THE MAN IN THE WHEELED CHAIR
Echo sat under the Botticelli blue of a perfect afternoon on the
terrace of the Hotel Splendid in Nice. Through the hot, bright air,
set in the purple creases of the hazeless hills, she could see tinted
villas drowsing in golden gardens aflame with flowers, and below under
the dizzying sunlight beyond the long esplanade, tiny swells spilled
over the pearly beech like molten sapphire.
The past months had been packed with new sights and sounds. There had
been the ocean passage, with all the gaiety that mill-pond weather and
a total absence of _mal de mer_ evokes, a leisurely motor trip through
the northern counties of England, shopping and theatre-going in Paris,
and then a final fortnight on the Riviera. From the first day at sea,
when the dimming shores of home had slipped away into the vaporous
distance across the swinging, grey-green heave, Echo had thrown herself
eagerly into the new experiences. It had seemed to her at first as
though she was leaving behind all her pain and problem and flying
whither the dogging ghosts could not follow. From time to time she
felt a wave of that shame that had overwhelmed her as she sat in the
court-room. When she reflected, she felt astonishment at her own
temerity--at the morbid curiosity which had impelled her to witness the
rehearsal of an episode whose very memory thrilled her with pain and
dread. But at length this, too, had faded. She had told herself that
Harry would have returned before her and that all would again be well
between them. With all her power she had striven to thrust the pain
and apprehension from the mind and amid new and varying scenes she had
partially succeeded.
But though the acute strain and distress, the piteous terror had
dulled, her heart ached always with its burden, and there were many
times when all of Mrs. Spottiswoode's effervescent moods could not call
forth response. Across the fairest scenes the ghosts, uncalled, would
thrust themselves, and in her brain a mocking voice would whisper--
"You will never tell him! You will never dare! There will always be a
secret between you! You will be deceiving him--all your life. For if
you told him the truth--the whole truth--would he believe you? The
letters for which you made that visit, even if you could show them, are
ashes now. And even if he believed in the necessity that drove you to
win them from Craig, what might he imagine had been the price! You
know what the world would think: you heard it in the court-room. He
would think the same thing! You were in Craig's house, alone, that
midnight--and you will never dare tell him! Can you say to him, 'It
was _I_ who was in Cameron Craig's library! _I_ was the mysterious
woman the police were searching for--_I_ whom you love!'?"
The sneering voices were whispering in her ear to-night, as she sat
looking out across the blended harmonies of sky and sea, her wistful
face bent beneath the soft halo of her hair.
There welled up in her with fresh force the aching resentment, the sick
anger and rebellion against the sardonic fate that had so enmeshed her.
Why should Craig have ever seen and desired her? Why should his fancy
not have fallen upon some other woman? Yet, had that been so, her
father's name would have been ruined! That, at least, had not
befallen. If only she had not written that note to Harry! So she
reflected, not knowing that that fateful note itself had been the key
to another series of incidents which had in fact wrought for her
salvation--so curiously interwoven is the mystic fabric that man calls
chance. By that note, she told herself, she had thrust his love from
her. Would anything less than the whole truth bring it back? And in
any case, if she did not tell him the whole, would she ever be safe in
that love? For Craig could betray her if he regained his faculties. A
single word could overwhelm her. There was that lost night when she
had been believed to be at her aunt's--a dropped stitch in time's weave
which might unravel the whole! If he recovered Craig would hold her
happiness in his grasp as surely as he had once held her father's
honour.
The cogent reasons that had influenced Harry in his speculation on the
same subject had been based on his keen masculine observation and
familiarity with Craig's type; Echo had only her knowledge of his
relentless passion and lack of scruple, and her instinct was clouded by
long anxiety and fear. She had lately striven to banish from her mind
the idea that he might recover, but to-night it was upon her with
strange force. A baleful thought thrust itself into her mind, an
incarnate temptation: _If Craig would only die_! As it came to her she
felt her face blush, and she shrank, feeling that a wicked thing had
found lodgment in her soul; but it came again and again.
A little group of people who had arrived that morning had issued from
the dining-room and now were seated about one of the small tables on
the terrace drinking their coffee--two men, one elderly, one younger, a
handsome woman and a girl. They continued the conversation begun
inside--evidently a discussion of some one who had been on the train.
All at once the lady touched the speaker beside her on the arm.
"Hush!" she cautioned. "There he is now!"
The voices stilled. Glancing around Echo saw that a wheeled-chair was
being pushed onto the far end of the terrace. A man sat in it, huddled
in a steamer-rug.
"Is he married?" asked the lady, after a pause.
"No," replied the elderly man. "He has no family or near relatives.
The men with him are a nurse and a secretary. They say he is very
rich."
"Poor fellow!" she exclaimed. "What a dreadful thing! Death is
immensely preferable, of course, to life under such conditions. Where
are they taking him?"
"To Hungary, I believe. There's a celebrated authority on
brain-surgery in Buda-Pesth. The surgeons think it's pressure on some
nerve-centre, and the case calls for the particular operation that is
this chap's specialty. It's a forlorn hope, I imagine."
"I don't know," said the younger man, lighting a cigarette. "They do
marvellous things nowadays. And anyway, if it fails, it can't be any
worse for the patient. As it is, he has no mind at all--no speech, no
memory, nothing!"
Echo turned her head; there was a fierce little smile on her lips. So
here was another! Had he, too, like the one of whom she had been
thinking, been overtaken by a righteous Nemesis in the moment of evil
triumph? And somewhere, perhaps, was there a woman to whom his death
would be a gladness and a relief?
The lady looked toward the wheeled-chair. "How was the injury caused?"
she asked interestedly.
"He was shot," said the elderly man. "Shot by a burglar. I remember
reading of it in the newspapers at the time."
Echo started. A little tremor ran over her. The scarf she held
slipped from her hand.
"It seems a pity sometimes," went on the voice, "that the law must
graduate its penalties so nicely. Here is a man who, to all intents
and purposes, was murdered. If he doesn't recover, his is a living
death. Yet because he continues to breathe, the most that can be given
to the scoundrel who shot him is a term of imprisonment. He ought to
have been hanged!"
The girl beside her pushed back her chair petulantly. "Oh, let's _do_
something!" she cried. "I want to get him out of my mind. I sat where
I had to look at him in the train all day. It's too horrible! Fancy
having to be like that, not being able to walk or talk or even to feed
one's self! I want to go to the Casino and see something _funny_!"
When the sound of their voices had died away in the corridor, Echo rose
from her seat and walked along the terrace, quite to the end, where
stood the wheeled-chair. On a bench near by an attendant was immersed
in a newspaper.
Then she turned and looked at the pallid, vacuous face above the
steamer-rug.
Yes--it was Cameron Craig.