The room to which the wounded gentleman was conducted, was at the back
of the house looking toward the peak of the hill and over a corner of
the orchard. Ordinary sounds from the road and the front of the house
did not reach it.
Dr. Wells, washed, treated, and dressed the scratch, amid dissertations
and reminiscences, while Rosamond assisted in the capacity of surgical
nurse, and the patient stifled yawns and mirth and the desire to
embrace the beautiful nurse; all three being blissfully unaware that
there were anxious guests in the living room.
Mrs. Witherby, bearing all the marks of ‘half-asleep,’ sat in the
big chair, looking about from door to door with barely suppressed
excitement. Corinne stood near her, with gaping mouth and eyes, and a
restless alarm that kept her standing, first on one foot, then on the
other. Mrs. Witherby punched a cushion at her back, and said in a gusty
whisper:
“I suppose we’d better sit down and wait till the nurse comes.”
“Has she a nurse?” Corinne whispered back.
“Of course. Dr. Wells would see to that. I expect he brought Jane
Hinch with him. He _always_ foists Jane Hinch on his patients. _I_
wouldn’t have her in the house. I don’t consider her efficient. The
fact that she is Mrs. Wells’s cousin is no recommendation to _me_.”
“Mrs. Wells didn’t seem to know what was the matter with Mrs. Mearely,
did she?”
“How could she know till the doctor got here? How stupid you are,
Corinne!”
“I’m so sleepy.” The big, round eyes blinked.
“Well!” irritatedly. “Is your mother not sleepy too? I do think Mrs.
Wells might have waited till morning to telephone. It always upsets me
to be waked suddenly like that.”
“But she knew Mrs. Mearely was alone. It must be dreadful to be ill and
all alone.”
“You needn’t expatiate on it, Corinne,” sharply. “She has only herself
to thank for it. I did _my_ best to prevent her from remaining here
alone. But she was ridiculously obstinate about it. She even joined Dr.
Wells and the rest of them, in jeering and snickering at my caution.
Well, you see what has come of it. That tramp returned and half
murdered her with fright. I hope she has learned her lesson.”
“But, mamma, Mrs. Wells, said it was something she _ate_. At least, she
thought it was.”
“Humph!” her mother interrupted. Her tone made “humph” a silencing
argument to most opponents.
“Yes, mamma. Because, she said Dr. Wells himself had an attack of
indigestion, when he came home; and he hardly ate anything--only some
salad and a cheese sandwich.”
Mrs. Witherby sniffed in a superior manner. This was a subject on which
she had opinions.
“My dear. The Wellses have dyspepsia on the brain--as well as
elsewhere. Ever since that cousin of Dr. Wells, Dr. Mayhew Pipp, in
London, discovered his famous cure for dyspepsia, the Wellses have
had nothing else, and talked of nothing else. If they aren’t careful,
they’ll die of it, just like Dr. Pipp did. _I_ say that dyspepsia is
not a disease at all. It’s a habit. Whenever my mother saw any of us
looking yellow, she made us stick a feather down our throats--and
that was the end of it. I will say, though, that I never tasted worse
parsnip wine in my life. Such a slaughter of good parsnips. I had a
_little_ salad--and I thought it tasted very peculiar, now I come to
think of it. Well--if it’s ptomaine poisoning, there’s probably very
little hope for her.”
Corinne, who had only partly persuaded herself that there was nothing
in the tramp theory, found herself unprepared for the even more serious
poison theory.
“Oh, mamma, don’t!” she wailed.
“We may as well face the worst, Corinne. Because, until her sister can
get back, we shall be obliged to stay here and oversee things. I shall,
at least. It’ll be my duty.”
Corinne stiffened with fright.
“I wonder whether they’ve sent for Mrs. Barton,” she whispered.
“I certainly _hope_ so. Every moment counts in ptomaine poisoning.”
Corinne recalled vaguely something she had read once about bodies
turning blue from poison; she thought of beautiful Mrs. Mearely turning
blue, and pleaded:
“But, mamma--it may _not_ be ptomaine poisoning. Mrs. Wells didn’t
exactly know....”
Her mother sniffed again.
“Mrs. Wells never knows _anything_, my dear.” Feeling Corinne’s fingers
in her hair presently, she snapped:
“What _are_ you doing?”
“You left some of your curl-papers in. They look so funny. And your
bonnet is crooked.”
“I don’t stop to think of my appearance when a friend needs my help.
But _you_ can laugh in the house of a dying woman you pretend to care
for.”
This was so unjust that Corinne burst into tears.
“She’s _not_ dying! I just love Mrs. Mearely. She shan’t die,” she
cried, between her sobs; and threw herself face downward on the settee
to weep in comfort. Her mother was not disturbed by the salt storm,
but, on patting her hair and finding one curl-paper still there, she
became furious.
“Corinne! stop that nonsense and fix my hair. What in the world are you
crying about? Do be cheerful. Your mother has enough to bear.”
Corinne, weeping heavily, dragged herself up from the settee and
went to her parent. She removed the last paper spiral obediently and
straightened the little turban, which had been sitting on its wearer’s
head at an impossible angle. Mrs. Witherby, meanwhile, pursued her own
train of thought.
“I do hope she has made her will.”
“She isn’t going to die!”
“I wonder if Wilton Howard will inherit much. I wish, sometimes, we had
made more of him. I dare say he’s not a bad fellow at heart; but a man
is very easily led astray by a silly girl. However, if he inherits any
of Rosamond’s money, it will put an end to _that_ nonsense.”
Corinne was so shocked by this allusion to her cousin’s love-affair,
which she herself felt to be a wonderful romance, that her tears ceased.
“You mean Mabel? Why, Mamma! I should think, if Mr. Howard ever
gets any money, he’d want to marry Mabel. I’m sure Mabel loves him
terribly. I always wish she’d tell me about it. But she never does.”
She sighed.
Mrs. Witherby, furious at this sentimentality, slapped her daughter.
“Corinne! be quiet! Do you suppose I could afford to have Mabel leave
me and marry? I need her. Who’d do the marketing and the errands,
and see to your clothes? After my giving her a home, too. I hope she
wouldn’t be so selfish and ungrateful. Besides she wouldn’t be a
suitable match at all for a man with money. If Mr. Howard does inherit
any of Rosamond’s money, he will be obliged to make a fitting marriage.
It will be his duty to all of us. Roseborough will expect it. Oh, you
make me furious! You’d give Mabel everything you own, or that you
_might_ own, if your mother didn’t watch you.”
Subdued by her mother’s hand and her torrents of talk, Corinne
whispered:
“I wonder if he is upstairs? Do you think he could have got here before
we did?”
“I don’t know. He hadn’t heard anything about it till I telephoned him.
He has farther to come.” Then she added--to herself, rather than to the
daughter who seemed to have so little natural instinct for the main
chance--“I wonder if he knows what she has left him in her will? Villa
Rose, of course. Well, I’ve always wanted to take hold of this room
and make it....”
“Mamma! I hear wheels! It must be Mr. Howard.”
Mrs. Witherby rose importantly and went to meet Howard, who came in
swiftly, looking about him in apprehension.
“My _dear_ Mr. Howard,” she said, emotionally, taking his hand in both
hers, “this is terribly sad for you.”
“How is she?” he queried, in a sick-room whisper. She patted his hand.
“You must prepare yourself--we must all prepare ourselves. My dear,
sensitive, tender-hearted Corinne is beside herself.”
Corinne, feeling better now that her mother had discontinued her
theories and prophecies, said cheerfully:
“We don’t know anything. We haven’t seen anybody yet. We’ve only just
come. We hope it’s all right.”
Mrs. Witherby was annoyed.
“Corinne! how you interrupt! Oh, I fear it is very serious, Mr. Howard.
The doctor is still with her. But of course, we hope....” She broke off
and murmured sentimentally: “Ah well, we _always_ hope--we _always_
hope.”
Howard’s tone reflected hers.
“Yes, indeed. I can’t understand it. Rosamond has always been the
embodiment of health. For her to be struck down suddenly in this
way....”
“Dreadful! But rely on me, Mr. Howard. I shall remain here and take
charge of things, till her sister arrives.”
“Mrs. Barton has been sent for?” he asked, quickly.
“We suppose so. But, in the excitement, it is possible no one has
thought of it.”
He appeared to think rapidly.
“It should be done at once. I hardly know how. It will have to be by
telegraph in some way--because Mrs. Barton’s mother has no telephone.
Of course old Ruggle, of the telegraph office, is in bed, and the
office closed. The office in Poplars Vale will be closed too....”
He mused awhile. “Someone will have to get Ruggle up, and make him
telegraph to the station agent at Trenton Waters, to send a man over to
Poplars Vale, on horseback. Whom can we ask to wake Ruggle?”
“Oh, Mabel will go!” Corinne said. “She’ll be sitting up all dressed.
She wanted to come, but Mamma wouldn’t let her.” She ran to the door of
the anteroom, where was the instrument which afflicted His Friggets.
“I’ll ’phone her.” She closed the door, so that the bell should not be
heard.
“If Mrs. Lee had a telephone, I’d have had _her_ here by now. But I’m
certainly not going all that dark way to the cottage,” Mrs. Witherby
remarked, seating herself again. Howard had followed Corinne to the
door to impress on her the details of the message she was to telephone.
In returning, he arrived at the large table and, almost immediately,
discovered the supper-tray.
“I see you have had something to eat,” he said. “That was wise. You’ll
need all your strength.”
Mrs. Witherby, in great excitement, joined him at the table.
“No! I haven’t. I wonder who has been eating? Two persons evidently.
How odd!”
After a pause, Howard suggested:
“The doctor and the nurse, perhaps.”
“Well! It seems queer for Dr. Wells to sit down calmly and eat, when
poor Rosamond is dying! Still, as I always say, it is amazing how much
those dyspeptic people _can_ eat, when there’s no one by to see them
stuff.”
In moving the tray, she, in her turn, made a discovery; it was the
pistol.
“Oh! Look! Oh! what does it mean?”
“What is it now, mamma?” Corinne asked, nervously, coming in at the
moment. Howard picked up the weapon.
“Rosamond’s pistol. That’s strange.”
“Is it loaded?” Mrs. Witherby asked.
“Yes, I expect so. No, it’s not.”
“Not loaded!”
“No. The chambers are empty.”
She caught at his arm.
“Do you suppose she could have been attacked--fought wildly to protect
herself--and then been overpowered?”
“No--no” he answered, not paying attention to her, but trying to recall
whether his cousin had reloaded the pistol before putting it into
her desk after their ride. He thought she had; therefore, the empty
chambers puzzled him. Corinne was walking about, aimlessly, clasping
and unclasping her hands.
“I feel as if--oh, I’ll go crazy if something....” She caught hold of
the big chair, and instantly screamed, “Look! Look! Blood on the chair!”
Her mother, with Howard close after her, rushed to the chair.
“Suicide!” Mrs. Witherby hissed dramatically. “Do you know of her
secret sorrow? To think she may have been preparing to take her own
life in the midst of all our gayety! Oh! Mr. Howard.” She broke down,
emotionally, grasping his shoulder to weep upon. “Oh! Mr. Howard, that
is what comes of taking people out of their proper station. Our dear
Rosamond was never quite one of us. Her mother--the butter--! She must
have felt it herself--felt poignantly her inability to live up to her
station among us. Oh Mr. Howard--oh--dear!”
Howard freed himself, rather ungently, and started toward the door
opening on the stairs.
“I’m going up there,” he said.
“Too late!” she cried, throwing her hands up over her head. “_She’s
killed herself!_”
[Illustration]