I.

The doctors could do no more for the Dowager Lady Berrick.

When the medical advisers of a lady who has reached seventy years of age recommend the mild climate of the South of France, they mean in plain language that they have arrived at the end of their resources.  Her ladyship gave the mild climate a fair trial, and then decided (as she herself expressed it) to “die at home.”  Traveling slowly, she had reached Paris at the date when I last heard of her.  It was then the beginning of November.  A week later, I met with her nephew, Lewis Romayne, at the club.

“What brings you to London at this time of year?” I asked.

“The fatality that pursues me,” he answered grimly.  “I am one of the unluckiest men living.”

He was thirty years old; he was not married; he was the enviable possessor of the fine old country seat, called Vange Abbey; he had no poor relations; and he was one of the handsomest men in England.  When I add that I am, myself, a retired army officer, with a wretched income, a disagreeable wife, four ugly children, and a burden of fifty years on my back, no one will be surprised to hear that I answered Romayne, with bitter sincerity, in these words: 

“I wish to heaven I could change places with you!”

“I wish to heaven you could!” he burst out, with equal sincerity on his side.  “Read that.”

He handed me a letter addressed to him by the traveling medical attendant of Lady Berrick.  After resting in Paris, the patient had continued her homeward journey as far as Boulogne.  In her suffering condition, she was liable to sudden fits of caprice.  An insurmountable horror of the Channel passage had got possession of her; she positively refused to be taken on board the steamboat.  In this difficulty, the lady who held the post of her “companion” had ventured on a suggestion.  Would Lady Berrick consent to make the Channel passage if her nephew came to Boulogne expressly to accompany her on the voyage?  The reply had been so immediately favorable, that the doctor lost no time in communicating with Mr. Lewis Romayne.  This was the substance of the letter.

It was needless to ask any more questions—­Romayne was plainly on his way to Boulogne.  I gave him some useful information.  “Try the oysters,” I said, “at the restaurant on the pier.”

He never even thanked me.  He was thinking entirely of himself.

“Just look at my position,” he said.  “I detest Boulogne; I cordially share my aunt’s horror of the Channel passage; I had looked forward to some months of happy retirement in the country among my books—­and what happens to me?  I am brought to London in this season of fogs, to travel by the tidal train at seven to-morrow morning—­and all for a woman with whom I have no sympathies in common.  If I am not an unlucky man—­who is?”

He spoke in a tone of vehement irritation which seemed to me, under the circumstances, to be simply absurd.  But my nervous system is not the irritable system—­sorely tried by night study and strong tea—­of my friend Romayne.  “It’s only a matter of two days,” I remarked, by way of reconciling him to his situation.