Part 122 (2/2)

”You're going away for a season on a brilliant tour to regain tone.

You're going to Brighton, or Scarborough, or Prawle Point, to see the s.h.i.+ps go by. And you're going at once. Isn't it odd? I'll take care of Binkie, but out you go immediately. Never resist the devil. He holds the bank. Fly from him. Pack your things and go.”

”I believe you're right. Where shall I go?”

”And you call yourself a special correspondent! Pack first and inquire afterwards.”

An hour later Torpenhow was despatched into the night for a hansom.

”You'll probably think of some place to go to while you're moving,” said d.i.c.k. ”On to Euston, to begin with, and--oh yes--get drunk tonight.”

He returned to the studio, and lighted more candles, for he found the room very dark.

”Oh, you Jezebel! you futile little Jezebel! Won't you hate me tomorrow!--Binkie, come here.”

Binkie turned over on his back on the hearth-rug, and d.i.c.k stirred him with a meditative foot.

”I said she was not immoral. I was wrong. She said she could cook. That showed premeditated sin. Oh, Binkie, if you are a man you will go to perdition; but if you are a woman, and say that you can cook, you will go to a much worse place.”

CHAPTER X

What's you that follows at my side?-- The foe that ye must fight, my lord.-- That hirples swift as I can ride?-- The shadow of the night, my lord.-- Then wheel my horse against the foe!-- He's down and overpast, my lord.

Ye war against the sunset glow; The darkness gathers fast, my lord.

----The Fight of Heriot's Ford

”This is a cheerful life,” said d.i.c.k, some days later. ”Torp's away; Bessie hates me; I can't get at the notion of the Melancolia; Maisie's letters are sc.r.a.ppy; and I believe I have indigestion. What give a man pains across the head and spots before his eyes, Binkie? Shall us take some liver pills?”

d.i.c.k had just gone through a lively scene with Bessie. She had for the fiftieth time reproached him for sending Torpenhow away. She explained her enduring hatred for d.i.c.k, and made it clear to him that she only sat for the sake of his money. ”And Mr. Torpenhow's ten times a better man than you,” she concluded.

”He is. That's why he went away. I should have stayed and made love to you.”

The girl sat with her chin on her hand, scowling. ”To me! I'd like to catch you! If I wasn't afraid 'o being hung I'd kill you. That's what I'd do. D'you believe me?”

d.i.c.k smiled wearily. It is not pleasant to live in the company of a notion that will not work out, a fox-terrier that cannot talk, and a woman who talks too much. He would have answered, but at that moment there unrolled itself from one corner of the studio a veil, as it were, of the flimsiest gauze. He rubbed his eyes, but the gray haze would not go.

”This is disgraceful indigestion. Binkie, we will go to a medicine-man.

We can't have our eyes interfered with, for by these we get our bread; also mutton-chop bones for little dogs.”

The doctor was an affable local pract.i.tioner with white hair, and he said nothing till d.i.c.k began to describe the gray film in the studio.

”We all want a little patching and repairing from time to time,” he chirped. ”Like a s.h.i.+p, my dear sir,--exactly like a s.h.i.+p. Sometimes the hull is out of order, and we consult the surgeon; sometimes the rigging, and then I advise; sometimes the engines, and we go to the brain-specialist; sometimes the look-out on the bridge is tired, and then we see an oculist. I should recommend you to see an oculist. A little patching and repairing from time to time is all we want. An oculist, by all means.”

d.i.c.k sought an oculist,--the best in London. He was certain that the local pract.i.tioner did not know anything about his trade, and more certain that Maisie would laugh at him if he were forced to wear spectacles.

”I've neglected the warnings of my lord the stomach too long. Hence these spots before the eyes, Binkie. I can see as well as I ever could.”

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