Mary of Marion Isle E-Book

H Rider Haggard

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Mary of Marion Isle – the penultimate novel by Henry Rider Haggard, which he wrote before his death. The young socialist doctor faced a series of obstacles in his life, and learned what unhappy love is. Then he found himself on a desert island. What will he do in this situation? By the way, Marion Isle is a real place and one of the Prince Edward Islands.

Leseprobe

Contents

Chapter I. Lord Atterton

Chapter II. Mrs. Josky

Chapter III. Rose

Chapter IV. Somerville Black

Chapter V. Arabella

Chapter VI. The Hospital

Chapter VII. Andrew’s Farewell

Chapter VIII. The Station

Chapter IX. What Happened In Egypt

Chapter X. A Meeting

Chapter XI. Temptation

Chapter XII. Clara Goes Angling

Chapter XIII. The Holy Estate

Chapter XIV. His Excellency

Chapter XV. Disaster

Chapter XVI. Alone

Chapter XVII. Exploration

Chapter XVIII. Mary

Chapter XIX. Old Man Tom

Chapter XX. The Troglodytes

Chapter XXI. Flight

Chapter XXII. Return

Chapter XXIII. The Fatal Albatross

Chapter XXIV. What The Gale Gave

CHAPTER I

LORD ATTERTON

“I think, Clara, that your cousin Andrew is a damned young fool. You must excuse the language, but on the whole I consider him the damnedest young fool with whom I ever had to do.”

Thus in cold and deliberate tones did Lord Atterton express himself concerning Andrew West, the only son of his deceased brother. Clara Maunsell, his sister’s child who was also an orphan, studied her uncle for a while before she answered, which there was no need for her to do at once as he was busy lighting a cigar. An observant onlooker might have thought that she was thinking things out and making up her mind what line to take about the said Andrew West.

These two, uncle and niece, presented a somewhat curious contrast there on that September day in the richly furnished but yet uncomfortable library of Lord Atterton’s great house in Cavendish Square. He was a medium-sized, stout man of about sixty-eight years of age. His big, well-shaped head resembled that of a tonsured monk, inasmuch as it was completely bald save for an encircling fringe of white hair. His face was clean-cut and able, with rather a long nose and a fierce, determined mouth remarkable for the thinness of the lips and absence of any curves. There was much character in that mouth; indeed, his whole aspect gave an impression of cold force. “Successful man” was written all over him.

The niece was a young lady of about four-and-twenty, of whom at first sight one would instinctively say, “How pretty she is, and how neat!”

In fact, she was both. Small in build but perfectly proportioned, fair in complexion with just the right amount of colour, with crisp auburn hair carefully dressed, and steady, innocent-looking blue eyes, a well-formed mouth and a straight little nose, she was the very embodiment of prettiness as distinguished from beauty, while in neatness none could surpass her. Her quiet- coloured dress suited her to perfection, no one had ever seen that auburn coiffure disordered even in a gale of wind, her boots and gloves were marvels of their sort, and even the pearl drops on the necklace she wore seemed to arrange themselves with a mathematical exactitude. “Little Tidy” they had called her in the nursery, and “Clever Clara” at school, and now that she was grown up these attributes continued to distinguish her.

In a way there was about her more than a hint of her uncle, Lord Atterton. Between a young lady and this old man, especially as the one might be said to represent decorated ice-cream and the other something very much on the boil, there could be no real resemblance. And yet the set of their mouths and the air of general ability common to both of them, did give them a certain similitude, due no doubt to affinity of blood.

Lord Atterton finished lighting his cigar, very much on one side, and Clara finished her reflections, which apparently urged her to a course of non- committal.

“Andrew,” she said in her light, pleasant and evenly balanced voice, “is just Andrew and there is no one else quite like him.”

“Why not say that an ass is just an ass and that there is no other ass quite so much an ass?” snapped her uncle, biting heavily at the end of the cigar.

“Because, Uncle, I do not consider that Andrew is an ass. I think, on the contrary, that he has in him the makings of a very clever man.”

“Clever! Do you call it clever for an inexperienced young fellow to take up all these Radical, not to say Socialistic ideas which, if ever they are put into practice,–thank God, that will not be in my time!–would utterly destroy the class to which he belongs? Has it ever occurred to you, Clara, that your cousin Algernon is my only child and that his lungs are very delicate? If anything happened to him,” he added with a twitch of the face, “Andrew must succeed to the title?”

She nodded her head.

“Naturally that has occurred to me, Uncle, but I see no reason to suppose that anything of the sort will happen. The doctors say they are sure this new treatment will succeed. Also, Algernon might marry and leave children.”

“The doctors! I have no faith in doctors and I know our family weakness. Look at me, the last of five, all of them taken off with something to do with the lungs. As for marrying, Algernon will never marry. Also, if he did, he would have no children. I believe that one day that mad hatter of a fellow, Andrew, will be Lord Atterton,” he said with emphasis, and, turning, threw the ruined cigar into the fire which burned upon the hearth although the day was mild.

“It’s a hard thing,” he went on with a kind of choke in the throat, “to be successful in everything else–make a large fortune, come into a title and the rest–and yet not to have a healthy son to inherit it all. And if Algernon goes–oh! if he goes––!”

Again Clara considered for a moment and appeared to come to the conclusion that the moment was one when it would be right and proper to exhibit sympathy, if possible without causing alarm, as ill-judged doses of that quality often do.

“Don’t fret, Uncle,” she said softly. “I know how you worry about all these things and it makes me worry too. Often I lie awake at night and think about it.”

“So do I, and listen to Algernon coughing in the room above.”

“Yes, but there is really no need for you to be anxious. He is ever so much better. Oh! my dear Uncle, I implore you–there, you know what I mean although I am not good at expressing myself,” and furtively wiping her eyes with a very clean and beautifully embroidered handkerchief, she advanced to him and laid her cool lips upon his brow.

“Thank you, my dear, thank you,” he said. “I know you have a good heart and feel for me, which is more than anyone else does. I only wish you had been––”

“Hush!” said Clara, stepping back lightly, “here they come.”

As she spoke the door was thrown open somewhat violently and two young men entered the room. Except in age (they were both twenty-one) they differed strangely. The first, Andrew, who had outstepped his cousin, was tall and lanky and as yet comparatively unformed, with thin, delicate hands and small feet, although no one would have guessed this from the boots it pleased him to wear. He was not good-looking; for that his face was too irregular, but a singular charm pervaded him. It shone in the vivacity of his large dark eyes, which now were full of fire and now seemed to go to sleep, and was reflected from his whole countenance that was of a remarkable mobility and seemed to respond to every thought which flitted across his mind. For the rest his waving brown hair was over long and unkempt and his clothes were shocking. A dilapidated velveteen coat that might have come second-hand from the wardrobe of a deceased artist, and a red tie, frayed and faded, that had managed to slip up over one point of a limp calico collar, were peculiarities most likely to immediate attention, although there were others which would have paid for research, such as a rusty steel watch-chain from which hung some outlandish charms, and the absence of two waistcoat buttons. Yet with it all no one of any class could for a moment have mistaken his standing, since Andrew West was one of those men who would have looked a gentleman in a sack and nothing else.

His cousin Algernon was different indeed. To begin with, his attire was faultless, made by the best tailor in London and apparently put on new that moment. Within this perfect outer casing was a short, pale-eyed, lack-lustre young man with straight, sandy hair and no eyebrows, one whose hectic flush and moist hands betrayed the mortal ailment with which he was stricken, a poor, commonplace lad who, loving the world and thirsting for its pleasures, was yet doomed to bid it and them an early farewell.

The two were arguing as they came up the stairs, Andrew in clear, ringing tones, and Algernon in a husky voice to which low little coughs played the part of commas and full stops. So loudly did they talk that Lord Atterton and Clara could hear what they said, for the massive mahogany doors stood ajar.

“I tell you, Algy, and mind you, I am a medical man, or shall be next week, that you drink too much of the family whisky. It has poisoned thousands and is poisoning you, although I dare say yours comes out of the best vat, not that which has made millionaires of West & Co., and a peer of your grandfather––” (here that unwilling eavesdropper, Lord Atterton, snorted and muttered something that Clara could not catch). “Claret should be your tipple, and perhaps a couple of glasses of port after dinner, no more.”

“Claret is poor stuff to lean on when one feels low, Andrew; besides, I am not fool enough to drink West’s whisky; I know too much about it, for you see I’m in the business. Anyway, a short life and a merry one for me,” replied Algernon with a husky chuckle.

Then they entered the room.

“Would you be so good as to shut that door, Andrew,” said his uncle icily.

“If you wish, Uncle, though it should be left open for the room is far too hot,–Ah! I thought so,” he added, glancing at a thermometer which hung upon the wall, “over seventy-two, and no wonder when you have a fire upon a mild September afternoon, and everything shut.”

“I hate cold,” interrupted Algernon.

“I dare say,” replied Andrew. “Most of us do hate what does us good. As a matter of fact, you should live in a low temperature with all the windows open.”

“Perhaps, Andrew,” said Lord Atterton, puffing himself out like a turkey cock, “you will be so good as to allow me and Algernon to regulate our house in our own way?”

“Certainly, Uncle. It isn’t my business, is it? Only I wouldn’t if I were your medical adviser. Where there is a tendency to a pulmonary weakness,” he added rather sententiously, “as in our family,” and he glanced at Algernon, “fresh air is essential.”

“Thank you for that information,” replied his uncle with sarcasm, “but I have already sought advice upon the point from the heads of the profession to which I understand you intend to belong.”

“Then why do you not follow it?” said Andrew coolly, whereon the discreet Clara, foreseeing trouble, intervened hurriedly with a question.

“Are you really going to be a doctor soon, Andrew?” she asked.

“Yes, I hope so, Clara. I have just gone through my final examination, which is why I’m able to come and look you up, for the first time in six months, I think.”

“And for the last in six years, I hope,” muttered Lord Atterton to himself.

If Andrew overheard him he took no notice, but went on gaily.

“I don’t suppose that any of you know what it is to work for twelve or sometimes fourteen hours a day, but if you did, you would understand that it does not leave much time for paying visits. Such amusements are for the idle rich.”

“Indeed,” growled Lord Atterton. “Well, I think I have done as much as that in my time.”

“I think you misunderstand me, Uncle,” went on the imperturbable Andrew. “By work, I mean intellectual research in any branch of knowledge; I do not mean the mere pursuit of wealth in a business.”

Algernon in the background chuckled hoarsely, a faint and swiftly repressed smile flittered over Clara’s placid features like a shadow over a still lake, and Lord Atterton turned purple.

“What do you mean, young man?” he gasped.

“Oh! nothing personal,” replied the gay Andrew in the intervals of lighting a cigarette, “but I think you will admit, Uncle, that there is a difference between, let us say, the skilful advertisement of patent medicines or alcoholic drinks with the assistance of a large office staff, and the mastering of a science by individual application.”

“All that I am inclined to admit at present,” ejaculated Lord Atterton, “is that you are a most offensive young prig.”

“Do you think so?” answered Andrew with an airy smile. “Well, I dare say from your point of view you are right. Everything depends upon how one looks at things, doesn’t it, Uncle? Now I hate trade and look upon the drink traffic as a crime against the community, at any rate where the manufacture of spirits is concerned, having seen too much of their effects, and I dare say that these convictions make me intolerant, as all young people are apt to be––”

“And I hate impertinent Pill-boxes, like yourself, Sir,” shouted Lord Atterton.

“Which shows,” replied Andrew calmly, “that intolerance is not peculiar to the young. By ‘Pill-boxes’ I suppose you symbolize the Medical Profession in general, of which I am informed you are a great supporter where your own ailments and those of your family are concerned. Now if hate, as it is fair to assume, implies disbelief, why do you employ them?”

Lord Atterton tried to answer, but only succeeded in gurgling.

“Such disparagement,” went on Andrew, “seems peculiarly unjust in your case, Uncle, seeing that one of your grandfathers was an eminent ‘Pill-box’ of the old school whose monographs upon certain subjects are still studied, and, so far as I am able to judge, infinitely the most respectable and useful man that our family has produced.”

Here Algernon, on a sofa in the background, burst into convulsive screams of laughter which he tried vainly to stifle with a cushion, while the infuriated Lord Atterton rushed from the room uttering language which need not be recorded.

“You’ve done it this time,” said Algernon, removing the sofa cushion and sitting up. “If there’s one thing his Lordship hates” (he always called his father his Lordship behind his back), “it is any allusion to his medical ancestor whose mother was a mill-hand and who dropped his h’s.”

“I expect that’s where his vigour came from, and if he dropped h’s, he picked up lives, hundreds of them; indeed, he was a most admirable person.”

“Oh! Andrew,” broke in Clara, “can’t you stop fooling? Don’t you see that you are ruining yourself?”

“Well, if you ask me, Clara, I don’t. Besides, how am I ruining myself? I expect nothing from my uncle who has never given me anything, except an occasional luncheon and many lectures. I know that everybody goes about blacking his boots just because he is so rich, so it can’t hurt him to hear a little of the truth by way of a change.”

“But it may hurt you, Andrew. What are you going to do when you become a doctor?”

“Oh, that’s all arranged. An excellent fellow called Watson, a really clever man though a bit of a Socialist, who might be anything but because of his opinions prefers a practice in Whitechapel, is going to take me as an assistant. He was one of the examiners and suggested it himself only this morning, from which I gather that I have passed all right. It is a splendid opening.”

“Indeed,” remarked Clara doubtfully, “and what is Doctor Watson going to pay you?”

“I don’t know. Something pretty small, I expect, but that doesn’t matter to me, for I’ve a couple of hundred a year of my own, you know, which is riches to most young doctors.”

Clara looked him up and down with an air of genuine if tempered amazement on her face that was not entirely unmixed with admiration. Then she asked:

“Do you really mean to say, Andrew, that it is your intention to become the assistant of an unknown Socialistic practitioner in the East End who will pay you little or nothing?”

“That is my intention and desire, Clara,” he answered in the intervals of lighting another cigarette. “What do you see against it?”

“Oh! nothing,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders, “except the results which commonly follow from madness of any sort. To begin with, you will infuriate our uncle––”

“Strike that out,” interrupted Andrew, “for I have done it already. Nothing can make him hate me more than he does.”

“–who,” went on Clara, taking no notice, “with all his enormous interest would otherwise have been able to help you to a career in almost any walk of life that offers rewards at the end of it–or earlier––”

“To those with relatives whose money gives them direct or indirect means of corruption and thereby of lifting the undeserving over the heads of the deserving,” suggested Andrew.

Again she shrugged her shoulders, and went on:

“Next, you will starve. Your Socialist medical man won’t pay you anything, and such an appointment will lead you nowhere.”

“Don’t alarm yourself, Clare. I haven’t the slightest fear of suffering from the want of proper nutriment. Food is cheap in the East End, and a couple of pints of stout will furnish as much stimulant as is desirable in twenty-four hours. Also, if I pass in Surgery, as I think I shall, I have every hope that my hospital will not entirely cast me off. Perhaps you didn’t know, Clara, that surgery is my only love, that I have a natural instinct that way and, if I may say so, a flair for diagnosis. For instance, there is a gland in your neck that I long to remove, although you may not be aware of the thing. It spoils the proportions and under certain circumstances may be dangerous some day.”

“Please leave my glands alone,” said Clara. “I don’t know what glands are.”

“Then why did you lift your hand and touch that to which I alluded, Clara, not knowing that I cultivate the art of observation? Any competent physician will tell you that it might become the seat of tubercle, to which all our family are prone.”

“You won’t frighten me with your talk of glands,” replied Clara quite calmly, “or because one side of my neck swells when I have a cold. Well, if you give no weight to my arguments, what are yours? What you have to urge in favour of the course of life which you propose to follow?”

Andrew drew himself up and threw his cigarette into the fire. In a moment his whole aspect changed. From that of a somewhat annoying, assertive and egotistical youth, it became one of an earnest young man animated by a great purpose.

“I’ll tell you if you will open your mind and are sufficiently interested to listen,” he said. “I have this to urge: that our time here is short, and that whatever we understand by God Almighty lays upon us the duty of making of it the best use possible, not only for our own sakes, but for that of the world in which we live, according to the opportunities that may be given to us. Now mine, I know, are very humble. I am nobody and nothing, a person without prospects.” (Here Clara opened her innocent-looking eyes and stared at him.) “But I believe that I have some ability in a certain line and I intend to use it to the best of my power in serving my fellow-men. An opportunity of doing so has come to me in a locality where my fellow-men, and women and children, are more numerous and probably more miserable than they are anywhere else upon the earth. In these circumstances I do not intend to allow my person advantage, or what seems to be my advantage as you see it, to weigh with me. That is my answer.”

“And a jolly good one, too,” exclaimed Algernon, suddenly sitting up amidst his sofa-cushions among which he had seemed to be somnolent, and breaking into the conversation.

“You’re a real sport, Andrew, more power to your elbow! I’m no use, I know, and never shall be,” here by accident or design he coughed, “but,” he added with an outburst of genuine felling, “I respect you, old fellow, whatever Clara may think.”

“Please leave my thoughts out of the question, Algernon,” said Clara with severity. “Perhaps I also respect Andrew. But I try to look all round things and not to be carried away by sudden enthusiasms, and I think that in his own interests he is making a mistake. He would do better to fall in with his uncle’s wishes, or prejudices if you choose to call them so.”

“And I think that I shall do better to fall in with what I consider to be my duty, and to leave my interests to look after themselves, Clara. That, however, is no particular virtue on my part, since they do not excite me.”

“Which means that you are going to be a slum doctor, Andrew.”

“Yes, my dear, that’s what it means, also that if you happen to meet me when you are driving in the Atterton carriage and pair, I shall not expect you to recognize your humble relative.”

“Don’t be silly, Andrew. You wouldn’t if you only knew how ridiculous you become when you are on your high horse.”

“High horse! A neat repartee for the carriage and pair, on which I congratulate you, Clara. But don’t let’s wrangle. Our lines are laid in different places, that is all, and I dare say we shan’t see much of each other in the future, so we had best part friends. Good-bye, old girl,” and stretching out his long arm, he took her round the waist, drew her to him and gave her a kiss.

Then he shook Algernon by the hand, bidding him come to a certain address if he wanted any gratis medical advice, and to look after himself in various ways, and departed at a run, nearly knocking over a stately menial who was bringing coffee and liqueurs.

“I think that Andrew is mad,” remarked Clara, smoothing her hair which had been disarranged by the energy of his embrace.

“I dare say,” said Algernon, as he tossed off a glass of cognac, “but I only wish I were half as mad. I tell you, Clara, that he is the best of the family, as you will come to see one day. Though when you do, I shan’t be here.”

“Perhaps,” said Clara, “for no one knows what may happen in the future, and if he should succeed, it may alter my views.”

“Succeed,” ejaculated Algernon with a hoarse chuckle. “Do you mean to the title?”

“You know very well that I meant nothing of the sort, Algernon,” she answered with a look of calm contempt, and left the room.

“All the same she did, although she may not have known it,” reflected Algernon, as, after another half-glass of cognac, he settled himself down to snooze among the sofa cushions. “Clara thinks that no one sees through her, but I do. She’s a deep one, is Clara, and, what’s more, she’ll always get her way. But when she has, what is the good of it?” Then he went off to sleep till tea-time.

CHAPTER II

MRS. JOSKY

Lord Atterton, who had been taking a little walk round the square to soothe his nerves, returned when he thought that Andrew had departed. In fact, he chose an unlucky moment, for just as he opened the front door of West House and stepped across the threshold, he came into violent and personal collision with that young gentleman who was rushing out at a great pace, thinking of something else and not looking where he was going.

“Confound you for an awkward fellow!” exclaimed his Lordship. “You’ve smashed my hat.”

Andrew picked up the article which had served as a buffer between their two colliding bodies and now resembled a half-closed concertina.

“Very sorry,” he said, surveying the topper critically. “It does seem rather the worse, doesn’t it? But cheer up, Uncle, you can afford a new one, which will give employment. The hatting trade is rather depressed just now they tell me in Whitechapel.”

“Cheer up!” gasped Lord Atterton. “I may as well tell you outright, Andrew, that your visits to this house are the last things to cheer me up. First you outrage my feelings and then you crush my hat which was new. Oh! hang it all,” he added, hurling the wreck into the corner of the hall, “the less I see of you in the future the better I shall be pleased, and there you have it straight.”

“I rather think your sentiment is reciprocated,” remarked Andrew in a reflective voice. “Somehow we seem to get on each other’s nerves, don’t we?”

“Yes, nerves and toes,” replied his Uncle wrathfully, lifting the foot upon which Andrew had trodden.

“If you wore a sensible soft hat as I do, instead of a tall one, it wouldn’t have happened, Uncle, but it’s no use crying over squashed chimney-pots, and for the rest, you need not fear that I shall put any strain upon your hospitality. I’m sorry about Algernon, though, as I’m fond of him and should like to see him sometimes. Uncle, I may as well take this opportunity to tell you that whatever your smart Harley Street men may say, you are treating him wrongly.”

“Indeed, and how out of your great experience would you advise that the case should be dealt with, Andrew?” he asked with heavy sarcasm.

“Well, to begin with, Uncle, you should cut off his liquor. He drinks too much, as does everyone in this house except Clara. Then–open-air and perhaps a winter in Switzerland. I’ll ask my man Watson what he thinks about that. Unless you change your methods and can persuade him to change his, it is my duty to say that the results may be very serious indeed.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Lord Atterton, “confound you for a presuming young puppy, and confound Watson, whoever he may be, and confound everything!”

Then, without waiting for any possible answer, he rushed into the nearest room and slammed the door.

Andrew strolled into the street, crossing it to the square railings, lit a third cigarette, and while he did so contemplated the façade of his uncle’s palatial mansion.

Looks like whisky, he mused; metaphorically stinks of whisky and ought to have a gigantic bottle of West’s Best (Lord! Shall I ever live down that name?) with the famous advertisement of red-shirted Canadians refreshing themselves amidst golden sheaves with the same in the intervals of their noble toil, set upon the parapet among the chimney-pots.

In short, look at the whole infernal place, and then think of its presiding genius, my noble and opulent relative who sits within like a great bald-headed spider fat with the blood of a thousand victims, and therefore pre- eminent in the spider world.

He paused and laughed at his own metaphor, for when not depressed Andrew was a merry soul; then, continuing his reflections, he walked towards Oxford Street to take a bus for Whitechapel.

Anyway, I’m not wanted there. The old gentleman told me that pretty straight, as I meant that he should, for I can’t bear the sight of him, purse-proud, vulgar man who calls himself noble. I like Algernon, though, if he is dissipating himself to death with his weak lungs, for he has good instincts, which will never develop in this world, poor old chap. And Clara isn’t at all bad. She thinks herself deep as an ocean, and is as easy to see through as a plate-glass window. Her transparency is quite delightful; one sees her making her hand for every trick, and yet feels quite sure she will win the game, and at any rate she never makes rows; she fights with the rapier, not with the broadsword. Also at bottom she isn’t unkind.

At this point he found a bus, and having clambered on to the top of it, still followed his train of thought.

Let’s look at the other side of the picture. I criticize my uncle and Clara, and they criticize me. They look on me as a spoiled darling, ruined by an adoring mother, now happily departed, and they consider me vain because people think me clever; also opinionated because so far–well, I have done well in my small way. Further, they dislike my views of life and duty, which are opposed to the interests and instincts of their gilded, pinchbeck rank, and do not appreciate the connection with the common medical student who probably will never be heard of in the world. Nor can they understand that such an earth-worm may have ideas of his own and wish to make his private tunnel out of sight of the golden creatures who walk about in Cavendish Square. Well, Andrew, they are quite right as they see things; also, I dare say that you are offensive, though the patients in the hospital don’t think so. And you are quite right as you see the things. So the upshot of it is, that you had better go your own way and leave them to go theirs towards the oblivion which will swallow you all. But all the same, you are sorry for Algernon, the noble inheritor of West’s Whisky.

In due course Andrew reached his rooms in a little street that opened off the Whitechapel Road. It was, and probably still is, a rather squalid-looking street where dwelt small tradesmen, with a proportion of the humbler class of Jews. The houses were of stucco with basements but not tall, and the one in which Andrew lived was inhabited by the widow of a working tailor and her little daughter. Fortunately the tailor had insured his life for £1200 so that his relict was not left penniless, and being an inveterate Londoner, preferred to live on among the people whom she knew.

To occupy herself she had taken to dealing in second-hand clothes and furs in a small way and, more for company than for anything else, she took a lodger in her two upper rooms. Her name was Mrs. Josky, though from what country Josky the departed originally hailed Andrew never discovered. Probably he, or his father, was a Polish Jew. She herself was a plain, good-tempered, bustling and talkative little Cockney, full of a lively sympathy with everybody and everything. Like most of her class she was, however, somewhat superficial, except in one particular, her love for her daughter, a little girl of nine whose big dark eyes, premature development and Eastern style of budding beauty, revealed her Semitic blood. This child Mrs. Josky adored. She was her one passion in life (Josky, apparently, had produced no deep impression upon her during their brief association).

Therefore it came about that she also adored Andrew, for what reason will be seen.

After his mother’s death Andrew gave up the little house in Campden Hill where they had lived so happily, and having stored the best of the furniture together with a few heirlooms, looked for lodgings near the hospital where he was studying, with the double object of being close to his work and of observing the people of the East End.

Casually walking down Justice Street, for so it was oddly called, as he presumed because some forgotten Daniel had once come to judgment there, he reached No. 13, and observed that over the little shop of which the window was filled with old coats and rather moth-eaten fur garments, was exhibited a placard inscribed, “Good rooms to let with meals.” There were very similar placards in many other windows, but the unconventional Andrew was attracted to No. 13 by a desire to defy superstition.

So in due course he became Mrs. Josky’s tenant, and very comfortable she made him from the first. A little later on, however, had he been living in a good house with a devoted mother and a staff of well-trained servants, he could not have been better looked after. It happened thus. Shortly after he took up his abode in Justice Street, the little girl, who was named Lauretta, or Laurie for short, contracted pneumonia very badly indeed. Although he was not yet a qualified practitioner, Andrew diagnosed the disease at once, with the result that implore as he would, Mrs. Josky absolutely refused to call in any doctor, declaring that young Mr. West was cleverer than all of them put together, and that he and no one else should attend Laurie. Nor would she have a nurse, not from motives of economy, but because of a kind of fierce maternal jealousy which prevented her from allowing any other woman to come near her child. The end of it was that Andrew had to double the part of physician and night-nurse, rather an exhausting business for a young man who worked all day, especially as, this being his first case, he was filled with doubts and anxieties.

Well, by good luck or good management, with the accompaniment of the most devoted care, he pulled the child through. When he was able to assure Mrs. Josky that she was quite out of danger, that good woman threw her arms round his neck, kissed him and said that she would die for him if need be, as no doubt she would have been quite willing to do.

After this Andrew was more comfortable than ever in those lodgings and lived like a fighting-cock. In time he slowly awoke to the fact that his bills were singularly small for the amount of food that he consumed, and on investigation, discovered that Mrs. Josky was practically supporting him. Then there was a row, also there were tears and he threatened to go away. He insisted that she should produce books to show the cost of what she bought for him. Mrs. Josky, whose leading characteristic was obstinacy, refused to do anything of the sort and even accused herself of theft in the sense of feeding herself and her child out of his provisions. At last they compromised. He paid more for his board; Mrs. Josky concealed the books and he lived even better than he had done before. Moreover, all his clothes were pressed and mended and, although he knew it not, some of his undergarments, such as shirts, were made for nothing. No wonder he had declared to Clara that £200 a year was wealth to an East End doctor!

Andrew arrived at Justice Street at about half-past four, the time at which he was accustomed to return from the hospital and have tea. The pretty little Laurie, who loved him almost as much as her mother did, was, as usual, looking out for him from the doorstep, and seeing him while yet a long way off, called out to her mother in the back regions, informing her of his advent. Mrs. Josky called back that all was ready, and proceeded to kill the fatted calf by breaking two fresh eggs, which were expensive just then, into the frying-pan. To be accurate, she broke three, for having conceived suspicions of Number Two, she put it aside for her own consumption, rather liking the taste of straw, as she explained to Laurie.

Andrew arrived, kissed Laurie according to the rule, searched for and found in his velveteen coat a little packet of chocolate creams of which she was extremely fond, and went up to his room to tidy himself for, as it happened, he had an engagement that afternoon. When he came into the sitting- room, after washing his hands and brushing his hair, he was met by Mrs. Josky bearing a spotless tray with a real china teapot that she had obtained from some one in temporary difficulties in exchange for a pair of second-hand boots, with a cup and muffin dish full of hot buttered toast to match, and followed by Laurie, who supported in her thin little hands the dish with the fried eggs.

“Good gracious! Mrs. Josky,” he said, “I don’t want all that. Besides, I am going out to tea.”

“Then you should have said so earlier,” she replied with firmness, adding, “not but what I guessed it when I saw that letter in a lady’s writing this morning; also that you had bought a new toothbrush which you didn’t want.”

“Your intuition is wonderful, Mrs. Josky, but please take away those eggs. Laurie can eat them.”

“I should like to see her do it,” replied Mrs. Josky darkly, “teaching the child to steal my lodger’s food, indeed. Look here, Mr. West, either you eat those eggs or they go straight into the dustbin, which you know would be a wicked waste. Come now,” she added in soothing tones as though she were addressing an invalid off his feed, “you know you want them with all your hard work, passing examinations and such, and you, as I believe, still growing.”

“I can’t and I won’t,” said Andrew. “I’ve had a gigantic lunch.”

“You can and you will,” replied Mrs. Josky with decision as she drew a chair to the table.

Then Andrew sat down and ate the eggs under her stern eye, also the buttered toast, for his appetite was excellent, while she poured out the tea which cost more per pound than she would have cared to tell him. No wonder he always declared there was no tea like Mrs. Josky’s.

“Where are you going to your next tea, Mr. West?” she inquired as she gathered up the plates.

“To Doctor Watson’s,” he answered, “whose assistant I shall be if I get through.”

“Oh! to Miss Watson’s, are you. I thought it was her writing on the letter. Well, there’s no denying that she’s a beautiful young woman, for I’ve seen her several times at church and treats and such like, of the sort that young gentlemen like to have tea with, not minding how it’s made, though a bit of a fool I should think, if they do call her the Whitechapel Rose.”

“Great Scot! what a name,” said Andrew, “though as a matter of fact she is named Rose. But why do you say she is a bit of a fool, Mrs. Josky?”

“Just because one woman knows another,” she replied with a mysterious shake of the head. “Also because God Almighty don’t give everything all at once. If a girl is as lovely as all that outside, you mark my words she ain’t got nothing inside. Look at me,” she added, thrusting forward her angular and kindly little face with the brown eyes in which humour twinkled, “I ain’t no beauty, am I? Whatever Josky, being after all a man, could see in me I never could guess–but I’m pretty good at cooking, and not so bad at a deal, either.”

“There’s something in the argument,” reflected Andrew. “I’ve seen it exemplified in very handsome men. But, as regards Miss Watson, I had formed rather a different opinion. Well, well, we shall see.”

“Yes, Mr. West, I dare say you will,” remarked Mrs. Josky with emphasis, and departed carrying the tray.

When she had gone Andrew retired to his bedroom and tidied up again. Looking at his hair he recognized that it was long and regretted that recently he had found no time to have it cut. Now it was too late. Suddenly he remembered an ancient pot of pomade, at least he thought it was pomade, which, amongst other débris removed from his mother’s house, stood in a cupboard in a corner. He found it. Inspection was not very satisfactory and it smelt. After all, was it pomade? At this stage in its career nothing short of analysis could tell. Still, in his anxiety to curb his rebellious locks he risked it, only to discover that it was decayed ointment which as a lad he had used upon his hands after they had been chafed by over-rowing on the Thames. That was when it was already on, and nothing short of prolonged shampooing would have removed it. Next, after reflection, he changed the red tie for a brown one that was somewhat less seedy, slipping over it a beautiful antique gem in an eighteenth-century setting that represented Venus rising from the sea, which had come to him from his father. About the velveteen coat he hesitated, but finally decided to leave it alone because he could not be bothered to hunt for another.

From all of which things it will be gathered that Andrew desired to look his best at the tea-party to which he was going, an impulse that had not overtaken him when departing to lunch with his grand relatives at Cavendish Square. Near the front door he met Mrs. Josky who eyed him with suspicion, remarked that he had on his Sunday tie, and sniffed.

“What’s the matter?” asked Andrew.

“Well, Sir,” she said, “I did think something might have gone wrong with those drains again, there was such a smell down that back yard, and now it seems to have come here too.”

“Oh! I know,” remarked Andrew guiltily. “I found some stuff that had gone bad and threw it away.”

“Indeed, then it’s a pity, Sir, that you threw it on to your hair first.”

After this Andrew fled, leaving Mrs. Josky still sniffing on the door- step.

Holding his hat in his hand, for he knew the cause of Mrs. Josky’s suspicions and wished to air his head, Andrew pursued his way through the devious streets of Whitechapel, till he came to a remote region in the neighbourhood of the river. Here in some bygone generation there had been houses of importance, occupied no doubt by prosperous tradesmen or merchants of the day. One of these, a red brick Georgian mansion of some pretensions, stood among a mass of mean dwellings that, as the value of land increased, had been built on what were once its extensive gardens, whereof nothing remained except a desolate little patch of ground in front of the house, upon which stood the foundation walls of a long-departed greenhouse. This dwelling, which was still known as Red Hall probably from its colour, was now the abode, private and professional, of Dr. Watson, a very eminent man in his way, but one whose career had been injured by his peculiarities and his open, often ill-timed, advocacy of extreme Socialistic views.

Mounting the dirty steps Andrew came to the front door, the massive dignity of which many successive layers of different coloured paints and graining could not conceal. Indeed, a splinter chipped off by the vagrant stone of some mischievous boy, showed that it was made of no humbler wood than old Honduras mahogany, while the tarnished brass knocker of twisted snakes also testified to the former standing of the house within.

As the bell was out of action he applied himself to this knocker for some time without result. At length the door was opened by a dilapidated, snuff- coloured little woman with watery eyes and hair that looked like faded tow, who appeared to be irritated at being summoned from the lower regions.

“Why couldn’t you go round by the surgery, Brother West” (everybody at Red Hall called each other Brother or Sister), she asked in a high and squeaky voice which suggested an effort to smother tears. “Here I am with the tea to get ready, to say nothing of the supper to cook, and the kettle boiling over at this very moment into the gas stove, making enough smell to poison one, and you come hammering, hammering at the front door which Sister Rose is too proud to open, till I don’t know the teapot from the saucers.”

“I’m sorry, Sister Angelica, but I thought the Doctor might be busy in the surgery.”

“Busy! Of course he’s busy. He’s always busy doing work for a pack of ragamuffins who never give him so much as a thank-you. What’s more, he’s got that Harley Street swell, the famous Somerville Black who looks after the Royalties and has three carriages and pairs, in there with him.”

“Somerville Black!” said Andrew with respect. “What’s he doing here? It’s scarcely his beat.”

“Oh! I don’t know. Some case the Doctor’s got hold of which interests him. A girl who’s the daughter of a fish-hawker and thinks that she’s three girls and acts as such.”

“Three girls!”

“Yes, Brother, or rather two girls, one herself and the other a farmer’s daughter, and a dead woman, I think it is Mary Queen of Scots, or Lady Jane Grey, or some one. When she’s herself she talks fish and swears as might be expected with her bringing up. When she’s the farmer’s daughter she talks cows and pigs and lectures on agriculture, although she’s never been out of Whitechapel or seen one of them alive; and when she’s the party that was going to be beheaded she takes on wonderfully, just like Shakespeare, the Doctor says.”

At this moment a dull explosion sounded from below.

“Heavens above! there’s that gas stove blowing up,” exclaimed Sister Angelica, and vanished away like a grey ghost, leaving Andrew to his own devices.

CHAPTER III

ROSE

Andrew, who knew the house, went down the long centre passage to a certain door and opening it, entered a very pleasing Early Georgian room whereof the walls were covered by large pine panels, once painted white no doubt, but now of a faded grey, and remarkable for a beautiful Adam mantelpiece, carved pine cornices, and a moulded ceiling of the period. It was well furnished, too, in its way, for furniture, when he could pick it up cheap, was Dr. Watson’s one extravagance. Thus there were some good Queen Anne pieces; also a really fine Elizabethan refectory table, untouched and with the true bulbous legs (Sister Angelica hated that table because it took so much polishing). Lastly, there were a few excellent pictures also picked up by Dr. Watson, and over the whole place brooded a kind of peaceful charm as is sometimes observable in Queen Anne or Georgian rooms.

Noting to his disappointment that the place was empty, Andrew walked up and down casually examining the pictures and wondering whether Miss Rose had told him to come at five, or half-past. For ten minutes or more he continued to wonder, till at length that young lady appeared. Certainly she was a charming sight as she glided into the room wearing a white dress which, though simple, fitted her tall and rather stately figure well enough. Anywhere Rose Watson would have been reckoned a beautiful woman, one among ten thousand. She had all the points of beauty; an exquisitely tinted face, large blue eyes, a shapely head on which her plentiful golden hair was coiled like a crown, a sweet mouth, a well-cut nose not too sharp, and long, delicate hands and feet. Also her voice was low and gentle and her movements were full of native grace. In short, she was lovely, a perfect type of the Eternal Feminine.

“How do you do, Mr. West?” she said, colouring slightly, perhaps because of the evident admiration that was written in his eyes, or perhaps because it was her weakness, or her gift, so to do when she addressed a man. “Forgive me if I do not call you Brother after our silly fashion here, but really I can’t.”

“The last thing in the world I wish is that you should call me Brother,” he answered in a rather shy way, adding, “About whatever others I may be indefinite, upon that point I am quite clear.”

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” she went on hurriedly, dropping the blue eyes, “but that silly old Angelica has made some frightful mess with the gas stove and nearly blew us all up. I found her covered with blacks and with a lock of her hair on fire.”

“I dare say,” replied Andrew. “Tow burns easily, doesn’t it?”

She laughed a little and remarked good-naturedly:

“Well, it is rather like tow now you mention it. Then I hear that Dr. Somerville Black is coming into tea and I had to find the best things. I wish he wouldn’t.”

“So do I,” murmured Andrew.

“Oh!” she continued with an outburst of genuine feeling, “how horrible it is to be poor and have only one servant, or rather none at all, for Angelica is a kind of cousin, you know, not a servant.”

“I’m not sure,” said Andrew. “Poverty has its advantages. You, I understand, would like to be rich.”

“Of course I should. I will be quite honest about it. I should like to have carriages and jewels and proper dresses and a fine house with lots of people to wait on me. Then I should be quite happy,” and she laughed again in her charming, rather childish fashion.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t be happy after all, Miss Watson. I have just come from seeing some people who have all these things in abundance and they are not happy–except perhaps Clara,” he mused aloud.

She looked up quickly as though she would like to ask who Clara was, but if so, she refrained and only said:

“Wouldn’t you like to be rich, Mr. West? But perhaps you will one day.”

“I don’t think so,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders, “unless I should become a successful man like Somerville Black, which is most improbable, and I don’t know that I want to.”

She considered him for a little while in an innocent way, playing with the red rose she wore in the bosom of her white dress, but said nothing.

“What’s the use of riches?” he went on, suddenly taking fire. “At best they are only an addition. I’d rather have health, or happiness, or ability, or the power to do good to others, than any amount of riches. At the present moment,” he added slowly, “to take a concrete example, I’d rather have that rose than a cheque for a thousand pounds.”

Again she laughed gently, looking at him doubtfully, but not without a certain amount of admiration, as she answered:

“When it has faded, say by to-morrow morning, you may think that you would rather have had the thousand pounds. However, if you believe it worth so much, you can have it for nothing, because, because–I have a prettier one upstairs.”

“I am content with that because you have worn it,” he answered, stretching out his hand.

She began to unfasten the rose, which seemed to be an intricate and lengthy operation, and Andrew apparently thought it an act of common kindness to try to help her, with the result that he pricked his finger rather badly. However, it was out at last and in his hand. Then something happened to him. His heart began to beat violently, a mist swam before his eyes, he lost his reason, his judgment, everything that distinguished him in ordinary moments, as, in short, Nature for her own purposes decrees that most men and some women must occasionally do. The issue was that quite undesignedly and without the smallest premeditation he kissed that lovely girl full upon the lips.

“Oh!” she said, turning the exact colour of the red rose in his hand and looking first as though she were going to cry and then to laugh; for to tell the truth at that instant laughter was nearer to her than were tears. “Oh! you know you oughtn’t to do that.”

“I don’t care,” said Andrew defiantly. “I love you.”

What else he would have said or done remains dark, for at that moment footsteps were heard in the passage and a big genial voice saying:

“In all my professional experience, which is fairly extended, I do not think I ever met such a case. Of course, we are aware that a woman is never what she seems to be, except when she is in a rage, but you don’t often find one who announces herself to be three people and without any histrionic training plays all the parts so well.”

“No,” answered another rather dreamy voice, that of Dr. Watson. “It suggests all sorts of queer things, doesn’t it? For example, reincarnation and the imprisonment of sundry entities in one corporeal shape.”

“Ah! Doctor,” said the big voice of Somerville Black, “there you are getting into mysticism, which personally I find it safer always to put out of court. To me, therefore, at present it suggests an unusual and most complicated case of nerves, resulting probably from suppressed instincts.”

Then came a crash, followed by:

“Hullo! Ma’am, I didn’t see you coming.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Rose, “that idiot Angelica has run into him with the tea-tray in the dark passage,” and promptly she sped like a swallow towards the door.

As she reached it, it opened, and behold! there was a second collision, this time between Rose and the large advancing shape of Dr. Somerville Black.

With another “Oh!” she recoiled, as a bird might that had unexpectedly come into contact with a bull, and would have fallen had not the advancing Andrew caught her.

“I begin to think,” went on the big voice, “that I have been reincarnated as a shunting railway truck. However, young lady,” he added, suddenly realizing the kind of person with whom he had to do, “if you like to come out of that friendly shelter and charge again, I am sure I don’t mind.”