CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.
OLIVIA'S HUSBAND.
I did not go straight home to our dull, gloomy, bachelor dwelling-place; for I was not in the mood for an hour's soliloquy. Jack and I had undertaken between us the charge of the patients belonging to a friend of ours, who had been called out of town for a few days. I was passing by the house, chewing the bitter cud of my reflections, and, recalling this, I turned in to see if any messages were waiting there for us. Lowry's footman told me a person had been with an urgent request that he would go as soon as possible to No. 19 Bellringer Street. I did not know the street, or what sort of a locality it was in.
"What kind of a person called?" I asked.
"A woman, sir; not a lady. On foot—poorly dressed. She's been here before, and Dr. Lowry has visited the case twice. No. 19 Bellringer Street. Perhaps you will find him in the case-book, sir."
I went in to consult the case-book. Half a dozen words contained the diagnosis. It was the same disease, in an incipient form, of which my poor mother died. I resolved to go and see this sufferer at once, late as the hour was.
"Did the person expect some one to go to-night?" I asked, as I passed through the hall.
"I couldn't promise her that, sir," was the answer. "I did say I'd send on the message to you, and I was just coming with it, sir. She said she'd sit up till twelve o'clock."
"Very good," I said.
Upon inquiry I found that the place was two miles away; and, as our old friend Simmons was still on the cab-stand, I jumped into his cab, and bade him drive me as fast as he could to No. 19 Bellringer Street. I wanted a sense of motion, and a chance of scene. If I had been in Guernsey, I should have mounted Madam, and had another midnight ride round the island. This was a poor substitute for that; but the visit would serve to turn my thoughts from Julia. If any one in London could do the man good. I believed it was I; for I had studied that one malady with my soul thrown into it.
"We turned at last into a shabby street, recognizable even in the twilight of the scattered lamps as being a place for cheap lodging-houses. There was a light burning in the second-floor windows of No. 19; but all the rest of the front was in darkness. I paid Simmons and dismissed him, saying I would walk home. By the time I turned to knock at the door, it was opened quietly from within. A woman stood in the doorway; I could not see her face, for the candle she had brought with her was on the table behind her; neither was there light enough for her to distinguish mine.
"Are you come from Dr. Lowry's?" she asked.
The voice sounded a familiar one, but I could not for the life of me recall whose it was.
"Yes," I answered, "but I do not know the name of my patient here."
"Dr. Martin Dobrée!" she exclaimed, in an accent almost of terror.
I recollected her then as the person who had been in search of Olivia. She had fallen back a few paces, and I could now see her face. It was startled and doubtful, as if she hesitated to admit me. Was it possible I had come to attend Olivia's husband?
"I don't know whatever to do!" she ejaculated; "he is very ill to-night, but I don't think he ought to see you—I don't think he would."
"Listen to me," I said; "I do not think there is another man in London as well qualified to do him good."
"Why?" she asked, eagerly.
"Because I have made this disease my special study," I answered. "Mind, I am not anxious to attend him. I came here simply because my friend is out of town. If he wishes to see me, I will see him, and do my best for him. It rests entirely with himself."
"Will you wait here a few minutes?" she asked, "while I see what he will do?"
She left me in the dimly-lighted hall, pervaded by a musty smell of unventilated rooms, and a damp, dirty underground floor. The place was altogether sordid, and dingy, and miserable. At last I heard her step coming down the two flights of stairs, and I went to meet her.
"He will see you," she said, eying me herself with a steady gaze of curiosity.
Her curiosity was not greater than mine. I was anxious to see Olivia's husband, partly from the intense aversion I felt instinctively toward him. He was lying back in an old, worn-out easy-chair, with a woman's shawl thrown across his shoulders, for the night was chilly. His face had the first sickly hue and emaciation of the disease, and was probably refined by it. It was a handsome, regular, well-cut face, narrow across the brows, with thin, firm lips, and eyes perfect in shape, but cold and glittering as steel. I knew afterward that he was fifteen years older than Olivia. Across his knees lay a shaggy, starved-looking cat, which he held fast by the fore-paws, and from time to time entertained himself by teasing and tormenting it. He scrutinized me as keenly as I did him.
"I believe we are in some sort connected. Dr. Martin Dobrée," he said, smiling coldly; "my half-sister, Kate Daltrey, is married to your father, Dr. Dobrée."
"Yes," I answered, shortly. The subject was eminently disagreeable to me, and I had no wish to pursue it with him.
"Ay! she will make him a happy man," he continued, mockingly; "you are not yourself married, I believe, Dr. Martin Dobrée?"
I took no notice whatever of his question, or the preceding remark, but passed on to formal inquiries concerning his health. My close study of his malady helped me here. I could assist him to describe and localize his symptoms, and I soon discovered that the disease was as yet in a very early stage.
"You have a better grip of it than Lowry," he said, sighing with satisfaction. "I feel as if I were made of glass, and you could look through me. Can you cure me?"
"I will do my best," I answered.
"So you all say," he muttered, "and the best is generally good for nothing. You see I care less about getting over it than my wife does. She is very anxious for my recovery."
"Your wife!" I repeated, in utter surprise; "you are Richard Foster, I believe?"
"Certainly," he replied.
"Does your wife know of your present illness?" I inquired.
"To be sure," he answered; "let me introduce you to Mrs. Richard Foster."
The woman looked at me with flashing eyes and a mocking smile, while Mr. Foster indulged himself with extorting a long and plaintive mew from the poor cat on his knees.
"I cannot understand," I said. I did not know how to continue my speech. Though they might choose to pass as husband and wife among strangers, they could hardly expect to impose upon me.
"Ah! I see you do not," said Mr. Foster, with a visible sneer. "Olivia is dead."
"Olivia dead!" I exclaimed.
I repeated the words mechanically, as if I could not make any meaning out of them. Yet they had been spoken with such perfect deliberation and certainty that there seemed to be no question about the fact. Mr. Foster's glittering eyes dwelt delightedly upon my face.
"You were not aware of it?" he said, "I am afraid I have been too sudden. Kate tells us you were in love with my first wife, and sacrificed a most eligible match for her. Would it be too late to open fresh negotiations with your cousin? You see I know all your family history."
"When did Olivia die?" I inquired, though my tongue felt dry and parched, and the room, with his fiendish face, was swimming giddily before my eyes.
"When was it, Carry?" he asked, turning to his wife.
"We heard she was dead on the first of October," she answered. "You married me the next day."
"Ah, yes!" he said; "Olivia had been dead to me for more than twelve months and the moment I was free I married her, Dr. Martin. We could not be married before, and there was no reason to wait longer. It was quite legal."
"But what proof have you?" I asked, still incredulous, yet with a heart so heavy that it could hardly rouse itself to hope.
"Carry, have you those letters?" said Richard Foster.
She was away for a few minutes, while he leaned back again in his chair, regarding nic with his half-closed, cruel eyes. I said nothing, and resolved to betray no emotion. Olivia dead! my Olivia! I could not believe it.
"Here are the proofs," said Mrs. Foster, reentering the room. She put into my hand an ordinary certificate of death, signed by J. Jones, M.D. It stated that the deceased, Olivia Foster, had died on September the 27th, of acute inflammation of the lungs. Accompanying this was a letter written in a good handwriting, purporting to be from a clergyman or minister, of what denomination it was not stated, who had attended Olivia in her fatal illness. He said that she had desired him to keep the place of her death and burial a secret, and to forward no more than the official certificate of the former event. This letter was signed E. Jones. No clew was given by either document as to the place where they were written.
"Are you not satisfied?" asked Foster.
"No," I replied; "how is it, if Olivia is dead, that you have not taken possession of her property?"
"A shrewd question," he said, jeeringly. "Why am I in these cursed poor lodgings? Why am I as poor as Job, when there are twenty thousand pounds of my wife's estate lying unclaimed? My sweet, angelic Olivia left no will, or none in my favor, you may be sure; and by her father's will, if she dies intestate or without children, his property goes to build almshouses, or some confounded nonsense, in Melbourne. All she bequeaths to me is this ring, which I gave to her on our wedding-day, curse her!"
He held out his hand, on the little finger of which shone a diamond, which might, as far as I knew, be the one I had once seen in Olivia's possession.
"Perhaps you do not know," he continued, "that it was on this very point, the making of her will, or securing her property to me in some way, that my wife took offence and ran away from me. Carry was just a little too hard upon her, and I was away in Paris. But consider, I expected to be left penniless, just as you see me left, and Carry was determined to prevent it."
"Then you are sure of her death?" I said.
"So sure," he replied, calmly, "that we were married the next day. Olivia's letter to me, as well as those papers, was conclusive of her identity. Will you like to see it?"
Mrs. Foster gave me a slip of paper, on which were written a few lines. The words looked faint, and grew paler as I read them. They were without doubt Olivia's writing:
"I know that, you are poor, and I send you all I can spare—the ring you once gave to me. I am even poorer than yourself, but I have just enough for my last necessities. I forgive you, as I trust that God forgives me."
There was no more to be said or done. Conviction had been brought home to me. I rose to take my leave, and Foster held out his hand to me, perhaps with a kindly intention. Olivia's ring was glittering on it, and I could not take it into mine.
"Well, well," he said, "I understand; I am sorry for you. Come again, Dr. Martin Dobrée. If you know of any remedy for my ease, you are no true man if you do not try it."
I went down the narrow staircase, closely followed by Mrs. Foster. Her face had lost its gayety and boldness, and looked womanly and careworn, as she laid her hand upon my arm before opening the house-door.
"For God's sake, come again," she said, "if you can do any thing for him! We have money left yet, and I am earning more every day. We can pay you well. Promise me you will come again."
"I can promise nothing to-night," I answered.
"You shall not go till you promise," she said, emphatically.
"Well, then, I promise," I answered, and she unfastened the chain almost noiselessly, and opened the door into the street.