Beck Center English Dept. University Libraries Emory University
Emory Women Writers Resource Project Collections:
Women's Genre Fiction Project

The Adventures of Tyler Tatlock, an electronic edition

by Dick Donovan [Muddock, J.E. (Joyce Emmerson), 1843-1934]

date: 1900
source publisher: Chatto & Windus
collection: Genre Fiction

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CHAPTER I
LIKE GLIDING WATER

'DYING, I bequeath to you a precious legacy—my daughter, and between dead lips I pledge you and her.'

Speaking these words, with a sad smile on his pale and wasted face, Herbert Lindmark raised with trembling white hand a tumbler of hot spirit to his lips and drank. Then replacing the glass on the table, he put his silk handkerchief to his eyes to wipe away a tear.

Herbert Lindmark, B.A. and Barrister-at-Law, was quite a young man, being at this time under thirty; but he was drifting away, silently but surely, like gliding water to the great ocean of eternity.

Scarcely a year had passed since Mr. Lindmark, having eaten all his dinners and passed his examinations, had been called to the bar. But though he had installed himself in sumptuous chambers in Lincoln's Inn, he had never yet held a brief. He had distinguished himself at his college, and might have distinguished himself in the profession he had chosen, had not a want of stability of character and a fatal weakness of purpose proved his ruin. His life had been short, but he had spent it recklessly. To use a popular phrase, he had ` burnt the candle at both ends,' and though a strong and robust man may sometimes do this and yet live to a green old age, Lindmark's constitution was too delicate | | 254 and his frame too weak to withstand the liberties which had been taken with them. And so on this cold bright Christmas morning, Herbert Lindmark, Esq., Barrister-at-Law, knew and felt that he was trembling on the borders of the unknown. The scene is a comfortable room in his chambers, and a bright fire sends out warmth and a ruddy glow, and imparts a sort of crimson stain to the old dark oak furniture, and the quaint knick-knacks that had been Lindmark's hobby.

The words with which this chapter opens were ad-dressed to his confidant and bosom friend, John Gyde, his junior by several years. The two young men had been at school and college together, and since their first meeting a friendship had sprung up that had never grown cold for a single day. John Gyde, like his friend, aspired to wear silk, but though he was studying very hard he had not yet attained to the dignity of a 'call' even.

Between these two young men the contrast in character was so marked that their unalterable friendship presented one of those psychological problems that it is not easy to find solutions for by any process of ordinary reasoning. Lind-mark had been wild and reckless; Gyde steady, plodding, and rather humdrum, and it was obvious that if ever he gained any marked position in his profession it would rather be by unalterable determination to reach some given end, than by any extraordinary ability. His friend, on the other hand, had shown certain mental power that at times flashed out with the brilliancy of genius; but this, alas seems ever to be a fatal gift, and the sons of genius die young.

Lindmark's career had been a short one, but it had had its tinge of romance. He had come of good stock, and his father's boast was his patrician descent. Young Lindmark's mother dying while yet in her prime, his father had married again ; but the second wife proved an clement of strife in the family ; she did not take kindly to the children, and Herbert, who was the youngest of three sons, was sent early to school. During his school years he showed such marked | | 255 ability that when he went to Oxford his friends predicted a brilliant future for him. He had ever been wayward, fitful, and impulsive, however, so that those who had watched him narrowly and knew him best, shook their heads dubiously and expressed fears that he would come to grief.

He had not been long at Oxford before he made the acquaintance of Dorothy Whymper, whose singular beauty of face and figure earned for her the position of the 'Belle of Oxford.' Her parents, unfortunately, were not only humble, but very vulgar. They kept a small public-house that was a noted rendezvous of betting men, and her father himself combined with the business of a publican the debasing occupation of a 'Professional Bookmaker.' These facts, however, did not deter Herbert Lindmark from becoming infatuated with the publican and bookmaker's daughter; and blind to the future, indifferent to all con-sequences, reckless of self and reputation, he secretly married her, and a few months afterwards she bore him a daughter. It was then he began to realise the false step he had taken; a truth that was brought more forcibly and painfully to him by the unprincipled importunities for money which her father was constantly making under the threat of publicly announcing the marriage. At length, when driven to desperation, Herbert determined to go to his own father like a prodigal son, and, confessing his fault, sue for pardon. The confession, however, almost stunned Mr. Lindmark. It was a crushing blow to his pride. Sternly refusing to see his daughter-in-law, he ordered his son never again to darken his doors. Herbert obeyed the order to the letter, and between him and his irate parent a reconcilation [sic] was never effected, as Mr. Lindmark died soon afterwards, his end being accelerated, so people said, by his son's m"é"salliance.

His father's death was certainly a blow to Herbert, who began to feel the penalty of his error, for his marriage relations proved unhappy. His wife was vain and extravagant, and at that time, owing to his slender means, he was unable to gratify her taste, the result being disastrous to his | | 256 domestic peace. It was destined, however, that this should not last long, for Mrs. Lindmark fell into a rapid decline, and left him a widower. Possibly he felt this to be a relief, and as he noticed that his daughter Dorothy gave promise of inheriting all her mother's extraordinary beauty, he determined that he would use every endeavour to prevent her developing her mother's mental characteristics.

Fortunately about this time he came into a small but comfortable fortune left to him by an aunt, and this enabled him to make such provision for his child as would secure her being well brought up. None of his own relations would ever recognise her, and as he was painfully anxious that she should not be subject to the baneful influences of her mother's connections, he had placed her under the care of an English lady resident in Paris.

This, then, was Herbert Lindmark's little history ; and now at an age when many men can scarcely be said to have passed their youth, his frail constitution had broken down through over-study and dissipation, and he knew only too well that he must die.

His friend John Gyde was the only son of a barrister who had gained some eminence in his day, but he had been dead three years, and young Gyde's widowed mother was the only life between him and the possession of a snug little estate in Devonshire, which comprised a very quaint and curious old house known as the 'Raven's Nest,' which had been in his family for many generations. Gyde, notwithstanding that he came from a legal stock, had never shown much love for the law, but at the earnest entreaties of his friend Lindmark he had taken chambers in the Inn, and was plodding on with his studies in a manner that was peculiarly characteristic of him.

It had been his intention to have spent the Christmas, upon which this story opens, with his mother in Devonshire, but the serious illness of his friend had induced him to remain in town. Gyde knew very well that his friend was dying, but still he tried to cheer him, and in answer to his remark he said:

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'Tut, man, don't talk of dying yet. You are worth twenty dead men. Come, I drink to your better health.'

They clinked glasses, and drained a bumper, and then with forced gaiety Gyde continued, 'So Dorothy is coming to-day, and if I outlive you, I am to be her guardian.'

'Yes, Mrs. Turner and she would arrive from Paris last night and stay at an hotel. They will be here by twelve o'clock. As regards your outliving me, that is a certainty, and for our old friendship's sake I have appointed you Dorothy's guardian. I know how faithfully you will per-form your trust, and that makes my coming end less difficult to face. Her fortune will be about three hundred a year, so that her future is secure, save in one thing.' Lindmark paused, covered his face with his hand for a moment, then said: 'That one thing is marriage; I suppose she will want to marry some day; and if I could live till that time, the husband I would choose for her would be the counterpart of yourself.'

'You flatter me,' said Gyde thoughtfully; 'but one thing you may rely upon, I will guard her jealously, and n' man shall ever have my consent to wed her unless he is of sterling worth.'

'God bless you,' Lindmark exclaimed in a choking voice as he grasped his friend's hand. 'But away with this melancholy. It is the last Christmas I shall spend with you; let us try and get some pleasure out of it.' Then, with a great sigh, he added: 'Ah, old fellow, we have known some jolly Christmases together, eh?'

'Yes, and I would fain hope we may yet know others.'

Lindmark shook his head sadly, as, filling his own and his friend's glass from the punch-bowl, he said, 'A toast—to be drunk in silence—To the memory of departed pleasures.'

Gyde humoured his friend, knowing his peculiarities, and drank the toast. After this, and under the influence of the liquor, Lindmark grew more cheerful, and trilled snatches of songs; but every now and then was interrupted by a cough that almost asphyxiated him, and left him pale and gasping. Thus the morning slipped away, and it was a | | 258 great relief to Gyde when he heard the bell ring, and the old housekeeper came in to announce the arrival of 'Mrs. Turner and Miss Dorothy.' In a few minutes the door of the apartment was flung open, and a young, bright, and laughing girl burst into the room with a joyous cry of delight, and flying to Lindmark, and throwing her arms round his neck, she exclaimed, 'Oh, my dear, dear papa, I am so glad to see you!' Then suddenly, as she heard the hacking cough and saw the bloodless face, she drew back in alarm and said, 'Oh, papa, what is the matter ? You are ill, and you have never told me anything about it.'

He pressed the fair head to his shrunken chest, and with a ghastly smile he answered:

'No, darling, I have not told you. I did not think it necessary to do so. But come, come, we mustn't talk of illness now. I want this to be a very pleasant Christmas to you, so that in after years it may live in your memory. Possibly, dear'—here his voice faltered—'possibly, dear, you and I will not be able to spend next Christmas together; but if I could only get a little stronger I would go away to some warm climate, and I might then get perfectly well again.'

Lindmark spoke thus to calm the fears of his child, but he knew perfectly well that his days were numbered, and that if his life stretched out for another three months it was as much as it would. Knowing the hopelessness of his case, he had become, as it were, despairingly reckless, and was rather disposed to hasten the coming end, and so cut short the torturing suspense, than make an attempt to delay it.

His daughter was deeply affected, and cried very much, but she was too young to fully realise the dreadful truth, and under the influence of her father's forced laughter, and Gyde's jokes, she grew merry as a cricket. She sat on Gyde's knee and pulled his beard; then she played havoc amongst her father's books, and next, with sweet wilfulness, rattled off a stirring piece on the piano. She was, indeed, a young wild beauty, and her presence was like a burst of glad sunshine.

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At this time Dorothy Lindmark was about eleven years of age, with a face of perfect sweetness. She was beautiful, and she knew it, and she had so often heard people exclaim when they first beheld her, 'What a pretty child; what beautiful hair she's got; what bonny eyes!' that she had become very vain. Her skin was almost waxen in its fairness, and her mouth was exquisitely shaped. Her eyes were hazel and languid, while an astonishing wealth of fair hair fell in ripples about her shoulders.

Mrs. Turner, under whose care Dorothy had been in Paris, was a stiff and severe lady of a very uncertain age. Rigid as to her morals and unbending as to her discipline, she had been iron-handed with Dorothy, who consequently felt like a bird escaped from its cage whenever she got a holiday.

The poor child was very happy on this Christmas afternoon, in spite of the severe looks that Mrs. Turner gave her every now and then, for this lady seemed to think that a child should be stiff, conventional, and silent. But Dorothy, when she was with her father, knew that she could do much as she liked, and for the sake of these brief snatches of joyous freedom she was ready to endure any amount of extra discipline that Mrs. Turner liked to impose.

The dinner passed off very merrily, and Herbert Lindmark seemed in unusually high spirits, and, much to good Mrs. Turner's amazement, he allowed his daughter to partake of a little glass of sherry, and to follow this with a glass of champagne; and the lady's indignation reached a point when it burst into a wordy protest as she witnessed her charge attack a third helping of the rich Christmas pudding, very freely moistened with brandy sauce. But Lindmark, who had never brooked authority, would tolerate no interference now, and said politely:

'Excuse me, Mrs. Turner, if I say that I wish Dorothy to do as she likes to-day.'

The lady felt the rebuke and held her peace, though, as the saying is, her blood boiled ; but she was a worldly- | | 260 minded and selfish woman, and knew that she could not afford to quarrel with Mr. Lindmark.

Mrs. Turner was the widow of an officer in the army who had been dead nearly a dozen years. He left her with one son and a hundred a year, and on this scant income she had lived in genteel poverty in Paris. The sixty guineas a year, therefore, which Mr. Lindmark allowed her for Dorothy's keep and education was not to be lightly thrown away. Now, notwithstanding that Mrs. Turner had highly respectable connections, and had been well brought up and well educated herself, she was a designing if not an unscrupulous woman, and she was rather fond of boasting that anything that she set her mind upon she almost invariably accomplished. One of the things upon which her mind had long been set was the marriage of her son to Dorothy when the children were old enough, as she believed Dorothy to be an heiress, and, therefore, a prize worth hooking, seeing that her son's inheritance was only a reversionary interest in the two thousand pounds from which she derived her modest income. Alfred Turner was more French than English, having been in France the greater part of his life; and as a natural consequence he had become impregnated with the insincerity and easy morality which is so conspicuous of French youth ; his mother had been to great pains to thoroughly imbue him with the very French social doctrines that marriage should be a marriage of convenience and money; if love comes afterwards well and good, but if it does not it's of no consequence as long as the money is there ; but under no circumstances must love be considered before the financial question. It is a pernicious doctrine, but it accorded well with Mrs. Turner's own views, and she preached it.

Alfred Turner was strikingly handsome, but exceedingly forward, and quite as fast as the most lively of his French companions; and in spite of his youth scandal had already coupled his name in a very compromising manner with that of a young lady whose husband occupied a diplomatic position abroad. To Dorothy he had always strenuously endeavoured, | | 261 in accordance with his mother's promptings, to exhibit the best side of his character, and at times to display devotion, that had it been sincere would have been worthy the name of chivalry. Under these circumstances there was no wonder that the child had come to enjoy the society of her boy lover, and to feel proud and happy when he told her that some day she should be his 'wee wifie.'

To return, however. When the dinner had been cleared away, and the dessert discussed, Dorothy played several pieces on the piano by her father's request, and as the time drew near for her and Mrs. Turner to take their departure—for it was necessary for them to return to the hotel to sleep—Mr. Lindmark requested Dorothy to go with him to another apartment, as he wished to have a quiet half-hour with her.

The child had spent a happy and joyous day, and one that was likely to live green in her memory for many a long year, for it was the first Christmas she had spent with her father for five years. In spite of his flushed face, his apparent high spirits, and seeming improvement in health, it is probable that Lindmark had an impression that his end was very near, and that this might be the last opportunity he would ever have of saying what he wished to say to his daughter. Had this not been so, it is hard to understand why he should have cast a shadow over the child's gaiety, and have changed her gladness to sorrow.

Sinking into a large cushioned chair that had been wheeled up before the fire, he drew her between his knees; and as her soft cheek was laid lovingly against his, and her arms were twined about his neck, he said in tremulous tones, 'Dolly, my darling, this is Christmas night, and I have something solemn to say.' He paused, for, though he often boasted of being very stoical, he was nearly breaking down in this supreme moment. 'I am afraid, Dolly,' he continued tenderly, 'that you will never spend another Christmas day with me.'

'Why, papa?' she cried in anxious alarm, as starting back from him to arm's length, and looking into his now | | 262 ashen face and burning eyes, she guessed the truth, child as she was.

He laughed a little melancholy laugh as he made answer, the while toying nervously with her golden hair, 'Because, my pet, I am afraid I shall never recover from my illness. There, there, my precious darling, don't fret like that,' he added as he strained her to him, and kissed her tenderly. Then, after a great effort to steady his voice, he went on: Young as you are, dear, I wish you as my daughter to meet the inevitable with strength of mind and fortitude. What I wish to say now, and I wish you to ever remember the words, as words coming from between dead lips, is that I have appointed my dear companion and faithful friend John Gyde your legal guardian. I know that he will watch over you with tender and fatherly care; and when you shall come to be old enough to understand such things, it will give me pleasure now to think that he might even have the right to shield you as his wife. But do not forget that I have never mentioned it to him. As the years pass on and you gain discretion and wisdom, you must use them to determine your own happiness; and that you should do so is my solemn admonition now.'

This was all he had to say, and he was glad he had said it. It had cost him a tremendous effort, but it was done and he felt lighter, for it had seemed to him a duty he owed to his child to speak a few words that should sink into her heart and influence her conduct in after life.

Dorothy made no reply. How could she? She was too young and too inexperienced to understand the stupendous mystery of death, and the equally stupendous mystery of life, with all its great responsibilities and solemn duties. She, therefore, did as any other child would have done, she caressed her father with childish fervour, and pressing her face to his breast she fretted passionately.

And so they sat with the ruddy glow of the firelight playing about them, and calling into being strange shadows that were, perhaps, typical of the shadows that were coming into the girl's life. Suddenly, on the cold still night air, a | | 263 church clock slowly tolled out eleven ; and with a little start Lindmark raised the face of his daughter, who had grown very quiet, and kissing her, said:

'Come, my darling, it is time you went to bed.'

As Dorothy came into the lamplight of the other room, where Gyde and Mrs. Turner were sitting, her face was flushed, her eyes tearful, and her hair disarranged. Neither Mrs. Turner nor Gyde, however, made any remark, although they both noticed these signs.

In a little while Dorothy stood arrayed in a heavy fur-cloak, and her sweet face framed in a woollen hood that made her look, if possible, even more charming. But an expression of thoughtfulness had come into that face, and caused her to appear older than her years.

With her arms round her father's neck, she clung to him for some minutes ; and when at last she tore herself from him, after many warm embraces, he said:

'Remember, Dolly, you come and see me quite early tomorrow.'

'May I come at nine o'clock, papa?' she asked between her sobs.

'Yes, my darling, if you wish it.'

Mrs. Turner, who wisely witnessed the scene without making any remark, was glad enough when she and her charge were descending the stairs, piloted by John Gyde, who was to escort them to their hotel at Charing Cross, and then return to pass the night at his friend's chambers.

As soon as he was alone, and the sounds of the descending footsteps had died away, Lindmark uttered a great sob, and sank like a lump of lead upon the couch. In a few minutes he struggled to his feet, and seizing a bottle half full of champagne that stood on the table, he poured out a tumblerful of the wine and drained it at a draught. For a few brief moments it gave him a deceptive strength; but suddenly there spread over his face a ghastly pallor, and a little frothy blood oozed from between his lips. Clasping his hands to his face in a paroxysm of anguish, he uttered a deep moan of pain, then staggering back he fell, with his | | 264 body on the floor and his head resting against the couch. It was long past midnight when Gyde strolled leisurely back through the silent and deserted streets. It was bitterly cold; the air was keen with frost, and the stars glittered superbly. Gyde was very thoughtful, and a shade melancholy. He thought of the severe and rigid Mrs. Turner; of the sweet child-face of Dorothy as he had last seen it framed in its woollen hood; and of the pallid wasted face of his dying friend, and he dreamed and speculated upon the future; wondered what his own future would be; what Dorothy's future would be; and whether his friend had any future. The latter part of his speculation was soon answered, for when, a few minutes later, he entered Herbert Lindmark's chamber, he found the silence which could never be unsealed. The current of Lindmark's life, like gliding water, had merged itself into the ocean of mystery which is called Death.

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