CHAPTER XLI
TOM DRAKE’S BEWILDERMENT
We have left Earle for a long time in his magnificent loneliness at Wycliffe.
But magnificent loneliness it indeed was, for in his great house there was not a soul to whom he could go for either sympathy or cheer.
He was surrounded on every hand by everything that almost unlimited wealth could buy; he possessed one of the finest estates in England, and farms and forests in France, which, as yet, he had never seen; he occupied a position second to none save royalty; he had the finest horses and carriages in the county; cattle and hounds of the choicest breed; he had all this, and yet he was heart-sick with a bitterness that seemed unbearable.
He could interest himself in nothing—he took pleasure in nothing—all his fair domains and riches were like a mockery to him; he never stood in the oriel window that looked out from the center of the main building at Wycliffe, and viewed the broad expanse spread out before him, and beautiful as Eden’s fair gardens, without feeling that he was cursed worse even than Adam and Eve were cursed when driven from Paradise.
His beautiful gardens, shining streams stocked with finest trout, broad fields of waving golden grain, the noble park with its grand old trees, and God’s most glorious handiwork, all mocked him with their loveliness.
It was as if they said to him, “You can have all this—you can revel in everything that serves to make the world bright and beautiful; you can buy and sell, and get gain, add to your stores, and get fame and honor, but after all is told, you must ever carry a desolate heart in your bosom; you can never possess the one jewel worth sevenfold more than all you possess; you can never behold the fair face, dearer than all the world, beaming upon you in your home as you go and come on the round of daily duties.”
What did it amount to?—of what value was it all to him if he could not share it with the only woman whom he could ever love?
He forced himself day after day to go over the estate to see that everything was in order and that his commands were properly obeyed; but there was no heart in anything that he did, while the servants and workmen all wondered to see him so sad and dispirited.
The interior of Wycliffe was in keeping with the surroundings.
Entering the wide and lofty hall, with its carpetings of velvet, its panelings of polished oak, its rich furnishings, its statuary, and pictures, one gained something of an idea of the luxury awaiting beyond.
Upon one side of this hall was a suite of parlors—three in number.
The first and third were large lofty rooms and furnished alike. The ceilings were paneled and painted in the most exquisite designs. The walls were delicately tinted, with rosewood dados, in which were set panels of variegated marble beautifully carved. The carpets were of a bright and graceful pattern, and of richest texture, the hangings of crimson plush, and the furniture, no two pieces of which were alike, was upholstered to match.
The middle room was larger than the other two, and even more dazzling in its furnishings, and was separated from the others by arches, supported by graceful marble columns richly carved. The walls were delicately tinted, the same as in the other rooms, but the dados were of white Italian marble. The ceiling was painted with daisies and buttercups, arranged in the most tasteful design; the carpet was a marvel of richness and delicate beauty—a white ground dotted with golden heads of wheat; the curtains were of golden satin festooned with lace; the furniture, of different kinds of precious wood, inlaid with gold and pearl, was cushioned with white satin brocaded with golden coreopsis; the lambrequins, which were of velvet embroidered with daisies, gave a superb effect to the whole.
Every accessory in the way of mirrors, etageres, pictures, statuary, etc., was perfect, and the elegance of the whole suite it would be difficult to exceed.
On the opposite side of the hall were the library, sitting rooms, and dining room, while leading from the latter was a very fine conservatory.
Above, there were suites of rooms for the family and guests, and all in keeping with the elegance of those below; and if wealth and the good things it brings could possibly gladden the heart of man, Earle Wayne, Marquis of Wycliffe, ought to be a very happy one.
There is an old saying, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” and we might add, heavy is the heart whose all lies in a weighty purse, for in all England it would not have been possible to find a more wretched being than Earle Wayne.
And so the time went by until there came a strange break in the monotony of his life—the adventure of which Mr. Tressalia had told Editha.
He had been told by one of the servants, during the day before, that a suspicious-looking character was prowling about the place; but he did not pay much attention to the matter, and when night came he retired as usual and went to sleep without a thought of danger.
About two in the morning he had been awakened by the sound of muffled footsteps in his dressing-room. The next moment he saw the flash of a dark lantern, and knew there was mischief brewing.
As before related, it was but the work of a second for him to reach out and grasp his revolver, which, remembering the robbery at Mr. Dalton’s, he always kept by him ready for use.
When the man passed between his bed and the window, he knew that was his best chance, and fired.
The intruder dropped instantly, with a groan, and his lantern went out as it fell to the floor.
Earle was out of bed and had struck a light in less time than it takes to tell it.
“Who are you?” he demanded, stooping over his fallen foe.
Then he started back with an exclamation of surprise, as he immediately recognized the wretch in whose power he had found Editha, and who had so cleverly escaped from him that morning in the hotel.
It was indeed Tom Drake, and his career as a midnight robber was ended for all time.
He appeared to be suffering terribly, and, upon examination, Earle found that the ball had entered the leg just below the thigh, and, as he could not move it, had probably shattered the bone. Now that his enemy was fallen, Earle’s sympathies were at once aroused. Suffering in any form always touched his heart.
“Well, my man,” he said, kindly, as he bent over him, “what am I going to do for you, I wonder?”
“I guess you’ve done for me already,” was the rough response, accompanied by a fearful oath and a groan as he recognized his captor.
“I’m very sorry to cause you suffering, but ‘self-preservation is the first law of nature,’ you know,” Earle answered, as he stepped quickly to the bell cord and gave it a violent pull.
In less than five minutes a servant appeared in answer to the summons.
“Here, Robert,” Earle said, as composedly as if nothing had happened; “I have invited a stranger to stop with me for a little while. Lend a hand, and we will take him across the hall to the south suite; then I want you to go for Dr. Sargeant as quickly as possible.”
The burglar was borne to the rooms mentioned, but carefully as he was handled, he fainted during the removal and was a long time regaining consciousness afterward.
The doctor arrived in about three-quarters of an hour, and, after much difficulty and probing, succeeded in extracting the ball. The ugly wound was then dressed, and the patient was made as comfortable as possible.
As the physician was about to depart, Earle sought him privately.
“If you please,” he said, “I would like nothing said about this affair. I do not wish to create any sensation, and the country will be alive with excitement if the events of tonight become known.”
“But, my lord, the man ought to be given up to justice,” said the physician, with a frown.
“No one knows better than yourself that he is no fit subject for justice now, nor will he be for a good while to come.”
“That is so. He’ll have a hard time of it before he gets through. The bone is shattered. There will be fever and a great deal of pain; while if mortification sets in, he’ll get justice in another world.”
“Then please oblige me by keeping the matter quiet, and do the best you can for him at my expense.”
“Surely you don’t mean to keep the fellow here?” exclaimed the doctor, in amazement.
“Certainly. What did you suppose I would do with him?” Earle asked quietly.
“Send him to the alms-house or hospital. It belongs to the authorities to take care of such scamps.”
“If a friend of yours had been injured in this way, would you advocate sending him to the hospital? Would the excitement and fatigue of the removal be beneficial?” Earle asked pointedly.
“No; inflammation would probably follow, and the patient would doubtless die,” the physician coolly admitted.
“That is the way I reasoned the question; therefore I hold myself, in a measure, responsible for this man’s life,” was the grave reply.
“The earth would be well rid of a villain,” answered the doctor, gruffly. “It was only the luck of the thing that prevented your being where he is now, or perhaps a corpse.”
“Not ‘luck,’ my friend, but the hand of Providence,” Earle interposed, with his rare smile. “Your judgment and my conscience tell me that the man will die unless he has the very best of care. He must be kept quiet, and free from anxiety; so I have decided that he shall remain here until he recovers.”
“But who will take care of him?” asked the physician, his gruffness all gone, and a look that was not disapprobation in his eye.
“I will see that he lacks for no care or attention; as a wounded and suffering man, he will be the same to me as a friend or guest until he gets well; and as such I shall expect you will also exercise your utmost skill, and do the very best you can for him,” Earle said, quietly.
“Well, well, well!” muttered the astonished disciple of Esculapius; and then he stood regarding his companion for a moment, with raised eyebrows, and his mouth puckered into the smallest possible compass.
“Unless you object to treating such a patient,” Earle added, with a little hauteur.
“No, no, no; bless you, no!” Dr. Sargeant returned quickly. “I will do my very best for the poor wretch; you are right—it would be sacrificing his life to have him removed, and you may rely upon my discretion.”
And the noted doctor went away somewhat mystified as to what manner of man the young marquis might be, that he was willing to turn his magnificent home into a hospital for thieves and robbers.
Earle went back to his charge, whom he found restless, feverish, and burning with intolerable thirst.
He swore savagely as Earle made his appearance, and defiantly demanded what he was going to do with him.
“Take care of you until you get on your legs again,” was the calm reply, as he held some pleasant, cooling drink to the man’s parched lips.
He drank eagerly, and then fell back among the soft pillows with a groan.
“Bosh! that’s a likely story!” he returned, after a minute, with an angry flash of his eyes; “out with it, and don’t keep me in suspense; I’ve enough to bear with this pain.”
“So you have, poor fellow!” Earle answered, kindly; “and it is just as I have told you—you are to stay here and be nursed until you get well.”
“What! stay here?” and the man’s eyes wandered around the luxurious apartment in a look of amazement.
“Yes, in this very room. Don’t you know that you cannot bear to be removed?”
“I don’t feel much like it, that’s a fact,” he said, suppressing another groan; “but”—with a keen look into the kind face above him—“what right have you to say it?”
“The right of ownership—I am master here.”
“You!”
“Yes; you recognize me, then?”
“Of course I do; and you knew me instanter, which isn’t strange, considering one isn’t likely to forget a phiz like mine; but—but—”
“But you had no idea that you were breaking into my house when you came here last night,” interrupted Earle.
“No; I’ll be — if I did!” was the irreverent but energetic reply.
“There has been a change in my circumstances of late.”
“I should think so! Then you are the Marquis of Wycliffe?”
“Yes. What did you expect to find here in the way of plunder?”
“I may as well own up, I suppose since I’m where I can’t help myself,” the man replied, recklessly. “I was after the family jewels, which I was told were kept here.”
“They are not here. I had them deposited in the treasure vault more than a month ago. There was only a little money in my safe, for I had paid off my help only yesterday; so you see, my friend, you have had your sin and risked your life for nothing,” Earle said, gravely.
Tom Drake swore savagely again at this information.
“Do not be profane—indeed I must request you to drop that sort of talk while you are here,” Earle said, with decision.
“And you really don’t mean to send me to the hospital?”
“No, indeed. I do not need to tell you that you have a long, hard job before you from the wound my ball gave you and that it will be a good while before you will get about again.”
Earle thought he might as well talk of things just as they were. Tom Drake nodded assent, a look of grim endurance on his ugly face.
“And,” continued Earle, “unless you have good care—the very best care—it is doubtful whether you ever have the use of your leg again.”
“And what should that matter to you?” was the gruff query, accompanied by a suspicious glance.
“It matters this to me: One whom I profess to serve has bidden me to care for the sick and needy,” Earle said, gently.
“Humph! that’s all cant. You’ll watch me as a cat does a mouse, and just as soon as I begin to spruce up a little, you’ll hand me over to Her Majesty’s minions, and I shall have a nice little ornament attached to my leg, eh?”
He tried to put a bold front on, but it was evident that he experienced considerable anxiety regarding his future.
“There will be time enough to talk of that matter by and by,” Earle answered; indeed, he had not given a thought to the subject and had no idea what course he should pursue.
“Now I have to give you this quieting powder,” he added, taking up one from the table, “and the doctor wishes you to get all the rest and sleep you can before the inflammation increases.”
He mixed the powder in some kind of tempting jelly, the man watching him curiously all the time.
“Who is going to take care of me?” he asked after he had swallowed it and taken a cooling draught.
“I shall take care of you for the present.”
“You!” with another curious look. “I suppose you’ve plenty of servants?”
“Yes.”
“They would do to look after a chap like me; and”—speaking more humbly than he had yet done—“this is too fine a room to upset on my account.”
This was encouraging; it showed that the wretch had a little feeling and regret for the trouble he was giving.
Earle bent nearer and said, in a friendly tone:
“I shall not trust you to the care of servants until the doctor pronounces your wound to be mending. If you should be neglected ever so little, there is no telling what the result might be. As for the room, you need to give yourself no uneasiness about it; you are to have just as much attention as if you were my friend or my brother. Now try to forget that you have been my enemy, as I shall; for as you are situated now, I feel only sympathy for you. You must not talk anymore, but try to get some rest.”
Earle smoothed the tumbled bedclothes, changed the wet cloth upon the sufferer’s burning head, drew down the curtains to shade the light from his eyes, and was about to seat himself at a distance and leave him to sleep when his voice again arrested him.
“Say!”
“Well?” he asked, again coming to his side to see if he wished anything.
The man hesitated a minute while he searched his face keenly, and then burst forth:
“I am cussed if I can make out what kind of a chap you are, anyhow!”
Earle smiled slightly at his evident perplexity, and the invalid continued:
“First, you hit a fellow a swinger on the back of the head that knocks the life out of him, and makes one think that the fury of seven Jupiters is concentrated in you; next, you shoot him with a revolver, and then turn around and nurse him as tender as a woman—I can’t make it out.”
“I did give you a heavy blow that night in the hotel, I admit; the case was desperate, and I knew I must not fail to lay you out the first time. If you had not escaped, I should have given you up to the authorities, and you would doubtless have been serving out your sentence now, instead of lying here. But you are wounded and suffering, you will probably be sick for a long time, and however much I may think you deserve punishment for your past crimes, your condition appeals to my humanity. As a sufferer, you are, instead of an enemy and a robber, my neighbor, my friend, and as such I shall treat you while you lie here,” Earle explained, and there was no mistaking the friendliness of his tones.
“Your neighbor! your friend!” Tom Drake repeated, in low, suppressed tones, and feeling almost as if he had got into a new world.
“Yes, just that; and now, to ease your mind and make you trust me, I will tell you that no one save the doctor, myself, and my servants, know what transpired last night, and no one else will know of the affair while you are sick here. Now go to sleep, if you can.”
Earle moved away without giving him a chance to reply, the man watching his retreating figure in stupid amazement.
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