CHAPTER XIII
A MAYFAIR COUNSELLOR
HERRIARD had indeed much to exercise his mind that night. Thinking over his interview with Gastineau, several things puzzled him. To begin with, he was at a loss to understand his friend’s continued attitude of disbelief in the value of Campion’s evidence. He would never even be brought to admit that there might be anything in it beyond an obvious trick for obtaining money. Every one else held the testimony to be invaluable; Gastineau alone maintained a rigid scepticism.
Then Herriard could scarcely understand Gastineau’s reception of the news about Dr. Hallamar. It was to have been expected that he, lying there a helpless cripple with an abnormally active brain, his spirit full of energy, and the desire for action, so cruelly fettered by his helpless limbs, would at least have shown more eagerness at the hope suddenly brought to him. As it was, he had fallen in with the suggestion of submitting his case to the great specialist as coolly, even casually, as though it had been merely a question of sending round to the chemist’s for a box of lozenges. True, he had lost no time about writing, and here arose another question which perplexed Herriard.
Why had he insisted upon writing himself to Dr. Hallamar? He had written the note, had sealed it up without communicating one word of its contents, and had sent it off by Hencher; whereas the more natural course would have been to let him, Herriard, who had an acquaintance with the Doctor, and had already half arranged the visit, be the messenger. He had kept him there, ostensibly to speak of his need for a thousand pounds; but surely a few seconds would have settled that simple matter. The money could not have been transferred before banking hours next day; the question might have waited till later in the evening, for Herriard, had he gone, would have returned with the Doctor, as he had practically arranged to do. Why, again, when Hallamar had expressed himself as at liberty and willing to attend that evening, had he put off his visit till the morning? Had Gastineau in his note suggested this? And, if so, why the delay? Herriard could not make it all out. Nor why his friend had suddenly found the pressing need of a thousand pounds. He had always understood that Gastineau had, during his active life, made a sufficient fortune to assure him easy, if not affluent, circumstances for the rest of his days. His house was his own freehold, and, although it was furnished in the most luxurious and costly fashion, still that had been all capital expenditure and paid for long since: his current expenses as an invalid, in an existence of the strictest seclusion, with the smallest possible household, could not be heavy. With the single exception of indulging a hobby for buying valuable books, he had, so far as Herriard knew, no extravagances. As his debtor he was only too glad to let him have the money, for the idea that all the profit of their partnership was going to his share had often given him qualms; still, why this sudden demand for a thousand pounds? Gastineau might have told him; their relations assuredly justified confidence; nevertheless his reasons had been studiously vague. A veil of mystery seemed to be falling between the two men; it was useless to blink the fact that of late their relations had been gradually changing. Sometimes there had seemed, on Gastineau’s side at least, to be a certain tacit antagonism between them. Herriard could not understand it. Was his friend thinking of making yet another man’s fortune? Had he, himself, any cause for self-reproach in his conduct towards his mentor? He could hardly charge himself with that. Until the question of Campion’s evidence had cropped up they had never had even a difference of opinion. Herriard had never found himself in a position to dispute the cleverer man’s judgment until Gastineau’s assumption of that unaccountable attitude towards the witness on whom so much depended, and his refusal to make, at least, the best of it.
One explanation suggested itself, and it was that his friend’s brain might be gradually becoming affected. It was not a pleasant solution, yet more natural than any other alternative which might vaguely present itself. He had that evening questioned Gastineau about the pain which at times made him unfit to receive even him, his one friend: telling him that Dr. Hallamar could not understand the spinal injury at this stage causing him more than irritation, and perhaps a little smarting or burning. Gastineau had replied rather tartly that he might be allowed to be the best judge of his own sufferings, and that a man would feel pain in spite of the theories of the whole medical faculty that he had no business to have it.
So Herriard found no solution of his perplexities; the more he thought of his friend’s conduct the more strange and unaccountable did it appear; he could only postpone the elucidation for the light of further developments. And the first that came was one which gave him no help towards enlightenment.
When, early the next day, he went to the house in Mayfair to learn the result of the specialist’s visit, Gastineau told him calmly that the verdict was adverse.
“No; Dr. Hallamar says he can do nothing for me,” the patient reiterated, as Herriard seemed to question his first announcement. “It is a bad case of spinal paralysis following a crushing lesion, and hopelessly incurable. Happily I was never inclined to indulge in any real hope of a cure.”
“But,” Herriard protested, “I understood that it was in treating serious spinal lesions that Hallamar was so successful. I don’t understand his giving you up at least without a trial.”
“Hallamar is manifestly a very clever man, a genius possibly, in his own line,” Gastineau replied; “and your really clever man always knows his limitations. It is only pushing fools and quacks who blunder on till their own incompetency pulls them up sharply. This man, being no fool, and his interest being all the other way, tells me, after a careful examination, that he can do nothing for me. Neither you nor I, my dear Geof, need go behind that verdict.”
“I am sorry,” said Herriard, in a tone of genuine sympathy, “very sorry. I had set great hopes on his curing you.”
Gastineau’s harsh laugh seemed the outcome of repressed disappointment. “You thought this wonder-worker could revive the dead, for that is practically what I am. Even a Hallamar cannot perform miracles. As it turns out, my dear boy, you need have no cause for regret that you did not bring this medico to me sooner.”
Something in the tone of the last words put Herriard on his defence. “I give you my word, Gastineau——” he began warmly. But the other stopped him with a gesture.
“Please don’t trouble to protest,” he interrupted. “No doubt you did everything for the best, and, as it happens, could have done no more. I am here till I die, and it is just as well to know it. Let us dismiss the subject with a decree nisi. Now, can I help you with anything to-day, or is it all plain sailing?”
Two days afterwards it happened that the Duchess of Lancashire was at home to her more select circle of intimates and courtiers, among the latter being Dormer Greetland, whose profession it was to go everywhere, that is to say, to every house worth entering where he could get admittance. It was the eve of the great libel trial, the last stage which it was now confidently expected would triumphantly exonerate Countess Alexia von Rohnburg from the stigma she had borne.
“I suppose it is quite certain that the Countess will come out of it with flying colours?” Lady Rotherfield enquired of the society newsvendor, a little anxiously, seeing that, after a period of avoidance which might be called judicious or snobbish, according to one’s mental view of the conduct of her tribe, she had that very afternoon left cards at the tabooed house in Green Street.
“She is bound to, on this man Campion’s evidence,” Greetland assured her sympathetically. “They say the newspaper men are quite prepared for at least a month’s imprisonment and a thousand pounds fine, which, of course, means nothing to a man like Brailsford. They say he has given Burwoods carte blanche to furnish his room in Holloway in the most elaborate fashion.”
“Ah!” Lady Rotherfield did not much care about the peccant editors and their schemes for minimizing the rigours of an enforced sojourn in an unfashionable latitude. She was more interested in her tactical mistake towards the von Rohnburgs who might still be a power in her world.
“I suppose,” she murmured, “everybody has been holding off a little? Of course things did at one time look very black against the poor Countess.”
Greetland gave a shrug of sympathy which conveyed a sort of confession of apology for pardonable short-sightedness. “One hardly liked to call while the case hung in the balance,” he protested. “It would have seemed intrusive and prying; and, naturally, one hates the idea of that.”
So spoke Mr. Dormer Greetland whose whole existence was one long intrusion, and for whom earth held no greater pleasure than was to be derived from prying and the impertinent study of other folks’ weaknesses and distress.
“Ah, then people have not been calling? I wanted to ask you, Mr. Greetland. You always know the rights and wrongs of everything, and nowadays people, who ought to know better, are given to such provoking inaccuracies, don’t you know.”
The recognized fountain of scandal and arbiter of the latest correct conduct accepted the compliment as merely a truism. “It is a pity,” he pronounced, “that ignorant people will prattle absurdities, and that they find others to believe them. Why, I can assure you, Lady Rotherfield, that I have to spend half my time in contradicting the most ridiculous fairy tales that idiots rush about with. It is enough to disgust one with the present state of things in society.”
“Yes,” Lady Rotherfield assented, “as though it were not bad enough to have all these outsiders pushing themselves into our houses, without their bringing their misleading half-knowledge of our affairs with them. So the Countess will be quite rehabilitated? I am so glad. She is really so clever and charming, and one shudders to think what would have been the result if she had been unable to establish her innocence; anyhow, declassées have such a terrible time, and give it to their friends. I suppose it would not do to invite them to dine till the case is really over?”
Greetland pouted dubiously. “There is, of course, a certain risk, but it is scarcely worth considering, as the case stands. On the other hand, it would be a good move to show confidence, where one is practically safe, and an invitation sent off before the verdict is given would re-establish the entente cordiale. I know for a fact that Herriard is absolutely certain of getting a conviction, and of course that means the triumph of Alexia.”
“Just so,” Lady Rotherfield agreed. “One may as well send them to-night an invitation to dine next week. So many people will like to meet her now.”
“Yes, indeed,” the social Autolycus agreed. “The Countess will be absolutely the rage, and it will be quite the smart thing to give dinners to meet her. So I should not delay, if you want to get her next week. There is sure to be a rush for her.”
“Ah, yes, to be sure. People are so eager to make the best of these little disappointments. I’ll send out cards directly I get home. You’ll come, dear Mr. Greetland? You must come. What day will suit you?”
“I haven’t a night for the next three weeks,” answered the much desired gossip.
“Oh, but you must really come,” Lady Rotherfield urged. “What people next week can you throw over best?”
The preux chevalier consulted a gold-bound note-book. “Let me see,” he murmured, as, with an air of due importance, he ran through his thronging engagements. “You know I’ll do what I can for you, dear lady. Tuesday, the Andovers; Lady Andover would never forgive me if I threw her over; Wednesday, the Zoylands; half the Cabinet will be there, I must go and make Lord Sarum tell me what we are really going to do about Russia; Thursday, the Tudor-Fitzralphs; I am to dine and go to the play with some poor people who have just bought the Duke of St. Ives’s house in Piccadilly; they are hopeless outsiders, by way of being millionaires, of course, and all that, which is so tiresome, but I have promised to do what I can for them, and it would be an awful blow if I didn’t turn up.”
“Surely you might throw the wretched creatures over,” his would-be hostess suggested. “Millionaires have no feelings, to speak of, or they would never have become millionaires. Surely you are not going to let such absurd people stand in your way?”
“Oh, no,” Greetland responded; “they are too utterly impossible and beneath consideration. One would think as little of throwing them over as of pitching a pebble into the Serpentine. But the difficulty is that I have got Lady Hester Nayland to consent to go, and if I am not there she will have no one to speak to.”
“Why does she go?” was Lady Rotherfield’s not unnatural enquiry.
“Well,” Greetland explained, “it appears that Lady Hester, who has taken up good works since Ormskirk jilted her, landed the millionaire people the other day at a bazaar with a lot of rubbish at fancy prices. They are as keen on getting something more for their money as she is for their money. So she has graciously consented to dine with them on condition that she goes into dinner with me and is not expected to speak much to the nouveaux riches. Consequently, if I fail, poor Lady Hester will be reduced to silence for a whole evening, and you know, to put it mildly, she has no impediment in her speech.”
“No, indeed,” Lady Rotherfield replied, “except the impediment it made to her marriage. They say Ormskirk was absolutely stunned, and for a relief has gone out to some spot on the Sahara where he won’t hear the sound of a human voice for six months.”
“Yes,” Greetland said, “I’m afraid it would be the refinement of cruelty to leave Lady Hester in the lurch, and she does in her heart so hate the haute Juiverie. No, I see I am dining with the Ambroses on Friday. They are unexceptional themselves, but rather injudicious in their choice of friends. One never knows what one is in for there. I once had to meet at their house an awful person from the City who talked in multiples of a million, and whose principal capital seemed to be capital I’s. He had brought an absurd wife, festooned with diamonds like a segment of a transformation scene. I told Lady Ambrose that if she ever invited these farcical creatures again, which I hoped she would not, she ought to arrange to have a lime-light man to throw different colours on the pantomime person to vary the monotony of the ill-gotten gems.”
“No wonder,” Lady Rotherfield observed, “diamonds are going out of fashion with us.”
“Very well, then,” Greetland decided, “it must be Friday. If poor Lady Ambrose will be injudicious about the people she asks one to meet, she must expect an occasional disappointment.”
“Friday, then,” said the lady. “It is quite good of you. I will secure the von Rohnburgs at once. Ah, dear Duchess,” she went on, as their hostess joined them, “we were just talking of this tiresome case. How you, to say nothing of the dear Countess Alexia, must have been worried, and how glad you must be at the prospect of seeing the last of it. Will the Duke have to give evidence again?”
“Oh, yes, I’m afraid so,” the Duchess answered, with a touch of ruefulness. “The poor Duke has been bound over to appear again just as though he were a common malefactor who would be likely to abscond.”
“How absurd,” Lady Rotherfield exclaimed, with as much show of indignation as she could command.
“Yes,” her Grace pursued. “I call it abominable and most idiotic that there should be no distinction made between people in our position and the common herd whose native air is the atmosphere of a police court. Why should a man like Lancashire be forced to hang about the horrid dingy place, jostled by all sorts of unpleasant people, and then be insulted and browbeaten by unmannerly lawyers who would not dare to speak to him anywhere else? I call it too disgusting.”
“The Duke must hate it,” Greetland suggested sympathetically.
“Naturally. He is most indignant about the whole business. And the police-court ordeal, he says, is so unconstitutional in his case. How can men in Lancashire’s position expect to be looked up to, and to keep up their dignity, if they are liable to be placed in these ridiculous positions and made a laughing-stock for the mob?”
“Just so,” Lady Rotherfield agreed, in a tone of compassionate indignation. “That is what I always maintain. If Dukes and so forth are to have their weaknesses exposed and to be exhibited as no different from ordinary humanity, what becomes of their prestige and influence? They ought certainly to be exempt from these public exposures.”
This was going somewhat farther towards the truth than the Duchess had intended. She looked rather black, while Greetland’s face was a study of amusement struggling with the professional decorum due towards the Peerage.
“The Duke,” said her Grace tartly, “talks of bringing the question before the House of Lords.”
“Don’t you think, Duchess,” suggested Lady Rotherfield sweetly, “that it would be wiser to let it drop? You are not likely to have another affair of the sort here, one would hope, and if it is debated, that terrible farceur, Evesham, is sure to make fun of it and, incidentally, of the dear Duke.”
The Duchess’s face lowered darker than ever. She was very tenacious of her monopoly of gibing at her consort’s stupidity. Greetland, who had plenty of tact, natural and acquired, was about to intervene with a change of subject, when Aubrey Playford, who had just come in, joined them with a suggestion in his manner of something important to tell.
“Have you heard the latest news, Duchess?” he asked quickly, as he touched her hand.
“No; what is it?” the Duchess enquired, in some trepidation as she noticed the little malicious gleam of pleasure in his eyes.
“Anything to do with the case?” Greetland asked casually. It was natural for him to hate people who got before him with news.
“Very much to do with the case,” Playford replied. “This new witness, Campion, whose evidence was to settle it off-hand——”
“What!” exclaimed Lady Rotherfield breathlessly, “he has not absconded?”
“Worse, for him, at any rate,” Playford answered. “He has met with a fatal accident.”
The news was so startling that for a few moments no one could speak.
“How unfortunate!” Lady Rotherfield commented mechanically.
“How dreadful!” chimed in the Duchess, trying to calculate how the incident would affect her interest in the case.
“But is it true?” Greetland questioned sceptically. He always made a point of challenging the authenticity of news carried by other people.
“Undoubtedly true,” Playford returned emphatically. “He was knocked down and run over by a hansom this evening, and, curiously enough, just here in Piccadilly, not a stone’s throw from where he made out he originally saw Reggie Martindale’s supposed murderer.”
The propinquity of the tragedy slightly enhanced its impressiveness.
“And he is dead?” The Duchess asked the question.
Playford gave a decisive nod. “Died before they could get him to St. George’s Hospital.”
“Are they sure it is the same man?” Greetland suggested, holding tenaciously to his line of non-acceptance.
“Absolutely,” Playford answered. “My man told me all about it. He saw the poor fellow being taken away in the ambulance. And I made a point of calling at the police-station to enquire if what I had heard was true. There is no doubt that the man was Campion; the Superintendent was quite positive. So I thought I would come and tell you at once, Duchess.”
“It was very kind of you,” the hostess replied, as graciously as her state of mind permitted. “Dear me, this distressing business seems unending.”
“Poor Countess Alexia!” Greetland remarked, slyly watching Lady Rotherfield.
The prospective hostess of the unfortunate Countess had for the moment overlooked that consequence of the tragedy.
“Ah,” she exclaimed, waking up to the fresh interest. “This poor man’s death must make all the difference to her, must it not?”
“Decidedly,” Playford answered, with a readiness bred of malice.
The Duchess had gone off to carry the news. Lady Rotherfield turned to Greetland.
“Oh, Mr. Greetland, how lucky this unpleasant news came just now. Fancy one’s feelings if one had seen it in the papers to-morrow morning, when the invitations had been posted over-night! I do hope Lady Ambrose won’t have another objectionable City person to inflict on you next Friday.”