Drolls From Shadowland Part 9

"Come, let us go up together," said Rick.

At the gates, however, d.i.c.k began to grow uneasy. His brother's reputation on earth among "the G.o.dly" was a curiously unwelcome memory to d.i.c.k now the Bar was so near and the Doom's-man was in sight.

"You go first," said d.i.c.k to his brother; falling behind as if to dissociate himself from him.

Rick pa.s.sed the gate and stood silently at the Bar.

"Place the brothers side by side," said the Doom's-man sternly.

"If you please," began d.i.c.k, stumbling in his speech, so afraid was he of being confounded in the judgment of his brother; "If you please. . . ."

Said the Doom's-man: "Let the Advocates state the case."

The Black-robed Advocate claimed Rick boldly. The verdict of Rick's fellow-citizens, he a.s.serted, was emphatic on the point that Rick was legitimately his. And he went with the majority, and claimed a verdict accordingly.

The White-robed Advocate advanced, more hesitatingly, that d.i.c.k presumably should go with _him_. The Community, he averred, had long ago decided that only in this way would justice have its due.

The Doom's-man's verdict was simplicity itself.

A nature so contented, and so little given to fault-finding, would be the typical one for the Black Advocate's household, said the Doom's-man, humorously contemplating d.i.c.k. "Take him away with you," said he to the Black Advocate: "the man will give you no trouble, _as you know_.

"But that restless, fault-finding fellow there," and he indicated Rick with a movement of his forefinger, "it would need a faultless abode like _yours_ to satisfy him," and he signed to the silent White Advocate at his side. "Take him, he is yours," said the Doom's-man solemnly.

And with that the Advocates departed with their awards.

FRIEND OR FOE?

I.

SIR EDWARD lay back lazily in his chair, with a letter in a woman's handwriting crumpled at his feet.

"She must make the best of it now," said he, gazing at the fire. "She is not worse off than others, come to that." And he lolled among the cus.h.i.+ons, gazing into the fire, with a hard and cruel look on his countenance, on which the stamp of sensuality was unmistakably impressed.

It was a large and luxuriously-furnished apartment, with everything so arranged as to minister to the senses and afford them the fullest gratification which suggestions could impart.

But Sir Edward, lolling by the fire this evening, experienced little satisfaction in his luxurious surroundings: the eroding tooth of thought they could no way quiet; and it was the irritation of this that he most desired to have allayed.

He lighted a cigar, and began to smoke vigorously, leaning back the while and contemplating the smoke-clouds that drifted round in swirling folds and spirals, an occasional ring mounting airily over all.

Smoking away steadily, cigar after cigar--for he was an insatiable smoker as he was insatiable in everything--Sir Edward seemed presently to be almost hidden among the smoke-wreaths, which had now thickened in the room with unexampled rapidity.

At first he felt inclined to ring for a servant and have the windows opened to let in a breath of air, but there was a certain amount of interest in watching the floating veils of smoke; and, besides, in the mere act of idly watching these he could let certain vivid tableaux, with which Memory was amusing him, drift beyond the range of his attention, he hoped. So he lay back, letting the smoke thicken in the atmosphere, while he followed the fantastic wreaths lazily with his eyes.

It was almost as if he were dozing as he lay there; for he could have sworn that in the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace he perceived a grey old fogey reclining among the cus.h.i.+ons, yet with deep-sunken eyes fixed watchfully on his face.

It was really absurd to have an utter stranger intrude his company on him in this unceremonious manner, and Sir Edward felt inclined to question him sharply, and, if need be, have him turned out neck and crop.

But instead of taking up the intended _role_ of inquisitor, he found himself reduced ignominiously to the _role_ of the questioned one.

"Where were you thinking of going to-night?" asked the Visitor. "To the theatre, or the opera, or to that 'private club' we know of?" And the Visitor looked at him with a glance of quiet intelligence which Sir Edward somehow felt powerless to resent.

"I was thinking. . . ."

"Of going with me? Quite right!" replied the Visitor. "With me you shall go: unless we can come to terms together. In which case, possibly, I may leave you behind _for a time_."

Sir Edward ceased to smoke: and his hands trembled on his knees.

But he made no movement, and uttered no protest. Before the glance of his visitor he quailed and was dumb.

"Ruth Medwin, I presume, must bear her disgrace as best she can? You will neither recognize her, nor make her an allowance, I understand."

"I think I have changed my mind. . . ."

"Too late," said the Visitor. "After having seen _me_ you can change your mind no more."

Sir Edward lay motionless among the cus.h.i.+ons of his chair.

"I should like . . . if you will allow me . . ." he began feebly.

"I can allow you only one choice: and that a peremptory one. Will you go with me instantly--I think you know me--or shall I call for you again _on any terms I care to fix_?"

"Will your terms be as pitiless. . . ."

"You shall hear them, if you please."

Sir Edward sank deeper among the soft cus.h.i.+ons: his whole life concentrated in the watchful stare with which he fixed his eyes on his visitor's face.

"Shall I take you with me now to undergo your punishment--and, I need scarcely tell you, it will not be a light one--or would you prefer a delay before you accompany me: a period of expiation, in some form I may decide on, with a hope of a reduction in your punishment at the end?"

"A delay--a period of expiation, for G.o.d's sake!"

"You are certain you prefer it?"

"I implore it! I entreat it! For G.o.d's sake, grant me a respite!"

"Be it so."

II.

The soul that had been Sir Edward's sickened with disgust.

It was located in the body of a miserable cab-horse; one of the sorriest hacks in the East End of London, and practically fit only for the knacker, one would have said.

It was a life the human soul found inexpressibly hateful. If this were expiation, it was in a purgatory indeed. But in a purgatory of filth and of disgusting sensations, instead of in a torturing purgatory of fire.