E. Phillips Oppenheim - The Double Life Of Mr. Alfred Burton

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THE DOUBLE LIFE

OF

MR. ALFRED BURTON

BY

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

CONTENTS

CHAPTER
I. THE FRUIT OF THE TREE
II. A TRANSFORMATION
III. MR. ALFRED BURTON'S FAMILY
IV. A SHOCK TO MR. WADDINGTON
V. BURTON'S NEW LIFE
VI. A MEETING WITH ELLEN
VII. LIE TRUTHFUL AUCTIONEER
VIII. HESITATION
IX. THE LAND OF ENCHANTMENT
X. NO RECONCILIATION
XI. THE GATE INTO PARADISE
XII. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE
XIII. PROOF POSITIVE
XIV. THE LEGEND OF THE PERFECT FOOD
XV. THE PROFESSOR INSISTS
XVI. ENTER MR. BOMFORD!
XVII. BURTON DECLINES
XVIII. THE END OP A DREAM
XIX. A BAD HALF-HOUR
XX. ANOTHER COMPLICATION
XXI. AN AMAZING TRANSFORMATION
XXII. DOUBTS
XXIII. CONDEMNED!
XXIV. MENATOGEN, THE MIND FOOD
XXV. DISCONTENT
XXVI. THE END OF A WONDERFUL WORLD
XXVII. MR. WADDINGTON ALSO
XXVIII. THE REAL ALFRED BURTON
XXIX. RICHES AND REPENTANCE
XXX. A MAN'S SOUL

THE DOUBLE LIFE

OF

MR. ALFRED BURTON

CHAPTER I

THE FRUIT OF THE TREE

Mr. Alfred Burton, although he was blissfully and completely ignorant
of the fact, stood at the door of Fate. He was a little out of breath
and his silk hat was reclining at the back of his head. In his mouth
was a large cigar which he felt certain was going to disagree with him,
but he smoked it because it had been presented to him a few minutes ago
by the client upon whom he was in attendance. He had rather deep-set
blue eyes, which might have been attractive but for a certain keenness
in their outlook, which was in a sense indicative of the methods and
character of the young man himself; a pale, characterless face, a
straggling, sandy moustache, and an earnest, not to say convincing,
manner. He was dressed in such garments as the head-clerk of Messrs.
Waddington & Forbes, third-rate auctioneers and house agents, might have
been expected to select. He dangled a bunch of keys in his hand.

"If this house don't suit you, sir," he declared, confidently, "why,
there isn't one in the whole west-end that will. That's my opinion,
anyway. There's nothing in our books to compare with it for value and
accommodation. We nearly let it last week to Lord Leconside, but Her
Ladyship--she came round with me herself--decided that it was just a
trifle too large. As a matter of fact, sir," this energetic young man
went on, confidentially, "the governor insisted upon a deposit and it
didn't seem to be exactly convenient. It isn't always these people with
titles who've got the money. That we find out in our business, sir, as
quickly as anybody. As for the steam heating you were talking about,
Mr. Lynn, why, that's all very well for New York," he continued,
persuasively, "but over here the climate doesn't call for it--you can
take it from me that it doesn't, indeed, Mr. Lynn. I have the letting
in my hands of as many houses as most people, and you can take it from
me, sir, as the direct result of my experience, that over here they
won't have it--won't have it at any price, sir. Most unhealthy we find
it, and always produces a rare crop of colds and coughs unknown to those
that are used to an honest coal fire. It's all a matter of climate,
sir, after all, isn't it?"

The young man paused to take breath. His client, who had been listening
attentively in gloomy but not unappreciative silence, removed his cigar
from his mouth. He was a middle-aged American with a wife and daughters
on their way over from New York, and his business was to take a house
before they arrived. It wasn't a job he liked, but he was making the
best of it. This young man appealed to his sense of business.

"Say," he remarked, approvingly, "you've learned how to talk in your
trade!"

Stimulated by this encouragement, Alfred Burton clapped on his hat a
little more securely, took a long breath, and went at it again.

"Why, I'm giving myself a rest this morning, sir!" he declared. "I
haven't troubled to tell you more than the bare facts. This house
doesn't need any talking about--doesn't need a word said about it. Her
Ladyship's last words to us were--Lady Idlemay, you know, the owner of
the house--'Mr. Waddington and Mr. Burton,' she said--she was speaking
to us both, for the governor always introduces me to clients as being
the one who does most of the letting,--'Mr. Waddington and Mr.
Burton,' she said, 'if a tenant comes along whom you think I'd like to
have living in my rooms and using my furniture, breathing my air, so to
speak, why, go ahead and let the house, rents being shockingly low just
now, with agricultural depression and what not, but sooner than not let
it to gentlepeople, I'll do without the money,' Her Ladyship declared.
Now you're just the sort of tenant she'd like to have here. I'm quite
sure of that, Mr. Lynn. I should take a pleasure in bringing you two
together."

Mr. Lynn grunted. He was perfectly well aware that the house would
seem more desirable to his wife and daughters from the very fact that it
belonged to a "Lady" anybody. He was perfectly well aware, also, that
his companion had suspected this. The consideration of these facts left
him, however, unaffected. He was disposed, if anything, to admire the
cleverness of the young man who had realized an outside asset.

"Well, I've seen pretty well all over it," he remarked. "I'll go back
to the office with you, anyhow, and have a word with Mr. Waddington.
By the way, what's that room behind you?"

The young man glanced carelessly around at the door of the room of Fate
and down at the bunch of keys which he held in his hand. He even
chuckled as he replied.

"I was going to mention the matter of that room, sir," he replied,
"because, if perfectly agreeable to the tenant, Her Ladyship would like
to keep it locked up."

"Locked up?" Mr. Lynn repeated. "And why?"

"Regular queer story, sir," the young man declared, confidentially.
"The late Earl was a great traveller in the East, as you may have heard,
and he was always poking about in some ruined city or other in the
desert, and picking up things and making discoveries. Well, last time
he came home from abroad, he brought with him an old Egyptian or
Arab,--I don't know which he was, but he was brown,--settled him down in
this room--in his own house, mind--and wouldn't have him disturbed or
interfered with, not at any price. Well, the old chap worked here night
and day at some sort of writing, and then, naturally enough, what with
not having the sort of grub he liked, and never going outside the doors,
he croaked."

"He what?" Mr. Lynn interposed.

"He died," the young man explained. "It was just about the time that
the Earl was ill himself. His Lordship gave orders that the body was to
be buried and the room locked up, in case the old chap's heirs should
come along. Seems he'd brought a few odd things of his own
over--nothing whatever of any value. Anyway, those were Lord Idlemay's
wishes, and the room has been locked up ever since."

Mr. Lynn was interested.

"No objection to our just looking inside, I suppose?"

"None whatever," the young man declared, promptly. "I was going to have
a peep myself. Here goes!"

He fitted the key in the lock and pushed the door open. Mr. Lynn took
one step forward and drew back hurriedly.

"Thanks!" he said. "That'll do! I've seen all I want--and smelt!"

Mr. Alfred Burton, fortunately or unfortunately, was possessed of less
sensitive nasal organs and an indomitable curiosity. The room was dark
and stuffy, and a wave of pungent odor swept out upon them with the
opening of the door. Nevertheless, he did not immediately close it.

"One moment!" he muttered, peering inside. "I'll just look around and
see that everything is in order."

He crossed the threshold and passed into the room. It was certainly a
curious apartment. The walls were hung not with paper at all, but with
rugs of some Oriental material which had the effect of still further
increasing the gloom. There were neither chairs nor tables--no
furniture at all, in fact, of any account but in the furthest corner was
a great pile of cushions, and on the floor by the side a plain strip of
sandalwood, covered with a purple cloth, on which were several
square-shaped sheets of paper, a brass inkstand, and a bundle of quill
pens. On the extreme corner of this strip of wood, which seemed to have
been used as a writing desk by some one reclining upon the cushions, was
the strangest article of all. Alfred Burton stared at it with wide-open
eyes. It was a tiny plant growing out of a small-sized flower-pot, with
real green leaves and a cluster of queer little brown fruit hanging down
from among them.

"Jiminy!" the clerk exclaimed. "I say, Mr. Lynn, sir!"

But Mr. Lynn had gone off to pace the dining-room once more. Burton
moved slowly forward and stooped down over the cushions. He took up the
sheets of paper which lay upon the slab of sandalwood. They were
covered with wholly indecipherable characters save for the last page
only, and there, even as he stood with it in his fingers, he saw,
underneath the concluding paragraph of those unintelligible
hieroglyphics, a few words of faintly traced English, laboriously
printed, probably a translation. He struck a match and read them slowly
out to himself:

"It is finished. The nineteenth generation has triumphed. He who shall
eat of the brown fruit of this tree shall see the things of Life and
Death as they are. He who shall eat--" The translation concluded
abruptly. Mr. Alfred Burton removed his silk hat and reflectively
scratched his head.

"Queer sort of joker he must have been," he remarked to himself. "I
wonder what he was getting at?"

His eyes fell upon the little tree. He felt the earth in the pot it was
quite dry. Yet the tree itself was fresh and green.

"Here goes for a brown bean," he continued, and plucked one.

Even then, while he held it in his fingers, he hesitated.

"Don't suppose it will do me any harm," he muttered, doubtfully.

There was naturally no reply. Mr. Alfred Burton laughed uneasily to
himself. The shadows of the room and its curious perfume were a trifle
disconcerting.

"Risk it, anyway," he concluded. "Here goes!" He raised the little
brown fruit--which did indeed somewhat resemble a bean--to his mouth and
swallowed it. He found it quite tasteless, but the deed was no sooner
done than he was startled by a curious buzzing in his ears and a
momentary but peculiar lapse of memory. He sat and looked around him
like a man who has been asleep and suddenly awakened in unfamiliar
surroundings. Then the sound of his client's voice suddenly recalled
him to himself. He started up and peered through the gloom.

"Who's there?" he asked, sharply.

"Say, young man, I am waiting for you when you're quite ready," Mr.
Lynn remarked from the threshold. "Queer sort of atmosphere in there,
isn't it?"

Mr. Alfred Burton came slowly out and locked the door of the room.
Even then he was dimly conscious that something had happened to him. He
hated the musty odor of the place, the dusty, unswept hall, and the
general air of desertion. He wanted to get out into the street and he
hurried his client toward the front door. As soon as he had locked up,
he breathed a little sigh of relief.

"What a delicious soft wind!" he exclaimed, removing his unsightly hat.
"Really, I think that when we get a sunny day like this, April is almost
our most beautiful month."

Mr. Lynn stared at his companion, who was now slowly descending the
steps.

"Say, about this house," he began, "I guess I'd better take it. It may
not be exactly what I want but it seems to me to be about as near as
anything I am likely to find. We'll go round to the office right away
and fix things up."

Mr. Alfred Burton shook his head doubtfully.

"I don't think I would take it, if I were you, Mr. Lynn," he said.

Mr. Lynn stopped short upon the pavement and looked at his companion in
amazement. The latter had the air of one very little interested in the
subject of conversation. He was watching approvingly a barrowful of
lilac and other spring flowers being wheeled along by a flower-seller in
the middle of the road.

"What an exquisite perfume!" the young man murmured, enthusiastically.
"Doesn't it remind you, Mr. Lynn, of a beautiful garden somewhere right
away in the country--one of those old-fashioned gardens, you know, with
narrow paths where you have to push your way through the flowers, and
where there are always great beds of pink and white stocks near the box
edges? And do you notice--an accident, of course--but what a delicate
blend of color the lilac and those yellow jonquils make!"

"I can't smell anything," the American declared, a little impatiently,
"and I don't know as I want to just now. I am here to talk business, if
you don't mind."

"In one moment," Burton replied. "Excuse me for one moment, if you
please."

He hastened across the street and returned a moment or two later with a
bunch of violets in his hand. Mr. Lynn watched him, partly in
amazement, partly in disapproval. There seemed to be very little left
of the smart, businesslike young man whose methods, only a short time
ago, had commanded his unwilling admiration. Mr. Alfred Burton's
expression had undergone a complete change. His eyes had lost their
calculating twinkle, his mouth had softened. A pleasant but somewhat
abstracted smile had taken the place of his forced amiability.

"You will forgive me, won't you?" he said, as he regained the pavement.
"I really haven't smelt violets before this year. Spring comes upon us
Londoners so suddenly."

"About that house, now," the American insisted, a little sharply.

"Certainly," Burton replied, removing his eyes unwillingly from the
passing barrow. "I really don't think you had better take it, Mr.
Lynn. You see, it is not generally known, but there is no doubt that
Lord Idlemay had typhoid fever there."

"Typhoid!" Mr. Lynn exclaimed, incredulously.

His companion nodded.

"Two of the servants were down with it as well," he continued. "We
implored Lady Idlemay, when she offered us the letting of the house, to
have the drains put in thorough order, but when we got the estimate out
for her she absolutely declined. To tell you the truth, the best agents
had all refused, under the circumstances, to have the house upon their
books at all. That is why we got the letting of it."

Mr. Lynn removed the cigar from his mouth for a moment. There was a
slight frown Upon his forehead. He was puzzled.

"Say, you're not getting at me for any reason, are you?" he demanded.

"My dear sir!" Burton protested, eagerly. "I am simply doing my duty
and telling you the truth. The house is not in a fit state to be let to
any one--certainly not to a man with a family. If you will permit me to
say so, you are not going the right way to secure a suitable house. You
simply walked into our office because you saw the sign up, and listened
to anything the governor had to say. We haven't any west-end houses at
all upon our books. It isn't our business, unfortunately. Miller &
Sons, or Roscoe's, are the best people. No one would even come to see
you at Idlemay House, much less stay with you--the place has such a bad
reputation."

"Then will you be good enough to just explain to me why you were
cracking it up like blazes only a few minutes ago?" Mr. Lynn demanded,
indignantly. "I nearly took the darned place!"

Mr. Burton shook his head penitently.

"I am afraid that I cannot explain, sir," he confessed. "To tell you
the truth, I do not understand in the least how I could have brought
myself to be so untruthful. I am only thankful that no harm has been
done."

They had reached the corner of the street in which the offices of
Messrs. Waddington & Forbes were situated. Mr. Lynn came to a full
stop.

"I can't see but what we might just as well part here, young man," he
declared. "There's no use in my coming to your office, after what
you've told me."

"Not the slightest," Mr. Burton admitted frankly, "in fact you are
better away. Mr. Waddington would certainly try to persuade you to
take the house. If you'll accept my advice, sir, you will go to Miller
& Sons in St. James's Place. They have all the best houses on their
books and they are almost certain to find something to suit you."

Mr. Lynn gazed once more at his companion curiously.

"Say, I'm not quite sure that I can size you up, even now," he said.
"At first I thought that you were a rare little hustler, right on the
job. I was set against that house and yet you almost persuaded me into
taking it. What's come over you, anyway?"

Mr. Burton shook his head dubiously.

"I am afraid that it is no use asking me," he replied, "for I really
don't quite know myself."

Mr. Lynn still lingered. The longer he looked at his companion, the
more he appreciated the subtle change of demeanor and language which had
certainly transformed Mr. Alfred Burton.

"It was after you came out of that little room," he continued,
meditatively, "where that Oriental fellow had been shut up. The more I
think of it, the odder it seems. You were as perky as mustard when you
went in and you've been sort of dazed ever Since you came out."

Mr. Burton lifted his hat.

"Good day, sir!" he said. "I trust that you will find a residence to
suit you."

Mr. Lynn strolled off with a puzzled frown upon his forehead, and
Alfred Burton, with a slight gesture of aversion, pushed open the
swinging doors which led into the offices of Messrs. Waddington &
Forbes.

CHAPTER II

A TRANSFORMATION

Burton stood for a moment upon the threshold of the office, looking
around him. A new and peculiar distaste for these familiar surroundings
seemed suddenly to have sprung into life. For the first time he
realized the intense ugliness of this scene of his daily labors. The
long desk, ink-splashed and decrepit, was covered with untidy piles of
papers, some of them thick with dust; the walls were hung with
seedy-looking files and an array of tattered bills; there were cobwebs
in every corner, gaps in the linoleum floor-covering. In front of the
office-boy--a youth about fourteen years of age, who represented the
remaining clerical staff of the establishment--were pinned up several
illustrations cut out from _Comic Cuts_, the _Police News_, and various
other publications of a similar order. As Burton looked around him, his
distaste grew. It seemed impossible that he had ever existed for an
hour amid such an environment. The prospect of the future was suddenly
hugely distasteful.

Very slowly he changed his coat and climbed on to his worn horsehair
stool, without exchanging his usual facetious badinage with the
remaining member of the staff. The office-boy, who had thought of
something good to say, rather resented his silence. It forced him into
taking the initiative, a position which placed him from the first at a
disadvantage.

"Any luck with the Yank, Mr. Burton?" he inquired, with anxious
civility.

Burton shook his head.

"None at all," he confessed. "He wouldn't have anything to do with the
house."

"Has any one been letting on to him about it, do you think?"

"I don't think so," Burton replied. "I don't think any one else has
mentioned it to him at all. He seems to be a complete stranger here."

"Couldn't have been quite at your best, could you, Mr. Burton, sir?
Not your usual bright and eloquent self, eh?"

The boy grinned and then ducked, expecting a missile. None came,
however. Alfred Burton was in a very puzzled state of mind, and he
neither showed nor indeed felt any resentment. He turned and faced his
subordinate.

"I really don't know, Clarkson," he admitted. "I am sure that I was
quite polite, and I showed him everything he wished to see; but, of
course, I had to tell him the truth about the place."

"The what?" young Clarkson inquired, in a mystified tone.

"The truth," Burton repeated.

"Wot yer mean?"

"About the typhoid and that," Burton explained, mildly.

The office-boy pondered for a moment. Then he slowly opened a ledger,
drew a day-book towards him, and continued his work. He was being
jollied, of course, but the thing was too subtle for him at present. He
decided to wait for the next move. Burton continued to regard his
subordinate, however, and by degrees an expression of pained disapproval
crept into his face.

"Clarkson," he said, "if you will forgive my mentioning a purely
personal matter, why do you wear such uncomfortable collars and such an
exceedingly unbecoming tie?"

The office-boy swung round upon his stool. His mouth was wide open like
a rabbit's. He fingered the offending articles.

"What's the matter with them?" he demanded, getting his question out
with a single breath.

"Your collars are much too high," Burton pointed out. "One can see how
they cut into your neck. Then why wear a tie of that particular shade
of vivid purple when your clothes themselves, with that blue and yellow
stripe, are somewhat noticeable? There is a lack of symphony about the
arrangement, an entire absence of taste, which is apt to depress one.
The whole effect which you produce upon one's vision is abominable. You
won't think my mentioning this a liberty, I hope?"

"What about your own red tie and dirty collar?" young Clarkson asked,
indignantly. "What price your eight and sixpenny trousers, eh, with the
blue stripe and the grease stains? What about the sham diamond stud in
your dickey, and your three inches of pinned on cuff? Fancy your
appearance, perhaps! Why, I wouldn't walk the streets in such a
rig-out!"

Burton listened to his junior's attack unresentingly but with increasing
bewilderment. Then he slipped from his seat and walked hurriedly across
to the looking-glass, which he took down from its nail. He gazed at
himself long and steadily and from every possible angle. It is probable
that for the first time in his life he saw himself then as he really
was. He was plain, of insignificant appearance, he was ill and
tastelessly dressed. He stood there before the sixpenny-ha'penny mirror
and drank the cup of humiliation.

"Calling my tie, indeed!" the office-boy muttered, his smouldering
resentment bringing him back to the attack. "Present from my best girl,
that was, and she knows what's what. Young lady with a place in a
west-end milliner's shop, too. If that doesn't mean good taste, I
should like to know what does. Look at your socks, too, all coming down
over the tops of your boots! Nasty dirty pink and green stripes!
There's another thing about my collar, too," he continued, speaking with
renewed earnestness as he appreciated his senior's stupefaction. "It
was clean yesterday, and that's more than yours was--or the day before!"

Burton shivered as he finally turned away from that looking-glass. The
expression upon his face was indescribable.

"I am sorry I spoke, Clarkson," he apologized humbly. "It certainly
seemed to have slipped my memory that I myself--I can't think how I
managed to make such hideous, unforgivable mistakes."

"While we are upon the subject," his subordinate continued, ruthlessly,
"why don't you give your fingernails a scrub sometimes, eh? You might
give your coat a brush, too, now and then, while you are about it. All
covered with scurf and dust about the shoulders! I'm all for
cleanliness, I am."

Burton made no reply. He was down and his junior kicked him.

"I'd like to see the color of your shirt if you took those paper cuffs
off!" the latter exclaimed. "Why don't you chuck that rotten dickey
away? Cave!"

The door leading into the private office was brusquely opened. Mr.
Waddington, the only existing member of the firm, entered---a large,
untidy-looking man, also dressed in most uncomely fashion, and wearing
an ill-brushed silk hat on the back of his head. He turned at once to
his righthand man.

"Well, did you land him?" he demanded, with some eagerness.

Burton shook his head regretfully.

"It was quite impossible to interest him in the house at all, sir," he
declared. "He seemed inclined to take it at first, but directly he
understood the situation he would have nothing more to do with it."

Mr. Waddington's face fell. He was disappointed. He was also puzzled.

"Understood the situation," he repeated. "What the dickens do you mean,
Burton? What situation?"

"I mean about the typhoid, sir, and Lady Idlemay's refusal to have the
drains put in order."

Mr. Waddington's expression for a few moments was an interesting and
instructive study. His jaw had fallen, but he was still too bewildered
to realize the situation properly.

"But who told him?" he gasped.

"I did," Burton replied gently. "I could not possibly let him remain in
ignorance of the facts."

"You couldn't--what?"

"I could not let him the house without explaining all the circumstances,
sir," Burton declared, watching his senior anxiously. "I am sure you
would not have wished me to do anything of the sort, would you?"

What Mr. Waddington said was unimportant. There was very little that
he forgot and he was an auctioneer with a low-class clientele and a fine
flow of language. When he had finished, the office-boy was dumb with
admiration. Burton was looking a little pained and he had the shocked
expression of a musician who has been listening to a series of discords.
Otherwise he was unmoved.

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