The Frenchwoman looked up with a slight start, then smiled.
"Ah, it's you, nurse!" she murmured. "You do not mind my being here,
do you?"
Esther stood still for a second, trying not to betray that she was
annoyed. Why couldn't the woman leave her poor husband alone?
Recalling the doctor's injunction to her, she wondered how she could
convey the needed hint to Lady Clifford without giving offence.
"Did you want anything, Sir Charles?" she inquired a little pointedly,
coming forward and gently taking the pillow out of Lady Clifford's hand.
"No, nothing at all," the patient replied somewhat fretfully.
"I thought he seemed so--so terribly hot," explained the Frenchwoman
with a note of apology. "I always think when one is ill..."
She left her sentence unfinished while her eyes took a quick survey of
the smooth sheet. Words Sir Charles had spoken a little while ago in
regard to his wife's "fidgeting about his pillow" recurred to Esther.
"Were you looking for something, Lady Clifford?" she asked, cheerfully
bland.
The Frenchwoman shot her a glance, her beautiful eyes wide with
surprised negation.
"_Mais non_," she replied with a graceful shrug. "But why do you ask
that?"
"I beg your pardon," murmured Esther, confused by the other's sweeping
repudiation.
She settled the invalid on his pillow once more, noting the ghost of an
ironical smile that flitted over his features. Between half-shut lids
he watched the two women with an amused appreciation.
"I think, perhaps, it would be as well if you said good-night to him
now, Lady Clifford," hinted Esther tactfully. "In a short time I am
going to begin getting him ready for the night, and I like to have him
absolutely quiet before-hand."
Hoping her suggestion would prove sufficient, she started removing
flowers from the room. When she returned she saw Lady Clifford kiss
the patient's cheek, then straighten up, wrap her négligé closer about
her slender body, and move towards the door.
"_Bon soir, mon cher_," she called softly, kissing her finger-tips to
him, "_dors bien!_"
So charming, so transparently appealing ... yet she had been looking
for something under the pillow, Esther was convinced of it. Sir
Charles, she thought, realised it, too. But what was it she had been
trying to discover? Suddenly she recalled the will that Roger had
taken out of the safe that morning. Ah! Lady Clifford wanted to have
a look at it; she was nervous for some reason. It was like old Sir
Charles to keep his intentions closely guarded.
Several times that evening she noticed that Roger's gaze rested on her
with interest. She was feminine enough to wonder if he thought she
looked nice in the little wine-red frock she had put on. It was such a
relief to get out of her stiff uniform that she always managed to
change for dinner when there was sufficient time.
As a matter of fact, Roger was thinking as she sat there on a low
stool, one foot curled under her, that she looked absurdly young,
hardly more than a little girl. He believed she could be frivolous,
too, gay without being silly, as he put it. So few girls could achieve
that....
"Do you like dancing?" he demanded abruptly.
"Do I not!"
"Then I'll tell you what we'll do. To-morrow evening we'll run down to
the Casino for dinner and dance a bit. Would you care to?"
"It would be heavenly! But do I dare?"
She glanced at Miss Clifford.
"Why on earth not, my dear? When you're off duty, your time's your
own. You needn't stay very late, if you're afraid of over-sleeping in
the morning."
"Well, then, I will," Esther promised, her eyes shining with pleasure.
"Good girl! We'll have a regular beano. We both need it."
In the seclusion of her room that night Esther took out her best new
evening gown, bought in Paris, and examined it with satisfaction. She
had worn it only once; it had been a present from Miss Ferriss. Layers
of filmy chiffon, peach-coloured, it presented a delectable picture as
she spread it out on the bed. There was a shaggy diaphanous flower of
silver gauze to wear on the shoulder, and the shoes that went with it
were silver kid, well cut and severe.
"It is adorable," she sighed gloatingly, as she fingered the delicate
mass. "What luck to have it here where there are so many smart
dresses!"
She held it up in front of the mirror. Yes, this shade of pink suited
her perfectly; it brought out the bronze tones in her hair and
heightened the rose in her cheeks.
"I wonder if he likes me, too," she mused. "Or if I'm merely something
to dance with? Never mind, it doesn't matter. I do need a little
gaiety. I hope the doctor won't object--but why should he? I'm not
going to neglect my job. Still, he might; he's queer. That's the
worst of having the doctor living in the house. Such a nuisance!"
She spent halt an hour manicuring her nails and then, still feeling
wide-awake, decided on a bath. The bathroom was between her room and
the doctor's. On entering she found it, as usual, so stiflingly hot
that she was obliged to throw open the casement window and let the
cool, moist air steal into the room. For several minutes she leaned
out, breathing in the night odours of the dark garden. With them came
a heavier odour that was familiar, the acrid, pungent smell of the
doctor's tobacco. By it she could tell that he, too, had his window
open; he was sitting close to it, reading and smoking. She had no idea
how he spent his evenings, but when she came to bed his light was
always on. What an odd, self-contained, saturnine creature he was!
There was something so ponderous, so logical, so crushing about him.
Yes, that described him best, crushing. She always felt that he was
ready to flatten her out....
Somewhere near at hand a door opened and closed again. Before she
could decide what door it was she heard the low rumble of the doctor's
voice addressing someone.
"Well," she heard him say somewhat brusquely, "what is it now?"
It was the exasperated tone one might employ to a rather tiresome
child. She found herself listening idly, wondering who it was who had
come into his room. A second later, with a slight shock, she
recognised the unmistakable tones of Lady Clifford. As on a former
occasion, she was puzzled to know how it was the doctor spoke to her in
so peremptory a fashion. She could not catch the words of the
Frenchwoman, but the doctor's reply was clearly audible.
"That was wrong of you," he was saying. "I distinctly told you not to
try. Besides, I am sure you exaggerate the importance of it."
Lady Clifford's next speech, uttered in a querulous tone, was
distinguishable, from which Esther concluded she had come closer to the
window.
"But I tell you I must know the truth! I cannot rest until I find out.
Something warns me he has done something ... damnable!"
"You will know soon enough."
"But, mon Dieu, when I know it will be too late!"
She seemed almost in tears. The doctor waited a little before
replying, in accents of unmoved calm:
"Rubbish! How did this idea come to you?"
"I will tell you." The woman's voice was eager, importunate. "In
January, when we were in Paris, he went to see Hamilton, his English
solicitor. I thought nothing of it at the time, but a few days ago
something he said made me think--made me afraid---- I don't know what
he may have done. He is capable of anything, everything! I tell you,
I am terrified!"
Esther, by the bathroom window, nodded to herself with satisfaction at
the confirmation of her theory. So it had been the will Lady Clifford
was trying to see! Matters were clearing up. She heard Sartorius say
sceptically:
"Don't be a fool! Go back to your room; this is neither the time nor
the place for these conferences. I have told you that before."
There was a faint murmured protest, then again the doctor's voice,
heavy and intolerant:
"Good God, woman, what possible difference can he make, or anyone else,
for that matter? You appear to overlook the fact that all is being
done for your husband that can be done. There is not the slightest
cause for alarm."
Another murmur, longer than before, then in a slightly modified tone,
though still dictatorial:
"I see no reason why you shouldn't sleep, but if you insist I will give
you something.... Here, one powder, not more, or I'll not be
answerable for the consequences.... And remember, don't come here
again. If you want me, send your maid for me. Good-night."
There was the faint sound of the door dosing, then silence. Esther
shut the window cautiously, so that her neighbour might not suspect he
had been overheard.
Exactly why she minded his knowing was not clear to her. There had
certainly been nothing wrong in the conversation. It was the doctor's
manner towards his employer that was strange, that was all. She found
herself puzzling about it after she was in bed. Her brain was very
active; she could not compose herself to sleep, though when she tried
to analyse her state of mind there seemed little to cause her vague
discomfort. She knew that many women made confidants of their medical
men; there was nothing surprising in Lady Clifford's unburdening
herself to Sartorius on the subject of her husband's will. The
overbearing familiarity with which the doctor treated her was harder to
understand, yet even there it was difficult to say there was anything
abnormal. It merely suggested that these two had known each other a
long time, had not, indeed, the formal relation of physician and
patient. Whatever the case, there was nothing one could definitely say
was wrong, yet...
"I don't in the least know why," she said to herself as she lay in bed,
"but I've got a feeling there is something queer going on in this
house--something--something _underhand_. There! I've said it."
Yet, admitting this, what could be wrong? Not surely anything to do
with Sir Charles's case, which was a straightforward affair? The
patient was progressing well, with every reasonable hope of recovery.
To the outward eye, at least, everything was smooth and normal....
Why was it she suddenly recalled an incident of many years back, dating
from her childhood in Manitoba? One of her sisters had played a trick
on her. On going to bed one night, she had turned back the smooth,
white counterpane of her bed to find, to her horror, a whole nest of
young garden-snakes curled up together between the sheets. The
exterior of the bed had given not the slightest inkling of the
loathsome contents, so carefully had her sister tidied the clothes.
Perverse that this particular incident should have come to her now out
of the past!
Esther was not psychic, she was not even given to premonitions. Yet
she knew that she was sensitive to the emotional states and conflicts
of those about her. She had always been able, on entering a room full
of people, to tell instinctively if anything was amiss, though whether
her faculty was purely intuitional or merely the delicate functioning
of a mental process she was unable to say, any more than a person
suffering from "cat-fear" can tell how he detects the presence of the
hidden cat, whether the warning comes out of the blue, or is the result
of finely developed olfactory nerves.
In the present instance, having no tangible grounds for her conviction,
she became exasperated and made repeated resolutions to put the entire
thing out of mind. It was no use; she was wide awake, over-excited,
the room felt hot, the cover got in her way. Why on earth were French
sheets so many yards long? This one kept coming up about her neck and
stifling her. Again and again she flung it back, until a final gesture
of fury brought her hand in contact with a hard object, which fell with
a clatter to the floor. It was her small alarm-clock. She picked it
up and set it on the table beside her, where it ticked busily away.
How long it was before the welcome tide of drowsiness engulfed her she
did not know. She hardly realised she had been asleep when gradually
she became aware of something heavy lying across her body, pressing
down upon her with an inert weight. The unpleasant consciousness grew,
she wanted to rid herself of the incubus, but she felt curiously
drugged, impotent. The weight increased; at the same time it seemed to
have life of a certain sort, slow-moving and lethargic; it crept upward
slowly, always pressing heavily upon her. She was cramped, her body
ached, her breath came with difficulty, she turned and twisted, tried
to free her arms, but they were pinioned close to her sides. What was
the Thing thus crushing her? She strained to see, but the darkness was
like black velvet; she could see nothing, only feel, breathlessly,
chokingly. A horrible idea assailed her. Whatever it was, it was
striving to suffocate her--yes, and it was going to succeed, unless she
could muster the strength to cast it off.
Panic seized her. She struggled, possessed by a mad terror; she opened
her mouth to scream, but no sound came, her voice was paralysed like
the rest of her. Up and up crept the weight, it reached her throat,
she felt it graze her chin. Its touch was cold and scaly; she
shuddered at the contact. At the same dreadful moment she realised
what the Thing was. Instantly her vision cleared as if an inky cloud
had rolled away, and she stared with starting eyes into the small, cold
eyes of a python!
The flat head was drawing slowly nearer, the mouth opened, she saw the
darting tongue--the creature was going to bite. Then with a rush her
voice came back; she screamed aloud...