CHAPTER III
IN WHICH I DISCLOSE A SECRET
YOU never imagined, my dear fellow, in all the years of our intimacy, that I was a gigantic fraud—but I propose to show you myself as I really was.
I started earning my own living as an indoor assistant to a Dr. Shirley Eckington, who had a poor-class practice in Leeds, receiving eighty pounds a year. I had nothing else but a maximum of assurance and a minimum of morality. My life consisted of much hard work, indoor and out, by day, and cards, billiards and barmaids after my work was finished—that is, as much as a doctor's work is ever finished. But as time went on I began to stay at home at nights, for the reason that I had fallen temporarily in love with the doctor's daughter—a pretty, innocent little girl, who looked after her semi-invalid father with the greatest care and attention, but who knew little or nothing of the outside world.
Poor little Gwen! I can often see her big blue eyes and golden hair even now; however, that's by the way. Suffice it to say that before long there was a definite understanding between us, but which we kept strictly to ourselves, knowing that we had no immediate prospects of marriage. Her father, Dr. Eckington, was a peculiar man, who had evidently lived a strenuous life, and at the latter end of it was certainly not overburdened with wealth. The practitioner among the poorer classes has generally a hard struggle to pay his way, and he was no exception to the rule; he did not possess the faculty of plausible lying which is so necessary to success in the general practitioner. He suffered with fainting attacks which I regarded as showing heart trouble, but up to a certain evening he had never mentioned his ailments to me; he treated himself. It was after I had been with him for about eight months, and two months after my understanding with Gwen, that he sent for me one evening about eleven o'clock.
"Sit down, Mr. d'Escombe," he said, as he handed me a cigar-case. "Excuse my getting up, but I want to have a chat with you."
"Thank you," I answered, wondering which of my sins he had discovered. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"It depends," was his answer. "Have you got any means of your own—except what you earn, I mean?—because, if not, I don't think you have treated either me or my daughter fairly. You can't marry on eighty pounds a year." A grim smile played about his haggard features as he spoke, but he did not appear to be angry.
I confess I was staggered for the moment; he had found out, then, in spite of all our care.
"I—I—what do you mean, sir?" I faltered.
"Oh, I know all about it, my dear sir," he said. "I've not lived all these years and not learnt to keep my eyes open. But to return: Are you now, or likely to be, in a position to marry?"
"I'm afraid not at present," I replied, "but I hope as time goes on to find an opening, and I meant then to speak to you about a formal engagement between Gwen and myself. We are both quite prepared to wait."
"Bah!" sneered the old man. "Find an opening—what kind of an opening, eh? Don't talk nonsense, man."
I'm afraid I had nothing to say, and after a few minutes' silence, he continued, leaning forward and looking me straight in the face: "Now listen to me. I am a poor man, and I haven't very long to live—but even that is too long."
"Too long. Dr. Eckington? What do you mean?" I inquired, in astonishment.
"This," said he. "If I shuffle off this mortal coil within the next week, Gwen will have five thousand pounds, for which amount my life is insured; but as the premium is due within seven days, and I haven't the necessary money for it, the policy will lapse. My life has been a hard one, my friend, and this insurance is all I have been able to do in the shape of provision for my girl when I'm gone. I've never been able to save a penny beyond this."
"But, my dear sir," I interrupted, "you are good for years yet. Why talk like this?"
"Not for years, d'Escombe," he answered, with a sad smile. "Just listen here." He tapped his chest, and I was surprised to find how very badly diseased his heart was. "You see how it is," he continued. "I can't hold out much longer. Why prolong the agony and leave the girl penniless? No; you and she can many, you can buy a practice, and I shall die satisfied—but it must be this week."
"What do you mean?" I queried.
"Mean," said he, "mean—why, I intend that you shall help me. A little digitalin, followed by some morphia, a hypodermic syringe—and all is settled. You can sign the certificate, and Gwen—bless her heart!—gets the money. But not a word to her, mind. She must never know."
I sat aghast. It was a remarkable suggestion, a man quietly asking me to murder him. It took my breath away for the minute, and yet, it was easy enough, too, when one came to think of it.
"You are not in earnest, Dr. Eckington?" I said. "I can't kill you in cold blood like this—it's too preposterous."
"Nothing of the sort, man," replied the doctor. "I am in deadly earnest, and tomorrow I shall take to my bed. You can give me the first dose in the evening."
"I can't do it, sir," I protested. "Besides, it might be discovered, and then"
"Nonsense! You are quite safe. Anyway, choose, and choose now—either a new berth as an underpaid assistant, or wife, money, and a practice."
To cut it short, I consented, and next evening, when he sent Gwen for me to go to his bedroom, I gave him his first dose of digitalin, which was to initiate his final illness.
For the next two or three days I hardly dared look Gwen in the face. Poor little girl, she was very distressed over her father, and I was genuinely fond of her—for the time being.
"Is he very ill, Archie dear?" she often inquired. "He is going to get better, isn't he?"
"Yes, darling. He is very bad, but we must always be hopeful," I would say, feeling, I must admit, an awful blackguard. I was a bit thin-skinned still, but it wore off, as you will read later.
On the fourth night, when I visited my patient, he said: "D'Escombe, this must come to an end. I can't stand much more of it; but make it as sharp and sudden as you can, my boy. I'm very tired of it"—and I fancy I saw tears come into his eyes. "I can't do any more for my little girl than this, and I thank you for helping me; but God's curse on you if you don't treat her well after I'm gone. You promise, eh? You'll not fail me?"
"Of course, sir, of course I will," I answered. "I love her very dearly, and will do all I can to make her happy."
"And she is never to know—how I died?"
"Never, I promise you most faithfully."
"Now, don't forget the morphia whenever I send for you. Give me an extra dose of the other now, and then send Gwen to me. Perhaps I shall see you again to-night."
Ominous words. I went back to the surgery, and thought it over, and as the hours passed the waiting actually made me feel nervous. I had three strong whiskies and sodas—rare for me—but even then by midnight I was ready to start at the slightest noise, and felt generally all to bits. "This won't do," I thought. "Buck up, old man," and just then I heard a swish of garments, and in rushed Gwen in a dressing-gown, bare-footed and dishevelled.
"Oh, Archie, Archie, come quick. I think father's dying, please," and her voice broke into a terrified sob. I snatched up my hypodermic case and ran upstairs, Gwen following.
Eckington looked ghastly. His breathing was laboured, and he appeared to be very ill—much worse than he really was, but he was evidently suffering great pain. "Now—now," he whispered, as I sent Gwen away to fetch something, "the morphia, quick." Even then he could have been saved, and I'm not sure that the wistful look in his eyes didn't mean, "You needn't if you don't want to." But I did—I was ready now—and without a handshake I prepared, and gave, the injection.
"I'm going, Gwen," he whispered to her. "Good-bye, my darling, d'Escombe will help you."
He glanced at me with rapidly contracting pupils, the weeping girl kneeling by his bed-side, convulsively clutching one thin, white hand.
"Good-bye—remember," were the last words I heard before he fell into the stupor from which there was to be no awakening.
We sat with him all night, and in the early morning he died—while the poor little girl sobbed on my shoulder.
I managed to quieten her after a time, and told her that I would attend to everything.
Luckily there were no near relations to come bothering with awkward and inquisitive questions; and everybody knew he had been ailing for some time, so, therefore, no one was surprised to hear of his death. I certified aortic valvular disease, and in due time claimed and got for my fiancée the insurance money. I persuaded her to agree to an early marriage, and then, after some little trouble, bought the Okehampton practice, which, at any rate, to begin with, suited me very well. He was a plucky beggar that Eckington. What do you think. Brown?