The Cloven Foot

Stephen brought his wife to lunch with me, by appointment. I ordered a nice little luncheon: filleted sole, cutlets, a duckling, peas, new potatoes, cherry tart, and a custard. The poor woman does not often enjoy a good dinner, and no doubt my luncheon would be her dinner. But my thoughtfulness was thrown away. The poor thing was looking pale and worn when she came, and she hardly ate a morsel. Even the duckling did not tempt her, though she owned it was the first she had seen this year. After luncheon Stephen went to the City, to keep an appointment as he told us, and his wife and I spent a quiet hour in my drawing-room. We had a long talk, which turned, as usual, on her domestic troubles. She calls this Captain Desmond her husband’s evil genius, and says he is a blight upon her life. He is not an old friend of Stephen’s, so there is no excuse for that foolish fellow’s infatuation. They met him first at Boulogne, last year; and from that time to this he and Stephen have been inseparable. Poor Laura declares that this Desmond belongs to a horrid, gambling, drinking set, and that he is the cause of Stephen’s ruin. ‘We were poor when we first went to Boulogne,’ she said, with tears in her eyes, poor child, ‘but we could just manage to live respectably, and for the first year we were very happy. But from the day my husband made the acquaintance of Captain Desmond things began to go badly. Stephen resumed his old habits of billiard playing, cards, and late hours. He had grown fond of his home, and reconciled to a quiet, domestic life. Darling Laura’s pretty ways and sweet little talk amused and interested him. But after Captain Desmond came upon the scene Stephen seldom spent an evening at home. I know that it is wicked to hate people,’ the poor thing said, in her simple way, ‘but I cannot help hating this bad man.’ ”

“Poor mother!” sighed Laura, touched to the heart by this picture of domestic misery.

“I asked her if she knew who and what Captain Desmond was. She could only tell me that when Stephen made his acquaintance he was living at a boardinghouse at Boulogne, and had been living there for some months. He had spent a considerable part of his life abroad. He had nobody belonging to him, and he seemed to belong to nobody; though he often boasted vaguely of grand connections. To poor Laura’s mind he was nothing more or less than an adventurer. ‘He flatters my husband,’ she said, ‘and he tries to flatter me. He is very often at Chiswick, and whenever he comes he takes my husband back to London with him, and then I see no more of Stephen till the next day, or perhaps not for two or three days after. He has what his friend calls a shakedown at Captain Desmond’s lodgings in May’s Buildings, St. Martin’s Lane.’ ”

“Aunt,” exclaimed Laura eagerly, “will you let me copy that address? It might be of use to me, if I should have to trace the past life of this man.”

She wrote the address in a little memorandum book contained in her purse.

“My dear, why should you trouble yourself about Captain Desmond,” said the old lady. “Whatever harm he did your poor father is past and done with. Nothing can alter or mend it now.”

“No, aunt, but as long as this man lives he will go on doing harm. He will go from small crimes to great ones. It is his nature. Please go on with the diary, dear aunt. You can have no idea how valuable this information is to me.”

“I have always felt I was doing a useful act in keeping a diary, my dear. I am not surprised to find this humble record of inestimable value,” said the old lady, who was bursting with gratified vanity. “Where would history be if people in easy circumstances, and with plenty of leisure, did not keep diaries? I do not think there is any more about Captain Desmond. No; your mother tells me about her own health. She is feeling very low and ill. She fears she will not live many years, and then what is to become of poor little Laura?”

“Did you ever go to Chiswick, aunt?”

“Never, till after your poor father’s death. I attended his funeral.”

“Was Captain Desmond present?”

“No; but he was with your father up to the last hour of his life. I heard that from the landlady. He helped to nurse him.”

“I thank you aunt, with all my heart, for what you have told me. I will come and see you again in a few days, if I may.”

“Do, my dear, and bring your husband,” Laura shivered. “I should like to make his acquaintance. If you will mention the day a little beforehand, I should be pleased for you to take your luncheon with me. I have the cook who roasted that duckling for your poor mother still with me.”

“I shall be pleased to come, aunt. We are in London upon very serious business, but I hope it will soon be ended, and when it is over I will tell you all about it.”

“Do, my dear. I am very glad to see you again. I dare say you remember spending a week with me when your mother died. I think you enjoyed yourself. This house must have been such a change for you after that poor little place at Chiswick, and there is a good deal to amuse a child in this room,” said Mrs. Malcolm, glancing admiringly from the monumental clock on the mantelpiece to the group of feather flowers and stuffed birds on the sepulchral chiffonier.

Laura smiled faintly, remembering those interminable days in that cheerless chamber, compared with which a dirty lane where she could have made mud pies would have been Elysium.

“I’ve no doubt you were extremely kind to me, aunt,” she