"Who was the fellow?" he roughly inquired, like a gambler who plays a high trump at a critical point of the game.
She, however, did not know, and was surprised that Mr. Van Maeren should not have known him. Had he been troublesome?
"Yes, a beggar, a regular beggar."
"He was dressed quite like a gentleman, too."
"Be more careful for the future," said Bertie, "and let no one into the house."
CHAPTER XXIII
He sat up that evening till Frank came home. As he sat alone he wept; for hours he sobbed passionately, miserably, till, in the slightly built little villa, Annie and her husband might have heard him, till his head felt like a drum, and bursting with throbbing pain. He fairly cried in irrepressible wretchedness, and his sobs shook his little body like a rhythm of agony. Oh, how could he get out of this slough? Kill himself? How could he live on in such wretchedness? And again and again he looked about him for a weapon; his hands clutched his throat like a vice. But he had not the courage—at least not at that moment, for as he clenched his fingers an unendurable pain mounted to his already aching head. And he wept all the more bitterly at finding himself too weak to do it.
It was one in the morning. Frank must surely come in soon.
He looked in the glass, and saw a pale, purple-gray face with swollen, wet eyes, and thick blue veins on the temples pulsating visibly under the transparent skin. Frank must not see him thus. And yet he must know—and he must ask—
He went up to his room, undressed, and got shivering into bed; but he did not go to sleep. He lay listening for the front door to open. At half-past two Westhove came in. Good God! If he had gone to the Rhodeses\ No, no, he must have been at the club; he went straight upstairs to bed. Annie and her husband locked up the house; there was a noise of bolts and locks, the clank of metal bars.
Half an hour later Bertie rose. Now it would be dark in Frank's room—otherwise he would have seen that purple pallor. Out into the passage. Tap. "Frank."
"Hallo! Come in."
In he went. Westhove was in bed; no light but the night-light; Bertie, with his back to the glimmer. Now, would Frank mention the Rhodeses? No. He asked, What was up? And Van Maeren began.
There was an urgent matter he must lay before his friend—some old debts he had remembered, which he must pay before they went away. He was so vexed about it; it was really taking advantage of Frank's kindness. Could Frank give him the money?
"My dear fellow, I have run completely dry.
I have only just enough left to pay for our passage to Buenos Ayres. How much do you want?"
"A hundred pounds."
"A hundred pounds! I assure you I do not know where to lay my hand on the money. Do you want it now, on the spot? Can you not put it off? Or can you not do with a bill?"
"No. I must have money down, hard cash."
"Well, wait a bit. Perhaps I can find a way— Yes, I will manage it somehow. I will see about it to-morrow."
"To-morrow morning?"
"Are you in such a deuce of a hurry? Well, all right; I will find it somehow. But now go to bed, for I am sleepy; we made a night of it. Tomorrow I am sure I can help you. And, at any rate, I will not leave you in a fix; that you may rely on. But you are a troublesome boy. Do you hear? Only the other day you had thirty pounds, and then, again, thirty more!"
For a minute Van Maeren stood rigid, a dark mass against the dim gleam of the night-light. Then he went up to the bed, and, falling on his knees, laid his head on the coverlet and fairly sobbed.
"I say, are you ill? Are you gone crazy?" asked Westhove. "What on earth ails you?"
No, he was not crazy, but only so grieved to take advantage of Frank's good nature, especially if his friend was himself in difficulties. They were such shameful debts—he would rather not tell him what for. Debts outstanding from a time when for a few days he had disappeared. Frank knew, didn't he?"
"Old sins to pay for, eh? Well, behave better for the future. We will set it all right to-morrow. Make no more noise, and go to bed. I am dead sleepy; we all had as much as we could carry. Come, get up, I say."
Van Maeren rose, and, taking Westhove’s hand tried to thank him.
"There, that will do—go to bed, I say."
And he went. In his own room he presently, through the wall, heard Frank snoring. He remained sitting on the edge of his bed. Once more his fingers gripped his throat—tighter—tighter. But it hurt him—made his head ache.
"Great God!" he thought. "Is it possible that I should be the thing I am?"
CHAPTER XXIV
A LIFE of wandering for two years and more, of voyages from America to Australia, from Australia back to Europe; painfully restless, finding no new aims in life, no new reason for their own existence, no new thing in the countries they traversed or in the various atmospheres they breathed. A life at first without the struggle for existence, dragged out by each under the weight of his own woe; with many regrets, but no anxiety as to the material burden of
