House of Cobwebs and Other Stories — A Lodger in Maze Pond

A LODGER IN MAZE POND

Harvey Munden had settled himself in a corner of the club smoking-room, with a cigar and a review.

At eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning in August he might reasonably expect to be undisturbed.

But behold, there entered a bore, a long-faced man with a yellow waistcoat, much dreaded by all the members; he stood a while at one of the tables, fingering newspapers and eyeing the solitary.

Harvey heard a step, looked up, and shuddered.

The bore began his attack in form; Harvey parried with as much resolution as his kindly nature permitted.

'You know that Dr. Shergold is dying?'

fell casually from the imperturbable man.

'Dying?'

Munden was startled into attention, and the full flow of gossip swept about him.

Yes, the great Dr. Shergold lay dying; there were bulletins in the morning papers; it seemed unlikely that he would see another dawn.

'Who will benefit by his decease?'

inquired the bore.

'His nephew, do you think?'

'Very possibly.'

'A remarkable man, that--a _most_ remarkable man.

He was at Lady Teasdale's the other evening, and he talked a good deal.

Upon my word, it reminded one of Coleridge, or Macaulay,--that kind of thing.

Certainly most brilliant talk.

I can't remember what it was all about--something literary.

A sort of fantasia, don't you know.

Wonderful eloquence.

By the bye, I believe he is a great friend of yours?'

'Oh, we have known each other for a long time.'

'Somebody was saying that he had gone in for medicine--walking one of the hospitals--that kind of thing.'

'Yes, he's at Guy's.' To avoid infinite questioning, Harvey flung aside his review and went to glance at the _Times_.

He read the news concerning the great physician.

Then, as his pursuer drew near again, he hastily departed.

By midday he was at London Bridge.

He crossed to the Surrey side, turned immediately to the left, and at a short distance entered one of the vaulted thoroughfares which run beneath London Bridge Station.

It was like the mouth of some monstrous cavern.

Out of glaring daylight he passed into gloom and chill air; on either side of the way a row of suspended lamps gave a dull, yellow light, revealing entrances to vast storehouses, most of them occupied by wine merchants; an alcoholic smell prevailed over indeterminate odours of dampness.

There was great concourse of drays and waggons; wheels and the clang of giant hoofs made roaring echo, and above thundered the trains.

The vaults, barely illumined with gas-jets, seemed of infinite extent; dim figures moved near and far, amid huge barrels, cases, packages; in rooms partitioned off by glass framework men sat writing.

A

curve in the tunnel made it appear much longer than it really was; till midway nothing could be seen ahead but deepening darkness; then of a sudden appeared the issue, and beyond, greatly to the surprise of any one who should have ventured hither for the first time, was a vision of magnificent plane-trees, golden in the August sunshine--one of the abrupt contrasts which are so frequent in London, and which make its charm for those who wander from the beaten tracks; a transition from the clangorous cave of commerce to a sunny leafy quietude, amid old houses--some with quaint tumbling roofs--and byways little frequented.

The planes grow at the back of Guy's Hospital, and close by is a short narrow street which bears the name of Maze Pond.

It consists for the most part of homely, flat-fronted dwellings, where lodgings are let to medical students.

At one of these houses Harvey Munden plied the knocker.

He was answered by a trim, rather pert-looking girl, who smiled familiarly.

'Mr. Shergold isn't in, sir,' she said at once, anticipating his question.

'But he _will_ be very soon.

Will you step in and wait?'

'I think I will.'

As one who knew the house, he went upstairs, and entered a sitting-room on the first floor.

The girl followed him.

'I haven't had time to clear away the breakfast things,' she said, speaking rapidly and with an air.

'Mr. Shergold was late this mornin'; he didn't get up till nearly ten, an' then he sat writin' letters.

Did he know as you was comin', sir?'

'No; I looked in on the chance of finding him, or learning where he was.'

'I'm sure he'll be in about half-past twelve, 'cause he said to me as he was only goin' to get a breath of air.

He hasn't nothing to do at the 'ospital just now.'

'Has he talked of going away?'

'Going away?'

The girl repeated the words sharply, and examined the speaker's face.

'Oh, he won't be goin' away just yet, I think.'

Munden returned her look with a certain curiosity, and watched her as she began to clink together the things upon the table.

Obviously she esteemed herself a person of some importance.

Her figure was not bad, and her features had the trivial prettiness so commonly seen in London girls of the lower orders,--the kind of prettiness which ultimately loses itself in fat and chronic perspiration.

Her complexion already began to show a tendency to muddiness, and when her lips parted, they showed decay of teeth.

In dress she was untidy; her hair exhibited a futile attempt at elaborate arrangement; she had dirty hands.

Disposed to talk, she lingered as long as possible, but Harvey Munden had no leanings to this kind of colloquy; when the girl took herself off, he drew a breath of satisfaction, and smiled the smile of an intellectual man who has outlived youthful follies.

He stepped over to the lodger's bookcase.

There were about a hundred volumes, only a handful of them connected with medical study.

Seeing a volume of his own Munden took it down and idly turned the pages; it surprised him to discover a great many marginal notes in pencil, and an examination of these showed him that Shergold must have gone carefully through the book with an eye to the correction of its style; adjectives were deleted and inserted, words of common usage removed for others which only a fine literary conscience could supply, and in places even the punctuation was minutely changed.

Whilst he still pondered this singular manifestation of critical zeal, the door opened, and Shergold came in.

A man of two-and-thirty, short, ungraceful, ill-dressed, with features as little commonplace as can be imagined.

He had somewhat a stern look, and on his brow were furrows of care.

Light-blue eyes tended to modify the all but harshness of his lower face; when he smiled, as on recognising his friend, they expressed a wonderful innocence and suavity of nature; overshadowed, in thoughtful or troubled mood, by his heavy eyebrows, they became deeply pathetic.

His nose was short and flat, yet somehow not ignoble; his full lips, bare of moustache, tended to suggest a melancholy fretfulness.

But for the high forehead, no casual observer would have cared to look at him a second time; but that upper story made the whole countenance vivid with intellect, as though a light beamed upon it from above.

'You hypercritical beggar!'

cried Harvey, turning with the volume in his hand.

'Is this how you treat the glorious works of your contemporaries?'

Shergold reddened and was mute.

'I shall take this away with me,' pursued the other, laughing.

'It'll be worth a little study.'

'My dear fellow--you won't take it ill of me--I didn't really mean it as a criticism,' the deep, musical voice stammered in serious embarrassment.

'Why, wasn't it just this kind of thing that caused a quarrel between George Sand and Musset?'

'Yes, yes; but George Sand was such a peremptory fellow, and Musset such a vapourish young person.

Look!

I'll show you what I meant.'

'Thanks,' said Munden, 'I can find that out for myself.'

He thrust the book into his coat-pocket.

'I came to ask you if you are aware of your uncle's condition.'

'Of course I am.

'When did you see him last?'

'See him?'

Shergold's eyes wandered vaguely.

'Oh, to talk with him, about a month ago.'

'Did you part friendly?'

'On excellent terms.

And last night I went to ask after him.

Unfortunately he didn't know any one, but the nurse said he had been mentioning my name, and in a kind way.'

'Capital!

Hadn't you better walk in that direction this afternoon?'

'Yes, perhaps I had, and yet, you know, I hate to have it supposed that I am hovering about him.'

'All the same, go.'

Shergold pointed to a chair.

'Sit down a bit.

I have been having a talk with Dr. Salmon.

He discourages me a good deal.

You know it's far from certain that I shall go on with medicine.'

'Far from certain!'

the other assented, smiling.

'By the bye, I hear that you have been in the world of late.

You were at Lady Teasdale's not long ago.'

'Well--yes--why not?'

Perhaps it was partly his vexation at the book incident,--Shergold seemed unable to fix his thoughts on anything; he shuffled in his seat and kept glancing nervously towards the door.

'I was delighted to hear it,' said his friend.

'That's a symptom of health.

Go everywhere; see everybody--that's worth seeing.

They got you to talk, I believe?'

'Who has been telling you?

I'm afraid I talked a lot of rubbish; I had shivers of shame all through a sleepless night after it.

But some one brought up Whistler, and etching, and so on, and I had a few ideas of which I wanted to relieve my mind.

And, after all, there's a pleasure in talking to intelligent people.

Henry Wilt was there with his daughters.

Clever girls, by Jove!

And Mrs. Peter Rayne--do you know her?'

'Know of her, that's all.'

'A splendid woman--brains, brains!

Upon my soul, I know no such delight as listening to a really intellectual woman, when she's also beautiful.

I

shake with delight--and what women one does meet, nowadays!

Of course the world never saw their like.

I have my idea of Aspasia--but there are lots of grander women in London to-day.

One ought to live among the rich.

What a wretched mistake, when one can help it, to herd with narrow foreheads, however laudable your motive!

Since I got back among the better people my life has been trebled--oh, centupled--in value!'

'My boy,' remarked Munden quietly, 'didn't I say something to this effect on a certain day nine years ago?'

'Don't talk of it,' the other replied, waving his hand in agitation.

'We'll never look back at that.'

'Your room is stuffy,' said Munden, rising.

'Let us go and have lunch somewhere.'

'Yes, we will!

Just a moment to wash my hands--I've been in the dissecting-room.'

The friends went downstairs.

At the foot they passed the landlady's daughter: she drew back, but, as Shergold allowed his companion to pass into the street, her voice made itself heard behind him.

'Shall you want tea, Mr. Shergold?'

Munden turned sharply and looked at the girl.

Shergold did not look at her, but he delayed for a moment and appeared to balance the question.

Then, in a friendly voice, he said-- 'No, thank you.

I may not be back till late in the evening.'

And he went on hurriedly.

'Cheeky little beggar that,' Munden observed, with a glance at his friend.

'Oh, not a bad girl in her way.

They've made me very comfortable.

All the same, I shan't grieve when the day of departure comes.'

It was not cheerful, the life-story of Henry Shergold.

At two-and-twenty he found himself launched upon the world, with a university education incomplete and about forty pounds in his pocket.

A little management, a little less of boyish pride, and he might have found the means to go forward to his degree, with pleasant hopes in the background; but Henry was a Radical, a scorner of privilege, a believer in human perfectibility.

He got a place in an office, and he began to write poetry--some of which was published and duly left unpaid for.

A year later there came one fateful day when he announced to his friend Harvey Munden that he was going to be married.

His chosen bride was the daughter of a journeyman tailor--a tall, pale, unhealthy girl of eighteen, whose acquaintance he had made at a tobacconist's shop, where she served.

He was going to marry her on principle--principle informed with callow passion, the passion of a youth who has lived demurely, more among books than men.

Harvey Munden flew into a rage, and called upon the gods in protest.

But Shergold was not to be shaken.

The girl, he declared, had fallen in love with him during conversations across the counter; her happiness was in his hands, and he would not betray it.

She had excellent dispositions; he would educate her.

The friends quarrelled about it, and Shergold led home his bride.

With the results which any sane person could have foretold.

The marriage was a hideous disaster; in three years it brought Shergold to an attempted suicide, for which he had to appear at the police-court.

His relative, the distinguished doctor, who had hitherto done nothing for him, now came forward with counsel and assistance.

Happily the only child of the union had died at a few weeks old, and the wife, though making noisy proclamation of rights, was so weary of her husband that she consented to a separation.

But in less than a year the two were living together again; Mrs. Shergold had been led by her relatives to believe that some day the poor fellow would have his uncle's money, and her wiles ultimately overcame Shergold's resistance.

He, now studying law at the doctor's expense, found himself once more abandoned, and reduced to get his living as a solicitor's clerk.

His uncle had bidden him good-bye on a postcard, whereon was illegibly scribbled something about 'damned fools.'

He bore the burden for three more years, then his wife died.

One night, after screaming herself speechless in fury at Shergold's refusal to go with her to a music-hall, she had a fit on the stairs, and in falling received fatal injuries.

The man was free, but terribly shattered.

Only after a long sojourn abroad, at his kinsman's expense, did he begin to recover health.

He came back and entered himself as a student at Guy's, greatly to Dr. Shergold's satisfaction.

His fees were paid and a small sum was allowed him to live upon--a very small sum.

By degrees some old acquaintances began to see him, but it was only quite of late that he had accepted invitations from people of social standing, whom he met at the doctor's house.

The hints of his story that got about made him an interesting figure, especially to women, and his remarkable gifts were recognised as soon as circumstances began to give him fair play.

All modern things were of interest to him, and his knowledge, acquired with astonishing facility, formed the fund of talk which had singular charm alike for those who did and those who did not understand it.

Undeniably shy, he yet, when warmed to a subject, spoke with nerve and confidence.

In days of jabber, more or less impolite, this appearance of an articulate mortal, with soft manners and totally unaffected, could not but excite curiosity.

Lady Teasdale, eager for the uncommon, chanced to observe him one evening as he conversed with his neighbour at the dinner-table; later, in the drawing-room, she encouraged him with flattery of rapt attention to a display of his powers; she resolved to make him a feature of her evenings.

Fortunately, his kindred with Dr. Shergold made a respectable introduction, and Lady Teasdale whispered it among matrons that he would inherit from the wealthy doctor, who had neither wife nor child.

He might not be fair to look upon, but handsome is that handsome has.

And now the doctor lay sick unto death.

Society was out of town, but Lady Teasdale, with a house full of friends about her down in Hampshire, did not forget her _protégé_; she waited with pleasant expectation for the young man's release from poverty.

It came in a day or two.

Dr. Shergold was dead, and an enterprising newspaper announced simultaneously that the bulk of his estate would pass to Mr. Henry Shergold, a gentleman at present studying for his uncle's profession.

This paragraph caught the eye of Harvey Munden, who sent a line to his friend, to ask if it was true.

In reply he received a mere postcard: 'Yes.

Will see you before long.'

But Harvey wanted to be off to Como, and as business took him into the city, he crossed the river and sought Maze Pond.

Again the door was opened to him by the landlady's daughter; she stood looking keenly in his face, her eyes smiling and yet suspicious.

'Mr. Shergold in?'

he asked carelessly.

'No, he isn't.' There was a strange bluntness about this answer.

The girl stood forward, as if to bar the entrance, and kept searching his face.

'When is he likely to be?'

'I don't know.

He didn't say when he went out.'

A woman's figure appeared in the background.

The girl turned and said sharply, 'All right, mother, it's only somebody for Mr. Shergold.'

'I'll go upstairs and write a note,' said Munden, in a rather peremptory voice.

The other drew back and allowed him to pass, but with evident disinclination.

As he entered the room, he saw that she had followed.

He went up to a side-table, on which lay a blotting-book, with other requisites for writing, and then he stood for a moment as if in meditation.

'Your name is Emma, isn't it?'

he inquired, looking at the girl with a smile.

'Yes, it is.'

'Well then, Emma, shut the door, and let's have a talk.

Your mother won't mind, will she?'

he added slyly.

The girl tossed her head.

'I don't see what it's got to do with mother.'

She closed the door, but did not latch it.

'What do you want to talk about?'

'You're a very nice girl to look at, Emma, and I've always admired you when you opened the door to me.

I've always liked your nice, respectful way of speaking, but somehow you don't speak quite so nicely to-day.

What has put you out?'

Her eyes did not quit his face for a moment; her attitude betokened the utmost keenness of suspicious observation.

'Nothing's put me out, that I know of.'

'Yet you don't speak very nicely--not very respectfully.

Perhaps'--he paused--'perhaps Mr. Shergold is going to leave?'

'P'r'aps he may be.'

'And you're vexed at losing a lodger.'

He saw her lip curl and then she laughed.

'You're wrong there.'

'Then _what_ is it?'

He drew near and made as though he would advance a familiar arm.

Emma started back.

'All right,' she exclaimed, with an insolent nod.

'I'll tell Mr. Shergold.'

'Tell Mr. Shergold?

Why?

What has it to do with him?'

'A good deal.'

'Indeed?

For shame, Emma!

I never expected _that_!'

'What do you mean?'

she retorted hotly.

'You keep your impudence to yourself.

If you want to know, Mr. Shergold is going to _marry_ me--so there!'

The stroke was effectual.

Harvey Munden stood as if transfixed, but he recovered himself before a word escaped his lips.

'Ah, that alters the case.

I beg your pardon.

You won't make trouble between old friends?'

Vanity disarmed the girl's misgiving.

She grinned with satisfaction.

'That depends how you behave.'

'Oh, you don't know me.

But promise, now; not a word to Shergold.'

She gave a conditional promise, and stood radiant with her triumph.

'Thanks, that's very good of you.

Well, I won't trouble to leave a note.

You shall just tell Shergold that I am leaving England to-morrow for a holiday.

I should _like_ to see him, of course, and I may possibly look round this evening.

If I can't manage it, just tell him that I think he ought to have given me a chance of congratulating him.

May I ask when it is to be?'

Emma resumed an air of prudery, 'Before very long, I dessay.'

'I wish you joy.

Well, I mustn't talk longer now, but I'll do my best to look in this evening, and then we can all chat together.'

He laughed and she laughed back; and thereupon they parted.

A little after nine that evening, when only a grey reflex of daylight lingered upon a cloudy sky, Munden stood beneath the plane-trees by Guy's Hospital waiting.

He had walked the length of Maze Pond and had ascertained that his friend's window as yet showed no light; Shergold was probably still from home.

In the afternoon he had made inquiry at the house of the deceased doctor, but of Henry nothing was known there; he left a message for delivery if possible, to the effect that he would call in at Maze Pond between nine and ten.

At a quarter past the hour there appeared from the direction of London Bridge a well-known figure, walking slowly, head bent.

Munden moved forward, and, on seeing him, Shergold grasped his hand feverishly.

'Ha!

how glad I am to meet you, Munden!

Come; let us walk this way.'

He turned from Maze Pond.

'I got your message up yonder an hour or two ago.

So glad I have met you here, old fellow.'

'Well, your day has come,' said Harvey, trying to read his friend's features in the gloom.

'He has left me about eighty thousand pounds,' Shergold replied, in a low, shaken voice.

'I'm told there are big legacies to hospitals as well.

Heavens!

how rich he was!'

'When is the funeral?'

'Friday.'

'Where shall you live in the meantime?'

'I don't know--I haven't thought about it.'

'I should go to some hotel, if I were you,' said Munden, 'and I have a proposal to make.

If I wait till Saturday, will you come with me to Como?'

Shergold did not at once reply.

He was walking hurriedly, and making rather strange movements with his head and arms.

They came into the shadow of the vaulted way beneath London Bridge Station.

At this hour the great tunnel was quiet, save when a train roared above; the warehouses were closed; one or two idlers, of forbidding aspect, hung about in the murky gaslight, and from the far end came a sound of children at play.

'You won't be wanted here?'

Munden added.

'No--no--I think not.'

There was agitation in the voice.

'Then you will come?'

'Yes, I will come.'

Shergold spoke with unnecessary vehemence and laughed oddly.

'What's the matter with you?'

his friend asked.

'Nothing--the change of circumstances, I suppose.

Let's get on.

Let us go somewhere--I can't help reproaching myself; I ought to feel or show a decent sobriety; but what was the old fellow to me?