The Seen and the Unseen/A Double-minded Gentleman
IX.
A DOUBLE-MINDED GENTLEMAN
CHAPTER I.
"NICE people those Groomes."
Dawson had driven me over to the station, and was staying to see me off. I made this remark to him as we were standing on the platform waiting for the train.
"They are." He paused to give a vigorous puff or two at his pipe. "Nice people of the good old sort Old Groome's a trump. He's not—well, he's not fin de siècle you know, and all that humbug; for it is humbug, most of it He puts on no side. He makes no pretension to be what he isn't. I don't say that he's either literary, musical, or artistic, although most people seem bound to at any rate pretend to be either one or the other nowadays. He's not a swell in any sense, and, what's more, he knows he isn't; but he's a homely, honest, hearty, hospitable English country gentleman, that's what old Groome is, sir. And when you come to think of it, I don't believe you'll find that a man can be anything much better."
As the train bore me onwards, in my own mind I heartily endorsed those words of Dawson's. Old Groome—as Phil Dawson rather irreverently called him—had done not a little to make my stay with Phil, in his bachelor quarters, the pleasantest visit I had ever paid anywhere to anyone. It is, perhaps, immaterial to mention that a Miss Groome—Miss Nora Groome, the second daughter—had had something to do with so desirable a consummation. But it was at least a comfort to know that she had so satisfactory a father. No, not in any sense a genius. A little stolid. A little heavy in hand, perhaps. Even curiously simple on a certain side of him; yet, for all that, as Phil had said, a homely, honest, hearty, hospitable country gentleman. And so extremely friendly, too, to a forlorn young bachelor, who still—and very much still—had his way to make, and all the world in front of him to make it in.
Then, all the rest of the way to town, I thought of Nora.
Four or five nights after my return to my own quarters I dropped into a conversazione at the Apollo. The place was crowded. A conversazione at the Apollo Club means music. You generally hear somebody new who is worth hearing or who wishes the world to think that he or she is worth hearing. That night, however, there was not anyone particularly striking. The whole affair to me seemed dull. Perhaps that was to some extent because Gwendolen Martini—as she calls herself—fastened herself on to me like a burr, and, mentally, I was instituting unfavourable comparisons between her and someone else who was not there—which was, no doubt, unfair to Miss Martini, who is both a clever and a pretty girl. But then so many girls are pretty and clever nowadays—and nothing more. At last I found myself in next-door neighbourhood to Stephen Bensberg. Bensberg is an extraordinary man—one of the new kind of scientific doctors, with theories, and his eyes fixed, so to speak, on the next century but one. Among other things he is a musician, a fair performer on more than one instrument, and a keen critic—one of those critics who, in a composition or an artist, are always, as it were, looking for something which others cannot see.
"Anything worth staying for?" I inquired, when I saw that he was at my elbow.
"There is. A man named Goad."
"Goad! Who's he?"
"That I have not yet made up my mind about"
Something struck me in his tone.
"What do you mean?"
"I have not yet made up my mind if he is a genius or—something else." He stopped, as if hesitating. "But he is at least worth staying for. As a pianist he is, I fancy, original."
"Is he a new importation from the Fatherland?"
Bensberg smiled.
"No, he is English, although it was I who discovered him. He occupies rooms over those of a friend of mine. One day I was with my friend. I heard someone playing overhead. I took the liberty to listen. I took the further liberty to intrude upon his privacy, and to introduce myself to the performer. It was Goad. Here he is. You will be able to judge for yourself if he is worth staying for."
"Hollo!" I cried. "There is a friend of mine. What on earth is he doing here?"
Out of the centre of the parting crowd there appeared in front of us Nora's father. He appeared to be alone. I cast as searching a glance as possible towards the part of the room from which he had come. But, so far as I could perceive, no other familiar face was with him. I should as soon have expected to see old Groome, "all by himself" at the Apollo Club as, say, at a Fleet Street bar.
I felt that Bensberg's eyes were on me—as if my surprise had communicated itself to him.
"You know him then?"
"Know him? Know whom?"
"Goad. That is Goad."
"Goad!"
Bensberg was pointing to old Groome. I supposed that he was poking fun at me; but, to my unutterable amazement, old Groome was calmly ascending the daĭs at the end of the room. And not only ascending the daĭs, but, advancing to the piano, he seated himself at the keyboard. It is no figure of speech to say that I was dumbfounded. Old Groome a pianist! Of a calibre to make his appearance before the hypercritical cognoscenti of the Apollo Club! It was old Groome, there could be no doubt of that. And yet, in his simple-mindedness, I had heard him declare, with my own ears, that he did not know one note of music from another. And I had cordially believed him—he was just that sort of man.
A hush came over the chattering throng, and old Groome began to play. We have all of us read in fiction—and out of it, for a matter of that—hysterically exaggerated accounts of wonderful musical performances. That word "wonderful" was the only word which could be properly applied to old Groome's performance then. Music? Well, it was a music—of a kind, though it was certainly the queerest music I had ever heard. The piece he played was not by any recognised composer; it was not even in the style of any recognised composer. To tell the truth, I am not sure that, in a musical sense, it was not nonsense; but, played as he played it then, it affected me in a way in which I would rather that music, or anything else, did not affect me. It made me lose my mental balance. As he played old Groome grew more and more excited, and in some strange fashion he managed to convey his own excitement to his audience. His was not the stereotyped excitement of the ordinary great pianist—of the type we know so well. That is generally confined—very much confined—to the performer at the instrument. This was communicated to the folk in front. It affected me. I fancy it affected Bensberg. And when old Groome ceased playing there ensued that silence which is more eloquent than applause, and it was only after a moment or two that a din began which was simply deafening.
Bensberg turned to me amidst the tumult.
"What do you think of it?"
"I don't know what to think."
"Did I not tell you?"
Charging into the crowd, I reached the daĭs just as old Groome was coming down the steps. I held out my hand to him.
"Mr. Groome!" I cried.
He looked at me—but that was all. Not the slightest glimmer of recognition flitted across his countenance. "Sir?" he said.
"Surely, Mr. Groome, you have not forgotten me already?"
He paid not the slightest attention to my outstretched hand. He looked straight past me.
"Ah, Bensberg," he observed in the most placid tones imaginable—the placid tones I had learned to know so well—it seemed that Bensberg had followed at my heels—"what did you think of it? That was a dream I had last night—a nightmare."
"So I should imagine."
Bensberg's tones were dry. He looked from Groome to me—and from me to Groome. In my bewilderment I made a further claim for recognition from Nora's father. "Mr. Groome, what have I done that you should have so soon forgotten me?"
"Forgotten you?" He looked at me quietly, yet intently, as if I were a perfect stranger. But it was old Groome. It was impossible—out of the stories—that there could be in existence two men so much alike, though when I observed him closely I perceived that in his eyes there was a new light and fire—I had almost written a new intelligence. "I am not in the habit, sir, of forgetting anyone. Groome is not my name. I am Isaac Goad."
Bensberg interposed. He laid his hand upon my arm.
"I fancied, just now, that you might be mistaken in your recognition of Mr. Goad. Goad, let me introduce to you my friend, who is also a musician—Mr. Attree."
Old Groome—or Mr. Goad—favoured me with an old-fashioned little bow. It was old Groome to the life.
"I shall be honoured by the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mr. Attree."
Then he took my hand.
Bensberg and I went home with him to his rooms to supper. He insisted on our going—just in old Groome's hospitable way—and as, for some reason, Bensberg would not go without me, I went with him.
Throughout the remainder of that night I was in a sort of waking nightmare. If I could credit the evidence of my own senses I was in the presence of Mr. Groome. If I could credit Mr. Groome himself, I was in the presence of Mr. Goad. He played to us. I never heard such playing before. I hope never to hear the like of it again. It had such an effect upon me that, when we said "good-night," I felt as if I had maddened myself by heavy drinking.
"Well," asked Bensberg, as we walked away, repeating the inquiry which he had put to me at the Apollo, "what do you think of him?"
I took off my hat, so that my brow might be bared to the cool night breezes.
"Think of him! Bensberg, I am beginning to think that I am going mad."
He peered into my face as he moved beside me.
"Odd that you should have mistaken him for someone else."
"You would not think it odd if you knew the person for whom I did mistake him. Two pins are not so like each other."
"Curious. Goad is not a common type. Strange that you should know his double."
On the following Saturday I ran down again to Dawson. Directly we were clear of the station I began on the subject which had been puzzling my brain.
"Do you know, Phil, the other night at the Apollo I saw a man who was the very image of Mr. Groome. Never saw such a resemblance in my life. The man was so like him that I doubt if any man living could have told which was which if they were both of them together."
"The Apollo! Do you mean the Apollo Club? What should old Groome be doing there?"
"That's the queer part of it. The man was playing."
"Playing! Do you mean performing?"
"Very much performing. He played a pianoforte solo. I never heard such playing, and I believe I've heard every pianist that ever was."
"You had better tell old Groome. It will tickle him, the idea of his playing a pianoforte solo at the Apollo Club."
I did tell him. We dined at the Groomes'. Dawson drove me straight there from the station. When Mr. Groome came out into the hall to greet us I protest that a sort of shock travelled all down my spinal column. I still had the figure of Isaac Goad clearly before me in my mind's eye. I still had, as it were, the concourse of sounds for which he had been responsible ringing in my ears. I still seemed to see him as he had stood in front of me, declining to accord me recognition. And when Mr. Groome advanced, holding out his hand in welcome, the likeness between the pianist and my host was so strangely startling that, in an impulse of momentary mental aberration, I exclaimed—
"Mr. Goad!"
Mr. Groome stared—as Mr. Goad had done, with just the same curious characteristic little smile about his lips.
"Attree! What's the matter?"
It was only when he spoke that I became conscious of the blunder I had made. The blood surged through my veins. I blushed like a schoolboy. I have seldom felt so stupid.
"Really, Mr. Groome, I beg your pardon, but, do you know, I—I was mistaking you for a ghost."
"A solid sort of ghost, I fancy. Does that feel like a ghost?" His strong, hearty grasp did not feel like a ghost's. "How are you? You will only just have time to dress before dinner."
I did only just have time. Directly I appeared in the drawing-room a move was made for the dining-room. The soup had been removed when Ethel Groome—Miss Groome—said, addressing me from the other side of the table—
"Mr. Attree, what is this Mr. Dawson tells me about your having seen someone just like papa in town?"
I do not know what Nora thought of my behaviour. All the time I had been eating my soup I could not keep myself from glancing at my host at the head of the tabla. It was not very many hours since I had supped with Mr. Goad. Every mouthful which Mr. Groome took reminded me more strongly of my meal with Mr. Goad. The one man reproduced, to a nicety, the other's minutest peculiarities. Miss Groome's words caused me to cease making almost unconscious mental comparisons. I fancy that I actually started.
"Most extraordinary thing, Miss Groome, it really was! Mr. Groome, were you ever at the Apollo Club?"
"Not that I am aware of. Where is it? My club's the Carlton. I haven't been in another club in London, I daresay, for twenty years. The Apollo Club? What sort of club is that? I don't think I ever heard of it."
"Do you know a man named Goad?"
"Goad! Goad! What a name!" Mr. Groome looked at me and smiled—Mr. Goad's smile. "I have no recollection of the fact Why? Has an individual of that name claimed the pleasure of my acquaintance?"
"No, only—it was the queerest thing—at a concert at the Apollo the other night there was a man named Goad—Isaac Goad. If you saw him, I doubt if you would know which was he and which was you."
"Was he so like papa?" asked Nora.
"Like! If you had his portrait But there is his portrait"
I pointed to a portrait in oils of Mr. Groome which hung over the fireplace. They stared at it and then at me. Nora laughed.
"Are you joking, Mr. Attree? Do you mean that that is Mr. Goad, or that it is only like him? You know we think that it's a very good likeness of papa."
"It is an excellent likeness of Mr. Groome, but I assure you that it's an equally excellent likeness of Mr. Goad. Since I saw him I have been in a sort of waking dream. But let me tell you the story. I was, as I said, at the Apollo Club the other night. In the crowd I saw Mr. Groome—I could have sworn it was Mr. Groome. To my amazement he walked on to the platform, and, sitting down to the piano, began to play. You never heard such playing. It was more like a madman's than anything else. When he had finished I rushed forward, taking it for granted that it was Mr. Groome."
Mr. Groome interposed.
"Taking it for granted that I was a madman, I see. Much obliged for the compliment."
"I don't mean that, Mr. Groome, but let me go on. To my amazement, when I addressed him, he stared at me for all the world as you are staring at me now, Mr. Groome. I thought that I might, unconsciously, have done something to offend you. I was beginning, blunderingly, to ask what it was, when you—I mean he—stopped me by saying that his name was not Groome, but Goad—Isaac Goad. He said this in a tone of voice—you know there is something about a man's voice which is characteristic of the man, you seldom hear two voices which are alike—but he said this in a tone of voice which was so exactly like yours that, upon my word, I did not know what to think. While I was making an exhibition of myself a friend of mine came up who introduced me to Mr, Goad. Mr. Goad insisted on my friend and myself going home with him to supper. All the time that we were having supper, in every gesture, every movement, every little action, every intonation of his voice, he so reminded me of Mr. Groome that—well, the Corsican Brothers, and Lesurques and Dubose in The Lyons Mail are not in it, as regards resembling each other, compared to the resemblance, Mr. Groome, which Mr. Isaac Goad has to you."
I daresay I told my story with a little excitement of manner. I think it possible that I did. I fancy that it created an impression, and that not altogether of an agreeable kind. At least, I gathered as much from the way in which Mrs. Groome spoke to me.
"Yours is a strange story, Mr. Attree. As you are possibly aware, Mr. Groome has no male relatives living, and we in the county are apt to think, not only that the Groome features have been handed down from generation to generation, but that they are, in a way, unique."
"Just so; I can easily believe it, Mrs. Groome. I certainly saw no one in the least like Mr. Groome till I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Groome, and until I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Goad, but that only makes the likeness between them the more remarkable."
"Is this Mr. Isaac Goad a married man?"
Mr. Groome asked the question, as it seemed to me, a little dryly.
"Not so far as I know. He occupies bachelor's chambers."
"When was this concert at the Apollo Club?"
"Let me see—it was last Wednesday night."
"How odd!" exclaimed Miss Nora. "Papa did stop in town on Wednesday night."
"In what consists the oddity?" inquired her father. "I believe that I do, occasionally, spend a night in town. But does it therefore follow that I should play the piano, like a madman, at the Apollo Club? Though I can easily believe that if I did play the piano at the Apollo Club, or, indeed, anywhere else, that I should play it like a madman. I assure you that I can give you a circumstantial and satisfactory account of every hour I spent in town, Miss Nora."
"You pique my curiosity, Mr. Attree," said Mrs. Groome. "I should like to see this Mr. Isaac Goad, though possibly, and I think probably, the resemblance would not strike me so forcibly as it appears to have struck you."
The lady's words gave me an idea.
"Mrs. Groome, your wish can easily be gratified. Mr. Goad, I believe, plays again next week, and I shall be only too happy to get you as many tickets as you desire."
My suggestion was seized with avidity, though possibly with greater avidity by the daughters than by the parents. A party was made up then and there. Dawson could not go. The assizes were coming on, and he had had the pleasure of being summoned to serve on the grand jury. But Mr. and Mrs. Groome and the two girls were all to go. I was to meet them in town. We were to dine together, and afterwards I was to escort them to the Apollo Club.
CHAPTER II.
When, on the appointed day, I appeared at the hotel in time for dinner, I found the ladies awaiting my arrival. But there were no signs of Mr. Groome. I inquired into the cause of his absence.
"Has Mr. Groome not come up to town with you?"
"Oh, yes," explained Miss Groome; "but he has an engagement which will, perhaps, detain him and prevent him dining here. If it does, he will go on straight to the club. He will be sure to be in good time to hear and see this wonderful Mr. Goad. Really, Mr. Attree, we have been talking and thinking of nothing else since we saw you. I suppose that if papa asks for you they will let him in?"
I assured her that they would. In fact, when we reached the Apollo—for Mr. Groome did not turn up for dinner—I gave instructions that he should be shown into the concert-room directly he arrived. We were early, so that we were able to find comfortable seats before the rush began. Seeing Bensberg on the other side of the room, I signalled to him. When he came I introduced him to the Groomes. Taking my hint, and a vacant chair, he made himself agreeable.
The people were flocking in, but, although I kept a keen look out, still there were no signs of Mr. Groome. There were signs of their being about to commence proceedings. Mrs. Groome began to fidget.
"I cannot think what can be keeping Mr. Groome. He seemed to think it possible that he would not be back in time for dinner, but he said that, even if he were detained, he would be sure to be here in good time. I know that he has been looking forward to to-night, and he will be so disappointed if he should miss anything."
I said that I would go and see if, owing to some misunderstanding, he was wandering about down-stairs. I went and saw. But, apparently, there was nothing to be seen. I inquired in the hall, but nothing had been heard of Mr. Groome. I went through all the rooms. Nowhere were there any signs of him. When I got back into the concert-room the first item on the programme had been just completed.
"How very odd!" said Mrs. Groome, when I explained to her that my seeking had been vain. "As a rule Mr. Groome is so particular in keeping an appointment Almost finically particular now and then."
He might be now and then. But item followed item, and there was still no Mr. Groome. I had Mrs. Groome on my right, Nora on my left, and Bensberg sat on the other side of Nora.
"Ah!" all at once I heard him say, "there is Goad. I suppose we are to have him next."
At the same moment Nora began to fidget in her seat.
"Here's papa. Mamma, here's papa."
"Where, my love?" Mrs. Groome looked through her glasses in the direction in which Nora was glancing.
"There, mamma. Just on the platform. Mr. Attree, don't you see him? I think he has just come through that little door at the side."
"I see him. Whatever can have made him so late? And what can he be doing over there? Somebody must have shown him through the wrong door. Nora, can't you signal to him, so as to let him know where we are?"
Without waiting for Nora to reply Mrs. Groome stood up, and began to wave her fan in that rather aggressive manner which is peculiar to some persons when they desire to attract the attention of some other person across a theatre or a crowded room. Bensberg volunteered his services.
"If you will show me which is Mr. Groome I shall be happy to let him know your whereabouts."
"Oh, thank you," said Nora. "That is papa. Why"
For some cause or other, in the middle of her sentence Miss Nora stopped dead.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed her mother. "What is he doing? How silly he is! Why, he's actually going on to the platform! Papa!"
"The gentleman ascending the platform is Mr. Goad."
"Mr.—who?"
"Mr. Goad, who, I believe, is now going to favour us with a pianoforte solo."
"Nonsense!" snapped Mrs. Groome with scant politeness, the more especially since, so far as she was concerned, Bensberg was only the acquaintance of a minute. "It's papa! Papa!"
I, for my part, had maintained strict silence. I had seen the person, who now had gained the platform, come into the room. My first impulse had been to exclaim that here was Mr. Groome at last. A moment's reflection, however, showed me that the individual had come through the door which led from the artists' room, and that—well, that the situation might be more complicated than I, in my first impulse, had imagined. But I was certainly unprepared for Mrs. Groome's behaviour. The new-comer, whoever he was, as I said, had gained the platform. His appearance there, considering the place, was greeted with quite a tumult of applause. Acknowledging this with the most perfunctory of nods, without loss of time, with the most modest and most unpretentious air imaginable, he seated himself at the keyboard of the instrument. The applause died away. In silence the audience waited for the performance to commence. All but Mrs. Groome, who not only continued standing up, but who continued speaking too.
"Papa! Papa!" she said, in a voice which was not only audible to every person present, but which created an unmistakable sensation. I verily believe that the individual on the platform was the only individual in the place who did not turn and stare at her. She addressed herself to her daughters: "My dears, what can be the matter with papa? He must be mad! Papa!"
Perceiving that a buzz of curiosity was beginning to travel round the room, and that people might be jumping to conclusions, which Mrs. Groome might not impossibly consider derogatory to her character, I endeavoured to explain. I spoke in a tone of voice which was intended to reach the lady's ear alone.
"Did I not tell you that the resemblance was very striking? That is Mr. Goad who is on the platform, Mrs. Groome."
The lady's tone could not have been intended to reach my ear alone; it was even unnecessarily loud.
"Mr. Goad! Mr. Attree, how can you say such a thing? Do you suppose that I don't know my own husband—the husband of nearly thirty years?"
Nora interposed. It was quite time, too.
"Mamma, do sit down. Perhaps there is some mistake; after all, it may not be papa."
Mrs. Groome sat down, I really believe unconsciously.
"May not be papa! Do you mean to tell me that you don't know your own father, girl? The man's a lunatic; he will disgrace us all. He does not know one note of music from another."
The sounds which proceeded from the platform struck the lady dumb. I noticed one or two of the committee looking in our direction, and almost began to fear that there would be a scandal. So far as appearances went, however, the individual on the platform continued to pay not the slightest attention to the lady's curious behaviour. At any rate, in the middle of her very audible remarks he commenced to play. The change which took place in the lady's countenance was really funny. As she was in the very act of speaking her mouth was open. Open it remained, with the words which were on the very tip of her tongue still unspoken. It continued open for a minute or more; she seemed to be under a spell. Then, drawing a long, gasping sort of breath, she shut her mouth. She looked about her as if she were struggling with a dream. I was conscious that Nora, on my left, was actually trembling. Bensberg I suspected of something very like a covert grin. I saw that the cheeks of the usually cool and self-possessed Mrs. Groome were a fiery red. Unless I was mistaken, tears were in her eyes. I was conscious that the position was distinctly an uncomfortable one, the discomfort of which was not lessened by the nature of the performance to which we were listening. Again, Mr. Goad favoured us with an extraordinary olla-podrida of sounds. That he was, in one sense, a master of his instrument there could be no doubt whatever. The piece he played struck me as being an actual improvisation. Transcribed in black and white, I should not have been surprised to find it something very much like nonsense; but, played as he played it then, it had an effect upon my already agitated nervous system, which, so far as I was personally concerned, I found peculiarly disconcerting. I almost began to feel, as Mrs. Groome seemed to be feeling, that these things were chancing in a dream. The effect was heightened, if I can make myself plain, by the fact that while the performance suggested frenzied excitement, the performer himself seemed to be in a state of imperturbable calm. I found it quite a relief when he finished. Mrs, Groome seemed to find it an even greater relief than I did. As the applause subsided she turned and addressed me in a manner which took away the larger portion of the little breath which Mr. Goad had left me master of.
"Mr. Attree, what is the meaning of this?"
I could not tell her. Bensberg came to my rescue with, it struck me, something of malice.
"Since Mr. Goad so curiously resembles Mr. Groome, possibly, madam, you will suffer me to introduce to you your husband's double?"
Mrs. Groome looked at Bensberg in a manner which suggested that, after all, one touch of nature does make the whole world kin, and that well-bred ladies can behave like ill-bred ones now and then.
"My husband's double? My good sir, do you suppose that I don't know my own husband? Come, girls, let us go to him."
Mrs. Groome dashed into the crowd, and we dashed after her, the Misses Groome and Bensberg and I. I should have liked to check the impetuous lady, but I felt that, in her present excited state, she was beyond my checking. She, metaphorically, collared the pianist as he stood in the centre of a little group at the foot of the platform.
"Papa!" she exclaimed, brushing the people aside as though they were so many flies. "What can you be thinking of? My dear Everard, pray come away with us at once. The girls and I have been suffering agonies; I did not think you could have been so inconsiderate, really. That you should ever have concealed from me your knowledge of the instrument was bad enough, but that you should ever have dreamed of a public performance! My dear Everard, I must beg of you to come at once."
The excited lady poured forth her grievances with a volubility of which, I am persuaded, she would have been incapable—at least, in public—if she had not been excited; the pianist regarding her all the time with a degree of calmness which, under the circumstances, was not without a touch of humour.
"I apprehend, madam, that you are under some misapprehension."
There was a certain quaintness about the speech which was old Groome all over. So the lady seemed to think.
"Everard!—Papa!" she almost screamed. "What do you mean?"
Just then the pianist caught sight of Bensberg. He held out his hand to him. Bensberg endeavoured to explain.
"It seems, Mr. Goad, that your double is walking the earth. Allow me to have the honour of introducing you to Mrs. Groome. It appears that you so closely resemble Mr. Groome that Mrs. Groome finds it difficult to persuade herself that Mr. Groome and you are two, and not one."
"The lady is mistaken. I have not the honour of knowing Mr. Groome."
This the pianist said with Mr. Groome's old-fashioned, courtly little bow.
"Not the honour!" gasped the lady. She was reduced to gasping. "Not the honour!"
Miss Groome had enough presence of mind left to interpose. It was time. The proceedings, so far as the rest of the programme was concerned, were at a standstill.
"Mamma, dear, let us go." Slipping her arm through her mother's, she drew her away. "Perhaps there is some strange mistake, and, after all, it is not papa."
"Not papa!" expostulated Mrs. Groome. "Do you mean to tell me that you don't know your own father, girl! Why, he is wearing your father's clothes! On his finger is the ring which I gave him on his wedding-day; in his shirt-front are the studs which were my last birthday present."
I saw the ladies into their hired brougham, but I let them drive away alone. I felt that they might desire to say things which they might prefer to say en famille. Still, I managed under cover to assure Miss Nora Groome that I would look in at their hotel in the morning.
When I returned to the music-room I found that Bensberg had engaged Mr. Goad to sup with him. When he asked me to make a third I readily said yes. It was a queer supper party—at least, to me it seemed queer. I perceived that even Bensberg seemed to think that there was something odd about the situation, though he never openly hinted at anything of the kind to me. But I knew him, and I noted how he never allowed his eyes to wander long from Mr. Goad, appearing unwilling to lose count even of his slightest movement. For my part, I almost felt as if I were in the presence of something supernatural. The more closely I observed Mr. Goad the more amazing became his resemblance to Mr. Groome. It seemed incredible that even the two Dromios could have been so alike; and in the face of Mrs. Groome's behaviour, what was a man to think?
Of the three of us, Mr. Goad was certainly most at his ease. I felt persuaded that Bensberg's appearance of ease was as much assumed as mine was. But about Mr. Goad's imperturbability there could be no sort of doubt whatever. That was nature itself, and it reminded me so bewilderingly of old Groome. The scene at the club seemed to have made no impression on him. Our allusions to the subject, if they had any effect upon him at all, had the effect of boring him. He appeared to think that there was nothing in any way out of the common in an old married woman, who had never been parted for any length of time from the partner of her joys and sorrows, and who had only left him an hour or two, under such circumstances mistaking, and insisting on mistaking, a perfect stranger for her husband of thirty years.
After supper Goad and I went away together. It was a fine night, and, as his way lay not very apart from mine, I bore him company. As we strolled through the quiet streets he struck me as being one of the most infrequent conversationalists I had had the pleasure of meeting. It seemed difficult to get a word out of him edgeways. At last I assailed him on the subject of his art. Then he did say something.
"I suppose, Mr. Goad, that of music you have been a lifelong student?"
"No. I have never studied it at all. Music came to me, so far as I can remember, in a second. Of the science of music I know nothing. I cannot read a note of music on a printed page. What I play I play because I have to play it. It comes to me I know not whence nor how. When I must play I play. I never play unless I must."
While I pondered, somewhat taken aback at his curious confession, doubtful if he was in earnest or if he was the latest illustration of the charlatan, he suddenly stood still. Wondering why he stopped, I turned to look at him. Something in his face and in his bearing had on me the effect of an unexpected cold douche—it gave me quite a start. He was staring about him in a confused, bewildered way—just as a man who had suddenly been roused from sleep. All at once he said, as if speaking to himself—
"I must have overslept myself." He turned to me, seemingly with a start of surprise. "Attree!—what the deuce are you doing here?"
"Mr. Goad!" I exclaimed.
"Goad!" He seemed to be making an effort at recollection. "Oh, of course! That's the fellow who's so like me, and who plays the piano like a madman. Come along, we shall be late—Mrs. Groome and the girls will give it to us if we are."
"Mr. Goad!" I repeated, feeling as if it were I who must have been roused from slumber.
Before I could say another word someone grasped my arm. It was Bensberg. He had had his suspicions of what was going to happen, so, unperceived, had followed us.
"My dear Attree," he said, "will you do me the pleasure of introducing me to your friend, of whom you have spoken to me so often—Mr. Groome—I believe that it is Mr. Groome?"
"My name is Groome," said he. For the moment for the life of me I could not have said if it was Mr. Groome or Mr. Goad.
"And my name is Bensberg—Dr. Conrad Bensberg. I am better acquainted with you, Mr. Groome, than you with me." He paused, eyeing the other intently, and then added, "Under the peculiar circumstances I think, as a medical man, that I had better at once be frank with you. Mr. Groome, you have had a singular hallucination."
"Hallucination!" murmured Mr.I will write it Groome. He did not seem to know what to make of things. Which was not strange. I did not know what to make of them either.
"Hallucination. You have just awoke from a state of cerebral unconsciousness. You have unwittingly and innocently acted the part of a double-minded gentleman. As you are possibly aware, Mr. Groome, the brain has two lobes—that is, divisions. These lobes sometimes, without their possessor knowing anything at all about it, work separately. While one works the other, so to speak, sleeps, and vice versâ. This is how the two lobes of your brain have treated you. Ordinarily you are—as you are—the gentleman whose acquaintance I have the honour of making, Mr. Groome. But while one lobe has been sleeping, the other lobe has insisted upon your being that very talented musician whose acquaintance I have also had the honour of making—Mr. Isaac Goad."