Dutch the Diver: or, A Man's Mistake. Fenn George Manville

he had never agreed to his reception as a guest.

      “But, there, he is a perfect gentleman,” he argued; “and his conduct to me is almost too effusive. Little Hester must find him all that could be desired, or she would complain. Hallo, who is this?”

      “Company to see you,” said Rasp, roughly; and, as Dutch left his stool, it was to meet Captain Studwick’s invalid son and his sister, who came in, accompanied by a quiet, gentlemanly-looking young man, whom he introduced as Mr Meldon.

      “The medical gentleman who attends me now,” said John Studwick, smiling; “not that I want much, do I, Mr Meldon?”

      “Well, no, we will not call you an invalid, Mr Studwick,” said the stranger.

      “Fact is,” said John Studwick, “I’ve set up a medical man of my own. Mr Meldon is going with us on the voyage.”

      “What voyage?” said Dutch, eagerly.

      “Oh, you don’t know, of course,” said John Studwick, laughing. “My father thinks a sea voyage will set me right, and I am going in the Sea King. Bessy’s going too.”

      “Indeed,” said Dutch, looking from one to the other, while Bessy coloured slightly, and turned away.

      “Yes, it’s just settled this morning. Mr Parkley is willing, so we shall have a sea voyage and adventure too. I say, Mr Pugh, you asked me to come to your house.”

      “Yes, and I shall be very glad,” said Dutch, smiling.

      “Well, can we fix a day when we may be introduced to this Spanish Cuban gentleman? I’m curious to know my fellow-passenger. Sick man’s fancy.”

      “Thursday week, then,” said Dutch, eagerly. “Mr Meldon, perhaps, will join us.”

      “I shall be very happy,” replied that individual.

      And he glanced at Bessy, who coloured again slightly; and then, after a few words about the voyage, in which John Studwick expressed his regret that Dutch was not going on the expedition, the little party went away.

      “If I’m not mistaken,” said Dutch to himself, as he climbed to his stool, “there’s somebody there to heal the sore place in poor Bessy’s heart. Poor girl! If I was not coxcombical to say so, I should think she really was fond of me. There, come forth, little loadstone,” he said, with a look of intense love lighting up his countenance, and raising the lid of his desk he took from a drawer a photographic carte of his wife, and set it before him, to gaze at it fondly.

      “I don’t think I could have cared for Bessy Studwick, darling, even if there had been no Hester in the world.”

      As he gazed tenderly at the little miniature of his wife’s features, there seemed to come a peculiar look in the eyes – the expression on the face became one of pain.

      He knew it was fancy, but he gazed on at the picture till his imagination took a wider leap, and as if it were quite real, so real that in his disturbed state he could not have declared it untrue, he saw Hester seated in their own room, with every object around clearly defined, her head bent forward, and the Cuban kneeling at her feet, and pressing her hands to his lips.

      So real was the scene that he started away from the desk with a loud cry, oversetting his stool, and letting the heavy desk lid fall with a crash.

      In a moment Rasp ran into the office, armed with a heavy diver’s axe, and then stood staring in amazement.

      “Is any one gone mad?” he growled.

      “It was nothing, Rasp,” said Dutch, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

      “I never heard nothing make such a row as that afore,” growled Rasp.

      And then, putting the axe down, he made for the poker, had a good stoke at the fire, and went out muttering.

      Dutch opened the desk on the instant, but the scene was gone, and hastily closing the lid again he began to pace the room.

      For a moment his intention was to rush off home, but he restrained himself for the time, and tried to recall the past; but his brain was in a whirl. At last he grew more calm, and took out his watch.

      “Only five o’clock,” and he had said that he should get some dinner where he was, stop late at work, and not be home till after nine.

      He was to stay there and work for another three or four hours – to make calculations that required all his thought, when he had seen or conjured up that dreadful sight. No: he could not bear it. His nerves tingled, his brain was throbbing, and incipient madness seemed to threaten his reason as he prepared to obey the influence that urged him to go home.

      “The villain!” he groaned. “It must be a warning. Heaven help me, I will know the worst.”

      Story 1-Chapter VI.

      A Pleasant Evening

      Dutch Pugh seized his hat and coat, and was about to dash into the street, when the remembrance of that evening before the coming of the Cuban came upon him, and he replaced them.

      “Stop a moment,” he said hoarsely, as he began to walk up and down once more. “Let me think – let me take matters coolly, or I shall go mad. There, there, this will not do; I’m going up and down here like a wild beast in his cage.”

      He made an effort, and forced himself to sit down. “Now,” he said, “let’s see. What does this mean? Here am I, a strong, full-blooded, sane man, and what have I been doing?”

      He paused for a moment before answering his question.

      “Letting my mind dwell on thoughts that are a disgrace to me, till I imagine – yes, imagine – so vividly that it seems real, all that nonsense. I picture the scene. I magnify a simple piece of cardboard, and make it fit my own vile imaginations till I see what could never have taken place; and on the strength of that, what am I going to do? Why rush off home as jealous and mad as an Othello, ready to distort everything I see, believe what does not exist, and generally play such a part as I should repent to my last day. Poor girl, has it come to this, that I cannot trust you, and am going to play the spy upon your actions?”

      “No, hang me if I do. Now, look here, Dutch, this is not manly,” he continued, catechising himself. “You are foolishly jealous of that man, are you not?”

      “Yes,” he said, answering his own question. “Now then, why are you jealous? Has your wife ever given you the slightest cause?”

      “Never, so help me Heaven.”

      “There, then, does not that satisfy you? Why, man, if everyone who has a handsome wife were to act like this, what a world we should have. So much, then, for your wife. Now, then, about this man – what of him? He is polished and refined, and pays your wife attentions. Well, so would any foreigner under the circumstances. Shame, man, shame; he is your guest, the guest, too, of a woman whose truth you know – whose whole life is beyond suspicion. You leave her every day to go here or there, and does she ask you where you have been – what you have done? Does she suspect you? Why, Dutch Pugh, you wretched maniac, if she saw you talking to a score of pretty women how would she act? I’ll tell you. She’d open those sweet, candid eyes of hers, and beam upon you, and no more doubt your truth than that of Heaven.”

      “And I’ll not doubt yours, darling,” he muttered, going to the desk, taking out the photograph, kissing it before putting it back; and then, tightening his lips, he took his seat, fixed his attention upon his work, and grew so intent that the next time he looked at his watch it was close upon nine, when, in a calm, matter-of-fact way, he walked all the way home.

      In spite of his determination, he could not help seeing that Hester looked pale and troubled when he entered the little drawing-room, and that her manner was strange and constrained. She met his gaze in a timid way, and without doubt her hand trembled.

      He would not notice her, though, but began chatting to them, Lauré being in the highest of spirits and relating anecdotes of his travels till Dutch felt in the best of spirits, and it was near midnight when they all rose for bed, Hester looking very pallid though – so much