AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.
"Soon, soon, mother. I shall be finished soon. I cannot tell exactly
when, but not very far off. I see the end of my labours, the reward of
all my study, the fruit of all my life," said the voice of the
hunchbacked dwarf.
There was a pause in the speech. "Hah," breathed Leigh, in loud
inspiration. Then there was a snuffing sound, and another loud
inspiration. "Hah! that is refreshing--most refreshing. Will you have
some, mother? Do. You won't? Very well. What was I saying?"
The strong, subtle vapour of eau-de-cologne penetrated through the
slits and joints of the folding-doors, and floated past Edith towards
the open windows.
"About the clock," said Mrs. Leigh. "You were going to tell me what
new wonders you have added to it, and when the crowning wonder of all
was to be fixed."
"What?" cried the voice of the dwarf, loudly, harshly, angrily. "What
do you know of the crowning wonder? Tell me, woman, at once!" His tone
was violent, imperious, threatening.
"Oscar! Oscar! What is the matter? What do you mean by calling me
'woman'? Oscar, my son, are you ill? What is the matter? Why do you
look at me in that way? You are crushing my hand. What is the matter,
Oscar, my own boy?" The woman's accents were full of alarm.
"Agh! Agh! Pardon me. Agh! Pardon me, my dear mother. Agh!" he coughed
violently, hoarsely. "The spirit of the eau-de-cologne must have gone
down my throat and caught my breath. I am quite right now. Pray excuse
me, mother. What was I saying?"
"Something about the clock, dear. But, Oscar, do not mind telling me
about it now. You seem not well. Perhaps you had better rest yourself.
You can explain about the clock to-morrow."
"Oh, ay, the clock. Of course. I am quite well, mother. You need not
be uneasy about me. What was I going to tell you about the clock?"
"You were going to tell me--I do not know really what. I asked you
when it would be completed. That is my chief anxiety, for then you
will be always here--always here, near me, my dear son."
"Certainly; when I sell my unrivalled clock, I'll give up living in
London and come down here to you, mother, and become a private
gentleman."
"But why can't you come down and stop here always, my Oscar? Surely
your clock could be brought to Millway, and back to London again when
'tis finished?" The voice of the woman was caressing, pleading. "I
have not very long to live, Oscar. Might not I have you near me that
little time?" The tone was tremulous and pathetic.
"Dear, dear mother," he said softly, tenderly. "I cannot--I cannot
move the clock. You forget how large it is. I have told you over and
over again it would half fill this room. Besides, I have other
business in London I cannot leave just now. I will come as soon as
ever I can. You may take my word for that. Let us say no more on that
subject at present. I was going to explain to you about my marvellous
clock. Let me see. What have I already told you?"
"Oh, it was too wonderful to remember. Tell me over again."
"Very well. To begin with, it will, of course, measure time first of
all. That is the principal and easiest thing to contrive. It will show
the year, the month, the day of the month, the day of the week, the
hour of the day, the minute of the hour, the second of the minute, the
tenth of the second. All these will be shown on one dial."
"That much alone puzzles and astonishes me. It will be the most useful
clock in the world."
"So far that is all easy, and would not make it even a very remarkable
clock, mother. It will take account of leap year, and be constructed
to run till the year ten thousand of the Christian era."
"When once wound up?"
"Oh no, you simple mother. It will have to be wound up every week."
"But will not the machinery wear out?"
"Yes, the metal and the stones will wear out and rust out before eight
thousand years. But the principle will have eight thousand years of
vitality in it. Steel and brass and rubies yield to friction and time,
but a principle lives for ever if it is a true principle----"
"And a good principle," interrupted the voice of the old woman,
piously.
"Good or bad, if it is true it will last," said the voice of the
hunchback, harshly. Then he went on in more gentle and even tones. "On
another face it will tell the time of high water in fifty great
maritime cities. There will be four thousand Figures of Time, figures
of all the great men of the past, each bearing a symbol of his
greatest work, or thought, or achievement, and each appearing on the
anniversary of his death, thus there will be from eight to twenty
figures visible each day, and that day will be the anniversary of the
one on which each of the men died years ago."
"Four thousand figures! Why, it will cost a fortune!"
"Four thousand historic figures each presented on the anniversary of
death! I am at work on the figures of those who died on the 22nd of
August just now. They are very interesting to me, and one of them is
the most interesting of all, the most interesting of all the four
thousand figures."
"And who died on the 22nd of August, Oscar? Whose is the figure that
interests you most of all, my son?"
"Richard Plantagenet of Gloucester," fiercely.
"Eh?" in a tone of intense pain.
"Richard Plantagenet of Gloucester, commonly called Richard the Third
of England, and nicknamed the Hunchbacked Tyrant," maliciously.
"Oscar!" in a tone of protest and misery.
"Yes. Hump and all, I am now making the figure of the most famous
hunchback in history. I take a delight in modelling the figure of my
Hunchback Tyrant. In body and soul I can sympathise with--him." He
spoke furiously, and there was a sound in the room as if he rose.
"Oh, you break my heart, my boy, my boy, my son! Don't, for God's
sake, don't. You cut me to the soul! You frighten me when you look in
that way." She spoke in terror and anguish.
There were hasty, halting, footsteps pacing up and down the
dining-room. The folding-doors behind Edith's head trembled, the
windows of the dining-room rattled. The girl wondered he did not think
of her. He knew her room lay beyond the dining-room, and he must be
aware nothing divided her room from the front one but the thin panels
of the folding-doors. It was plain to her now he did not care whether
she heard or not.
"Break your heart, mother!" he went on in a tone of excitement but
less acerbity. "Why should what I say break your heart? What hurt can
words do? Look at me! Me! If I were to say my heart was broken, no one
would wonder. I am not reproaching you. Heaven knows, if I turned upon
you, I should have no friend left in all the world. Not one soul who
would care for me--care whether I lived or died, whether I prospered
or was hanged by the common hangman on a gibbet!"
"Oh, Oscar, what is it? What has done it? What has soured you so? You
never talked in this way until now. What has changed you?" The voice
of the woman was broken. She was weeping through her words.
"A girl's face. A girl's face has changed me. I, who had a heart of
adamant, a heart of the core of adamant befitting the crooked carcase
in which it is penned and warped and blackened by villainous
obstructions. But there! I have been vapouring, mother. Let my words
pass. I am a fool and worse to break out in such a way before you, my
good, gentle mother." His voice became less excited, his steps more
slow and light. "It is passed. I am myself again. I know your advice
is good. I mean to follow it. I will marry a wife. I will marry a
pretty, shapely wife. You shall have grand children at your knee,
mother, before long, before you go. Well-favoured and gay and
flawless, and straight-backed, and right-limbed little children who
will overtop me, exceed me in height before they begin their teens,
but will never, never, never mother, grow to near the degree of love I
have for you." His voice and steps ceased, as though he paused at her
side.
"Do not kneel," she whispered huskily. "Do not kneel, my son. I was
frightened a moment ago, and now I feel suffocated with joy. There!
That is right. Sit in your own chair again."
For a while Edith heard sobs--the sobs of a man.
The woman had ceased to weep.
When the sobbing stopped, the woman said: "Who is she? Do I know her?
Do I know even her name?"
"All that is my secret, mother. I will not say any more of her but
that I am accustomed to succeed, and I will succeed here. I will keep
the secret of her name in my heart to goad me on. I am accustomed to
succeed. Rest assured I will succeed in this. We will say no more of
it. Let it be a forbidden subject between us until I speak of it
again; until, perhaps, I bring her to you."
"As you will, Oscar. Keep your secret. I can trust and wait."
"It is best. I feel better already. That storm has cleared the air. I
was excited. I have reason to be excited to-day. At this moment--it is
now just twelve o'clock--at this moment I am either succeeding or
failing in one of my most important aims."
"Just now, Oscar. Do you mean here?"
"No, not here. In London. You do not believe in magic, mother?"
"Surely not. What do you mean? You do not believe in anything so
foolish?"
"Or in clairvoyance or spectres, mother?"
"No, my child. Nor you, I hope. That is, I do not believe in all the
tales I hear from simple folk."
"And yet not everything--not half everything--is understood even now."
"Will you not tell me of this either?"
"Not to-night, mother. Not to-night. Another time, perhaps, I may. You
know I had a week ago no intention of coming here to-day. I did not
come to welcome Miss Grace. I had another reason for coming. I am
trying an experiment to-night. At this moment I am putting the result
of many anxious hours to the touch. If my experiment turns out well I
shall come into a strange power. But there, I will say no more about
it, for I must not explain, and it is not fair to tell you, all at
once, that I have two secrets from you. And now, mother, it is very
late for you. We must go to bed. That patent couch still enables you
to do without aid in dressing?"
"Yes. I am still able to do without help. I think some of the springs
want oiling. You will look at them to-morrow?"
"Yes. But it must be early. I am going back to town at noon."
"So soon? I did not think you would leave till later, Oscar. I don't
want to pry into your secrets, but you spoke of gaining some strange
powers. Do you think it wise to play with--with--with?"
"With what, mother?"
"With strange powers."
"That depends on what the strange powers are."
"But tell me there is no danger."
"To me? No, I think not."
"Oscar, I am uneasy."
"We have sat and talked too long. You are worn out. I will wheel you
to your room. I am sleepy myself."
Edith Grace heard the sound of Mrs. Leigh's invalid chair moving
towards the dining room door, then the door open and the chair pass
down the hall and into Mrs. Leigh's bedroom. Words passed between the
mother and son, but she did not catch their import. She heard the door
of Mrs. Leigh's room opposite her own close and then the dragging,
lame footsteps of the hunchback on the tiles of the back hall.
The girl listened intently. She did not move. She was sitting bolt
upright in her chair with her face turned towards the door of the
room.
Leigh's irregular, shuffling footsteps became more distinct. He was
crossing the hall from his mother's room to the stairs, which began at
the left-hand side of the back hall, close to the door of the room
where Edith sat.
"He is going upstairs to his own room. When he is gone the house will
be still and I shall be at ease. Daylight will soon come and then I
can slip away again and wait till the first train for London--for
home! He must be mad. Even if he had not pressed his hateful
attentions on me I would not stay in this house for all the world,"
thought Edith Grace.
The slow, shuffling footsteps did not ascend the stairs. They paused.
They paused, she could not tell exactly where. All her faculties were
concentrated in hearing, and she heard nothing, absolutely nothing,
but the rain. Could it be he had reached the stairs and was ascending
inaudibly? Could it be he had already ascended? She thought it was but
a moment ago since he closed his mother's door. He might have gone up
unheard. It might be longer since the door shut than she thought. She
could not judge time exactly in the dark, and when she was so
powerfully excited. Should she get up out of that chair, open the door
as quietly as possible, and peer into the hall? What good would that
do? If he were there he would see her; if he were not there all was
well. Besides, it would be quite impossible to unlock the door and
open it without making a noise, without the snap of the lock, the
grating of the latch, the creaking of the hinge. It was better to
remain quiet.
Suddenly she heard a sound that made her heart stand still, her breath
cease to come. She grew rigid with terror.
She heard a something soft sliding over the outside of that door. A
hand! It touched and rattled the handle. The handle turned, and with a
low, dull sound the door opened! She could not see the door. The light
which had illumed the fan sash in the porch had evidently been
extinguished, for there was no gleam through the open door. That part
of the room was so intensely dark, even the masses in it were
invisible. But she knew by the dull, puffing sound the door had been
opened, and by the surge of the heavy, damp, warm air.
She could not move or cry out if she would. She was completely
paralysed, frozen. She was aware of possessing only two senses,
hearing and seeing. She was not conscious of her own identity beyond
what was presented to her sensations through her ears or her eyes. She
did not even ask herself how he had come there, how he had opened from
the hall the door she had left locked upon the inside.
He entered the room with slow, deliberate, limping steps. She could
hear the footfall of his left foot and the slight, brushing touch of
his right foot as he drew it after the left.
On slowly he came until he touched the bed. She could dimly make out
the white of his face and shirt-front against the gleam from the
window as he advanced. It was plain he could not see as well as she,
for he walked up against the bed. His eyes had not become accustomed
to the darkness.
He turned to his left, towards where she sat, and came on, feeling his
way by the bed. She heard him feeling his way. As soon as he reached
the foot-post he turned right, round where she sat in the deepest
gloom of the room and then walked to the window.
When he reached the window he stood full in front of it and muttered:
"Rain, rain still." He thrust his arms out of the window and drawing
them back in a moment, rubbed his face with his hands. "That is
refreshing," he muttered. "Hah! They say rainwater is the best lotion
for preserving the beauty of the skin. Hah! They do. They say Ninon de
L'Enclos kept her beauty up to past seventy by rain-water. Hah! They
do. They say she did. Hah! I wonder how long would it preserve _my_
beauty. Ha-ha-ha! More than a century, I suppose. I wonder would
rain-water preserve the beauty of my hump. I believe my hump is one of
the most beautiful ever man wore. But it doesn't seem to count for
much among a man's attractions. People don't appear to care much for
humps, whether they are really beauties of this kind or not. Hah! They
don't. People don't. Hah! They are not educated up to humps. Hah!"
At each exclamation "Hah!" he made a powerful expiration of breath.
Before each exclamation he rubbed his forehead with one hand drawn in
wet from the rain falling outside the window.
"_She_, for instance," he went on, "doesn't care much for humps. She
prefers straight-backed men with straight strong legs. And yet
straight-backed men with straight strong legs are common enough in
all conscience. Most of the beggars even are straight-backed and
strong-legged. I am not. Hah! How cool and refreshing this rain-water
is. I am a novelty and yet people don't care for such a novelty as I
am. No; they prefer men cut to pattern. _She_ would rather have a
straight-backed beggar than me, and yet I am more interesting, more
uncommon. I am more remarkable to look at, and then I have genius.
Yes; I have a form of body far out of the common, and a form of mind
far out of the common, too. I have a hump and genius. Hah! But no one
cares for a hump or genius. _She_ doesn't, for instance. Hah! But I
mean that she shall like me. I mean to make love to her. I mean to woo
her, and to win her. Hah! She doesn't know me now as well as she will
know me later. I have never been in love before. I can't say I like
the feeling. I used to be very valiant and self-sufficing, and at
my ease in my mind. Hah! I looked on women as the mere dross of
humanity--not worthy to associate with cripples. Hah! Of course, I
except my mother, who is the best and dearest soul God ever sent to
earth. But now I am in love, and this girl, this young girl, seems
precious to me. Hah! Certainly I shall win her. I have not yet learned
to fail, and I don't mean to learn how to fail now. Hah! How cool and
refreshing the rain is. What is it I came into this room for? Stay.
Let me think. Oh, yes! my mother asked me to put the window down
before I went upstairs. Hah! Yes. I will. There!"
He let the window down without any regard to the noise. It smote
harshly upon the sill. Edith did not move, did not make a sound. She
was glad at the moment, though she did not realize that she was glad,
because he had let down the window. The diminished light would reduce
the chance of his seeing her even now that his eyes had grown used to
the darkness. She did not realize that she was glad until afterwards.
All her consciousness was still concentrated on hearing and seeing.
Leigh turned away from the window, and began slowly retracing his
steps to the door, muttering as he went along the side of the bed
opposite the window:
"Yes, she has run away. Run away from this house a few hours after
entering it. Run away, frightened, terrified by my ugliness."
He had reached the foot of the bed by this time, and, crossing between
where she sat, turned in the darkness at the foot-board. Only his head
rose above the high foot-board. His hand moved in dim relief against
the background of the white head part of the bed discernible over the
foot-board.
As he spoke these words her first thought beyond a desire to hear and
see entered her mind. It gave her instant and enormous relief,
although as before she was not at the moment attentive to the relief.
The feeling, however, took in her mind the form of words. "He knows I
left the house. He does not know I have come back."
He paused directly in front of her, and seemed to rest against the
foot-board. He muttered in a voice more deep and faint than the one in
which he had hitherto spoken:
"She ran away, this Edith Grace, she ran away from my ugliness.
Ha-ha-ha! We shall see, Edith Grace. We shall see. I did not tell my
mother the name of the girl I mean to marry. She shall know it soon
enough, and not all the wiles or force of man shall keep me from my
purpose, keep Edith Grace from me!"
He thrust his arms out to their full length in front of him and drew
them back swiftly towards him. The air from the motion of his long
thin hands touched her cheek.
She drew her head back a hand's breadth. Otherwise she did not stir.
She sat motionless. She had no power over the actions of her body. She
could not cry out or move further.
Oscar Leigh turned, crept slowly along the foot and right side of the
bed, fumbled for the door handle, and, having found it, went out of
the room, closing and latching the door quietly after him.
Then she heard him toilfully, ponderously, going up stairs. Presently
a door above was closed and complete silence fell upon the house.
The spell lifted from the girl, and covering her face with her hands
she sank back in the chair with a tremulous, heavy sigh of relief.