King of the Castle

“Yes, I saw him last night,” groaned Glyddyr; “and I feel as if I shall always be seeing him now.”

Once more he made an effort to collect himself, and took the situation in the full. He had nearly been committing the grave error of running away, but he had fortunately paused.

“It would have been madness,” he thought, “and only inviting pursuit by attracting attention to my actions.”

He walked on deck, his nervous excitement having completely counteracted the effect produced by the spirits and wine, and ordered his men into the boat to row him ashore.

He had made up his mind what to do, and as soon as they reached the landing steps he walked straight up to the Fort for the second time that morning.

He was cool now, for he was fully awake to the fact that his life depended upon his calmly facing facts.

Half-way up, towards the bridge, he met Doctor Asher and his colleague, the latter bowing and passing on, but Asher stopped short, and took Glyddyr’s extended hand.

“Going in?” he said.

“Yes; how is she – Miss Gartram?”

“Terrible state, poor girl; broken-hearted; I only saw her for a few moments. Dreadful accident, is it not?”

Glyddyr felt his blood run cold, and his eyes seemed to him to be vacant, as he gazed straight at the doctor. “Accident?” he said, huskily.

“Oh, yes; no doubt about that. But you understand, do you not?”

“No – yes – I think I do,” said Glyddyr, whose throat felt dry.

“Of course. Poor fellow, I warned him against it over and over again, but it is of no use with a man who once becomes a slave to a drug.”

“Yes, I see,” said Glyddyr, staring hard at the doctor, but not seeing him.

“I feel as if I were to blame, but, on dispassionate consideration, what could I do?”

“Of course,” answered Glyddyr, “what could you do?”

“It was better that he should take the drug under my supervision than recklessly alone.”

“Yes; much,” said Glyddyr, vacantly.

“And yet on the face of it one can’t say that it seems so. But what could a medical man do in such a case? ‘I am suffering for want of sleep,’ he used to say, ‘and I must have this stuff.’ ‘It is madness to take it,’ I said. ‘If you don’t give it me, I shall get it myself at the druggists.’ So, of course, I had to give way and exhibit safe doses, but no foresight can prevent a man taking double or triple the quantities prescribed.”

“No; I see,” said Glyddyr, in the same vacant way. “But do you think he did get more at the druggist’s?”

“That was my first thought, and I telegraphed to the two nearest and most likely men, but they say in each case, ‘no.’ Most awful accident, Mr Glyddyr. It ought to be a warning to people not to tamper with drugs which they do not understand, eh?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How can anyone know how much to prescribe or take? A medical man of long experience has to go very cautiously, for what is a safe dose for one constitution is certain death to another. But, there: I must go. My colleague, to whom I have every reason to be grateful for his loyal aid, is waiting for me. I wanted help, for I cannot recall when I have been so overcome as by this case. The shock was terrible. Dining with him – called away – returning to find that he was asleep. Let me see you were with him, were you not?”

“Yes, part of the time,” faltered Glyddyr, as he felt a thrill of dread run through him under the doctor’s searching eyes, which seemed to be reading his inmost thoughts; and he found himself wondering whether this man had really been called away upon two occasions, or had made excuses, so as to watch his every act.

“And did you notice anything particular?”

“N-no,” faltered Glyddyr; and then, in response to the sharply applied goad of dread, “no, nothing; only that he breathed rather heavily.”

“To be sure; yes. But, there: good-bye. We shall meet again at the inquest, I suppose I I am not surprised at you looking so pale and overcome.”

“Do I look pale and overcome?” said Glyddyr hastily, the words slipping from his lips.

“Terribly, my dear sir, terribly. Good morning.”

Glyddyr stood looking after him as the doctor walked away, and a fit of trembling came on.

“He was pumping me, and he is suspicious,” thought Glyddyr. “Curse him! These doctors have a way of reading a man, and seeing through you. But he could only suspect; and what is suspicion where they want certainty?”

“What could he say,” he thought; “and how does it stand? He gave him chloral; Gartram took it himself, and if a little more was given, well, what could they prove unless they saw?”

“No; unless I betray myself, I am safe,” he muttered, as he walked up to the principal entrance and rang; but as the loud clangour of the bell ran through the place, the shiver of dread returned, and he was conscious from his sensations that he must be looking ghastly, and that his lips be white and cracked.

The door was opened by one of the maids.

“Ask Miss Gartram if she can see me for a few minutes,” he said, in a voice he hardly knew as his own.

The maid drew back for him to enter, and showed him into the drawing-room, where the yellow gloom of the light passing through the drawn-down blinds seemed to add to the oppression from which he suffered. Then, as he stood there, his hot eyes fixed themselves upon the chair which had been occupied by Claude when he was there the previous night; and he found himself wondering what he should say to her; and then a singular feeling of confusion came over him as he asked himself why he had come.

A footstep in the hall made him tremble, and he felt as if he could have given anything to be away from the place, for now, in its full force, he felt the terror of the interview he had to go through with the child of the man he had murdered, and who must now be lying still and stark not many yards away, while in the spirit, where was he? – perhaps about to be present to guard his child.

“If I only had more strength of mind!” groaned Glyddyr, as he vainly tried to string himself up. Then the door was opened, and he was face to face with Mary Dillon.

He drew a breath of relief, and his brain began to grow clearer, as if a mist had been wafted away, and, recovering himself, he advanced with extended hand.

“Will you be seated, Mr Glyddyr?” said Mary, ignoring the extended hand, and sinking wearily on the couch to half close her eyes and wrinkle up her brow.

“Thank you,” he said in a whisper; “I ought to apologise for coming, but – at such a time – dear Claude must – ”

His words began to trail off slowly into silence, and he sat gazing at Mary helplessly, as if he could not command the flow of that which he wished to say.

“It is very good of you to come,” said Mary slowly, as if she were repeating a lesson when her thoughts were far away. “But poor Claude is completely prostrate. She cannot see you. It is cruel of you to ask for such a thing.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he said meekly. “But, occupying the position as I do – she in such distress – I felt it a duty, let alone my own warm feelings. Miss Dillon, is there nothing I can do?”

He stopped short now, wondering at his own words, for they had come quickly, and sounded thoroughly natural in their ring.

“No,” said Mary, looking at him piercingly now; but he seemed nerved by the instinct of self-preservation, and the knowledge that everything depended upon him being calm.

Mary paused, and appeared to be struggling with her emotion for a few moments. Then, in a cold, hard way, she faced Glyddyr, as if she were defending her cousin from attack.

“No,” she said, in clear firm tones. “My cousin is seriously ill, Mr Glyddyr. Broken-hearted at our terrible loss, and anyone who feels respect for her, and wishes to be helpful at such an hour as this will leave her in peace till time has done something toward blunting the agony she is in.”

“Yes,” said Glyddyr, “you are quite right.”