who knows? the man is proven by the hour.
in his stately bedroom on the second floor of the quietest house in russell square mr. thomas oscard—the eccentric oscard—lay, perhaps, a-dying.
thomas oscard had written the finest history of an extinct people that had ever been penned; and it has been decreed that he who writes a fine history or paints a fine picture can hardly be too eccentric. our business, however, does not lie in the life of this historian—a life which certain grave wiseacres from the west end had shaken their heads over a few hours before we find him lying prone on a four-poster counting for the thousandth time the number of tassels fringing the roof of it. in bold contradiction to the medical opinion, the nurse was, however, hopeful. whether this comforting condition of mind arose from long experience of the ways of doctors, or from an acquired philosophy, it is not our place to inquire. but that her opinion was sincere is not to be doubted. she had, as a matter of fact, gone to the pantomime, leaving the patient under the immediate eye of his son, guy oscard.
the temporary nurse was sitting in a cretonne-covered armchair, with a book of travel on his knee, and thoughts of millicent chyne in his mind. the astute have no doubt discovered ere this that the mind of mr. guy oscard was a piece of mental mechanism more noticeable for solidity of structure than brilliancy or rapidity of execution. thoughts and ideas and principles had a strange way of getting mixed up with the machinery, and sticking there. guy oscard had, for instance, concluded some years before that the winchester rifle was, as he termed it, “no go”; and if the pope of rome and the patentee of the firearm in question had crossed europe upon their bended knees to persuade him to use a winchester rifle, he would have received them with a pleasant smile and an offer of refreshment. he would have listened to their arguments with that patience of manner which characterises men of large stature, and for the rest of his days he would have continued to follow big game with an “express” double-barrelled rifle as heretofore. men who decide such small matters as these for themselves, after mature and somewhat slow consideration, have a way of also deciding the large issues of life without pausing to consider either expediency or the experience of their neighbours.
during the last forty-eight hours guy oscard had made the decision that life without millicent chyne would not be worth having, and in the hush of the great house he was pondering over this new feature in his existence. like all deliberate men, he was placidly sanguine. something in the life of savage sport that he had led had no doubt taught him to rely upon his own nerve and capacity more than do most men. it is the indoor atmosphere that contains the germ of pessimism.
his thoughts cannot have been disturbing, for presently his eyes closed and he appeared to be slumbering. if it was sleep, it was the light unconsciousness of the traveller; for a sound so small, that waking ears could scarce have heard it, caused him to lift his lashes cautiously. it was the sound of bare feet on carpet.
through his lashes guy oscard saw his father standing on the hearthrug within two yards of him. there was something strange, something unnatural and disturbing, about the movements of the man that made guy keep quite still—watching him.
upon the mantelpiece the medicine bottles were arranged in a row, and the “eccentric oscard” was studying the labels with a feverish haste. one bottle—a blue one—bore two labels: the smaller, of brilliant orange colour, with the word “poison” in startling simplicity. he took this up and slowly drew the cork. it was a liniment for neuralgic pains in an overwrought head—belladonna. he poured some into a medicine-glass, carefully measuring two tablespoonsful.
then guy oscard sprang up and wrenched the glass away from him, throwing the contents into the fire, which flared up. quick as thought the bottle was at the sick man's lips. he was a heavily built man with powerful limbs. guy seized his arm, closed with him, and for a moment there was a deadly struggle, while the pungent odour of the poison filled the atmosphere. at last guy fell back on art: he tripped his father cleverly, and they both rolled on the floor.
the sick man still gripped the bottle, but he could not get it to his lips. he poured some of the stuff over his son's face, but fortunately missed his eyes. they struggled on the floor in the dim light, panting and gasping, but speaking no word. the strength of the elder man was unnatural—it frightened the younger and stronger combatant.
at last guy oscard got his knee on his father's neck, and bent his wrist back until he was forced to let go his hold on the bottle.
“get back to bed!” said the son breathlessly. “get back to bed.”
thomas oscard suddenly changed his tactics. he whined and cringed to his own offspring, and begged him to give him the bottle. he dragged across the floor on his knees—three thousand pounds a year on its knees to guy oscard, who wanted that money because he knew that he would never get millicent chyne without it.
“get back to bed!” repeated guy sternly, and at last the man crept sullenly between the rumpled sheets.
guy put things straight in a simple, man-like way. the doctor's instructions were quite clear. if any sign of excitement or mental unrest manifested itself, the sleeping-draught contained in a small bottle on the mantelpiece was to be administered at once, or the consequences would be fatal. but thomas oscard refused to take it. he seemed determined to kill himself. the son stood over him and tried threats, persuasion, prayers; and all the while there was in his heart the knowledge that, unless his father could be made to sleep, the reputed three thousand a year would be his before the morning.
it was worse than the actual physical struggle on the floor. the temptation was almost too strong.
after a while the sick man became quieter, but he still refused to take the opiate. he closed his eyes and made no answer to guy's repeated supplication. finally he ceased shaking his head in negation, and at last breathed regularly like a child asleep.
afterwards guy oscard reproached himself for suspecting nothing. but he knew nothing of brain diseases—those strange maladies that kill the human in the human being. he knew, however, why his father had tried to kill himself. it was not the first time. it was panic. he was afraid of going mad, of dying mad like his father before him. people called him eccentric. some said that he was mad. but it was not so. it was only fear of madness. he was still asleep when the nurse came back from the pantomime in a cab, and guy crept softly downstairs to let her in.
they stood in the hall for some time while guy told her in whispers about the belladonna liniment. then they went upstairs together and found thomas oscard—the great historian—dead on the floor. the liniment bottle, which guy had left on the mantelpiece, was in his hand—empty. he had feigned sleep in order to carry out his purpose. he had preferred death, of which the meaning was unknown to him, to the possibility of that living death in which his father had lingered for many years. and who shall say that his thoughts were entirely selfish? there may have been a father's love somewhere in this action. thomas oscard, the eccentric savant, had always been a strong man, independent of the world's opinion. he had done this thing deliberately, of mature thought, going straight to his creator with his poor human brain full of argument and reason to prove himself right before the judge.
they picked him up and laid him reverently on the bed, and then guy went for the doctor.
“i could,” said the attendant of death, when he had heard the whole story—“i could give you a certificate. i could reconcile it, i mean, with my professional conscience and my—other conscience. he could not have lived thirty hours—there was an abscess on his brain. but i should advise you to face the inquest. it might be”—he paused, looking keenly into the young fellow's face—“it might be that at some future date, when you are quite an old man, you may feel inclined to tell this story.”
again the doctor paused, glancing with a vague smile towards the woman who stood beside them. “or even nurse—” he added, not troubling to finish his sentence. “we all have our moments of expansiveness. and it is a story that might easily be—discredited.”
so the “eccentric oscard” finished his earthly career in the intellectual atmosphere of a coroner's jury. and the world rather liked it than otherwise. the world, one finds, does like novelty, even in death. some day an american will invent a new funeral, and if he can only get the patent, will make a fortune.
the world was, moreover, pleased to pity guy oscard with that pure and simple sympathy which is ever accorded to the wealthy in affliction. every one knew that thomas oscard had enjoyed affluence during his lifetime, and there was no reason to suppose that guy would not step into very comfortably lined shoes. it was unfortunate that he should lose his father in such a tragic way, and the keen eye of the world saw the weak point in his story at once. but the coroner's jury was respectful, and the rest of society never so much as hinted at the possibility that guy had not tried his best to keep his father alive.
among the letters of sympathy, the young fellow received a note from lady cantourne, whose acquaintance he had successfully renewed, and in due course he called at her house in vere gardens to express somewhat lamely his gratitude.
her ladyship was at home, and guy oscard was ushered into her presence. he looked round the room, with a half-suppressed gleam of searching which was not overlooked by millicent chyne's aunt.
“it is very good of you to call,” she said, “so soon after your poor father's death. you must have had a great deal of trouble and worry. millicent and i have often talked of you, and sympathised with you. she is out at the moment, but i expect her back almost at once. will you sit down?”
“thanks,” he said; and after he had drawn forward a chair he repeated the word vaguely and comprehensively—“thanks”—as if to cover as many demands for gratitude as she could make.
“i knew your father very well,” continued the lady, “when we were young. great things were expected of him. perhaps he expected them himself. that may have accounted for a tone of pessimism that always seemed to pervade his life. now, you are quite different. you are not a pessimist—eh?”
guy gravely examined the back of his gloved hand. “well, i am afraid i have not given much thought to the question.”
lady cantourne gave him the benefit of a very wise smile. she was unrivalled in the art of turning a young man's mind inside out and shaking it.
“no! you need not apologise. i am glad you have given no thought to it. thought is the beginning of pessimism, especially with young men; for if they think at all, they naturally think of themselves.”
“well, i suppose i think as much of myself as other people.”
“possibly; but i doubt it. will you ring the bell? we will have some tea.”
he obeyed, and she watched him with approval. for some reason—possibly because he had not sought it—lady cantourne had bestowed her entire approval on this young man. she had been duly informed, a few weeks before this visit, that miss millicent chyne had engaged herself to be married to jack meredith whenever that youth should find himself in a position to claim the fulfilment of her promise. she said nothing against the choice or the decision, merely observing that she was sorry that jack had quarrelled with his father. by way of counsel she advised strongly that the engagement be kept as much in the background as possible. she did not, she said, want millicent to be a sort of red rag to sir john, and there was no necessity to publish abroad the lamentable fact that a quarrel had resulted from a very natural and convenient attachment. sir john was a faddist, and, like the rest of his kind, eminently pig-headed. it was more than likely that in a few months he would recall his son, and, in the meantime, it never did a girl any good to be quarrelled over.
lady cantourne was too clever a woman to object to the engagement. on the contrary, she allowed it to be understood that such a match was in many ways entirely satisfactory. at the same time, however, she encouraged guy oscard to come to the house, knowing quite well that he was entirely unaware of the existence of jack meredith.
“i am,” she was in the habit of saying, “a great advocate for allowing young people to manage their affairs themselves. one young man, if he be the right one, has more influence with a girl than a thousand old women; and it is just possible that he knows better than they do what is for her happiness. it is the interference that makes mischief.”
so she did not interfere. she merely invited guy oscard to stay to tea.
