For His Friend. A novel

Chapter I

A DAY LATE. ' Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, Preposterously at cross-purposes.' Letter of an Arab Physician. ' Ten o'clock and a sunny morn,' sang Averil Hamilton, dancing into the dining room at the Rectory, ' dozens of letters, three advertisements, and two newspapers. Don't stop to read your share, Kitty, or the tide will be too low for us to bathe.' It was indeed a ' sunny morn,' rather too much so for anyone but a salamander. vol. h. The sea shone in a haze of heat, and the very sea-gulls sat listlessly on the rocks, as if it were too much exertion even to catch the lazy fish in the waveless water below. ' We'll have to spend the whole day in the water, I think,' said Katharine. ' I suppose we'll be cool there — that is, if we don't get a sunstroke on the way down to the shore.' ' I don't call it a bit too hot, but the longer you dawdle the hotter it'll be, there's no denying that.' ' Well, I'll come, but I must read my letters first.' One of them was an epistle from her mother, and this she laid aside for future consideration, the other was from her sister, and took so long to read that Averil grew tired of doing nothing and opened the Western Morning News.

It was that of the previous day — the papers were always a day late at Combes Leigh, unless specially sent for from the town on the evening of their publication. So this morning, the second after the departure of the two young men, the Western Morning News contained the account of that terrible accident to the Scotch night-mail. ' How dreadful,' exclaimed Averil, reading out the heading, ' Fatal Railway Acci dent. Forty persons killed and injured,' and she proceeded to glance at the details, but without a thought of any particular interest in them. She had not been fully acquainted with her cousin's plans, and never imagined that he might have been in the train of whose complete wreck she was reading-. Katharine went on with her letter, absorbed in Janie's lamentations over the verdict of Jack's ' crammer,' i.e., that he had no chance of passing his exam,, and she scarcely listened to the scraps that Averil read out, until the words ' Scotch mail ' fell on her ear and attracted her attention.

Then she sprang up and seized the paper. ' When — when — which train ? Last night, did you say ?' 15—2 ' No. The paper is a day old, don't you see ? It was the night before last,' said Averil, startled at her friend's eagerness. ' What of it ? Did you know anyone in the train ?' ' They were both in it — they were both going to Scotland by the night-mail on Wednesday.' With trembling fingers and eyes half blinded with tears, the two girls scanned the long columns, but they found no names they knew ; the provincial paper gave but a very imperfect list, concluding with a promise of further particulars in a later edition. ' The Times' gasped Katharine ; ' that will tell us more.' They tore it open. Yes, the names were there. Ten persons killed, and among those identified — Charles Hamilton ! Averil burst out with choking sobs and tears, but Katharine stood still, her eyes fixed upon the words which told of the death of her lover, her figure rigid as if in a catalepsy.

Presently a sound came from her white lips, not a moan or a cry, but a faint murmur. ' He said no good could come of it. It is my fault, and he is punished for it.' Averil raised her head and looked at Katharine. Something in her friend's face frightened her ; she had never seen such misery before. ' Oh, Kitty ! Darling Kitty !' She flung her arms round Katharine's neck and clasped her close, forgetting her own grief in terror for her friend. It was the best thing she could have done ; Katharine's strained attitude relaxed, and the complete suspension of physical con sciousness changed to an abandonment of despair, quite as painful to witness, but far more natural, and less harmful to the girl. ' Who said that, Kitty ?' cried Averil, with an instinctive feeling that it was best to speak out. ' How can it be your fault ?

Don't let yourself have such dreadful thoughts.' ' Mr. Scott told me evil would come of it, if we persisted in defying my parents,' answered Katharine, in a low tone of in tense conviction ; ' but it is hard that Charlie should suffer — he would have told them long ago if I had wished it — and now he has died for my sin.' Averil was at her wits' end. She saw plainly enough that there was something wrong in Katharine's conclusions, but she did not know how to argue with her, and she could think of no consolation to offer to such a troubled mind as this. In her perplexity the words of a text occurred to her, and half unconsciously she uttered them aloud, inapplicable though they were : ' " Greater love hath no man than this." ' ' Love !' flashed out Katharine, turning upon her almost fiercely. ' Why do you speak of love ?

You know I loved him.' The tone of self-defence would have proved conclusively to an acute observer, that she had not loved him of whom she spoke. Her own loss was nothing — the thought of it never came home to her at all ; all she realized was the evil that had happened to him. It was his life that was destroyed, not her hope and happi ness. She, personally, was in nowise affected by the terrible event ; she only wept and wailed for what he had lost. And this was not due to that love which swallows up all considerations of self; it was due solely to the fact that her fancy, and not her heart, had been touched by his devotion. Hers was no solitary instance ; probably, there is not one of us who has not experienced the pleasure and the pain of a fictitious love, and alas ! too many of us, like Katharine Balfour, have mistaken it for the love which comes but once in a life-time.

But both the pleasure and the pain are keen enough while they last, and the girl who mourned so bitterly over the death which the subtle workings of mind and conscience caused her to lay to her own charge, for the time suffered as keenly as if her whole soul had been wrapped up in her lover's. Slowly the long morning dragged on, with that burning radiance of sunlight scorching the grass and the flowers. The tide went out further and further, till all the little rocks were left high and dry, their wrappings of brown sea-weed curling and crackling with the intense heat ; and never a livingthing stirred in the air or the water — every creature seemed to be sleep ing away the noon-tide, and the very bees ceased to hum in the roses outside the Rectory window. It was such a day as England rarely sees, not sultry or thunder ous, but a real summer day.

Over at the Park, Mrs. Hamilton sat under the trees on the lawn, stitching at some delicate embroidery, and languidly wondering what kept Averil so long ; and in Leigh, Mr. Daubeny, attending a ruri decanal meeting, soberly discussed the terrible railway accident, and shook his head over the ever-increasing speed of the race of life, which would save a few minutes of time at the risk of a sudden launch into eternity. ' These express trains are a great snare,' said the old gentleman. Leigh, as a town, was staunchly Con servative ; and the few stirring spirits, whose lines, by a cruel decree of Fate, had been cast in the drowsy little place, had long ago given up agitating for a more convenient means of locomotion than the cumbrous coach, with its four lean horses, who did the ten miles to the rail way twice every day in one hour and forty minutes, even trotting up hill and down.

More than once an attempt had been made to get a branch-line from the South Devon and Cornwall railway to Leigh Valley, which would have reduced the distance by one half ; but the townspeople and coach-proprietors had made such an outcry, that the project had been aban doned each time in despair of funds ever being raised. Why they objected, it would be difficult to say, unless it were owing to a vague apprehension that the price of provisions in the surrounding country would go up if communication between Leigh and the world at large were facilitated ; but their objection, though intangible, was insur mountable, and they looked upon every fresh railway accident as a new proof ot their wisdom in rejecting the evil power of steam. So the papers to-day were read with sorrow, not unchastened with gentle satisfaction, the thought paramount in the minds of all being that this catas trophe might have happened to them selves, but for their prudent determination with regard to that proposed branch-line.

The ruri-decanal meeting was not a large one. It never was; in fact, the Rural Dean had been know, now and then, to come and meet himself. Mr. Daubeny, a deaf old Vicar from the other side of the river, and a timid young Curate, re presented the Deanery on this occasion, and the chief business they transacted was the consumption of a heavy lunch, pro vided, as usual, by the buxom landlady of the Canterdown Arms. Then Mr. Daubeny and his friend the Rural Dean had an amicable chat over various local occurrences, of more or less (but generally less) importance, and having contrived to kill time until a tootling horn announced the arrival of the afternoon coach with the second post and the day's papers, they bade each other 'good after noon,' ordered their respective carriages, and prepared to return home.

The ostler at the inn knew to a nicety how long he might gossip with Mr. Dau beny's coachman and Mr. Vining's groom, before putting in the horses ; for experience had taught him to calculate exactly the time required for the delivery of the far from ponderous mail-bag at the post-office down the street, and to sort the letters. ' I shall be ready for my carriage in five minutes,' said Mr. Daubeny. ' Put my horse in at once,' said Mr. Vining. And in half an hour, to the moment, the two old clergymen reappeared at the inn, found their carriages just being brought out of the yard, solemnly presented the ostler with a sixpence each, and drove off. They had done the same thing on an average thrice a week for the last thirty years ; the only variation being in the time of day, which differed according to the object for which they visited the town.

The second post, it is true, was a late inno vation, and had been resisted at first almost as strenuously as the branch-line still was, but it had only superseded a colloquy with the coachdriver, who had brought the news of the day by word of mouth, until the Postmaster -General decreed that he was to bring it by means of mail-bags. Mr. Daubeny drove away slowly, for he, like everyone else, felt oppressed by the intense heat. He had found no letters at the post-office, and as his two well-conditioned bays lazily drew him up the long hill out of the town, he pondered over the text of his next Sunday's sermon. ' Wull 'ee touch 'em up a bit, surr ?' said Hannaford; 'theybe gwine tu sleep standin'.' The Rector woke from his brown study, and handed the reins to his coachman. ' You can drive the rest of the way,' he said ; ' I wish to look at to-day's paper.' Hannaford, nothing loath, drew the whip lightly over the sleek flanks of the near horse. ' Get up, Damsel, my boy,' said he, and with an indignant whisk of his tail Damsel started off at a brisk trot, to the confusion of his companion Peach.

Hannaford was blessed with an horticul tural turn, and had given his master's horses these names ; nor could he be brought to perceive the inappropriateness of the first, which to his dying day he would hold to be that of his favourite species of plum. Damsel and Peach ambled along as gaily as they felt able with the thermometer at 90° in the shade, and Mr. Daubeny read the Western Morning News with further intelligence of the accident, yesterday's account of which, be it observed, he had not yet seen. He did not notice a brief paragraph at the foot, of the corrected list of injured and killed, and he found nothing in the long columns of horror which touched him more nearly than any humane man would be touched by a description of suffering in which he had no personal con cern. Meanwhile the two girls at the Rectory sat with blanched faces, and eyes red with weeping, and the servants and villagers mourned over the untimely fate of the hand some young fellow, who had won all their hearts during his short stay at Farm Barton.

The news had soon spread. Katharine and Averil had refused to eat any lunch, and in answer to Mrs. Simmons' anxious inqui ries as to what was wrong, Miss Hamilton had sobbed out the dreadful news. ' Poor dear young gentleman,' wept the good woman, and straightway all Combes Leigh learnt what had happened. To this scene of grief, then, came Mr. Daubeny, grave, certainly, in the contem plation of the sudden end of so many of his fellow-creatures (though the number, after all, was in no way commensurate with that of the victims of a colliery explosion or mining disaster), but otherwise much in his usual quiet frame of mind, and went in search of his niece, with the paper in his hand. ' The young ladies is in the drawing room,' said Mary Ann, with her apron up to her eyes ; but the Rector did not notice her tears. ' Well, what have you been doing this hot day, my dears ?' he began, entering the drawing-room, sweet with the scent of roses and jessamine, and shady with green blinds and muslin curtains ; but he stopped short on the threshold, and his gentle tone changed to alarmed exclamation. ' My children, what has happened ?

Averil came forward and hid her face on his breast. The day had been so long, and their sudden trouble so heavy to bear, and all the time she had been wishing for him, thinking that he would comfort them, or at least grieve with them. She had not gone to her mother ; Katharine had clung to her so passionately, and implored so piteously not to be left alone, that Averil had not the heart to tear herself away, and Katharine was in no state to go with her, even had she wished it. So there they sat in the darkened drawing-room, not crying now, nor speak ing, but holding each other's hands in a silence more expressive than words, till the Rector came and folded them both in his arms, trembling and overcome him self at the shock of their news. Averil was the first to ask how it was he did not know — had he not seen it in to-day's paper ?

No, said Mr. Daubeny ; there was not a single name mentioned that he recognised. The strangeness of this struck them at once, and the girls' hearts beat fast as they took the paper and read the long list. Forty names in all, but no mention of Charlie Hamilton. 16 VOL. 11.

Chapter II. Suspense

' Men believe And worship what they know not, nor receive Delight from.' Sordello. Scott left the hospital in a state bordering on distraction. Shaken terribly by the catastrophe of the night past, and withal a man whose nerves at best were high strung and sensitive, it was not surprising that the sight of that ghastly row of dead men almost turned his brain. He had made sure of finding his friend among them, for he was haunted by the white face with its glassy eyes turned up to the dark SUSPENSE. 19 sky, as he had seen it in the glare of the bull's-eye lantern when they laid Charlie on the bench. And the old man's words sounded in his ears still, with the fainter echo of his own passionate question : ' / wonder what his name was ?' ' Why do you say " was "? ' Becatise he is dead' Yes, Charlie Hamilton was dead, and he, to whom he had been dear as a brother, must break the news to his old aunt and to Katharine Balfour.

But where had they taken him ? He must find him, see for himself that it was true, that nothing could have saved him, before he could quite give up hope, although there seemed no room for hope. He hurried along the street, unconscious of the glances of pity and surprise that were turned on him as he passed, with only one idea in his mind — to go to the station and look for his friend where he had seen him last, bitterly reproaching himself mean while for having left him. He looked 16 — neither to right nor left, but walked rapidly, with his head bent down, yet not so low as to conceal the misery written on his haggard countenance, in the direction, as he imagined, of that fatal station. But not many hundred yards from the hospital a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice (had it not been beat ing upon his brain ever since he woke that morning ?) said : ' Stop, stop !

I have been looking for you !' Scott gave a nervous start, and woke out of his dream to behold the old doctor standing in front of him. ' Where have you taken him ?' he cried, and there was such an agony of suspense in his tone that the old man hastened to answer : ' You mean Mr. Hamilton ? He is at my house, close by.' ' Oh ! But why not there at the hospital, with — the others ?' SUSPENSE. 21 ' I wished to have him under my own eye. But I give you little hope of his recovery.' ' He is alive !' Scott was at this period of his existence almost, if not quite, an atheist, but something like ' Thank God ' rose to his lips as he heard the doctor's words. It is in such supreme moments as this that man's instinct overcomes his reason, and his soul speaks to the God Who gave it. And that is evidence, if we could but accept it, which is stronger than any logic of the schools, that God is God and man is His creature.

Scott, brought up by his grandmother in the most rigid Calvinism, began to rebel, as soon as he began to think, at the hard lines and narrow dogmas of that stern religion, and before he was twenty he had gone through as many phases of religion and no-religion as most men of twice his age. And now he was wandering drearily on the dead plains of rationalism and materialism, struggling after some belief in a future existence, some light higher and nobler than that cast by human intellect alone, but convinced of nothing save the expediency of doing what seemed right in his own eyes and of wrong ing no man. His standard of right was a lofty one, and his ideal creed was noble, but at present he had no belief, no God that he knew of, and no hope beyond this life. Yet he said ' Thank God ' when he learnt that his friend was alive. ' Yes, he is living,' said the doctor, ' but that's about all.

My first impression was that it was severe concussion of the brain, but there's more damage than that. We're going to have a consultation this afternoon — couldn't manage it before, there's such a lot of work to get through. Yes, you can see him; he'll be none the wiser, poor lad!' While he spoke, the old man led the way to a red-brick house standing back from the road in a side street near at hand, and Scott noticed the brass plate on the door, as one does notice trifles in the midst of SUSPENSE. deep emotion, with a vague fancy of having known the name thereon before. ' G. D. Warner, Surgeon! The door was open, and an elderly porter sat in the hall. Evidently Mr. Warner was a person of importance. ' Mrs. John and the young ladies is at lunch, sir,' said the porter. ' So much the better,' remarked his master, and turning to Scott, he said : ' You must have something to eat before we go upstairs to your friend.

Come in, and I'll introduce you to my daughter-in-law.' Scott had a vision of an ethereal little lady in a soft white dress, with a rich braid of golden hair surmounting a sweet fair face, and heard a gentle voice saying something kind, while two miniatures of the little lady, also dressed in white and crowned with golden hair, slipped off a couple of high chairs at the luncheon-table, and flung themselves upon the old surgeon, with a shout of ' Naughty g'anpa, late for dindin!' Then Mr. Warner poured out a glass of wine and told him to drink it, while young Mrs. Warner helped him to a cutlet, and the children stared at him with the delightful audacity of happy infancy, and asked in their shrill small trebles : ' Who's dat, g'anpa ?' By this time Scott was sufficiently master of himself to remember that his host did not know his name, and he said to the lady : ' I really ought to apologize for coming in, but I was only thinking of my friend.' Mrs. Warner looked grave, and the doctor turned the subject. ' Will you think me inquisitive if I repeat my grand-daughters' inquiry as to who you are ?' he said. ' My name is Alexander Scott,' answered the young man. ' Not Scott of Inverurie, by chance ?' queried Mr. Warner. 'Yes; Inverurie is the name of my place.' SUSPENSE. 25 'Well now,' exclaimed the doctor. ' This is an odd coincidence ; why ! your father was a patient of mine.

You were about two years old when I saw you last. Bless my soul, how time flies ! I never should have believed it was twenty years since Scott died.' ' I don't quite understand — I thought my father died in London.' ' So he did ; so he did, poor fellow, and your mother was not long after him. I had a practice in Town then. I've often wondered what had become of the poor little chap they left ; you hadn't much to boast of in those days in the way of health or looks.' ' I haven't much to boast of now, either, in those respects, I'm afraid.' ' What has become of your father's mother ? A clever old lady she was, to be sure, but there was more talent than sweetness in her character, I fancy.' ' She is dead,' said Scott ; and then his desire to see Charlie got the better of his manners, and he asked if he could go to his friend. ' By all means,' answered the doctor, '. now that you've fortified yourself.

You'd inevitably have broken down if you'd fasted any longer, and I didn't want to have two of you on my hands at once. Come along ; keep quiet, that's all. Not that it matters for him — he's quite uncon scious ; but I've got a poor little girl of seventeen in the next room to his, with an injured spine, and she feels every move ment in the house. Poor child ! she was going up to Edinburgh for her brother's wedding. She'll get over it, but she'll be on her back for months first. Nice, pretty girl too.' Talking half to himself and half to Scott, Mr. Warner went upstairs to a long corridor, and, opening one of a dozen doors all exactly alike, except for the number on each, entered a large and handsomely furnished bedroom. In the pleasant bay window stood a table covered with choice SUSPENSE. 27 hot-house flowers ; a book-case filled with a dozen or so of the best poets and prose authors' latest works hung within easy reach of the bed, and the walls were adorned with clever water-colour sketches.

It had more the air of a lady's boudoir than of an ordinary guest-chamber, everything was so well arranged and so pretty to look at. Not that Scott remarked this, or any thing else, on his first introduction to the room. In the days that followed he grew to know every book and picture almost by heart ; but now he was con scious of nothing save the still form of his friend, who lay on the bed just as he had lain on the hard bench at the station, rigid and motionless, with his face white and drawn, and his hands clenched. His eyes were closed now, but there was no other change, and Scott could not believe he was alive. Mr. Warner saw in his countenance the question that he could not utter, and felt Charlie's heart and pulse. ' No change,' he said ; ' he is alive, and that's all. There's some very serious damage to the brain, and I tell you plainly I have small hopes of him.

Has he a mother or sister ?' Scott shook his head. ' Perhaps it's just as well. But he must have some relations, and they ought to be communicated with.' ' He has an old aunt, an invalid, and he is engaged to be married.' ' Ah ! well — we will wait and see what my colleagues say, and then we must telegraph or write. I have a theory of my own as to the mischief, and if I'm correct we may do something yet. But it'll be touch-and-go, anyway.' ' To-day's Times gives his name among those killed.' ' Then if his sweetheart has seen that, she won't be shocked if she hears to morrow that he is dead.' The old man's tone contradicted the seeming harshness of his words, and his SUSPENSE. 29 practised hand trembled as he once more felt Charlie's heart. ' It's a curious case,' he went on, half to himself, * this prolonged stupor, and the heart, though weak, fairly steady all the time.

If I'm out in my suspicions of the nature of the injury I don't see what we shall be able to do. Such a fine handsome lad too, we must save him if we can. But I dare say that young jackanapes Steven son will pooh-pooh my diagnosis. Wish I hadn't called him in. Still, he's out and out the cleverest surgeon in the place, and it's only fair to give the lad every chance we can.' ' What time is the consultation to be, sir ?' asked Scott, reflecting that Combes Leigh was probably two days' post from Winton, and that Katharine could not by any means get a letter next morning. ' Four o'clock,' said the surgeon, glanc ing at his watch, ' and it only wants five minutes of that now. Will you stop here till we come up ? We shan't be long over our talk downstairs, and meanwhile the nurse can go and get her tea.' Scott was left alone with Charlie.

Ten minutes passed, a quarter of an hour, half an hour, and the silence continued unbroken. Charlie never stirred a muscle — the faint, scarcely perceptible breathing made his stupor almost resemble sleep. But Scott watched him with anxiety approaching to terror. It seemed to him that if he took his eyes off Charlie's face that faint breath would cease altogether, but he did not know, until the sound of the opening door roused him, how great had been the mental tension of his brief watch. Mr. Warner came in quietly, followed by a keen-eyed young man and two older ones, and at a sign from one of them Scott rose from his chair by the bedside and as quietly left the room. There was a Gothic window with a low seat at one end of the corridor, and there he waited. One or two servants passed from room to room — hos- SUSPENSE. 31 pital nurses, to judge from their dress — but no one took any notice of him until the surgeon's little grand-daughters appeared, returning from their afternoon walk.

They looked prettier in their shady hats than in the pinafores they had worn when he saw them at lunch, and Scott, who had, like many shy men, a natural aptitude for making friends with children, easily at tracted their attention. Anything was better than sitting there in this forced in action, and in two minutes more both the little girls were on his knees, chattering volubly, though in subdued tones. ' Mutn' never talk loud here, 'cos of ill peoples,' observed the eldest, after inform ing him that she and her sister were called respectively Katie and Etta, and that they liked toffy and barley-sugar better than rice-pudding or porridge. ' Are there always ill peoples here then, Kitty ?' asked Scott, lingering over her name. ' Ens,' answered the child, and ' Ens,' repeated the little one, who echoed everything her sister said. ' Does your grandfather keep a private hospital ?' ' Ens,' said Katie again ; ' a g'ate big one near by.