He did not want much—only a bottle of soda-water, and to know if there was a letter at the bar directed to George Talboys.
The waiter brought the soda-water before the young men had seated themselves in a shady box near the disused fireplace. No; there was no letter for that name.
The waiter said it with consummate indifference, while he mechanically dusted the little mahogany table.
George’s face blanched to a deadly whiteness. “Talboys,” he said; “perhaps you didn’t hear the name distinctly—T, A, L, B, O, Y, S. Go and look again, there must be a letter.”
The waiter shrugged his shoulders as he left the room, and returned in three minutes to say that there was no name at all resembling Talboys in the letter rack. There was Brown, and Sanderson, and Pinchbeck; only three letters altogether.
The young man drank his soda-water in silence, and then, leaning his elbows on the table, covered his face with his hands. There was something in his manner which told Robert Audley that his disappointment, trifling as it may appear, was in reality a very bitter one. He seated himself opposite to his friend, but did not attempt to address him.
By-and-by George looked up, and mechanically taking a greasy Times newspaper of the day before from a heap of journals on the table, stared vacantly at the first page.
I cannot tell how long he sat blankly staring at one paragraph among the list of deaths, before his dazed brain took in its full meaning; but after considerable pause he pushed the newspaper over to Robert Audley, and with a face that had changed from its dark bronze to a sickly, chalky grayish white, and with an awful calmness in his manner, he pointed with his finger to a line which ran thus:
“On the 24th inst., at Ventnor, Isle of Wight, Helen Talboys, aged 22.”
V
The Headstone at Ventnor
Yes, there it was in black and white—“Helen Talboys, aged 22.”
When George told the governess on board the Argus that if he heard any evil tidings of his wife he should drop down dead, he spoke in perfect good faith; and yet, here were the worst tidings that could come to him, and he sat rigid, white and helpless, staring stupidly at the shocked face of his friend.
The suddenness of the blow had stunned him. In this strange and bewildered state of mind he began to wonder what had happened, and why it was that one line in the Times newspaper could have so horrible an effect upon him.
Then by degrees even this vague consciousness of his misfortune faded slowly out of his mind, succeeded by a painful consciousness of external things.
The hot August sunshine, the dusty windowpanes and shabby-painted blinds, a file of flyblown playbills fastened to the wall, the black and empty fireplaces, a bald-headed old man nodding over the Morning Advertizer, the slipshod waiter folding a tumbled tablecloth, and Robert Audley’s handsome face looking at him full of compassionate alarm—he knew that all these things took gigantic proportions, and then, one by one, melted into dark blots and swam before his eyes, He knew that there was a great noise, as of half a dozen furious steam-engines tearing and grinding in his ears, and he knew nothing more—except that somebody or something fell heavily to the ground.
He opened his eyes upon the dusky evening in a cool and shaded room, the silence only broken by the rumbling of wheels at a distance.
He looked about him wonderingly, but half indifferently. His old friend, Robert Audley, was seated by his side smoking. George was lying on a low iron bedstead opposite to an open window, in which there was a stand of flowers and two or three birds in cages.
“You don’t mind the pipe, do you, George?” his friend asked, quietly.
“No.”
He lay for some time looking at the flowers and the birds; one canary was singing a shrill hymn to the setting sun.
“Do the birds annoy you, George? Shall I take them out of the room?”
“No; I like to hear them sing.”
Robert Audley knocked the ashes out of his pipe, laid the precious meerschaum tenderly upon the mantelpiece, and going into the next room, returned presently with a cup of strong tea.
“Take this, George,” he said, as he placed the cup on a little table close to George’s pillow; “it will do your head good.”
The young man did not answer, but looked slowly round the room, and then at his friend’s grave face.
“Bob,” he said, “where are we?”
“In my chambers, dear boy, in the Temple. You have no lodgings of your own, so you may as well stay with me while you’re in town.”
George passed his hand once or twice across his forehead, and then, in a hesitating manner, said, quietly:
“That newspaper this morning, Bob; what was it?”
“Never mind just now, old boy; drink some tea.”
“Yes, yes,” cried George, impatiently, raising himself upon the bed, and staring about him with hollow eyes. “I remember all about it. Helen! my Helen! my wife, my darling, my only love! Dead, dead!”
“George,” said Robert Audley, laying his hand gently upon the young man’s arm, “you must remember that the person whose name you saw in the paper may not be your wife. There may have been some other Helen Talboys.”
“No, no!” he cried; “the age corresponds with hers, and Talboys is such an uncommon name.”
“It may be a misprint for Talbot.”
“No, no, no; my wife is dead!”
He shook off Robert’s restraining hand, and rising from the bed, walked straight to the door.
“Where are you going?” exclaimed his friend.
“To Ventnor, to see her grave.”
“Not tonight, George, not tonight. I will go with you myself by the first train tomorrow.”
Robert led him back to the bed, and gently forced him to lie down again. He then gave him an opiate,
