with another dignified pause, “I repeat, I beg your pardon. If I had known, I should say, if I had been aware that my presence in Australia would be considered more desirable to you than my presence here, I would have gone there—I say, sir, I would have gone there, sooner than intrude here, where I am not wanted, where,” and he looked round at the Graham-Shutes, and felt a muddled surprise to note that they looked more amused than sympathetic, “where it seems I am not wanted. It is not too late, while a railway line runs between here and London, to repair my er—er—error.” Drawing himself up to his full height, Mr. Marrable concluded, “I wish you all, gentlemen”—here he paused a little, for effect with disastrous results—“I wish you all a ver—happy—new—year.”
Unfortunately for the dignity of his exit, Alfred Marrable forgot that he had John Bradfield’s clothes on. And the appearance of his portly figure, with the arms drawn back by the tight fit of his coat, and a series of ridges between the shoulders not intended by the tailor, was more provocative of laughter than of indignant sorrow.
As the unlucky Marrable left the room, an expression of hope appeared on John Bradfield’s face which became one of intense relief when, following his old chum into the hall, he saw that the latter was sincere in his intention of immediately leaving the house in which he chose to think he had been insulted. Taking his overcoat, a sadly threadbare garment, from the peg on which John Bradfield himself had hung it, Alfred buttoned himself up in it with great dignity, and proceeding down the inner and the outer hall with slow steps, perhaps willing to be called back, he fumbled at the handle of the front door, and finally let himself out into the cold night.
Just as Mr. Bradfield was congratulating himself upon having got rid of a dangerous and untrustworthy person, and wondering whether he should be troubled with him again, a voice close to his shoulder disturbed his reflections.
It was that of his cousin, Graham-Shute, who had witnessed the abrupt departure of the humble friend, and who had been struck by the fact that Alfred Marrable, confused as he was, had conceived a just opinion of the value of his old friend’s welcome.
“I say, Bradfield, you’re not going to let the poor chap go off like that, are you?”
John Bradfield turned upon him savagely.
“Why not? He chose to go. I couldn’t keep the fool against his will, could I?”
“But—but—but d—— it, man, you’re not serious! This fellow helped you when you were a young man, and you turn him out of the house like a dog, on a night like this?”
John Bradfield turned upon him sharply.
“Helped me! Who says he helped me! The man’s a born fool, and never helped anyone, even himself.”
But Mr. Graham-Shute was already at the front door. Before he had time to open it, however, both he and his host were startled by a loud cry of “Help, help!” in Marrable’s voice.
It was John Bradfield’s turn to be excited. Pushing past his cousin, he drew back the handle of the front door, and was out upon the stone steps in time to see dimly a man disappearing in the direction of the east wing. Then he turned his attention to Marrable, who had fallen down the steps, and was lying motionless at the bottom. He was not insensible, however; for John Bradfield had no sooner bent over him with a face full of anxiety which was not tender, than Alfred, struggling to sit up, said, in a hoarse whisper:
“John, I’ve seen a ghost, I swear I have, the ghost of Gilbert Wryde!”
John drew back his head, and affected to laugh boisterously; this merriment was as much for the benefit of his cousin as of Alfred, for the former was now hurrying down the steps with ears and eyes very much on the alert.
“Gilbert Wryde!” echoed Bradfield. “Why, he’s been dead these sixteen years; you know that as well as I do.”
And he turned to his cousin with a gesture to intimate the tremendous extent to which his potations had affected poor Alfred’s vision.
But Mr. Graham-Shute had put up his double eyeglasses, and was examining the prostrate man with attentive eyes. He shook his head slowly in answer to his cousin’s gesture.
“He’s sober enough now,” he said, briefly.
Indeed, poor Marrable had been startled into sobriety compared to which that of the proverbial judge is levity itself. He now turned his eyes slowly from the spot at which he had last seen the vision which had startled him, and fixed them on John Bradfield’s face.
“He went round there,” he said, emphatically. “I’m positive. I can swear it—Gilbert Wryde!”
John Bradfield felt that his teeth were chattering. He could scarcely command his voice to answer in his usual tones:
“One of the gardeners, most likely.”
Marrable shook his head emphatically.
“It was not one of the gardeners,” he said, with a great deal more decision than he usually showed. “I won’t trouble you again, John, but I will find out what I want to know before I leave this place.”
He was trying to rise, and Mr. Graham-Shute helped him. But he could only move with difficulty, having sprained his left ankle in his fall.
“Here, Bradfield, send some of your men to take him indoors,” said Mr. Graham-Shute, in a peremptory manner.
“Of course, of course!” assented John Bradfield.
And he gave the necessary orders to two menservants who had by this time appeared in the doorway.
So Alfred Marrable, protesting all the time with more than his usual vigour, was carried indoors, and placed by John Bradfield’s orders in a spare room, which was next to his own bedroom. Then with much reluctance, and more by his cousin’s orders than by his own, John sent for a doctor.
In the meantime he suddenly developed a solicitude for his unlucky friend as striking as his previous neglect. He insisted on remaining himself by the side of the injured man until the arrival of the doctor, and, for fear of exciting him, as he said, he would allow no one to enter the room but himself.
When Stelfox knocked at the bedroom door, and, in his extremely quiet and respectful manner offered his services to wait on the gentleman, John Bradfield answered him very shortly indeed, with a scowl upon his face.
“No, I don’t want you. And you would be better employed in looking after that lunatic of yours, and in keeping him from frightening people half out of their wits, than in attending to other folks’ business.”
Stelfox listened to this rebuke in meek silence, with his eyes upon the ground. When his master had finished speaking, he respectfully retired without a word, either of protest or of excuse.
John Bradfield watched him retreat with a malignant expression of face. He had serious cause of dissatisfaction with Stelfox, but he was not sure whether it would be wise in him to show it; for John felt that he was standing on a volcano, and that an eruption might take place at any minute. He was just forming in his mind the resolution to keep Marrable and the astute Stelfox apart, when he heard a noise behind him, and turning, found that Marrable had got off the bed on which he had been placed, and in spite of the pain his ankle gave him, was dragging himself along, by the help of the furniture, towards the door.
“What are you doing? Where are you coming to?” asked John, sharply, as he sprang towards the injured man to help him back to bed. “You mustn’t move until the doctor has seen you. We’ve sent for him, and he will be here in a few minutes.”
There was nothing about which John Bradfield was more anxious than the prevention of a meeting between Marrable and Stelfox, whom he strongly suspected of an unwholesome curiosity. But the injured man was excited and obstinate; and he almost forgot the pain his ankle was causing him as he clung to John Bradfield’s arm, and whispered, hoarsely:
“What was that you said about a lunatic? Let me speak to the man, John; let me speak to him! I must get to the root of this, or I shall go mad myself!”
John Bradfield saw that the man was thoroughly frightened, and within an ace of becoming noisy in his vehement questionings. So he said that if Alfred would be quiet, and allow himself to be helped back on to the bed, he should learn all about it.
“What I want to know is,” said Marrable, sticking to his point when his host showed anew a disposition to dally with his promised explanation, “who the man was that I saw? And who the lunatic is you spoke about, and where he lives?”
“The lunatic is the man you saw,” answered John Bradfield, doggedly, when he could fence no longer. “I took him in myself out of charity, and he lives under my roof.”
“But how does he come to be the image of Gilbert Wryde?” persisted Marrable.
“How should I know? It’s a chance resemblance, that all. It was on account of that likeness that I was attracted to him, and took pity on him, and brought him into my own house,” added Bradfield, with a happy thought.
Alfred Marrable had become, under the influence of his feeling of resentment against Bradfield, as obstinate as he usually was yielding. He raised himself once more from his bed.
“Let me see him,” he said, sullenly.
And as Bradfield tried to soothe him, he called out all the more loudly:
“Let me see him, John. I will see him.”
So that at last John, fearing that by the time the doctor arrived Marrable would be beyond control altogether, and hearing the footsteps of the curious in the corridor outside, made a virtue of necessity.
“Be quiet!” said he, between his clenched teeth. “Be quiet, can’t you, and listen to me. The man you saw is a dangerous madman; and he is Gilbert Wryde’s son.”
Marrable sank down on the bed, trembling as if with severe cold.
“Gilbert Wryde’s son—a lunatic!” he repeated, in horror. “It is too awful! It can’t be true!”
Now that he had shot his bolt, John Bradfield was calmer in manner, and able to assume an appearance almost of indifference to the ejaculations and comments of the other.
“If you don’t believe it, you can easily see for yourself,” he said, shortly. “As soon as you can move about, you shall be shut up with him alone for an hour if you like.”
But Marrable sat in a heap, with staring eyes, and with his teeth chattering, muttering to himself at intervals:
“Gilbert Wryde’s son a lunatic! Gilbert Wryde’s son!”
And then the man, who was soft-hearted, and who remembered how Gilbert Wryde had befriended him years ago, broke down, and sobbed, while Bradfield moved restlessly about the room, waiting for the doctor.
When the medical man arrived, he pronounced the injury to be of a comparatively slight nature, and told the patient that he might, with care, be able to get about again in a fortnight or three weeks.
“But,” he added, looking from one man to the other enquiringly, and perceiving that both were in a state of high excitement, “you will have to keep very quiet if you wish to be cured so soon.”
John Bradfield went as far as the end of the corridor with the doctor, and then returned to the patient, whom he found resting on his elbow, with an inquiry on his lips. And John “shied,” so to speak, at the expression of Marrable’s light grey eyes.
“Bradfield!” said he, in a husky whisper, “I want to ask you something. If the poor chap you’ve got shut up for a lunatic is Gilbert Wryde’s son, what has become of Gilbert Wryde’s money?”