The great train thundered on straight down through the heart of France.
Almost the length of it separated Quixtus and Clementina. They had seen
each other only for a few moments amid the bustle of the hurrying
platform—just long enough for her quick vision to perceive, in the
uncertain blue light of the arc-lamps, a haunted look in his eyes that
was absent when she had first met him that afternoon. He had spoken a
few courteous phrases; he had inquired whether Tommy and Etta, who clung
to her to the last, were to be fellow travellers, whereon Clementina had
very definitely informed him that Etta was staying with friends in
Paris, while Tommy had arranged to visit a painter chum at Barbizon; he
had expressed the hope that when they arrived at Marseilles she would
command his services, and, after a bareheaded leave-taking of the two
ladies, which caused Etta afterwards to remark that it was only her
short skirt that had prevented her from making her court curtsey, he had
gone in search of his own compartment.
Etta had flung her arms round Clementina’s neck.
“Oh, Clementina darling, do come back soon! The Jacksons are kind, but,
oh, so stuffy! And Tommy is going to Barbizon, and I shan’t see him, and
if you don’t come back soon, he’ll have forgotten all about me.”
Tommy had given her a great hug and kissed her.
“Good-bye, dear. God bless you. Come back soon. We can’t do without
you.”
And Clementina, pausing on the first step of the railway carriage, had
turned and raised her hand—the unfilled finger-ends of her cotton
gloves projecting comically—and cried:
“Good-bye, you dear, selfish, detestable, beloved children!”
And neither of the twain had known what in the world she meant.
The great train thundered on through the country which Clementina had
traversed a month or so before with Tommy—Dijon, Macon, Lyons. . . .
Things had changed since then. Then a sweet rejuvenescence had crept
through her veins; then she had amused herself with the idea of being a
lady. The towns, whose names shouted through the awful stillness of the
stations otherwise only broken by the eerie clank of the wheel-testers’
hammers were now but abstract stages on her journey, then had a magical
significance. . . . That must be Vienne through which they were
dashing. . . . If the bitter-sweet, the tragi-comedy, the cardiac
surgery of Vienne had not brought a smile to Clementina’s lips in the
dark solitude of her compartment, would she have been the sturdy,
humorous Clementina who had cried her farewell to the children? Things
had changed since then, she assured herself. She was just Clementina
again, fighting her battles alone, impatient, contemptuous, unfeeling;
no longer a lady, merely a female dauber, ready once more to paint
elderly magnates’ trousers at so much per leg. . . . She sighed and
laughed. Those had been pleasant times. . . . That she should be going
over the same ground now with Quixtus seemed a freakish trick of
destiny.
At nine o’clock in the morning the train entered Marseilles Station.
Quixtus came speedily up to Clementina as she stepped on to the
platform, and offered his services. He trusted she had slept well and
had a comfortable journey.
“Didn’t sleep a wink,” said Clementina. “Did you?”
Quixtus admitted broken slumbers. The strangeness of the adventure had
kept him awake.
“You’re looking ill this morning,” said Clementina, glancing at him
sharply. “What’s the matter with you?”
He seemed careworn, feverish, and an unnatural glitter had replaced the
haunted look in his eyes. Clementina did not know how the approaching
consummation of a deed of real wickedness terrified the mild and
gentle-natured man. Hitherto his evil doings had been fantastic,
repaired almost at once as if mechanically by the underlying instinct of
generosity; his visions of sin had been fantastic, too, harmless,
unpractical; but this sin of vengeance which he had intellectually
conceived and fostered loomed great and terrible. So does the braggart
who has sworn to eat up a lion alive, totter at the knees when he hears
the lion’s roar. His night had been that of a soul on fire.
“Something’s wrong. What is it?” asked Clementina.
He answered vaguely. This summons had upset him. It had set him
thinking, a tiring mental process. He remembered, said he, how
Hammersley, when they were boys together, had called him to see a dying
butterfly on a rose-bush. The yellow wings were still flapping
languidly; then slower and slower; then strength gave out and they
quivered in the last effort; and then the hold on the rose-bush relaxed
and the butterfly fell to the earth—dead.
“What does Monsieur wish done with the baggage?” asked the attendant
porter, who had listened uncomprehendingly to the long and tragical
tale.
Quixtus passed his hand across his forehead and looked at the porter as
if awakening out of a dream.
“What you like,” said he.
So forlorn and hag-ridden did he appear, that a wave of pity swept
through Clementina. The deadly phrase of the judge in the Marrable trial
occurred to her: “Such men as you ought not to be allowed to go about
loose.” The mothering instinct more than her natural forcefulness, made
her take charge of the situation.
“The omnibus of the Hôtel du Louvre,” she said to the man, and taking
Quixtus by the arm, she led him like a child out of the station.
“Get in,” she said with rough kindliness, pushing him towards the step
of the omnibus. But he moved aside for her to precede him. Clementina
said “Rubbish!” and entered the vehicle. She was no longer playing at
being a lady. Quixtus followed her, and the omnibus clattered down the
steep streets and jolted and swayed through the traffic and between the
myriad tramcars that deface and deafen the city. The morning sun shone
fiercely. The pavements baked. The sun-drenched buildings burned hot to
the eye and the very awnings in the front of shops and over stalls in
the markets suggested heat rather than coolness. Far away at the end of
the Cannebière, the strip of sea visible glittered like a steel blade.
“Whew!” gasped Clementina, “what heat!”
“I feel it rather chilly,” said Quixtus.
She stared at him, wiping a damp forehead. What was the matter with the
man?
When they entered the fairly cool vestibule of the hotel, the manager
met them and assigned the rooms. They asked for Hammersley. Alas, said
the manager, he was very ill. The doctor was with him even now. An
elderly man in thin, sunstained tweeds, who had been sitting in a corner
playing with a child of five or six in charge of a Chinese nurse, came
forward and greeted them.
“Are you the friends Mr. Hammersley telegraphed for? Miss Wing and Dr.
Quixtus? My name is Poynter. I was a fellow passenger of Mr.
Hammersley’s on the ‘Moronia.’ He was a sick man when he started; and
got worse on the voyage. Impossible to land at Brindisi. Arrived here,
he could go no further either by boat or train. He was quite helpless,
so I stayed on till his friends could come. It was I who wrote out and
sent the telegrams.”
“That was very good of you,” said Clementina.
Quixtus bowed vaguely, but spoke not a word. His lips were white. He
held the front edges of his jacket crushed in a nervous grip. Poynter’s
voice sounded far away. He barely grasped the meaning of his words. A
dynamo throbbed in his head instead of a brain.
“Is he dying?” asked Clementina.
Mr. Poynter made an expressive gesture. “I’m afraid so. He collapsed
during the night and they’ve been giving him oxygen this morning.
Yesterday he was desperately anxious to see you both.”
“Is it possible or judicious to go to him now?” asked Clementina.
“You may inquire. If you will allow me, I’ll show you the way to his
room.”
He led the way to the lift. They entered. For Quixtus his companions had
ceased to exist. He was conscious only of going to the dying man, and
the dynamo throbbed, throbbed. During the ascent Clementina said
abruptly to Poynter:
“How long is it since you’ve been home?”
“Twenty-five years,” he replied with a grim smile. “And it has been the
dream of my life for ten.”
“And you’ve stopped off in this Hades of a place for the sake of a sick
stranger? You must be a good sort.”
“You would have done the same,” said Poynter.
“Not I.”
He smiled again and looked at her with his calm, certain eyes. “A man
does not live in the far Orient for nothing. I know you would. This
way,” he said, as the lift-door opened. He led them down a corridor,
Quixtus following, a step or two behind, like a man in a trance.
The awful moment was at hand, the moment which, in the tea-shop and in
the hotel, had seemed far, far distant, hidden in the mists of some
unreal devil-land; which at dinner had begun to loom through the mists;
which all night long had seemed to grow nearer and nearer with every
rhythmic thud of the thundering train, until, at times, it touched him
like some material horror. The moment was at hand. At last he was about
to fulfil his destiny of evil. His enemy lay dying, the spirit faintly
flapping its wings like the butterfly. In a moment they would enter a
room. He would behold the dying man. He would curse him and send a
blackened, anguished soul into eternity.
The dynamo in his brain and the beating of his heart made him fancy that
they were walking to the sound of muffled drums. Nearer, nearer. This
was real, actual. He was a devil walking to the sound of muffled drums.
Poynter and Clementina stopped before a door. Quixtus stood still
shaking all over, like a horse in front of a nameless terror.
“This is his room,” said Poynter, grasping the handle.
Quixtus gave a queer cry and suddenly threw himself forward and clutched
Poynter’s arm convulsively, his features distorted with terror.
“Wait—wait! I can’t do it! I can’t do it! It’s monstrous!”
He leaned up against the wall and closed his eyes.
“Overwrought nerves,” whispered Poynter.
There happened to be a bench near by, placed for the convenience of the
chambermaid of the floor. Clementina made him sit down.
“I don’t think you’re quite up to seeing him just now,” she said.
He shook his head. “No. Not just now. I feel faint. It’s death. I’m not
used to death. You go in. Give him my love. I’ll see him later. But give
him my love.”
“Very well,” said Clementina.
She rapped gently at the door. It was opened and a sister of charity in
a great white coif appeared on the threshold.
She looked at the visitors sadly.
“_C’est fini_,” she whispered.
Quixtus staggered to his feet.
“Dead?”
“_Oui, Monsieur._”
The sweat broke out in great drops on his forehead.
“Dead!” he repeated.
“_Vous pouvez entrer si vous voulez_,” said the sister.
Then Quixtus reeled as if some one had dealt him a crushing blow.
Poynter saved him from falling and guided him to the seat. For a long,
long second all was darkness. The dynamo stopped suddenly. Then, as had
happened once before, a little thread seemed to snap in his brain. He
opened his eyes feeling sick and giddy. The sister quickly disappeared
into the room, and returned with some brandy. The others stood anxiously
by. Presently the spirits took effect and enabled him to co-ordinate his
faculties. With an effort of will he rose and straightened himself.
“I am better now. Let us go in.”
“Wiser not,” said Clementina, a thousand miles from suspecting the
psychological phenomenon that had occurred.
Quixtus slightly raised a protesting hand.
“I assure you there is no reason why I should not go in,” he said in a
shaky voice.
“All right,” said Clementina. “But you can’t go tumbling all over the
place.”
Once more she took his arm in her strong grip, and, leaving Poynter
outside, they entered the death-chamber together. The windows were flung
wide, but the outside shutters were closed, darkening the room and
cooling it from the baking sun. A man in a frock coat and narrow black
tie—the doctor—was aiding his assistant in the repacking of the oxygen
apparatus. On the bed, gaunt, hollow-cheeked, and pinched, lay all that
was left of Hammersley. Only his blonde hair and beard, with scarcely a
touch of grey, remained of that which was familiar. The laughing eyes
which had charmed men and women were hidden for ever beneath the lids.
Clementina’s hand crept half-mechanically downwards and clasped that of
Quixtus, which returned the pressure. So hand in hand they stood, in
silence, by the death-bed.
At last Clementina whispered:
“Whatever may have been the misunderstanding between you, all is over
now. May his sins be forgiven him.”
“Amen,” said Quixtus.
Tears rolled down Clementina’s cheeks and fell on her bodice. The dead
man had belonged to her youth—the dreary youth that had taken itself
for grim, grey eld. He had brought into it a little laughter, a little
buoyancy, much strength, much comfort; all, so simply, so kindly. At
first, in her fierce mood of revolt, she had rebuffed him and scorned
his friendship. But he was one of the gifted ones who could divine a
woman’s needs and minister to them; so he smiled at her rejection of his
offerings, knowing that she craved them, and presented them again and
again until at last, worn out with longing, she clutched at them
frantically and hugged them to her bosom. A generous gentleman, a loyal
friend, a very help in time of trouble, he lay there dead before her in
the prime of his manhood. She let the tears fall unchecked, until they
blinded her.
A dry, queer voice broke a long silence, whispering in her ear:
“I told you to give him my love, didn’t I?”
She nodded and squeezed Quixtus’s hand.
The doctor stood by waiting till their scrutiny of the dead should be
over. Clementina was the first to turn to him and to ask for information
as to the death. In a few words the doctor told her. When she entered
the room he had been dead five minutes.
“Who, Madame, you or this gentleman, is responsible for what remains to
be done?”
“I am. Don’t you think so, Ephraim?”
Quixtus bowed his head.
“I sent him my love,” he murmured.
“And now,” said the Sister of Charity, “we must make the _toilette du
mort_. Will you have the kindness to retire?”
She smiled sadly and opened the door.
“There is a packet in the drawer for this lady and gentleman,” said
Poynter, who had stood waiting for them in the corridor.
“_Ah! bon_,” said the Sister. She crossed the room and returned with the
packet, which she handed to Clementina. It was sealed and addressed to
them jointly. “To Ephraim Quixtus and Clementina Wing. To be opened
after my death.” Clementina stuffed it in the pocket of her skirt.
“We’ll open it together by-and-by. Now we’d better go to our rooms and
tidy up and have some food. Only a fool goes through such a day as is
before us on an empty stomach. What’s your number? I’ll tell them to
send you up some coffee and rolls.”
He thanked her dreamily. She arranged a meeting at noon in order to go
through the packet. They walked along the corridor, Poynter accompanying
them. He proposed, it being convenient to them, to take the night train
to Paris and home. In the meanwhile his services were at their disposal.
“I wish I could pack you off to Piccadilly by Hertzian wave, right
away,” said Clementina.
“It’s Devonshire I’m longing for,” said he.
They arrived at the lift door.
“You’ll love it all the better for having played the Angel in Hades,”
said Clementina with moist eyes. “Good-bye for the present.”
She extended her hand. He took it, held it in a hesitating way. An
expression of puzzledom came over his tanned, lined features.
“Are you going to your room now?”
“Yes,” said Clementina.
“Pardon my presumption,” said he, “but—but aren’t you going to see the
child?”
“Child?” cried Clementina. “What child?”
“Why—Mr. Hammersley’s—didn’t you know? She’s here——”
“Here?”
“When you came into the vestibule, didn’t you notice a little girl I was
playing with—and a Chinese nurse——”
“Lord have mercy upon us!” exclaimed Clementina. “Do you hear that,
Ephraim?”
“Yes, I hear,” said Quixtus tonelessly. The conflict within him between
Mithra and Ahriman had left him weak and non-recipient of new
impressions. “Hammersley has a little daughter. I wasn’t aware of it. I
wonder how he got her. She must have a mother somewhere.”
“The mother’s dead,” said Poynter. “From what I could gather from
Hammersley, the child has no kith or kin in the world. That was why he
was so desperately anxious for you to come.”
Clementina peered at him with screwed-up monkey face, as if he were
sitting for his portrait.
“It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard in my life!” She clapped
her hand to her pocket. “And this sealed envelope? Do you know anything
about it?”
“I do,” said Poynter. “It contains a letter and a will. I wrote them
both at his dictation ten days ago. The will is a properly attested
document appointing Dr. Quixtus and yourself his executors and joint
trustees of the little girl. A dear little girl,” he added, with a touch
of wistfulness. “You’ll love her.”
“God grant it!” cried Clementina fervently. “But what an old maid like
me and an old bachelor like him are going to do with a child between us,
the Lord Almighty alone knows.”
Yet, as she spoke, the picture of the child—in spite of her
preoccupation on entering the hotel, her sharp vision had noted the
fairy fragility of the English scrap contrasting with the picturesque
materialism of the fat Chinese nurse—the picture of the child enthroned
on cushions (a feminine setting!) in the studio in Romney Place, flashed
with acute distinctness before her mind, and some foolish thing within
her leapt and stabbed her with a delicious pain.
Quixtus brushed his thinning hair from his forehead.
“I understand,” said he faintly. “I understand that I am a trustee for
Hammersley’s daughter. I wasn’t expecting it. I hope you’ll not think it
discourteous if I leave you? I’m not quite myself to-day. I’ll go and
rest.”
He entered the lift which had been standing open for some time. There is
not a feverish hurry in Marseilles hotels between steamers in June.
Clementina with a gesture checked the lift-boy. The man must be looked
after at once. She turned to Poynter.
“Like a dear good soul,” she said, in her frank way, “go down and
prepare the child for such a rough-and-tumble stepmother as me. I’ll be
with you in a few minutes. What’s your number, Ephraim?” He showed her
the ticket. “Two hundred and seventy?”
“_Au troisième, Madame._”
The lift gate clicked. They mounted a couple of floors. The chambermaid
of the _étage_ showed them into number two hundred and seventy. Then
Clementina took command. In less than two minutes windows were opened
and shutters adjusted, the waiter was despatched for coffee, the valet
was unpacking and arranging Quixtus’s personal belongings, and the
chambermaid spreading the bed invitingly open. When Clementina was a
lady, she behaved in the most self-effacing and early Victorian ladylike
way in the world. But when she was Clementina and wanted to do things,
she would have ordered the devil about like a common lackey, and boxed
the ears of any archangel who ventured to interfere with her.
Quixtus, unprepared for this whirlwind ministration on the part of
Clementina, whom he had hitherto regarded rather as an antagonistic
principle than as a sympathetic woman, sat bolt upright on the edge of
the sofa and looked on with an air of mystification. Yet, feeling weak
and broken, he was content to let her tend him.
“Take off your clothes and go to bed,” said Clementina, standing, hands
on hips, in front of him. “For two pins I’d undress you myself and put
you to sleep like a baby.”
A wan smile flickered over his features.
“I’m very grateful to you for your kindness. Perhaps a little rest will
bring mental adjustment. That’s what I think I need—mental adjustment.”
He repeated the words several times, and sat staring in front of him.
On the threshold Clementina turned and crossed the room again.
“Ephraim,” she said, “I think if you and I had been better friends all
these years, there wouldn’t have been so much of this adjusting
necessary. It has been my fault. I’m sorry. But now that we have a child
to bring up, I’ll look after you. You poor man,” she added, touching his
arm very kindly and feeling ridiculously sentimental. “You must be the
loneliest thing that ever happened.” She caught up his suit of pyjamas
and threw them by his side on the sofa. “Now for God’s sake stick on
these things and go to bed.”
Downstairs, in the vestibule, she found Poynter with the little girl on
his knees. The Chinese nurse sat like a good-tempered idol a few feet
away.
“This is your new auntie,” said Poynter, as Clementina approached.
The child slipped from his knees and looked up at her with timorous
earnestness. She was fair, with the transparent pallor of most children
born and bred in the East, a creature of delicate fragility and grace.
Clementina saw that she had her father’s frank hazel eyes. The child
held out her hand.
“Good morning, auntie,” she said in a curiously sweet contralto.
Clementina took the seat vacated by Poynter, and drew the child towards
her.
“Won’t you give me a kiss?”
“Of course.”
She put up her little lips. The appeal to the woman was irresistible.
She caught the child to her and clasped her to her bosom, and kissed her
and said foolish things. When her embrace relaxed as abruptly as it had
begun, the child said:
“I like that. Do that again.”
“Bless you, my darling, I could do it all day long,” cried Clementina.
She held the child with one arm, the little face pillowed on her bosom,
and with her free hand groped in her pocket for her handkerchief. This
found, she blew her nose loudly and glanced at Poynter who was surveying
the pair with his grave, wise smile.
“I’m sure you don’t mind if I make a fool of myself,” she said. “And I’m
sure I don’t.”