Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

But of course the chances were that Bevere would not appear at the hospital: with need to keep his head en cachette, he would be no more safe there than in Mrs. Long’s rooms: and I might have been hunting for him yet, for aught I can tell, but for coming across Charley Lightfoot.

  It was on the following Monday. He was turning out of the railway-station near Miss Deveen’s, his uncle, Dr. Lightfoot, being in practice close by. Telling him of Roger Bevere’s flight, which he appeared not to have heard of, I asked if he could form any idea where he was likely to have got to.

  “Oh, back to the old neighbourhood that he lived in before his accident, most likely,” carelessly surmised Lightfoot, who did not seem to think much of the matter.

  “And where is that?”

  “A goodish distance from here. It is near the Bell-and-Clapper Station on the underground line.”

  “The Bell-and-Clapper Station!”

  Lightfoot laughed. “Ironically called so,” he said, “from a bell at the new church close by, that claps away pretty well all day and all night in the public ears.”

  “Not one of our churches?”

  “Calls itself so, I believe. I wouldn’t answer for it that its clergy have been licensed by a bishop. Bevere lived somewhere about there; I never was at his place; but you’ll easily find it out.”

  “How? By knocking at people’s doors and inquiring for him?”

  Lightfoot put on his considering-cap. “If you go to the refreshment-room of the Bell-and-Clapper Station and ask his address of the girls there,” said he, “I dare say they can give it you. Bevere used to be uncommonly fond of frequenting their company, I believe.”

  Running down to the train at once I took a ticket for the Bell-and-Clapper Station, and soon reached it. It was well named: the bell was clanging away with a loud and furious tongue, enough to drive a sick man mad. What a dreadful infliction for the houses near it!

  Behind the counter in the refreshment-room stood two damsels, exchanging amenities with a young man who sat smoking a cigar, his legs stretched out at ease. Before I had time to speak, the sound of an up-train was heard; he drank up the contents of a glass that stood at his elbow, and went swiftly out.

  It was a pretty looking place: with coloured decanters on its shelves and an array of sparkling glass. The young women wore neat black gowns, and might have looked neat enough altogether but for their monstrous heads of hair. That of one in particular was a sight to be seen, and must have been copied from some extravagant fashion plate. She was dark and handsome, with a high colour and a loud voice, evidently a strong-minded young woman, perfectly able to take care of herself. The other girl was fair, smaller and slighter, with a somewhat delicate face, and a quiet manner.

  “Can you give me the address of Mr. Roger Bevere?” I asked of this younger one.

  The girl flushed scarlet, and looked at her companion, who looked back again. It was a curious sort of look, as much — I thought — as to say, what are we to do? Then they both looked at me. But neither spoke.

  “I am told that Mr. Bevere often comes here, and that you can give me his address.”

  “Well, sir — I don’t think we can,” said the younger one, and her speech was quite proper and modest. “We don’t know it, do we, Miss Panken?”

  “Perhaps you’ll first of all tell me who it was that said we could give it you,” cried Miss Panken, in tones as strong-minded as herself, and as though she were by a very long way my superior in the world.

  “It was one of his fellow-students at the hospital.”

  “Oh — well — I suppose we can give it you,” she concluded. “Here, I’ll write it down. Lend me your pencil, Mabel: mine has disappeared. There,” handing me the paper, “if he is not there, we can’t tell you where he is.”

  “Roger Bevary, 22, New Crescent,” was what she wrote. I thanked her and went out, encountering two or three young men who rushed in from another train and called individually for refreshment.

  New Crescent was soon found, but not Bevere. The elderly woman-servant who answered me said Mr. Bevere formerly lived with them, but left about eighteen months back. He had not left the neighbourhood, she thought, as she sometimes met him in it. She saw him only the past Saturday night when she was out on an errand.

  “What, this past Saturday!” I exclaimed. “Are you certain?”

  “To be sure I am, sir. He was smoking a pipe and looking in at the shop windows. He saw me and said, Good-night, Ann: he was always very pleasant. I thought he looked ill.”

  Back I went to the refreshment-room. Those girls knew his address well enough, but for some reason would not give it — perhaps by Bevere’s orders. Two young men were there now, sipping their beer, or whatever it was, and exchanging compliments with Miss Panken. I spoke to her civilly.

  “Mr. Bevere does not live at New Crescent: he left it eighteen months ago. Did you not know that? I think you can give me his address if you will.”

  She did not answer me at all. It may be bar-room politeness. Regarding me for a full minute superciliously from my head to my boots, she slowly turned her shoulders the other way, and resumed her talk with the customers.

  I spoke then to the other, who was wiping glasses. “It is in Mr. Bevere’s own interest that I wish to find him; I wish it very particularly indeed. He lives in this neighbourhood; I have heard that: if you can tell me where, I shall be very much obliged to you.”

  The girl’s face looked confused, timid, full of indecision, as if she knew the address but did not know whether to answer or not. By this time I had attracted attention, and silence fell on the room. Strong-minded Miss Panken came to the relief of her companion.

  “Did you call for a glass of ale?” she asked me, in a tone of incipient mockery.

  “Nor for soda? — nor bitters? — not even cherry-brandy?” she ran on. “No? Then as you don’t seem to want anything we supply here, perhaps you’ll take yourself off, young man, and leave space for them that do. Fancy this room being open to promiscuous inquirers, and us young ladies being obliged to answer ‘em!” added Miss Panken affably to her two friends. “I’d like to see it!”

  Having thus put me down and turned her back upon me, I had nothing to wait for, and walked out of the lady’s presence. The younger one’s eyes followed me with a wistful look. I’m sure she would have given the address had she dared.

  After that day, I took to haunt the precincts of the Bell-and-Clapper, believing it to be my only chance of finding Bevere. Scott had a brief note from him, no address to it, stating that he was not yet well enough to resume his duties; and this note Scott forwarded to me. A letter also came to me; from Lady Bevere asking what the matter was that I did not write, and whether Roger was worse. How could I write, unless I found him?

  So, all the leisure time that I could improvise I spent round about the Bell-and-Clapper. Not inside the room, amid its manifold attractions: Circe was a wily woman, remember, and pretty bottles are insidious. That particular Circe, also, Miss Panken, might have objected to my company and ordered me out of it.

  Up one road, down another, before this row of houses and that, I hovered for ever like a walking ghost. But I saw nothing of Bevere.

  Luck favoured me at last. One afternoon towards the end of the week, I was standing opposite the church, watching the half-dozen worshippers straggling into it, for one of its many services, listening to the irritating ding-dong of its bell, and wondering the noise was put up with, when suddenly Richard Scott came running up from the city train. Looking neither to the right nor the left, or he must inevitably have seen me, he made straight for a cross-road, then another, and presently entered one of a row of small houses whose lower rooms were on a level with the ground and the yard or two of square garden that fronted them. “Paradise Place.” I followed Scott at a cautious distance.

  “Bevere lives there!” quoth I, mentally.

  Should I go in at once boldly, and beard him? While deliberating — for somehow it goes against my nature to beard a
nybody — Scott came striding out and turned off the other way: which led to the shops. I crossed over and went in quietly at the open door.

  The parlour, small and shabby as was Mrs. Mapping’s in Gibraltar Terrace, was on the left, its door likewise open. Seated at a table, taking his tea, was Roger Bevere; opposite to him, presiding over the ceremonies, sat a lady who must unquestionably have been first-cousin to those damsels at the Bell-and-Clapper, if one might judge by the hair.

  “Roger!” I exclaimed. “What a dance you have led us!”

  He started up with a scarlet face, his manner strangely confused, his tongue for the moment lost. And then I saw that he was without his coat, and his arm was bandaged.

  “I was going to write to you,” he said — an excuse invented on the spur of the moment, “I thought to be about before now, but my arm got bad again.”

  “How was that?”

  “Well, I hurt it, and did not pay attention to it. It is properly inflamed now.”

  I took a seat on the red stuff sofa without being invited, and Bevere dropped into his chair. The lady at the tea-tray had been regarding me with a free, friendly, unabashed gaze. She was a well-grown, attractive young woman, with a saucy face and bright complexion, fine dark eyes, and full red lips. Her abundant hair was of the peculiar and rare colour that some people call red and others gold. As to her manners, they were as assured as Miss Panken’s, but a great deal pleasanter. I wondered who she was and what she did there.

  “So this is Johnny Ludlow that I’ve heard tell of!” she exclaimed, catching up my name from Bevere, and sending me a gracious nod. “Shall I give you a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you,” was my answer, though all the while as thirsty as a fish, for the afternoon was hot.

  “Oh, you had better: don’t stand on ceremony,” she said, laughing. “There’s nothing like a good cup of tea when the throat’s dry and the weather’s baking. Come! make yourself at home.”

  “Be quiet, Lizzie,” struck in Bevere, his tone ringing with annoyance and pain. “Let Mr. Ludlow do as he pleases.” And it struck me that he did not want me to take the tea.

  Scott came in then, and looked surprised to see me: he had been out to get something for Bevere’s arm. I felt by intuition that he had known where Bevere was all along, that his assumption of ignorance was a pretence. He and the young lady seemed to be upon excellent terms, as though they had been acquainted for ages.

  The arm looked very bad: worse than it had at Gibraltar Terrace. I stood by when Scott took off the bandages. He touched it here and there.

  “I tell you what, Bevere,” he said: “you had better let Pitt see to this again. He got it right before; and — I don’t much like the look of it.”

  “Nonsense!” returned Bevere. “I don’t want Pitt here.”

  “I say nonsense to that,” rejoined Scott. “Who’s Pitt? — he won’t hurt you. No good to think you can shut yourself up in a nutshell — with such an arm as this, and — and—” he glanced at me, as if he would say, “and now Ludlow has found you out.”

  “You can do as much for the arm as Pitt can,” said Bevere, fractiously.

  “Perhaps I could: but I don’t mean to try. I tell you, Bevere, I do not like the look of it,” repeated Scott. “What’s more, I, not being a qualified practitioner yet, would not take the responsibility.”

  “Well, I will go to Pitt to-morrow if I’m no better and can get my coat on,” conceded Bevere. “Lizzie, where’s the other bandage?”

  “Oh, I left it in my room,” said Lizzie; and she ran up the stairs in search of it.

  So she lived there! Was it her home, I wondered; or Bevere’s; or their home conjointly? The two might have vowed eternal friendship and set up housekeeping together on a platonic footing. Curious problems do come into fashion in the great cities of this go-ahead age; perhaps that one had.

  Scott finished dressing the arm, giving the patient sundry cautions meanwhile; and I got up to leave. Lizzie had stepped outside and was leaning over the little wooden entrance-gate, chanting a song to herself and gazing up and down the quiet road.

  “What am I to say to your mother?” I said to Bevere in a low tone. “You knew I had to write to her.”

  “Oh, say I am all right,” he answered. “I have written to her myself now, and had two letters from her.”

  “How do the letters come to you? Here?”

  “Scott gets them from Mrs. Long’s. Johnny” — with a sharp pressure of the hand, and a beseeching look from his troubled blue eyes— “be a good fellow and don’t talk. Anywhere.”

  Giving his hand a reassuring shake, and lifting my hat to the lady at the gate as I passed her, I went away, thinking of this complication and of that. In a minute, Scott overtook me.

  “I think you knew where he was, all along,” I said to him; “that your ignorance was put on.”

  “Of course it was,” answered Scott, as coolly as you please. “What would you? When a fellow-chum entrusts confidential matters to you and puts you upon your honour, you can’t betray him.”

  “Oh, well, I suppose not. That damsel over there, Scott — is she his sister, or his cousin, or his aunt?”

  “You can call her which you like,” replied Scott, affably. “Are you very busy this afternoon, Ludlow?”

  “I am not busy at all.”

  “Then I wish you would go to Pitt. I can’t spare the time. I’ve a heap of work on my shoulders to-day: it was only the pressing note I got from Bevere about his arm that brought me out of it. He is getting a bit doubtful himself, you see; and Pitt had better come to it without loss of time.”

  “Bevere won’t thank me for sending Pitt to him. You heard what he said.”

  “Nonsense as to Bevere’s thanks. The arm is worse than he thinks for. In my opinion, he stands a good chance of losing it.”

  “No!” I exclaimed in dismay. “Lose his arm!”

  “Stands a chance of it,” repeated Scott. “It will be his own fault. A week yesterday he damaged it again, the evening he came back here, and he has neglected it ever since. You tell Pitt what I say.”

  “Very well, I will. I suppose the account Bevere gave to his mother and Mr. Brandon — that he had been living lately with you — was all a fable?”

  Scott nodded complaisantly, striding along at the pace of a steam-engine. “Just so. He couldn’t bring them down upon him here, you know.”

  I did not exactly know. And thoughts, as the saying runs, are free.

  “So he hit upon the fable, as you call it, of saying he had shared my lodgings,” continued Scott. “Necessity is a rare incentive to invention.”

  We had gained the Bell-and-Clapper Station as he spoke: two minutes yet before the train for the city would be in. Scott utilized the minutes by dashing to the bar for a glass of ale, chattering to Miss Panken and the other one while he drank it. Then we both took the train; Scott going back to the hospital — where he fulfilled some official duty beyond that of ordinary student — and I to see after Pitt.

  II.

  Roger Bevere’s arm proved obstinate. Swollen and inflamed as I had never seen any arm yet, it induced fever, and he had to take to his bed. Scott, who had his wits about him in most ways, had not spoken a minute too soon, or been mistaken as to the probable danger; while Mr. Pitt told Roger every time he came to dress it, beginning with the first evening, that he deserved all he got for being so foolhardy as to neglect it: as a medical man in embryo, he ought to have foreseen the hazard.

  It seemed to me that Roger was just as ill as he was at Gibraltar Terrace, when they sent for his mother: if not worse. Most days I got down to Paradise Place to snatch a look at him. It was not far, taking the underground-railway from Miss Deveen’s.

  I made the best report I could to Lady Bevere, telling nothing — excepting that the arm was giving a little trouble. If she got to learn the truth about certain things, she would think the letters deceitful. But what else could I do? — I wished with all my heart some one else
had to write them. As Scott had said to me about the flitting from Mrs. Long’s (the reason for which or necessity, I was not enlightened upon yet), I could not betray Bevere. Pitt assured me that if any unmanageable complications arose with the arm, both Lady Bevere and Mr. Brandon should be at once telegraphed for. A fine complication it would be, of another sort, if they did come! How about Miss Lizzie?

  Of all the free-and-easy young women I had ever met with, that same Lizzie was the freest and easiest. Many a time have I wondered Bevere did not order her out of the room when she said audacious things to him or to me — not to say out of the house. He did nothing of the kind; he lay passive as a bird that has had its wings clipped, all spirit gone out of him, and groaning with bodily pain. Why on earth did he allow her to make his house her abode, disturbing it with her noise and her clatter? Why on earth — to go on further — did he rent a house at all, small or large? No one else lived in it, that I saw, except a little maid, in her early teens, to do the work. Later I found I was mistaken: they were only lodgers: an old landlady, lame and quiet, was in the kitchen.

  “Looks fearfully bad, don’t he?” whispered Lizzie to me on one occasion when he lay asleep, and she came bursting into the room for her bonnet and shawl.

  “Yes. Don’t you think you could be rather more quiet?”

  “As quiet as a lamb, if you like,” laughed Lizzie, and crept out on tiptoe. She was always good-humoured.

  One afternoon when I went in, Lizzie had a visitor in the parlour. Miss Panken! The two, evidently on terms of close friendship, were laughing and joking frantically; Lizzie’s head, with its clouds of red-gold hair, was drawn close to the other head and the mass of black braids adorning it. Miss Panken sat sipping a cup of tea; Lizzie a tumbler of hot water that gave forth a suspicious odour.

  “I’ve got a headache, Mr. Johnny,” said she: and I marvelled that she did not, in her impudence, leave the “Mr.” out. “Hot gin-and-water is the very best remedy you can take for it.”

  Shrieks of laughter from both the girls followed me upstairs to Roger’s bedside: Miss Panken was relating some joke about her companion, Mabel. Roger said his arm was a trifle better. It always felt so when Pitt had been to it.