So saying, she hurried me to the hall-door, and observed in conclusion—
“Don’t clap the door, do ye mind? and if you have any message back, don’t knock loud—do you hear me?”
It was still profoundly dark, and the streets silent and deserted. It was past three o’clock, probably nearer four, as I knocked at Captain Jennings’ lodgings. He had a handsome set of apartments in Kildare-street, and through the blinds of the drawing-room windows I could see the glare of lights, and the shadows of persons in the room. The hall, too, was lighted; and from the promptitude with which the door was opened, as well as from the talking and laughter audible from the drawing-room, as I followed the servant up the stairs, it was manifest that Captain Jennings was seeing company.
The servant was a novice in his duties, I suppose; for instead of acquainting his master with my arrival, and leaving me to wait in the hall, he ushered me up at once into his presence. Perhaps, indeed, by way of compensation to my self-esteem, the worthy fellow, with more discrimination than those whom I had last encountered, detected something of the gentleman under my assumed lackeyism. In obedience to his directions, therefore, and perhaps with some lurking curiosity to witness the contrasted situation of himself and of his victim, in the selfsame hour, I stepped into the room. It was light as day with wax-lights, and the party, which consisted of some eight or ten, were for the most part engaged at cards. They were all talking and laughing with noisy gaiety; and an elegant supper was laid, with a profusion of plate and wine-coolers, at a long side-table. One of the first persons I saw was young Chadleigh, who was just concluding a satirical anecdote as I entered, and the next was Jennings. I saw the latter cast an angry glance at the servant, and instantly resume the smile with which he awaited the point of young Chadleigh’s story; but I plainly perceived that in spite of his command of muscle, his face had grown almost deadly pale.
He waved his hand impatiently to us to withdraw, and as I did so, I saw him fill out a glass of wine. In the midst of the buzz and laughter which followed Chadleigh’s anecdote, Captain Jennings joined me in the lobby, and as he did so, I heard Chadleigh call after him some quizzing insinuation as to the nature of my message, which, coming from that quarter, and uttered in all the thoughtless levity of gaiety and dissipation, sounded sadly enough in my ear.
“Follow me,” said Jennings, drily, and led the way to the parlour. Placing the candle on the chimneypiece, and standing close by the fireplace, he signed to me to shut the door, which I accordingly did; and when, in obedience to another sign, I had approached so near that our conversation could be distinctly carried on in tones little above a whisper, he continued, with manifest tokens of agitation—
“You came—you came from—” and abruptly stopped, looking at me with a pallid countenance, in which was stamped the intensest anxiety.
“I come, sir, with this note and a message,” I replied, placing the letter in his hand.
He broke the seal and read the note hurriedly through, but without any change of expression; then looked at me with anxious abstraction for a second or two, and once more read the note through from end to end.
“And the—the patient,” he added, fixing his eyes on me again; “you know—I suppose you know who she is?”
“Yes—Miss Chadleigh,” I replied, with an effort.
“He knows it all,” he muttered, scarce audibly, and looking at me still with the same abstracted and fear-stricken expression. “And how is she?” he asked after a pause—“is she safe?”
“She is doing well, sir,” I replied; “she is safely over her trial.”
“That’s well,” he said, drawing a long breath, as if relieved, but without exhibiting any corresponding cheer in the expression of his face.
“And the infant,” I began.
“Well,” said he, quickly, “what of it?”
“Is also doing well,” I replied—“a boy, the nurse desired me to tell you—a very fine boy, indeed.”
“The nurse!” he repeated, while his face darkened with renewed alarm—“What nurse? Why, my great God! she’s not mad enough—surely it can’t—she’s not at home?”
“No, indeed, sir, very far from her home, and not likely to be found either,” I replied.
He seemed relieved; again took up the note, but replaced it on the table unread, and turned, and leaned his head on his hands on the chimneypiece, as it seemed, either buried in profound reflection, or wrung by some sudden agony. After a while he turned about, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, stood with his back to the fireplace, and his head sunk forward. The light of the solitary candle upon the mantelpiece above him, deepened with its shadows the furrows of his contracted brow and down-drawn mouth, He looked, I thought, the very picture of comfortless and guilty wretchedness.
I had conceived instinctively, almost from the first moment I beheld him, a certain feeling of dislike toward Captain Jennings, and this predisposition my recent discoveries were, as you may readily suppose, by no means calculated to mitigate or remove. I could not help saying, in a tone which, had he been less agitated at the moment, might very possibly have provoked his anger—
“And may I ask, sir, have you no message of any kind for the unfortunate young lady?”
“Ay, ay, you’re right; I forgot—to be sure,” he answered, glancing quickly and anxiously around him; and then raising his hand in painful reflection to his face, replied—“You are very right—a message—yes, yes, yes.”
As he said this, he mechanically took up the note again, and looking vacantly at it for a few seconds, threw it, as it seemed, unconsciously upon the table. My eyes followed it involuntarily, and as it fell before me (it is, I hope, needless to say, totally without my
