The Fate of Herbert Wayne

Front matter

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Preface

. A wonn of explanation is necessary in connection with the publication of this story. It was to be issued originally as a serial, and all arrangements had been made for its appearance in various periodicals, when my attention was drawn to the fact that the central idea of the tale -was very much like that of another work of fiction by a well-known writer which had not long before been published. It is, perhaps, needless to say that I had never read or even heard of the novel in question, or of its writer's design. Nevertheless, I felt some doubt as to the propriety of proceeding with the publication of the book under these circumstances, and placed the question before Mr. "Walter Besant for his opinion. This Mr. Besant was kind enough to give me by letter, and he also made a note on the case in his journal, The Author, which I venture to quote in justification of the course I have adopted in pub lishing my story. 'Here,' wrote Mr. Besant, 'is a case which has recently happened. A novelist has spent some months in working a story based upon an idea which is strong.

PREFACE.

effective, and, as he fondly believed, perfecthy new That a man should believe any story to be perfectly new shows a certain credulity. He has now finished his novel and has made excellent arrangements about its appearance. But he has learned, to his dismay, that the perfectly new and strong idea has already — and not so very long ago — been used by another writer. "What is he to do ? Shall he lose his labour ? Is the accident that the same idea has occurred to this other writer to stand in the way '? The answer to these questions seems clear. He did not steal the idea : this can be proved by the time of his beginning and planning the story. Nobody can accuse him of plagiarism. Then what matters? Every writer has his own style, bis own method of treatment ; the two stories will be fitted with different characters, different plots.

Let this novelist proceed with his story. Let him, however, if he thinks well, write a preface stating the facts, otherwise some critic will find out the resemblance, and will, naturally — for such a find happens seldom — crow over him, jump upon him, and despitefully entreat him. I do not believe that such an accident will injure either novel a bit.' In accordance with Mr. Besant' s advice, I submit this preface to the public, while begging to be excused, for obvious reasons, from naming the particular story which mine in certain respects resembles. E. J. G. 8, Barxsbi*ry Park, N., September, 1892. CONTENTS ClIArTER PAOE

Introduction

1 I. AWAKENING -------- d II. A MYSTERY 12 HI. NOT FORGOTTEN 24 IV. WE EXPECT A VISITOR 34 V. JOHN GREGORY 44 VI. THE FIRST SECRET 55 VII. LIGHT AND DARKNESS ------ 65 VIII. I TAKE FLIGHT 76 IX. IN TOWN 85 X. THE SECOND SECRET ------ 94 XI. THE REPORT OF AN INQUEST 104 XII. MRS. ROBSON'S OPINION 115 XIII. MASTER AND MAN - - - ' - - - - 123 XIV. AT THE GOLDEN RING 133 XV. HOME AGAIN 144 XVI. A DREAM 155 XVII. A WARNING AND A PROMISE 164 XVIII. GREGORY'S ADVICE 173 XIX. FURTHER INQUIRIES 1H4 XX. CAUGHT IN A TRAP CONTENTS VII CHAPTEB pag i: XXI. THE GREYTHORNES 204 XXII. LOVE AND DUTY ------- 215 XXIII. DANGER - - - 224 XXIV. MOTHER AND SISTER --.-.. 234 XXV. TOM CARTER'S MISSION ------ 243 XXVI. NEWS OF GEORGE ANDREWS ----- 252 XXVII. ANOTHER FLIGHT ---..-. 263 XXVIII. THE LAST SECRET 272 XXIX. HOW IT HAPPENED 282 XXX. CONSOLATION --------

INTRODUCTION.

. How shall I tell my cruel, my heart-breaking story ? A cloud hangs over my life which will never be dis pelled. A memory haunts me which can never be effaced. Providence has been merciful to me in my misery, and I have much comfort in my affliction. But the past cannot be obliterated. Gladly would I regard this tragic episode in my life's history as a dream, as a horrible vision that has no reality. Yet it is true, only too terribly true, and the recollection of it will sadden my soul to the end of my days. Perhaps it may relieve my mind to tell this story as I have been advised to do, narrating events in the exact order in which they occurred from a certain date, and as they impressed themselves upon me at the time. It is surely a tale stranger than ever yet was told — at least, so it seems to me, who have been the central figure in it.

Others, too, will wonder at it, but I hope it will also lead them to reflect. For when I review the course of this dreadful ordeal through which I have passed, scorched and scarred, yet still chastened and corrected, I cannot but think that my singular and sorrowful experience may have a certain psychological interest for those who study with a purpose the manifold phenomena of the human mind, and seek to draw instruction even from the wayward freaks of fate.

Chapter I. Awakening

I was alone, lying upon a couch, and lightly clad. My first sensation was that of one awakening from a deep and prolonged sleep. I felt no pain, no physical dis comfort, but yet experienced a certain sense of weak ness and languor. My brain seemed feeble, and the slightest attempt to think or reason fatigued it at once. So I lay for some minutes quiescent, neither reflecting nor observing. Presently I turned my head upon the pillow or cushion on which it was resting, and gazed around me. The room in which I lay was strange to me. The blind was drawn down at the window to veil the glare of the sunshine, but the aspect of the apartment was bright and cheerful. The furniture was simple in design, but fashioned in elegant taste ; the wall-paper was of a quiet neutral tint, in harmony with the colour of the window curtains and chair-covers ; there were landscapes in water-colour on the walls, and flowers everywhere, in vases and on stands, which filled the atmosphere with faint, delicious perfume.

The room, as I have said, was furnished with taste, but it was not overcrowded with unnecessary objects, and it was neatly and tidily kept, yet without an appearance of severe orderliness. There was nothing slovenly about it, but nothing pedantic. It was a room arranged not merely to be looked at, but to live in ; it was home-like and comfortable. A few cosy lounging chairs, some of light cane work, were distributed about the apartment, and over the backs of these were thrown coverlets of em broidered stuff such as women delight in decorating, and on a small side-table I noticed a little pile of fancy needlework, unfinished, and a work-basket. Thus, on all sides, there was evidence of female care and taste, and thence I came to the conclusion that I was in the hands of thoughtful and loving women.

An air of delicious silence and repose reigned around me, but it was not unbroken. A soft mono tonous murmur fell upon my ear, and, as an old angler, I recognised it as the sound of a brawling stream making, not far off, its turbulent way over a rugged, stony bed in tiny rapids and miniature cascades ; and mingled with it were the trilling and twittering notes of song-birds, and now and then the rustling of leafy branches stirred by a fitful breeze, and the sweet, soft pealing of distant bells — church A WAKENING 5 bells — now faint, now louder, as the wind rose and fell. Where was I? Somewhere in the country, that was clear. I could, at least, infer that from my surroundings. The idea made a momentary impres sion on my mind, but I did not, I could not, dwell upon it. The effort to reflect, to conjecture, was painful, repugnant.

Then, after awhile, it suddenly occurred to me to ask myself what was the day of the week. It was an old habit of mine on awaking in the morning, and I dreamily reflected that it was Thursday. Yes, Thurs day ; for was not yesterday Wednesday '? Yet, if so, why were the church bells pealing ? That was strange. But, as I have said, it fatigued me to dwell, even for a moment, upon any one subject, and I wished for repose — perfect repose. And so I lay there, I do not know for how long, my mind at rest and my senses soothed by the sight of the cheerful objects around me and the sweet mingled sounds of the rushing river, the rustling of the leaves, the music of the birds, and the chiming of the distant bells. Presently the door that faced me at the farther end of the room was opened slowly and carefully, and someone entered with a noiseless footstep.

It was a beautiful girl, not yet out of her ' teens ' — very fair, with golden rippling hair and tender blue eyes, her figure slight but well-knit, and her counten- THE FA TE OF HERBERT WA YNE 6 ance denoting decision of character and refinement of thought and feeling. She was very pale, and wore a look of care, and her first glance was directed to the corner of the room where I lay. I recognised her at once ; it was my sister — Amy Ford. Very quietly she approached my couch. She gazed on me with an expression of inquiry rather than anxiety, but as she met my glance her features suddenly denoted a feeling of extreme and joyful surprise ; the pale face flushed, and tears gathered in her eyes, but there was a smile upon her lips. For some moments she stood before me as though in doubt ; then, in a tremulous voice, and almost in a whisper, she uttered my name : ' Oscar !' I said nothing.

I felt as though it would be too great an effort to speak. But the presence of my sister pleased me, and I expressed my pleasure with a responsive smile. Amy now came close to me, and, seating herself by my side, placed her soft cool hand on mine, and said : ' Oscar dear, do you know me '?' Did I know her ? What a strange question ! Such was the reflection which passed through my mind at the time. But I did not give any expression to my wonder. I only answered by pronouncing her name ' Amy !' She must have been endeavouring with a strong A WAKENING 7 effort to control her emotion. Even in my weak state I could not fail to perceive that she was greatly agitated. Her lips, her eyelids quivered, her bosom heaved, and her hands trembled. But she expressed her excitement only by exclaiming, in an earnest and subdued tone : 'Oh! thank God for this !' Nothing more was said by either of us for some minutes.

Amy still sat by my side, holding my hand and pressing it with affection now and then. And so I lay there, enjoying the silence and repose, my mind wandering as it listed, without effort on my part to direct its course, and revelling in a delicious sense of idleness. But presently it occurred to me that the quiet which I found so grateful must seem oppressive to her at my side, and I turned my head towards her, gazing into her gentle face, and purposing to speak. But Amy bent over me and kissed me, saying softly as she did so : ' Don't talk, dear.' I was glad of this considerate warning, for indeed I felt no inclination to converse. So we sat together for some time, no sound breaking the stillness but the murmur of the brawling stream, the songs of the birds, and the chiming of the distant bells.

Those bells once more puzzled me, and prompted me to speak at last. ' Amy,' I asked, ' what day is it ?' * Sunday, dear,' was her reply. Sunday ! and yesterday, I thought, was Wednesday. That was very strange ; but I was not equal to the exertion of attempting to reconcile this anomaly. After awhile Amy, who had sat watching me again in silence, quietly rose and said : ' You will not mind my leaving you for a few moments ?' ' No,' I answered, and then she left the room. It will, of course, have been seen that I had just shown signs of recovery from an illness and from a state of unconsciousness. But at that moment no thought of my condition occupied my mind. I was only sensible of being where I was, very quiet and very comfortable, disturbed by nothing except that strange mistake about the day of the week.

Surely yesterday must have been Wednesday ! I had the most vivid recollection of every incident of the day. I was one of a reading party of under graduates residing in a cottage called Ferndale, which we had taken for a few weeks in a beautiful spot near Amberwell, a small town on the borders of Dartmoor. My companions were Herbert Wayne and John Gregory, and we were waited on by Gregory's man, George Andrews, assisted by a woman, Martha Wilde, who came up every day from Amberwell to do our housework. We had risen early' as usual, and had done our morning ' tub ' in the river, breakfasted, and worked A WAKENING 9 till lunch. Then we went out whipping the water for trout for a few hours, and had pretty fair sport. We dined at six, and I remembered that I felt ill — hot and feverish — had little appetite, and was rather irritable.

I was afraid that I must have appeared to my companions to be in a very unreasonable frame of mind. Herbert seemed anxious about me ; asked what was the matter with me, and so forth. Gregory took no notice whatever of my ill-temper, and put no questions to me. But I was equally irritated by both. I was angry with Herbert for his solicitude, and with Gregory for his indifference. I did not recollect how the evening ended, or how I got to bed, but I supposed that we must have all retired to rest at our usually early hour. Did not all this take place yesterday ? Or had I been long ill ? Yes, that was it. I must have been ill and insensible for days, perhaps weeks, and so they brought me down here, here in the country, and now I was recovering. I would not trouble my head further on the subject.

Doubtless I should hear all about it before long. Presently my cogitations were interrupted. The door opened again, and Amy returned, followed by another person — my mother. Mrs. Ford was not only beloved, but also greatly admired. Notwithstanding her silver-gray hair and matronly appearance, she still bore marked traces of the beauty of her youth. She had large radiant eyes, dark, and full equally of kindliness and intelligence, while her features were regular and refined, suggestive of that culture and capacity which she possessed to a high degree, but which was only faintly indicated in her ordinary conversation. A dear, good, loving mother she had ever been to us, her two children, and this illness of mine, whether it had been of long or brief duration, must have been a painful trial to her.

It was evident that Amy had prepared her for the sight of her beloved son restored to consciousness, if not to health, for she was quiet, and gazed upon me from her gentle brown eyes with a look of intense but serene pleasure. ' My darling boy,' she said, taking my hand and kissing me, ' I am so thankful to find you so much better. But you must keep very quiet. Don't ask us any questions, or attempt to talk. You must not mind if we sit silent with you — at any rate till the doctor comes.' I was grateful indeed for this loving consideration. Any attempt at conversation just then must have been as injurious as it was distasteful to me. I instinctively shrank from it, for my brain felt feeble. I was exhausted even by the slight and almost involuntary exertion of recalling the events of that day which I had supposed to be ' yesterday,' and I could not fix my attention on any other topic.

So there they sat till my medical man, Dr. Bramber, came. He was a portly, cheery old fellow, with a AWAKENING 11 bald head and gold spectacles, a stranger to me. He examined me, and his report was favourable. ' He will do very well,' said the doctor ; ' but you must keep him quiet, very quiet, for some time. In fact, leave matters in this respect entirely to him, and don't attempt to contradict him till he gets riotous and rowdy.' The doctor's visit was soon over; and, indeed, short as it was, I felt glad when he had gone, and had left me alone with my sister to be quiet, perfectly quiet.

Chapter II

A MYSTERY My recovery was rapid. I soon found that my brain was weaker than my body. Long inaction had enfeebled me, but I was surprised to discover how much stronger I was in my limbs than I had sup posed. On the second day after my awakening I was enabled to walk across the room ; on the fourth I was allowed to go out of doors. Little by little my faculty of sustained thought became restored, and then I made some surprising discoveries. In the first place I found that the season was early summer, but it was late in the summer when I broke down. Hence I must have been lying ill for many months. Naturally I soon began to make inquiries as to the character and details of my illness ; but I was astonished, and indeed not a little vexed, to find that both my mother and Amy were strangely reluctant to discuss the subject with me. 'Don't let us talk about your illness, Oscar dear,' pleaded the former. ' The recollection of it is very distressing to me.

It is all over now, and I hope from my heart that there will be no recurrence of it.' It was in vain that I endeavoured to extract from her more definite information. My questions evidently caused her so much pain that I was forced to desist from pressing them. It was the same with Amy, whose confidence in all things I had ever enjoyed. ' Your illness, Oscar,' she said, ' has been a terrible trouble to us, and both mamma and I wish to forget all about it. Do not revive all the pain we have suffered on your account by dwelling upon it.' So, failing in my attempt to elicit the facts from my female relatives, I was resolved to await my father's arrival, hoping that he would be less reticent than they were, and within a week after my restoration he came down to see me. He, William Ford, was the head of a prosperous firm of shipowners— Ford, Carrington and Co. He had greatly desired to take me into his business ; but I had felt and expressed a strong distaste for any sort of commercial pursuit, and wished to go to the Bar.

It was with this view that I had been studying at Oxford ; and I was reading for my final examination when my unfortunate breakdown occurred. For my father, when he found that I was thoroughly in earnest in the choice of a future profession, made no attempt to check my ambition, but encouraged and assisted my efforts to accomplish it by all the means in his power. He was a man of enlightenment and kindly feeling, who inspired his family and his employes with both affection and respect. Everybody liked him, but no one could impose upon him or take a liberty with him. He had a great influence over me, and, while an indulgent parent, had ever exercised a strong hand without violence, which I found it impossible to resist. When he arrived on the Saturday following the day of my recovery, it was evident that he had great difficulty in restraining his feeling of joy at seeing me restored to health.

He grasped my hand with a trembling pressure, and the tears gathered in his eyes, but he said very little about my illness ; it was plain that he wished to avoid the subject. When at last I had an opportunity of speaking with him alone, and begged him earnestly to explain the nature of my malady, he gave me information slightly more definite than any I had yet been able to obtain, but still, as I thought it at the time, by no means satisfactory. 'You overworked yourself, my boy,' he said. 'You studied too hard, and got a sort of brain -fever. So Jack Gregory brought you back to London, and then we had you taken down here. But don't trouble yourself about the past. All you have to do now is to take care of your health. Give up your books for a time — that I insist upon — and amuse yourself as well as you can.

There is capital fishing in the river, and there are beautiful walks in all directions. So take as much exercise and get as much sport as possible.' There was one remark of my father's which made a profound impression upon me, and even startled me. Jack Gregory had brought me back to London. Not a word was said about Herbert "Wayne. How was this? I put a question to that effect. This inquiry seemed to cause my father some embarrass ment, for, in a manner very unlike his usual prompt and direct mode of response, he paused to consider his answer. ' It was not thought necessary,' at length he said, ' for more than two persons to accompany you, for of course Gregory's man, Andrews, went with him. Wayne was not with them.' Herbert Wayne not with them? That was very strange. Herbert Wayne was my dearest and best friend ; he was more than a brother to me.

That John Gregory, and not he, should have brought me home ill, was the most extraordinary thing I had ever heard of. I did not care for Gregory. I could never look upon him as a friend in the truest sense of the term. There was not that sympathy between him and myself which bound me to Herbert Wayne. If there was anyone most likely to help me in misfortune it was Herbert, and that he had failed to do so in this instance was simply unaccountable. • AVhere is Wayne now ?' I asked. ' I cannot say,' replied my father, speaking in a quick, sharp tone, very unusual with him, and slightly frowning. I was surprised alike by his answer and his manner ; but my curiosity, to speak of no other feeling, was strongly excited, and I could not help making further inquiry. ' Do I understand,' I asked, ' that you are unable or that you are unwilling to tell me where Herbert is?' ' I can only repeat my previous answer,' replied Mr. Ford very gravely. ' I leave you to form your own conclusions.' I was shocked and pained, even alarmed, by this singular rejoinder.

It was very rarely indeed that my father thus addressed any of us. If at any time we put a question to him which he did not think proper to answer, he would merely give a quiet hint that he did not wish to reply, and that, of course, sufficed to silence us. We all knew that he was never reticent without good reasons. But now his tone was almost stem, and I felt that something unpleasant concerning Herbert was being kept from me. What could it be ? I did not speak again for some moments, but watched Mr. Ford's countenance as he sat before me with eyes bent on the ground. I could not abandon the subject, even at the risk of offending my father. I felt compelled to put another question, or at least make a request. ' Forgive me,' I said, ' if hi my anxiety I seem too curious, but I beg, I entreat you to speak more plainly and tell me what has become of Herbert Wayne.' Mr. Ford drew a deep breath, and then raised his eyes.

All appearance of sternness had passed from his face, but he looked at me with an expression of mingled sadness and resolution, as he replied : ' Oscar, I will speak plainly to you ; at least, as plainly as I can. For reasons which I cannot speak at present, it is not desirable that you should ask any questions concerning your friend Wayne. There are, I may say, circumstances of a painful nature connected with him, which you will do well not to inquire into. I must therefore request you not to speak with me further on this subject. And, above all, let me warn you that, if you make any allusion to it in the hearing of your mother or sister, you will cause them the deepest distress and embarrassment.' These words, I need scarcely say, perplexed as much as they pained me. They pointed obviously to some trouble into which Herbert had fallen, while they in no way indicated the nature of it.

Conjecture on such a subject was therefore useless; but there was one fact which I could not fail to remember, and which might have some bearing on my father's language. Herbert Wayne loved my sister, and she reciprocated his attachment. It was the dearest wish of my heart to see them united, but my father was strongly opposed to such a match, though my mother favoured it. We all knew that John Gregory also admired Amy, and Mr. Ford, though he never said a word to anyone on the subject, was obviously disposed to encourage his suit. For John Gregory was rich, the eldest son of a wealthy country squire, who made him a large allowance ; while Herbert was without parents, and was just barely able to keep himself at college on a very slender income. There was, as may well be supposed, little love between him and Gregory, and, indeed, it was somewhat embarrassing to me to have as companions two men who secretly felt that they were rivals.

Their antagonism rarely found even indirect ex pression, but it existed all the same, and I knew that Herbert regarded Gregory with dislike, as far, at least, as so gentle a soul as he could dislike any human being. Had Herbert's love for my sister anything to do with this strange mystery ? I could hardly doubt it. To my father, of course, after what had passed between us, I could say no more, nor would I question my mother ; but there had ever been perfect confidence between Amy and myself, and, in spite of Mr. Ford's warning, I resolved to sound her on this mysterious matter at the earliest opportunity. A MYS1ERY 19 During the first days of my recovery I found that there was among the members of our little household a person whose exact position in it I could not quite understand. This was Tom Carter, a cheery, able bodied young man, with a close-cropped head, a rosy face, and small twinkling black eyes.

He worked in the garden, and yet did not seem to be a skilled gardener, for he appeared to know very little about horticulture when I questioned him on the subject. He was apparently employed as a sort of man of all work, ready to turn his hand to anything — carpentry, cleaning, and waiting at table, or going on errands to the village, or little town, Fallington, about a mile and a half distant. Tom Carter was an amusing fellow, with a pro nounced cockney accent and a large stock of small information. He seemed to take a great liking to me, and on one pretence or another frequently came into my room and engaged in conversation ; sometimes, though uninvited, taking a seat, and remaining, either gossiping or silent, till I showed that I was tired of him. He would talk about anything except my illness. ' Don't you bother your 'ead about that, sir,' he said, when I first broached the subject ; ' what you've got to do is to get well and strong again, and then you'll 'ear all about it, if you've a mind.