One of My Sons Read online

  II

  THE YOUNG DOCTOR AND THE OLD

  Meanwhile the child had started down the hall, and up the stairs,calling:

  "Papa! Papa!"

  Startled by this intimation of another person's presence in a house Ihad supposed to hold no one but ourselves, I hastily followed her tillshe reached the floor above and paused before a shut door. Heresomething seemed to restrain her.

  "Papa's inside," she whispered.

  If this was so, he was not alone. Laughter, quick exclamations, andthe clink of glasses could plainly be heard through the door; andshocked at the contrast offered by this scene of mirth to the solemnoccurrence which had just taken place below, I hesitated to enter, andlooked about for some means of communicating with the servants who Inow felt must be below. But here the terrified child, who was clingingto my knee, interposed:

  "I do not think papa is there. Papa does not like cards. Uncle Georgedoes. Come, let's look for papa."

  She dragged me toward the front of the house, entered another room,and seemed surprised to find the light turned down and her papa gone.

  "Perhaps he is with Uncle Alph," she faltered, and, bounding upanother flight of stairs, turned around to see if I was behind her.

  There seemed no alternative left but to follow her till I came uponsomeone; so I hastened up this second staircase. She had alreadyentered a room.

  "O Uncle Alph!" I heard her cry. "Grandpa's lying on the floordownstairs. I cannot find papa. I'm so frightened," and she ransobbing towards the young man, who rose to receive her in anabstraction which even these startling words failed to break.

  For this and other reasons I noticed him particularly notwithstandingthe embarrassment of my own position. He was a handsome man of theluxury-loving type, whose characteristics it would be useless todescribe, since they were of a nature to suggest, rather than explainthe extent of his attractions. I afterwards heard from such of myfriends as were in the habit of walking the avenue with him, that henever failed to draw the attention of passers-by; something in hisfeatures, his carriage, or the turn of his head and shoulders stampinghim as a man worth looking at, not only once, but twice. At thismoment, however, I was not so much impressed by his good looks, as byhis uneasy and feverish expression.

  He had caught up a letter which he had been engaged in writing at ourentrance, and as the child's appeal rang out, he crumpled it nervouslyin his hand, and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. As a certainfurtive haste characterised this action, my attention was caught byit, and I found myself wondering whether it was a letter ormemorandum he thus sacrificed to his surprise.

  Meanwhile he seemed to be trying to take in what the little onewanted. Evidently he had not as yet noticed me standing in thedoorway, and I thought it best to introduce myself.

  "I beg your pardon," said I, "I am Arthur Outhwaite of the firm ofRobinson & Outhwaite, lawyers. I was passing by the house when thischild called me in to the assistance of her grandfather whom, I amsorry to say, I found in a very precarious condition in his studydownstairs. If he is your father, you have my sympathy for his suddendemise. He died in my arms a moment ago; and having been the witnessof his last moments, I could not leave the house without explaining myposition to his relatives."

  "Dead! Father?"

  It was not grief, it was hardly astonishment which gave force to thisbrief and involuntary exclamation. It was something quite different,something which it shocked me to hear in his tones and see sparkle inhis eye. But this expression, whatever it betokened, lasted but amoment. Catching up the child in his arms, he hid his face behind herand rushed towards the door. Me he hardly noticed.

  "Where is he?" he asked, ignoring or forgetting what I had told him.

  It was the child who answered.

  "In the den, Uncle Alph. Don't take me there; I'm afraid. Set me down;I want to find Hope."

  He hastily obeyed her, and the child ran away. Then, and only then, heseemed to take in my presence.

  "You were called in from the street?" he wonderingly observed; "Idon't understand it. Where were my brothers? They were near enough torender him assistance. Why should a stranger be called in?"

  This was a question for which I had no answer, so I made none. He didnot seem to be struck by the omission.

  "Let us go down," said he.

  I opened the door which the little one had closed behind her, andproceeded toward the stair-head. From certain indistinct noises whichI had heard during the foregoing short interchange of words, Iexpected to find the house in a state of alarm and everyone alert. Butthe card-players were still at their game on the floor below, and Iwas not surprised to see my companion pause and give an admonitorykick to the door through which such incongruous noises issued.

  "Father's ill!" he shouted in a voice hoarse with many passions; andwaiting for no reply, he rushed ahead of me downstairs, followed bysome half-dozen partially sobered men.

  Among these latter I noticed one whom I took to be the elder brotherof him whom the little one had addressed as Uncle Alph. He had thesame commanding appearance, the same abstracted air, and woke, when hedid wake, to the same curious condition of conflicting emotions. But Idid not have time to dwell long upon this feature of the extraordinaryaffair in which I had become thus curiously involved.

  The alarm which had been so slow in spreading above, had passed likewildfire through the lower part of the house, and we found somehalf-dozen servants standing in and about the small room where themaster of the house lay stretched. Some were wringing their hands,some were crying, and some, rigid with terror, stared at the face theyhad so lately seen with the hue of health upon it.

  At our approach they naturally withdrew to the hall, and I presentlyfound myself standing between the group thus formed and the three orfour young gentlemen visitors who had not followed the brothers intothe room. Amongst the latter I saw one whose face was not altogetherunfamiliar, and it was from him that I gained my first informationconcerning the man to whose dying passion I had been witness, and fromwhom I had received the strange commission which, unknown to thoseabout me, made my continued presence in this house a necessity fromwhich the embarrassment of the occasion could not release me.

  The dead man was Archibald Gillespie, the well-known stockbroker andrailroad magnate, whose name, as well as those of his threespendthrift sons, was in every man's mouth since that big deal bywhich he had made two millions in less than two months.

  Meanwhile one of the gentlemen who had accompanied the two Gillespiesinto the room where their father lay, came out looking very pale. Hewas a doctor, though to all appearance not the family physician.

  "Will one of you go for Dr. Bennett?" he asked. "Bring him at onceand at any cost; Mr. Gillespie cannot be moved till he comes."

  Dr. Bennett evidently was the family physician.

  "Why can't he be moved?" called out a voice near me. "Is thereanything wrong? Mr. Gillespie was violently sick a month ago. Isuppose he got around too quickly."

  But the young doctor, without replying, stepped back into the room,leaving us all agog, though few of us ventured upon open remonstrance.

  In another minute one of the men near me slipped out in obedience tothe request just made.

  "Is Mrs. Gillespie living?" I asked, after a moment spent in more orless indecision.

  "Where have you come from?" was the answer given, seasoned by a stareI bore with what equanimity I could. "Mrs. Gillespie has been deadthese fifteen years."

  So! the letter was not meant for his wife.

  Here I caught an eye fixed on mine. It was that of one of the servantswho stood huddled about the doorway of what appeared to be a largedining-room on the opposite side of the hall. When this man, for itwas a male servant, saw that he had attracted my attention, he made mean imperceptible sign. As he was old and grey-haired, I heeded thesign he made and stepped towards him. Instantly he greeted me with thewhisper:

  "You seem to be the only sober man here. Don't let them do anythingtill Mr. Leighto
n comes in. He is the saint of the family, sir."

  "Is he the little girl's father?" I asked.

  The man nodded. "And a good man, too," he insisted. "A very good man."

  Was this honest judgment or sarcasm? I had heard that each of Mr.Gillespie's sons had given his father no end of trouble.

  Meantime a silence deeper than that of awe had spread throughout thehouse. Feeling myself out of place and yet strangely in place, I drewaside into as inconspicuous a corner as I could find, and waited asall the others did, for the family physician.

  While doing so I caught stray glimpses of my first acquaintance,Alfred Gillespie, who, fretted by some anxiety he could not altogetherconceal, came more than once into the hall and threw furtive glancesup the stairway. Was it the little girl he was concerned about? If so,I shared his anxiety.

  At last the bell rang. Instantly, so great was the strain upon us, weall moved, and one or two bounded towards the door. But it was openedby the butler with that mechanical habitude such old servants acquire,and, though nothing could shake the calm deference of this traineddomestic, there was something in the bow with which he greeted thenewcomer which assured us that the man we so anxiously expected hadarrived.

  I had seen Dr. Bennett more than once, but never before showing somuch anxiety. Whether from shock or some secret cause not to becommunicated to us, this old and capable physician seemed to be in acondition of as much agitation as ourselves, and obeyed the summons ofthe young doctor who stood beckoning to him from the threshold of thelittle den, with an appearance of alacrity that nevertheless had anodd element of hesitation in it. I might not have noticed this underother circumstances, and am quite sure that no one else detected anypeculiarity in his manner, but to me, everything was important whichoffered anything like a clue to the proper understanding of asituation in which I found myself so deeply, yet so secretly involved.

  Mr. Gillespie's physician remained for some minutes closeted with thesons of the deceased and their young medical friend; then he came out.Instantly I saw from his expression that our fears or rather, those ofthe young doctor, were not without foundation. Yet he was careful notto raise an alarm, and in addressing us, spoke in strictlyprofessional tones:

  "A sad case, gentlemen! Mr. Gillespie has taken an overdose ofchloral. We will have to leave him where he is till the coroner can becalled."

  A gasp followed by the clink of breaking glass came from thedining-room behind me. The old butler had dropped a glass he had justlifted off the mantel-shelf of the dining-room.

  The doctor was at his side in a moment.

  "What is that?" he demanded.

  The butler stooped for the pieces.

  "Only the glass Mr. Gillespie drank out of. He asked for wine a halfhour ago. Your words frightened me, sir."

  He did not look frightened; but old servants of his stamp possess astrange immobility.

  "I will pick up these pieces," said the doctor, stooping beside theman.

  The butler drew back. Dr. Bennett picked up the pieces. They were alldry. Evidently the glass had been drained.

  As he came out he cast a keen but not unkindly glance at the group ofyoung men drawn up in the doorway.

  "Which of you was the witness of Mr. Gillespie's death?" he asked.

  I bowed. I dreaded his questions, yet saw no way of evading them. Ifonly Mr. Gillespie had been able to articulate the one word whichwould have relieved me of all further responsibility in this matter!

  "You are the person who was called into the house by Mr. Gillespie'sgrandchild?" the doctor now asked, meeting my eye with the sameexpression of instantaneous and complete confidence I had seen on thefeatures of his unhappy patient.

  "I am," I replied; and proceeded to relate the circumstances with allthe simplicity the occasion required. Only I said nothing about theletter which had been entrusted to me for delivery to some unknownperson. How could I? There had been no encouragement in Mr.Gillespie's expression when I asked him if the note I had taken fromhim was meant for his doctor.

  The account I was able to give of the deceased broker's last momentsseemed to deepen the impression which had been made upon the physicianby the condition in which he found him. Taking up the pieces of glasshe had collected from the dining-room hearth, he sniffed themcarefully, during which act the two sons of Mr. Gillespie watched himwith starting eyes. When he laid them down again, we could none ofus conceal our curiosity.

  "You have something dreadful to communicate," murmured the elder son.

  The doctor hesitated; then he glanced from one to the other of the twohandsome faces before him, and remarked:

  "Your brother is not here. Do you know if he is likely to returnsoon?"

  "Where is Mr. Leighton?" inquired Alfred, turning towards theservants. "I thought he meant to remain home to-night."

  The butler respectfully advanced.

  "Mr. Leighton went out an hour ago," said he. "He and Mr. Gillespiehad a few words in the den, sir, after which he put on his hat andcoat and went out."

  "Did you see your master at that time?"

  "No, sir, I only heard his voice."

  "Did that sound natural?"

  The old servant seemed loath to reply, but feeling the doctor's eyeresting imperatively upon him, he hesitatingly admitted:

  "It wasn't quiet, sir, if you mean that. Mr. Gillespie seemed to beangry or very much displeased. He spoke quite loud."

  "Where were you?"

  "In the dining-room, sir, putting away the last of the dinner dishes."

  "Did you hear what your master said?"

  "No, sir; it was something about religion; too much religion."

  "My brother attends too many mission services to please my father,"explained Alfred in a low tone.

  The doctor heard, but did not take his eye from the old servant.

  "Was this before he took the glass of wine you have just told us heasked for?"

  "Yes, sir, just before. It was Mr. Leighton who came for it. He saidhis father looked tired."

  "Ah, and how came the glass to be back then on the dining-roommantel-shelf?"

  "I don't know, sir. Perhaps Mr. Gillespie put it there himself. Henever liked any litter on his study table, sir."

  At this statement the older brother opened his lips, but I noticed hedid not speak. There were no traces of intoxication about him now.

  "I wish you would show me the bottle from which you poured the wine."

  The butler, whose name I afterwards learned to be Hewson, led the wayto a large buffet extending half across the dining-room wall. Fromwhere I stood in the hall-way I could see him pointing out a bottle ofwhat looked like sherry. Suddenly he gave a start.

  "That isn't the one," he cried, loud enough for me to hear. "Thebottle I took out for Mr. Leighton was half-empty. This is quitefull."

  Again I saw the lips of the elder brother move, and again he refrainedfrom speaking.

  "I should like to have that bottle found," said the physician; "but noone need look for it now. Indeed, it would be better for us to waitfor Leighton's return before making any further movement. George,Alfred, may I ask you to leave me alone with your father for a fewminutes. And let the dining-room be cleared. I don't want to have tomake any excuses to the coroner when he arrives. Your father has notdied a natural death."

  It was an announcement for which we had been in a measure prepared bythe serious manner of the young doctor, yet it seemed to me it oughtto have occasioned a greater, or at least a different display offeeling on the part of the two most intimately concerned. I looked foran exchange of glances between them or at least some hurried words ofsorrow or dismay. But though all evinced strong emotion, no lookspassed between them, nor did they make the least attempt at mutualsympathy or encouragement. Were they not on confidential terms? Themoment certainly was one to call out whatever brotherly feeling theypossessed.

  "I shall have to make use of the telephone," Dr. Bennett nowannounced. "You must pardon my seeming disrespect to the dead. Theocc
asion demands it."

  And with one hurried look to see that his commands had been obeyed,and that the dining-room had been cleared of the huddling servants, hestepped back into the so-called den and closed the door behind him.

  Next moment we heard his voice rise in the inevitable "Hallo!"

  "I don't understand Dr. Bennett's strange demeanour," I now hearduttered in remark near me. It was George speaking in a low tone to hisbrother.

  But that brother, with one of his anxious looks up the stairs, failedto answer.

  "Father was in the habit of taking chloral, but I thought he alwayswaited until he got to his own room. I never knew him to take itdownstairs before," George went on in a low tone between a whisper anda grumble.

  This time Alfred answered.

  "He made an exception to-night," said he. "When I ran down to yourdoor at half-past eight, I met Claire coming out of father's room witha bottle in her hand. She had been sent up after the chloral, and wastaking it down to him."

  George gave his brother a suspicious look.

  "Did she say so?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Poor child! She will miss her grandfather. I wonder if she knows?"

  I felt that I had no right to listen. But I was standing where thedoctor had left me, and hardly knew how to withdraw till I hadreceived my dismissal from someone in authority. Yet I was thinking ofgoing farther front when the doctor came out again and, approachingme, remarked:

  "This delay is probably causing you great inconvenience. But I mustask you to remain a short time longer. I presume you can find a seatin the drawing-room."

  With a glance at the young gentlemen, I expressed my obligations forhis courtesy, but did not make a move towards the room he hadindicated.

  Instantly, and with an understanding of my feelings which surprisedme, George took the hint I had given him, and stepping forward, raiseda heavy plush curtain at the left and begged me to be seated in therichly appointed room within. But I had hardly taken a step towards itwhen a diversion was created by the entrance into the house of agentleman whom I at once took to be the third brother for whosepresence all waited with more or less suspense.

  He was sufficiently prepossessing in appearance to awaken admiration,but he bore no resemblance to his brothers. He seemed to have morecharacter and less--well, I find it difficult to say just whatimpression he made upon me at this moment. Enough that with my firstglimpse of him I felt confident that no ordinary person had enteredupon the scene, though just what special characteristic of hispersonality or disposition would prove the emphatic one it was noteasy to judge, at a moment's notice.

  He had a downcast air, and to my eyes looked weary to the point ofcollapse, but he roused at the sight of a stranger, and cast aninquiring look at the doctor and then at the servants crowding in thepassage beyond.

  He evidently took me for one of his brothers' boon companions.

  "What's amiss?" he demanded in some irritation--an irritation I wasfain to construe into a total lack of preparation for the fatal newsawaiting him. "What's the matter, George? What's the matter, Alph?"

  "The worst!" came in simultaneous reply.

  "Father is dead!" cried George.

  "Took too much chloral," added Alfred.

  Leighton Gillespie stood stock-still for a moment, then threw off hishat and rushed down the hall. But at the door of what now might becalled the chamber of death, he found the doctor standing in anattitude which compelled him to come to a sudden stop.

  "Wait a moment," said that gentleman. "I have to correct animpression. Your father has not died from an overdose of chloral as Ihad at first supposed, but from a deadly dose of prussic acid. Youhave only to smell his lips to be certain of this fact. Now, Leighton,you may enter."