In Spite of Evidence

Sun (Christchurch), Volume III, Issue 862, 14 November 1916, Page 2

In Spite of Evidence

[All Eights Eeserved.]

|S By LILIAS CAMPBELL DAVIDSON, JUS BS „ Author of "The Missing Finger," "Tempted," Etc. hs.

CHAPTER XXX. THE DOCTOR. It was like trying to move the Rock of Gibraltar. One wasted one's breath and strength in blows that left one shaken and bruised, but made no impression, it would seem, on her. Vane set his teeth; he was not beaten, far from it. But he had not beaten her cither. They stood where they had stood when the discussion began. Neither had made an inch of progress. She moved now; she was walking dizzily towards the mouth of the little passage, lie turned and walked by her side, silent till they reached the entrance. He kept step by step with her as she went down the street. She had ••eased to combat his intention of walking home with her. "See here, Celia, I can't make you leave your brother, I can't make you marry me, but I trust to time and to your'own heart to make you see what you are doing. 1 can tell you that your staying with your brother does no good. From what you've let fall, he doesn't seem a bit the better for your sacrifice. And you're harming me, making me and yourself miserable. Listen here. You will see what T mean if you think it all over; you'll see it, you're sure to, sooner or later. I shall be there always —waiting. When you find out the mistake yo ■ 're making, you have only to send for me. I'll give you my 'address; yes, you must' - —as she would have waved away the hand that held it out to her. "You must take it; I shan't be content unless you have it. I shall be near at hand whenever you want me. Don't let any silly pride come between us. You know I want you—l shall always want you. That's the best I can do, since you won't hear reason. Oh, my darling, what a mess you are making of it! You mean so well, and you're acting so wrongly. If your mother could see you at this minute she would absolve you from your promise; she'd be horrified to see' what it's brough on you. She'd never rest happy at having extorted it.''

' o;ivo him! lie must bo like Celia — | yes, lie was. Yet. how unlike, too, i somehow. They walked on, and they ! had passed round the corner before the ' young man came near them. So that I was her brother —the Percy for whom he 1 himself must go to the wall. Vane felt I a curious desire to have a nearer view lof him. lie manoeuvred the doctor i round again towards the sea front, where the boy had obviously been going.

Vane walked with her to her door, saw her enter —tried to convey to her in that,last lingering hand-clasp something of his disappointment —his tenderness, his love. If he had known that she was crying silently as she vanished inside the closing door, it would not perhaps have been much comfort to him. It seemed to her that the world was empty —her heart was old and broken. She had sent her lover from her —sent him because she conceived it to be her duty. But it had left her with an ache so bitter, so cruel, through all her being, that it seemed to her as if she -would have been glad to lie down and die, and end all this cruel trial. Vane walked back to his hotel with his heart burning, his indignation still high. It was iniquitous—it was atro: cious that he should have found her once more, only to find a barrier set up between them that her own hand raised, and that his best efforts could not avail to tear down. He was alone at the hotel. The Henslows were out, and he was glad to be. by himself. He smoked in the lounge, and sat next a newcomer, and they exchanged civilities over newspapers and matches. When by and by the.stranger got up, he remarked that he was going out for a stroll, and asked Vane some question about localities in Brighton. Vane went to the door with him. The might was bright and star-lit. They stood and talked at the door together. Vane found his new aeqpaintanco a pleasant, welbiuformed man. Before they parted for the night they exchanged cards. The new man was a I)r Nelson, and his address was a country one.

They got round by devious ways to the front. The sea' sparkled like a (lashing shield newly-polished. Along its verge there walked, or drove, or rode, or motored, scores of idling people. As they came along further Vant saw a group of seedy-looking men talking together. He would have put them down, for the most part, as a set of scoundrels. In their midst he caught a glimpse of the profile that gave him a shock with its likeness to Ceclia's. So those were the friends of that promising young rascal, were they? Those were his chosen associates. So much the worse for him. They looked a bad lot, the whole of them. He was passing on, unseen by the group in their eager talk, when Dr Nelson laid a quick hand on his cuff and arrested hini. They stopped a little way off, and the doctor's quick, practised glance travelled over the group. Vance thought he, like himself, was struck by their villainous aspect. Then he shrugged his shoulders slightly, turned to go, gave a sound of something like derision. "See that man there, in the brown billycock'" he asked of Vane. "That young chap —there, he's jerking his head now. Well, that's an old patient of mine. Ought to be with me this minute, if the truth's known." Vane looked—stared. The only brown billy cock hat that was visible to his sight at that moment was on the head of Percy Harcourt. "I don 't quite see the man you mean. That isn't he standing by the electric light?" Dr Nelson gave a sound of impatience. "No, no, my dear sir! I mean the young man in the middle of the rest. There, look now, he's taking off his hat, and wiping his forehead. That's the man I mean, a young fellow called Harcourt." '' You don't mean to say he's ever been with you ?"

They met at breakfast the next morning. Vane found him at a table near, and presently Dr Nelson came across and brought his letters and read them at Vane's table, where the Henslow's places still stood vacant. By and by, when they got up and left the room, Vane found himself offering to show his new friend something of the place. It seemed lie had come on a short holiday after overwork, and he had never before been in Brighton. "My work is rather arduous," he confided to Vane as they went along together in the morning sunshine. "I have a big country practice, and I add to it by taking a few mental patients in my house. I don't go in for asylum business and that kind of thing, you understand, but I take cases that are not certified. Many people aren't really mad enough for the ordinary asylums, and their relatives hesitate to put them there, even if they could get certificates. You're aware, 1 daresay, that we medical men are cautious nowadays about giving certificates, unless a case is very clear indeed. Of course, it might be open to a good deal of abuse if caution was not used, but I'm inclined to think, myself, that there is a little too much caution. I've often known cases where men were really as mad as hatters, and yet had so much cunning that they could pull themselves together before strangers, and no doctor on earth who didn't know them well could detect insanity when talking with them. Those are the dangerous cases. They've a tendency to break out when it's least expected, and you never can be sure about them. Well, I've often taken a case like that. 1 don't profess to do anything but give my patieirts a good home, look after them, and keep them under close supervision. Of course, they never go beyond the grounds, and I have good attendants for them. It's a paying thing—yes—in general cases. People arc glad to pay well for care like that. But it is a strain, a perpetual strain, especially when one combines it with an ordinary outside practice. I am thinking of giving up a good part of it "

"Been with me, yes! Off and on, several times. He came as a mere boy first, when they first began to detect something queer about him. . It was a terrible blow to the mother, I understand. The lad's father insisted on bringing him to me for advice. What I told him led him to put him under my care for treatment. Peculiar case, rather. He had a blow on the head as a mere child; some nurse dropped him, or was careless, I understood. Nothing showed itself then, but as he grew older there were decided signs—oh, decided! So much so that the father brought him to me. He got cured, apparently, but these cases are sometimes vicious in their tendencies. He began to be unsatisfactory—got into bad company. The father was a proud irtan. He thought the boy's mental condition a disgrace to him, and yet •wouldn't belie-ve that most of• the ,low trouble he got into was the result of it. He had come down, too, on the mpther for taking his part and being devoted to him. It made a kind of breach between them. From what I can gather,'' lie visited it on the son. Then the poor woman died. After that I got the lad to look after altogether. There was some trouble over money— I never, quite made out what. Something disgraceful, I fancy. At all event's, the father refused to give' the boy an allowance —placed him under my cave again. *He grew troublesome then, a little dangerous. Finally, he gave us the slip, got away, and we couldn't trace him. I wired to the father, but I had no answer. Then T saw in the papers that the father had died suddenly. Of course, after that, there Avas no one to be responsible for young Harcourt. I couldn't move in the matter. My business in it had ended with his leaving and the father's death. I've often wondered what had become of him. Odd to come across him again like this, here in Brighton. I daresay he - s doing all right. It was his father's influence on him that had such a > bad effect. But he'd wits enough to make a living if they'd ever given him the means to do it." They walked on. The sea sparkled, the people passed. The hoot of motors smote their ears insistently. Vane seemed to himself to walk in a ma/.e. He vas piecing together one bit and another in the story. He began to understand, to guess. A vast compassion for Oelia filled him, and blotted out all other feeling.

They were walking on and on. Vane hardly noticed where they were going, and yet, by some curious instinct, of mind, his steps were taking them over the ground he had trodden last night. They were close to Dean Street and the house that held Celia. As Vane glanced down the length of the shabby street, while they crossed its end, he felt himself start. The door of No. 7 moved, opened. He stopped short, strained his ga/.e before ho knew- it. No, it was not Celia. A blank disappointment followed that first instinctive hope as a man came out and passed along the street rapidly towards them. Dr Nelson had not turned his head. Vane alone saw the figure. That must be Celia's brother, then —his own worst enemy. He recognised in an instant the pilhonette he had soon on tho blind—the young figure, the face —odd what a Chock of recollection that face somehow

The boy was deficient in intellect, subject to lapses of sanity. That was the reason his father had kept him under restraint. Perhaps there had l>een harshness, too, lint that paled in the light of the fact that Celia's life was sacrificed to this degenerate boy, and that she was his victim. '' Is there—is he dangerous at all ?'' he suddenly asked. His heart smote him with a sudden pang of apprehension. Dr jVelson looked round at him. "Dangerous! " he exclaimed. "Why " but just there he broke off suddenly. (To be continued.)