Out of the Darkness

Chapter I

" Tiien that will be judgment for my client, my Lord, for £4000." The speaker, Sir Eustace Bevan, Q.C., slowly re sumed his seat, and proceeded to endorse his Brief with a scratching quill pen, the noise of which could be distinctly heard all over the hot and crowded court. The speaker's air of weariness came not from any affectation of the boredom of the day, but from sheer physical exhaustion. At six and thirty, this tall, aristocratic featured man, whom Nature seemed to have fashioned to com mand armies, was day by day expending that force and energy which might have carried him through the hardest fought campaign, in forensic combat with the i; great intellects invariably found banded together beneath the standard of the English Bar. His fine presence and great earnestness, coupled with a com manding power of oratory seldom attained in these days either in Church, Senate, or at the Bar, had singled him out from amongst his fellows as a very gladiator in the ranks of fighting Counsel, and within ten years of being "called," he had applied for and justly obtained, the distinction of a silk gown.

Before another year had passed over his head, he had an enormous practice, and was making a colossal income. But greatness, which we are told invariably brings its penalties with it, involved the still young advocate in an amount of brain toil, which might, without exaggeration, be described as slavery, and Nature slowly, but none the less surely, was even now beginning to take her revenge. No man, how ever strong, can go on, week in, week out, working much, sleeping little, and taking exercise not at all. From being a fine athlete, Eustace Bevan had now, perforce, become merely a sedentary brain-worker, whose intellectual fires were fast burning up his physical strength. In short, though he never even suspected it, the work was killing him. " Mills against Dryden," called out the clerk of the court, in the mechanical tones of a man who is always doing the same thing six days in the week.

The learned judge turned over a fresh page of his note-book, tried a new nib on his thumb-nail, and said — " Are you in this case, Sir Eustace ? " "Yes, my Lord, I am for the plaintiff." Whereupon much shuffling of feet ushered in a fresh Q.C., with his attendant Junior behind him, as representing the defendant ; and after Sir Eustace's Junior had opened the pleadings in an unintelligible mumble, and resumed his seat, Sir Eustace himself rose. "May it please your Lordship; Gentlemen of the Jury. This case, with which I fear I shall have to occupy your attention for some considerable time to-day, arises out of a somewhat curious set of circumstances. In the spring of last year, the plaintiff, who is a banker at Leeds — " and here the learned Counsel paused for a moment, somewhat unaccount ably, as most of his audience thought.

Passing his hand across his face, he resumed, with a certain appearance of distraction very unusual to him — " received a letter containing five drafts upon different London banks " Another pause, aud again was the thin, nervous hand swept lightly across the forehead. Resuming, with an obvious effort, he said — "This letter — this letter was left upon the table in the manager's room — was on the table — I — forget — forget the " He swayed, recovered himself momentarily, and then with a deep groan pitched heavily forward, and fell across the desk in front of him. In a moment the prostrate man was surrounded by dozens of ready helpers, whilst a perfect Babel of advice broke out from the well of the court. Above the din of many voices, the clear, incisive tones of the Judge rose high and distinct.

" Pray do not crowd round him, gentlemen, I beg of you. The Court is so hot, he must be got outside at once ; " and obeying the voice of authority, they swiftly raised the apparently lifeless man, and bore him gently from the Court into the somewhat purer air of the robing-room beyond. Medical aid was soon at hand, and in twenty minutes' time Sir Eustace was again conscious ; but he had entirely forgotten what had happened, and even that he had been engaged in a case, that morn ing, at all. He half sat, half reclined in a chair, showing no inclination whatever to resume his duties ; in fact, it soon became abundantly clear that his memory of things in the immediate past was a blank. The machinery of the mind had run down, the mental mechanism stopped, and Sir Eustace Bevan's brawny intellect was, for the time being, like that of a little child.

" I really think he ought to be taken home as soon as possible. What an awful blow it will be to his wife ! " whispered a leading Queen's Counsel standing at the door of the room, to his neighbour, the then Attorney-General, Sir Richard Erskine. The latter smiled grimly. " Think so ? " he said. " Well, I know Lady Bevan, and — I think she will manage to bear up against it." The first speaker shrugged his shoulders. " Then you don't think it necessary to send some one on to warn her ? " " Not in the least," replied the great Law Officer. " The only shocks Lady Bevan would be unable to bear are such things as the loss of her diamonds, or an accident to a new costume on its road home. But for such a small affair as the breakdown of her husband's health ! — my dear Bissett, make yourself quite easy in your mind.

She will bear that sort of trouble with a fortitude which is more than Spartan ! " " You know her, you say ? " asked Bissett. " Yes— I know her," was the reply, given with a world of meaning in the speaker's tones. Just then a clerk hurried in, and informed Sir Richard Erskine that he was wanted in the Lord Chief Justice's Court. The Attorney-General nodded to the man he had been speaking with, and left the room, thus ending the conversation. Almost at the same moment, a second doctor arrived, and after a minute's interview with his colleague, it was decided to call a cab and convey Sir Eustace to his home in Hyde Park Street without further delay.

Chapter II

At the age of nineteen, Eustace Bevan, the only son of a Balaclava veteran, Colonel George Bevan, V.C., of the 15th Dragoons, was holding a commission in the " Black " Brigade, then serving in a frontier war against the Malays. Two years of hard work, soldiering, including some half-dozen sharp brushes with" the enemy, had shown young Bevan to be made of the right stuff, and given ample evidence that he was the worthy son of a worthy father. Then, without warning of any kind, news came to him which changed the whole current of his life. A letter, brought up country by a mounted messenger at the imminent risk of his life, informed him that his father had died some time previously ; and a postscript, added by the deceased Colonel's lawyers, acquainted him with the unpleasant fact that the estate was heavily involved.

CUT OF THE DARKNESS. 8 The young man, although recognizing the necessity which existed for his returning home at the earliest possible opportunity, was much too good a soldier to even wish to go whilst any fighting remained to 1 >e done ; so for several weeks he kept the news to himself, merely mentioning the fact of his father's death to his Colonel and brother officers, but saying nothing further. The weeks had passed into months before the principal native chiefs formally capitulated, and the war was over. Directly affairs had been settled, the regiment returned to England, and then it was that Eustace Bevan applied for and obtained leave " on urgent private affairs." How " urgent " those " private affairs " were, none knew except young Bevan himself and his solicitors. When they had, together, probed the business to its foundations, Eustace plainly saw that his career as a soldier — unless he could live chiefly on his pay, a thing quite impossible of accomplishment in his own regiment — was at an end.

The old Colonel, brave as a lion, honourable, and straight as a line in everything, had had no head for financial matters ; agricul ture, from which most of his income was derived, was very bad; rents, in consequence, almost impossible to get in. Always a generous man, he was quite incapable of pressing a tenant for his rent, if he thought the man was acting honestly and trying to pay. Had any one defied him in the manner affected by some of our Celtic neighbours, Colonel Bevan would have used every means to crush him, and then, when he had brought him to his knees, at once have forgiven him every penny. A charming character: full of strength, mingled with that " quality of mercy which is not strained," but, alas ! in these degenerate days, not the character of the successful money-maker. Thus things had gone from bad to worse ; as long as the old soldier could keep his couple of hunters, and potter about his land under the impression that he was farming ; as long as he could pay his way in keeping up his modest establishment ; and, beyond all, as long as he could give his only son a sufficient allowance to keep him in comfort in the Service, he did not trouble about aught else.

At the time of his death, things were about at their worst, or, at all events, within measurable distance of that uncomfortable stage. Eustace Bevan had a long interview with the lawyers, and found them remarkably shrewd men —in their own interests. What they thought of Eustace may be gathered from the following scraps of conversation which took place between the two partners, Messrs. Roe & Capias, as soon as the young man had been politely shown out of theh office, in Lincoln's Inn Fields. " Not much like the old Colonel, Roe, eh ? " Roe dry-shaved his chin for a few seconds before replying. " Seems to be rather — er — um — rather masterful, I think." " Um — er — yes, I think so. Hardly has that trust in us, as his legal advisers, that I like always to see in a client. Wants to do too much in the matter himself, don't you think ?

" "Just my opinion. That sort of thing really strikes at the very root of — of — well, it makes business bad, you know. There's no, ' I place myself unreservedly in your hands, Mr. Roe,' as Lord Muttonhead so flatteringly said to me yesterday. Now, that's really pleasurable." " And profitable," added Capias, thrusting his hands deep into his trouser pockets. "And profitable, as you say," assented his partner. "Afraid we shall have trouble with this young fellow." " Afraid so." And thus the conversation ended. As a matter of fact, these two worthies had managed Colonel Bevan's affairs in a somewhat slipshod fashion, which had cost the estate rather dearly ; and they had not, by any means, calculated on having to face a clear-headed, determined young man, who insisted upon having the " why " and the " wherefore " of every one of these dubious trans actions fully explained.

" A boy of twenty," they thought, would be easy enough to hoodwink ; but in the preliminary spar which had just taken place between him, on the one part, and themselves on the other, an uncomfortable feeling had forced itself upon their minds that "the Firm" had come off rather a poor second. After several weeks of real hard work, Eustace discovered that when all debts were cleared off, and the scanty assets realized, there would be left an income of somewhere about four hundred a year, clear. Of this income he determined to give half to his father's sister, an old lady who had kept house for the widowed officer for ten years past, and who was wholly dependent upon him ; with the rest he would qualify himself for some career in which he could make money, instead of remaining in the army, where he could only spend it.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, this abandoning of a career in which he felt all the " sacred fire " of success ; but natures so strong as Eustace Bevan's do not hesitate when a crisis in life comes : they think, they see, and they strike. So it was with him but a matter of one night's consideration what he should turn his hand to ; next day he sent in his papers, before proceeding to obtain another interview within the classic precincts of Lincoln's Inn. Mr. Roe, finding the game was up, and that not even he and his adroit partner could manage to make needless costs out of the Bevan estate under the eyes of so careful a guardian of its interests as Eustace, gracefully acceded to that gentleman's request that they should now hand over all the documents belonging to his late father, and close accounts, as he intended for the future to manage everything himself.

In delivering up the parchments, Mr. Roe allowed himself the small jocularity of complimenting Eustace on his businesslike head. " It's real wasted material — your brain power — in the army, Mr. Bevan ; it really is. Why, now, don't you turn your attention to the higher branch of our own profession ? WTiy don't you go to the Bar ? " " That is exactly what I am going to do, Mr. Roe," quietly replied the young man, as he gathered up his papers. Mr. Roe stared ; and as their late client walked out of the room, and the door closed behind him, he turned to his partner and said — " Then I'll be hanged if I don't send him all our work, Capias."

Chapter III

Lady Bevan happened to have several engagements in the afternoon of the day on which her husband's health broke down so lamentably. With admirable energy she had contrived to get a Patti concert, a visit to a studio, and a couple of afternoon teas into the hours which elapsed between her luncheon and dinner. It was when driving home that her attention was arrested by the sight of a placard bearing the startling announcement, " Sudden illness of Sh Eustace Bevan, Q.C. Painful scene in Court." The carriage was stopped, and the footman produced a penny to buy the paper. " It is nothing," said Lady Bevan to her servant, after having quickly scanned the account which the paper gave. " Sir Eustace fainted from the heat of the Court. Still, drive home as fast as you can." Lady Bevan had not much experience of illness.

She thought it silly of her husband to faint in Court ; only women ought to have nerves, and it would injure him in his profession. Who would care to entrust his case to an advocate who wasn't steady on his legs ! And then these horrid newspapers, how they exaggerated things. Her husband's illness was made as much of as the Armenian atrocities, and was actually printed in larger type than " The Situ ation in Turkey." " I suppose I shall have to give up dining out to-night, and there is the Gramonts' ball, too ; perhaps I had better go to that, to reassure people. It is no use to make him out worse than he is. What a nuisance — just at the height of the season." These and similar thoughts occupied her until she reached Hyde Park Street, and here her face assumed the anxious expression necessary for the occasion.

The servants told her that Sir Eustace had gone to bed, and was suffering from his head. " / don't go to bed for a headache," thought Lady Bevan, as she crept noiselessly into the invalid's room. Her husband looked much the same as usual ; he was propped up by half a dozen pillows, to keep the blood from his head, and he smiled a weak welcome to his wife as she entered the room. " You poor dear, what is the matter with you ? " she said soothingly. " I'm all right now," he answered ; " only, I was taken ill in Court — my head." " Yes, I know ; there is an account of it in the paper. Then she turned to the housekeeper, Mrs. Simmons, who had already installed herself as nurse, and said — " Has he seen a doctor ? " " Sir Richard Lane and Dr. Carter have both been here," replied Mrs. Simmons. " What did they say ?

" " Sir Eustace is to be kept very quiet, and see no one. Dr. Carter will return after dinner." " Then good-bye to my dinner and ball," thought Lady Bevan, but the look of annoyance on her face might have passed merely for wifely anxiety and devotion. After dinner, Dr. Carter told her that her husband's condition was more serious than she imagined. A break-down of mental power was one of the worst symptoms a man like Sir Eustace could have. Lady Bevan looked agonized. " Was he going out of his mind ? " she ventured to inquire. The doctor reassured her on this point, but Lady Bevan required greater assurances. " Was he sure that it wasn't softening of the brain, or creeping paralysis ? Why should a man of his age require rest and quiet ? She herself was nearly thirty, and all she required was excitement and amusement."

" I shall confer with Sir Richard Lane to-morrow, and it is probable that we shall prescribe a long rest in the country," said Dr. Carter, uncompromisingly. " Is he really so ill as that ? " asked Lady Bevan, dismayed. " I suppose six weeks' rest will set him up?" The doctor smiled. " I doubt if six months' will," he said dryly. " A man like Sir Eustace cannot afford to play with his health." " But you say it is only overwork ? " And there is nothing worse." With these comforting words he left her. " Indefinite rest in the country," thought Lady Bevan; "how absolutely dreadful! Rest means no income, and the country means everything that is hateful, and the absence of all that is nice in life." She returned to her husband's room and sat there c with him, speaking softly and sweetly, and thinking all the time that she herself would have to invent a counter-illness for which rest and the country would be absolutely fatal.

She held her husband's hand and told him that he was less feverish, and she gave minute directions as to how his lemonade was to be made, and throughout all she was debating within herself whether her illness should take the form of "nerves," or anemie; nerves were very inscrutable, and required most careful treatment. Anemic, on the other hand, had outward and visible signs, which she might not be able to produce. " I must have nerves," she decided ; " nerves which would drive me out of my mind if I had to go and live in the country. It will be no use to explain this to Dr. Carter, he is too earnest and obtuse. Sir Richard Lane admires me, he will prescribe any thing I like." And then she thought that a temporary separation from her husband would be by no means unbearable. Such love as they had had for each other, had died the natural death inevitable to a marriage arranged by parents.

Lady Bevan had a worldly mother, who had advantageously married three daughters. When it came to Angela's turn to be provided with a husband, her mother told her that she must not hesitate to accept Sir Eustace ; he was certainly the man of the day, and on the road to making ten to twelve thousand a year. "As a rule, men who make money don't like to spend it," she said; "but barristers are different, they begin by having uncertain, precarious incomes, so that later on, when they are rich, they don't care." Angela listened to her mother's advice, and obeyed it to the letter. At first she loved her husband with a sort of timid, bread-and-butter love. Later on she found that this love was all wrong; her husband was very kind, very devoted to her, but it was not the love she had dreamed of as a young girl.

In spite of her worldly mother, and sisters' practical examples, Angela, at that time, was possessed of a strong vein of romance. Sir Eustace allowed her to spend what money she liked, and he made great sacrifices to be with her as much as possible, but this was not enough. Angela wanted an eternal honeymoon, and love to come before everything. As this was impossible, they drifted slowly apart, and after two years' marriage, she accepted the inevitable for a woman of her temperament — a lover. From a worldly point of view, Angela made a wise selection. Miguel Gonzalo was the London representative of the great banking house of Gonzalo Brothers, and was immensely rich. If vice you must have, it is better to have it gilded. Poor vice is contemptible and illogical. Naturally, Gonzalo was the first person to call and inquire after Sir Eustace.

Lady Bevan was bathing her husband's head with Eau de Cologne when the Spaniard's card was brought up to her. She hastily transferred her occupation to Mrs. Simmons, and went to meet him in the drawing-room. All the wifely anxiety, the troubled uncertainty of the future disappeared, and gave way to beaming delight as she entered the room and saw Gonzalo, handsome and impressive, leaning against the mantelpiece. He came forward to greet her, and with mock solicitude, said — " Your husband is very ill ? " " He has got a bad headache," said Angela, carelessly. " Is that all ? " said the Spaniard, smiling. " I can't see that he has anything else the matter with him ; but the doctors say that he is utterly broken down, and that we shall have to go and live in the country." She watched the effect of her words, and was pleased to see that Gonzalo winced.

" Live in the country ! " he repeated. " But that would be terrible." " So terrible that I do not intend to entertain the idea for one moment," she said. " Of course not — it would be impossible," he replied; and then, bending down and kissing her, he repeated, " Impossible." " It would be for me," she said hurriedly, and almost under her breath. "I could not leave you, Miguel ; you are part of my life." Miguel had often been told that he was part of a woman's life, but he never got tired of hearing it. "You are all my life," he answered, with lying promptitude. " Are you going to the Gramonts' ? " he asked later on. " Oh no ; how can I ? " she answered. " I am up to my eyes in lotions and compresses and ' Rigollots ' at the back of his head. I don't suppose OUT OF TIIE DARKNESS. 22 I shall ever go to a ball again.

If I am married to a valetudinarian, my life is over." " Don't be pessimistic," he said, laughing ; " he is only a little overworked." " That is what I say," said Angela. " Only Dr. Carter tried to frighten me out of my senses ; but I won't be frightened. I am going to bear up, and be stoic ; " and then she added, piteously, " If he can't work, we shan't have any money. I suppose I shall have to go out as a governess ! " " Oh, money doesn't matter," said Gonzalo, grandly. "Not to you, perhaps, who are overpoweringly rich," she said. " And it shall never matter to you," he replied, with such sincerity that Angela felt that she loved him as she had never loved him before. When he had taken his departure, and Angela was again seated at the bedside of her husband, her thoughts were much pleasanter than before.

There could be no doubt that Miguel was devoted to her, heart and soul. If a catastrophe should occur — not that she hoped it would, only hfe was so uncertain — of course he would marry her. There would be an end to clandestine meetings, and lies, and all the drawbacks of their present posi tion. She loved her handsome Spaniard with a sensual love, which to herself she attempted to idealize. It was because he understood her, and saw how wasted her life had been, that she felt drawn towards him. In this she was right. Gonzalo did understand her. He, better than any one else, saw through her shallow, vain nature, and speculated on her love of admiration. She was an easy conquest, and as such he did not prize her very highly ; but his love would probably last through the season. She was certainly one of the best-looking women iu London, always well dressed, and with a quiet little chic of her own, nothing outre or overdone in any of her surroundings.

All was ordered in good taste, even her deception of Sh- Eustace. She never sat out dances with Gonzalo, or allowed him in any way to compromise her. She was always affectionate and dutiful to her husband, acquiescing in all his wishes, and consulting him in everything. It was so much better to be open and above-board, thought Angela. She told her husband of Gonzalo's visit when she returned to his room. It was very kind of him to call — only a foreigner would venture to do so at such a late hour in the evening, she declared ; and then she added that some newspaper reporters had also called, and Gonzalo and the reporters were now together. Later on a nurse arrived — a demure young lady with a clanging chatelaine, which Angela very sweetly asked her to take off. Her husband was not likely to require surgical instruments in the night, she said.

The nurse looked pert, and said they were only scissors, and little things containing needles and pins, etc., which were generally necessary in a sick room. But Angela had her own way in this, as in most things. She was a very devoted wife, and quite willing to nurse her husband in the daytime ; but sitting up at night gave her a pain in the back and a headache. The demure nurse agreed with her that it was very trying, and volunteered the further information that she liked " exciting cases," and " disliked every thing that dragged." Lady Bevan hated her on the spot, and wished her a civil good night. And then, the next day, the sentence was pronounced by the doctors that Sir Eustace must give up all work for a year at least. There was a slight threatening of brain trouble, which was easily curable by absolute rest, but which might develop into serious complications unless this course was adopted.

A year seemed a terrible verdict to Angela. How could she be expected to bury herself in the country for three hundred and sixty-five days, and keep aloof from all society ? The idea was preposterous ; and yet it must be carried out. Sir Eustace could not be allowed to drift into a state of imbecility ; only, surely it would not be necessary for her to share his exile ? She suggested a sea voyage to the doctors ; being a very bad sailor, no one would expect her to make the sacrifice of accompanying him, but the doctors would not hear of it. Sir Eustace must go and live like a vegetable in the country, seeing as few people as possible, and avoiding all excitement. Angela suppressed the anger which these orders created. She smiled a sickly smile of acquiescence — it was the only thing to be done. Later on she would develop her own illness, which would require an altogether different regime.

Chapter IV. Lying

at the foot of a long hill, and overlooking a vast expanse of the Weald of Kent, lies a cosy little rectory house, divided only by a trim, well-kept garden from the grey old church beyond. Past the lich-gate, past the square, squat Norman tower, a footpath leads across pleasant meadows, where soft-eyed cows munch the rich lush grass, to the great stone Manor House, nearly a mile beyond the village of Seccombe, in which the Rectory stands. "Village " seems almost too urban a term to apply to the half-dozen or so of cottages which form the hamlet ; but there are a few other houses a little way out, mostly those of people too impoverished by the distressed state of agriculture to afford to live elsewhere, and certainly, if Seccombe could boast of nothing else, it could truthfully lay claim to affording cheap living.

When one resides out of range of cities, clubs, streets, and shops, it is surprising indeed to find how few and how modest one's wants are. But the place has better gifts than can be offered by great cities : good air that lightens man's lungs ; scenery that delights his eye ; health, for all who choose to seek it. All these may be had there for the asking. Within the study of the parsonage house, the Rector — affectionately known amongst his parish ioners as the Reverend Jack, but whose real name is John Bower — sits with his chair pulled close up to the bright wood fire. His muddy boots tell of long tramping in the hedge-rowed lanes, his trousers are still turned up at the ends, as they had been when he came in some half an hour since. He was placidly looking up at the oak beams which sup ported the ceiling, and equally placidly sucking at his pipe, a picture of real contentment — of that pleasurable fatigue which comes after a day of honest work, " well and truly done."