Stanhope of Chester. A mystery

Chapter I

George Wetherington and I had struck up a friendship of that kind which deepens as it grows. Chance had thrown us together two or three times in a manner which struck us both as somewhat remarkable — though there was nothing remarkable in it, for we were both engaged in the same trade, and, since we did most of our travelling ourselves, naturally moved about a great deal in the same track. Still, we did meet surprisingly often, seeing that Wetherington lived in Liverpool and I in London, and as we liked each other and got on well together we agreed that our meeting so often was remarkable. Our acquaintance commenced comparatively late in life. Wetherington, I believe, was thirty-five, and I a year or two older. We were both married — another point we had in common — Wetherington being, at that time, the happy father of two children, a girl and a boy, is and 1 the proud possessor of an only son, than whom — such was, at least, the private opinion of my wife and myself — a finer youngster never breathed.

My boy, Harry, and Wetherington's son George, named so after his father, afterwards went to the same school together, a circumstance which tended to increase the intimacy between us fathers. But that was later. The exact occasion of our first meeting I cannot recollect, but it must have been about twenty years from the time of present writing. The fact is, nothing happened in the first years of our acquaintance sufficiently marked to have left any impression upon my memory, or, if it had, to be worth recording. The earliest recollection I have of the first days of our friendship dates back to a journey which I took in mid-winter to Manchester. It was a cold, foggy day, and I entered the Euston station of the North-Western Railway considerably out of humour at the prospect of the dreary journey before me.

I was just taking my ticket — first class to Manchester — when a hand was laid on my shoulder, and I heard a cheery voice say : — ' Well met, Jamieson. Say two firsts to Manchester. I usually travel second, but for the sake of your com pany ' ' Wetherington ! ' I exclaimed, for it was he ; ' I'm glad to see you.' Poor fellow, I knew he was not over-prosperous, and would have gladly travelled second class to suit his purse. But in this infernal marrow-penetrating cold and fog — b-r-r — it was too much of a good thing. After we were comfortably seated in our carriage, I having' tipped the guard to leave us to ourselves, I learned that Wetherington was bound on much the same kind of expedition as myself — namely, to look up business friends in Manchester, and contemplated spending a couple of days there. ' That is first rate,' I said. ' We'll hang on another day, Wetherington, and do the sights.' A companion on a railway journey of seven 1 ours, with scarcely a stoppage on the way, is, under most circumstances, welcome ; but a congenial companion, such as Wetherington was to me, is a perfect godsend, and for the first hour or two after starting the time passed extreme!}' pleasantly.

There are some men who exercise a mutual attraction upon one another, who enter into each other's thoughts naturally, and understand one another as if by a kind of sympathetic intuition. Such were Wetherington and I. I liked the man, though I knew little about him, and I pitied him, because what little I did know of him showed two things : firstly, as I have said, that he was not spoiled by prosperity ; and secondly, that he bore his want of success with what appeared to me great cheerfulness and manly resignation. We were timed to reach Manchester at 8.30, having started at 1.30 p.m. Soon after four o'clock night fell, and as the best of conversations will flag after a few E hours, and the light at that time provided by railway companies, as may be conceived, was not better adapted for reading purposes than it is now, we gradually settled ourselves in our respective corners and prepared ourselves for a quiet doze.

At least, when I speak of ourselves, I am assuming the case as regards AVethering ton. whom I distinctly remember to have seen curl him self up in his corner, with his rug wrapped closely round him, and shut his eyes with the evident intention of going to sleep. As for myself, I undoubtedly did go to sleep, and must have been slumbering peacefully for some time, when I was suddenly roused by a sound resembling a deep groan. At first I thought I had been dreaming, and what I heard was the result of a nightmare. But the sound was repeated, after I had opened my eyes, and I was sufficiently awake to perceive that it proceeded from Wetherington himself. My first impression was that he, and not I, was the victim of nightmare. But a glance at his face showed me that he was wide awake. The expression which I saw in it was one of such unspeakable trouble, that it fairly startled me out of the last remnant of sleep which still hung about me. ' My dear fellow," I exclaimed anxiously, ' what is the matter with you ?

You are ill ! ' He smiled faintly, but did not reply ; in fact, he did not look at me at all. His eyes were fixed with a set stare on the opposite corner ofthe carriage, and. following their direction, I now observed for the first time that we were no longer alone in the compartment. We had a fellow-traveller. My first feeling was one of annoyance, natural enough in face of the fact that I had expended half-a crown in bribing the guard to leave us alone. It seems a natural trait of human nature to feel annoyed at see ing a fellow-traveller, who has not been your companion from the start, permitted to partake of comforts in which you imagine some sacred law has reserved to you the sole right of enjoyment. I haven't the slightest doubt myself that the proverbial dog in the manger was a railway passenger, and the manger a railway compartment in which he had managed to secure a solitary first seat.

But that is neither here nor there. I am not a man of a vindictive temperament, and in the case in point there was really not much reason for any display of ill temper, for, on consulting my watch, I found that it was half-past seven, and we could therefore not be beyond an hour's distance from the end of our journey. Besides, I was too much concerned about the wretched appearance of my friend Wetherington to dwell for long upon any grievance I might have had against the intruder upon our privacy. I took a close survey of the latter, imagining for a moment that he must be in some way connected with the disturbed appearance of my friend. But I dismissed the idea at once, and for two reasons. In the first place, the whole appearance of the stranger immediately dispelled every vestige of suspicion in my mind as to his respectability.

I am a pretty fair judge of physiognomies, and I don't think I ever met with a face at once so frank and so pleasant as that oi the man I saw. He looked considerably under thirty. He was fair, though not excessively so, had regular features, good complexion, and soft blue eyes. He wore a slight moustache and a neatly trimmed beard, and was dressed well, although his clothes were just slightly old-fashioned enough in cut to surprise you in one of his age, who otherwise showed signs that his personal appearance was by no means a matter of in difference to him. From what I have said regarding my feelings towards Wetherington, the reader has probably gathered that I am a man of strong sympathies and antipathies. The reader is right ; so I am. I am unquestionably more impressionable than the ordinary run of mankind, to which fact it is, among other things, no doubt owing that I am a first-rate hand at mind-reading, as Wetherington himself could have testified, he having on more than one occasion acted as my subject ; and a better subject, I may be allowed to say in passing, I have never known.

But the sympathetic impression conveyed upon me by the stranger's appearance, strong as it was, would in itself not have sufficed to set my mind at rest regarding the fancied connection between his presence and my friend Wetherington's curious demeanour. There was, as I have said, another reason for my putting aside all idea of such a connection. The stranger and Wetherington were evidently old acquaintances, in fact, as I soon perceived, very intimate acquaintances, and must have been engaged in animated conversation some time before Wetherington's groan startled me out of my comfortable sleep. No doubt observing my inquiring look, the young man now turned to me, and said courteously: ' I am afraid our chatter has disturbed you, sir.' ' It does not signify at all,' I replied. ' I was merely sleeping for the want of better entertainment.

Are you all right, Wetherington ? ' I asked, addressing my friend. He had roused himself, and now turned his eyes towards me for the first time. ' Why yes, I am well enough,' he answered, some what impatiently, I thought. ' I fancied you were taken ill,' I continued, still not satisfied with the manner in which he spoke. ' It's the cold, I suppose,' he said, curtly. ' There is nothing the matter with me.' Our companion appeared to take very little notice of all this, and when Wetherington turned away his face with the manifest object of cutting short my inquiries, he began to chat in a pleasant tone about indifferent matters, as if the question of Wetherington's health were quite outside his province. I listened for a while, throwing in an observation every now and then, for, though his talk was mostly addressed to my friend, the latter sat there so silent and unsociable, that I felt bound out of sheer politeness to say something from time to time.

Wetherington's behaviour struck me as unusually churlish. The least he could have done, I thought, if he did not feel dis posed to join in the conversation, was to introduce me to his friend, who seemed to me to take his obvious ill humour in wonderfully good part. At last I turned to Wetherington, determined to make him understand his unmannerliness. ' Won't you introduce me- ' I began, but I got no farther. The scared expression on Wetherington's face fairly bowled me over. I looked round at the stranger, who o J> was seated on my side of the compartment, but before I could utter a word, he rose politely and introduced himself. 'My name is Stanhope, of Chester,' he said, in his pleasant musical voice. ' I ought to have introduced myself before.' ' My name is Jamieson,' I said, feeling quite be wildered between Wetherington's strangeness and his friend's quiet, sympathetic manner.

Had there been the slightest indication of anything in the nature of unpleasant relations between the two I should have felt less surprised. But everything pointed to the contrary, excepting, indeed, Wetherington's rudeness. Stanhope, I could see, was the younger man ofthe two but though he treated Wetherington on the footing of equality which usually only exists between intimate friends of the same age, there was a tone of affectionate regard for the elder man in everything he said to him, which made up for any undue familiarity in his behaviour. Besides, the difference in age between a man of twenty-eight, at which I taxed Stanhope, and one of thirty-five, which was Wetherington's figure, could scarcely influence the character of their friendship at that stage of life, I thought. Indeed, when I looked into Wetherington's face, and noted its unnatural whiteness and almost distorted expression, I felt doubtful for a moment whether he could be in his right mind.

I had never noticed any thing strange about him before. But this anxious, scared look of his, this obvious sense of discomfort and oppression, and the short, uncouth manner in which he treated a gentleman who was not only his fellow traveller and friend, but whose appearance and behaviour were in every respect pleasant and prepossessing, seemed to me really indicative of some lurking insanity. Mr. Stanhope appeared not to notice the abrupt, monosyllabic way in which Wetherington replied to his remarks, if he entered upon them at all, but talked on quite unconcerned, with his honest, bright eyes resting ever and anon with such a kindly confiding expression on his unresponsive friend, that I felt more than ever drawn towards him, and resolved to take the first opportunity that presented itself to make some remark to him in private with regard to Wetherington's behaviour.

The fact was, I felt really anxious about Wetherington, and thought he might be seriously ill. As we were all three going to the same hotel at Manchester, the occasion I waited for offered itself at the station, Wetherington having deposited his portman teau in the guard's van, and being obliged to leave us for a minute to point it out to the porter. When he was out of hearing I said to Stanhope : ' I feel quite disturbed about our friend Wethering ton. He does not seem himself. Have you ever seen him like this before ? ' Stanhope looked at me with an expression of blank surprise. ' Wetherington ? ' he said. ' Bless you, he is all right. A better-hearted fellow never breathed.' ' Yes, that's true enough,' I returned. ' But he seems curiously out of sorts to-night. I presume you are friends of long standing.' ' We are old school chums,' he said, his face brightening as he spoke. ' Such friendships, you know, are of the enduring kind.' ' Indeed ! ' I said. ' I should have thought you were considerably younger than Wetherington.' ' I don't think there is much difference between our ages,' he replied. ' At any rate, we were always in the same class at school, excepting once, when I was ill, and had to sit for a time in a lower division.

But I caught him up again next term. Ah, the good old school-days.' And he gave that sigh, half of regret, half of satisfaction, which none of us can repress at the recollection of the dear old days, which we shall never see again. At the same moment I heard a gasp behind me, as of one who is in bodily pain, and turning round, saw Wetherington standing behind us. He had evidently come up while Stanhope was speaking, but whether he had heard what he said or not I cannot say. I only know that the ghastly pallor of the poor fellow's countenance gave me such a shock, that I forgot every thing else, and started forward with the vague notion that he was about to swoon, and required support. But he pushed me aside, almost roughly, I thought, and brushing past us both, entered the cab which was waiting to convey us to the hotel.

We followed, I feeling more and more puzzled, and, I must confess, not a little vexed with my friend Wetherington, whose manner I was now doubtful whether to ascribe to illness or to ill-temper. However, the evening passed off pleasantly enough under the circumstances. We all three dined together in a cosy corner of the large hotel dining-room, and though Wetherington still appeared depressed in spirits and preoccupied, his face, I thought, had no longer that painful expression of vague terror which I had noticed in it before. He ate little, though, and scarcely spoke a word the whole evening, in consequence of which the conversation rested for the most part with Stanhope and myself, or it would perhaps be more correct to say it rested entirely with Stanhope, for, impressionable as I am, I was too much affected by Wetherington's low spirits to excel in the talking line myself.

Besides, to tell the truth, I found it somewhat difficult to contribute what I considered would have been my fair share to the conversation. Stanhope was a most agreeable fellow, full of life and cheerfulness, and, in his way, decidedly entertaining. But, pleasant as he was, I soon felt that our minds did not run quite in the same groove. There should be a certain amount of what I may call give and take in all conversation, and this was precisely what was lacking in ours. Not that Stanhope was by any means a selfish talker, whose only object was to have his say, and let the other fellow get in a word at intervals when he could. On the contrary, he would listen to you with the same degree of pleasure with which he talked to you, provided only — and this was the crux — the topic in question was of his own choosing.

Now, every man naturally likes to talk about things that interest him. Stanhope's chief interests, I could see, were centred in his friend Wetherington, and, though the subject was one which to some extent ex cited also my sympathy, I could scarcely be expected to give it my undivided attention for a couple of hours at a stretch, and, much as I liked Wetherington and his old school-fellow Stanhope, I got a little tired after a while, listening to stories of their old escapades, and the many jolly times they had spent together. More over, as Wetherington himself seemed to be wearied by them, and certainly did nothing to encourage them, I thought it only justifiable on my part to give the conversation a different turn. My own particular interest, I may say, is confined to the current events of the day.

I like to discuss public men and their doings and sayings, and the social conditions of our country; or the progress of science with its future possibilities, and the latest developments in literature and art — in short, current matters of whatsoever description you like. But the one or two attempts which I made to introduce subjects of this kind failed entirelyr. Wetherington, who usually entered eagerly into anything in the nature of an argument, refused to be drawn to-night by the most daring assertions I threw out purposely, with the view of engaging him in a discussion, while Stanhope, though he listened with the utmost politeness, did so with the air of a man to whom the matter was in teresting, but foreign to his train of thought. He received my remarks and opinions as one receives any information of an instructive kind, thoughtfully and attentively, but without responding.

Thus, unless I was disposed to monopolise the talking altogether, which I was not, I was after all compelled to let the conversation take the course which Mr. Stanhope was pleased to give it. Under these circumstances I did not feel sorry when Wetherington, towards half-past ten o'clock, began to show signs of restlessness, and ultimately announced his intention of retiring to bed. I, too, felt tired after the journey, I said, and was quite prepared to follow suit. So we broke up at a comparatively early hour, and, bidding one another good-night, proceeded to our rooms. When I awoke the next morning, the first dim light of day was just peeping through the Venetian blinds of my room. But it was half-past seven o'clock, and, being an early riser, I got up, washed and dressed, and before descending called at Wetherington's room to see if he was up, and would accompany me on a short stroll before breakfast.

As no answer came to my knock I opened the door, and found to my surprise not only the room empty, but the bed untouched, and indeed no signs of any occupant at all. At first I thought I must have made a mistake in the number of the room, and went downstairs to make inquiry of the porter. But here a new surprise awaited me. ' Mr. Wetherington, sir,' the man said, in reply to my question. ' Wetherington — Wetherington — let me see — quite right; he had number 75, second floor. He has left a note for you.' ' Has he gone out, then ? ' I asked, taking the note. ' No, sir ; he left by the night train for Liverpool, I believe,' the man replied, and, seeing my astonishment, he added, ' perhaps the note will explain, sir.' I opened it hastily. It merely contained these few words, hurriedly scrawled : ' Very sorry ; compelled to return home by last train.

Bad news by wire. — -Wetherington.' ' Dear me,' I exclaimed, ' I am very sorry. Did Mr. Wetherington go alone ? ' ' Yes, sir,' said the porter. ' Then I dare say Mr. Stanhope can give me more information. What is his number ? ' 1 Stanhope — Stanhope ? ' said the porter, referring to his book. ' I don't think we have any one here of that name.' ' I mean the gentleman who came with us last night. Mr. Stanhope of Chester. Didn't he sleep here ? ' ' The gentleman — the gentleman,' said the porter, reflectively. ' What was he like, sir ? ' ' It is not much use my describing him to you if you don't know him,' I said, testily. ' But I dare say the waiter will know.' But the waiter, when called, was more stupid than the porter, and could give me no information at all. He did not know anyone of the name of Stauhope, nor could he recollect the gentleman from my description, but he would inquire in the office. ' Never mind,' I said, ' it is plain that he is not staying here.

At what time did Mr. Wetherington's train leave ? ' I asked the porter. ' Train leave — train leave,' he replied, running his finger down the time-table that was hanging up on the wall of his box. 'Quite right; the 11.45 to Liverpool.' 'The 11.45?' I remembered that we had only parted company a few minutes before eleven. Wetherington could barely have had time to pack his portmanteau and rush off to catch the train. ' It was sharp work, indeed, sir,' said the porter, divining my thoughts. ' But the gentleman seemed terribly anxious to get away without loss of time.' ' Poor chap ! ' I said, meditatively. ' I wonder what it was all about. Did he seem much upset at the telegram ? ' ' Telegram — telegram,' said the porter, scratching his head. ' I mean the wire he received before he left. It must have come just after we went up.' ' I don't think he had any telegram, sir,' the man said. ' Leastways, not through me.

But I will inquire in the office.' However, in the office nothing was known of any telegram having been delivered there at the time mentioned, and, all things considered, I thought it best to say no more about it. But I felt sorely puzzled, nevertheless, not only by Wetherington's hasty departure, which was entirely unexpected, for I knew he had important business to transact in Manchester, and had intended to remain there for at least a couple of days, but also by the mysterious disappearance of his friend, Stanhope of Chester, whom I had certainly understood to have taken a room at our hotel. ' You are quite sure,' I asked the porter once more, as I left the office, ' that no one accompanied Mr. Wetherington when he went away last night ? ' 'Wetherington — Wetherington — let me see,' he began again, moving his stupid head from one side to another reflectingly, as if I were introducing quite a new subject.

It irritated me, and I turned awray and walked into the coffee-room. I saw the man had more in his head than it was constructed to contain, and that I might as well rely upon information derived from the man in the moon as upon what he told me. Still, the assurance, which he bawled after me, as I left him rummag-ins: his , no cranium to 'find where he had stowed away the par ticular fact I was inquiring about, lefo the matter pretty certain. ' Wetherington, Wetherington — quite right,' I heard him say. ' I saw him into the cab myself, sir ; one gentleman and one portmanteau, sir, nothing else.' At all events there was nothing further to be done. Wetherington was gone, there could be no doubt about that. If his friend, Stanhope of Chester, had not gone with him, there was a probability that he might turn up at the hotel at some time or other during the day, and would be able to throw some light on the matter.

I could not understand the telegram business. If Wetherington had not received a wire, as his note to c me said, he must have known already of his intention to return home last night, while we were still together. And if so, why had he concealed it from me ? I recalled his strange behaviour during the evening, and wondered if it had any connection with his sudden departure. During the day I was too busy with my own affairs to think much about Wetherington and Stanhope. But when the evening came, without the latter putting in an appearance, I felt like a man who has been deserted by his friends in a rude and inconsiderate manner. Wetherington, no doubt, had some excuse for going off as he did, though I was vexed at the curtness of his note, which was certainly not as explicit as in fairness to me it should have been.

As for Mr. Stanhope of Chester, he was of course under no obligation of friendship to me whatsoever. Yet, from the general courteous ness of his manner, I should have expected at least some sort of explanation from him regarding the reason for his equally sudden disappearance. In short, I felt nettled at the whole thing, for in my own mind I had come to the conclusion that Stanhope was in some way concerned in this business, and that he and Wetherington had gone off together ; had met at the station, perhaps, or something of the sort. To put it colloquially, I felt ' out of it,' a sensation which I need not explain, since, if the reader has never experienced it himself, he doubtless rejoices in a friend who has, and to whom I would therefore refer him for further particulars. Under these circumstances, I got through the business I had to transact in Manchester as speedily as possible, and returned to London the next evening, a whole day sooner than I had intended, much to the delight of my wife, who invariably groaned at my absence, and declared I always stopped away as long as I could, in order to dream myself back into the palmy days of my bachelorhood.

I told her about my meeting with Wetherington, and the occurrence at Manchester. But, as women are, she did not take my view of the matter at all. On the contrary, she laughed at me for what she was pleased to call my jealous suspicions, which I thought was par ticularly silly. ' You dear old Jim ! ' she said, ' you know you were always absurdly jealous.' (This, if you please, because in our early days I had once or twice mildly protested against her dancing — well, ever so many times with a fellow whom anyone but a woman would have felt to be a howling cad.) ' How can you tell that poor Mr. Wetherington ' (he had dined once or twice with us, and she knew him) ' had not some domestic trouble weighing upon his mind. One doesn't always talk of these things to one's business friends. At least, I hope you don't,' she added, with a little touch of asperity, which tickled me excessively, after her remark about my jealous disposition ; for if ever a wife was jealous of her husband's friends — well, I won't tell tales, but my friends were decidedly poor dear Elsie's weak point, though she never let them see it. c Of course, her interpretation of my feelings towards Stanhope was too preposterous for words.

But she proved right in the main point notwithstanding, for I heard a few days afterwards from poor Wetherington himself, that he had been summoned home from Man chester that night, owing to the sudden illness of his wife, which terminated fatally soon after his arrival. From certain facts which came to my knowledge long afterwards, I have a shrewd suspicion, however, that the real story was different. Wetherington did lose his wife, indeed, but not by death. If people may be believed who knew him more intimately at that time than I did, the unhappy woman ran away with a foreign piano-player, who left her a few weeks later for some other foolish female whom his damned music had beguiled. How Wetherington obtained information of their flight, whether through Stanhope of Chester, or really by wire, I was never able to ascertain.

When I saw Wetherington again, which was after several months, he was still fearfully cut up about what I then supposed to have been the death of his wife, and it was naturally impossible for me to ask him many questions on the subject. I did mention Stanhope of Chester, though, and alluding to his sudden disappearance from the hotel that night at Manchester, asked Wetherington if he had seen anything of him lately. But the poor fellow looked so troubled and wretched at my allusion to him, that I did not pursue the matter any farther. Perhaps if I had known then the true version of Wetherington's domestic trouble, which I only learned some years afterwards, I might have jumped to the conclusion that Mr. Stanhope had in some way or other had a hand in the elopement of Wetherington's wife. As it was, I attributed my friend's agitation to the painful recollections associated with our visit to Man chester, and thought no more about it.