For a couple of days Kingcote had been too unwell to leave the house.
For the most part he sat in his own room, with the windows darkened; his
head was racked with pain. Mary’s anxious pleading to be allowed to send
for aid drove him to angry resistance. He could not talk with her, and
could not bear to have her sitting by him in silence. He wished to be
alone.
On the third morning he did not rise at the usual time; Mary went to his
room and entered. Her coming woke him from a light slumber; he said he
had been awake through the night, and felt as if now he could sleep. An
hour later she returned, and again he woke.
“Has any letter come this morning?” he asked.
“Yes, there is one. I thought I had better leave it till----”
“Let me have it at once!” he exclaimed fretfully. “You should not have
kept it.”
There was fever on his lips, and his eyes had an alarming brightness.
When Mary returned, he was sitting in expectation, and took the letter
eagerly. She left the room as he began to read it.
It could not have been a quarter of an hour before Mary, who was just
about to take up such breakfast as she thought he might accept, saw her
brother descend the stairs.
“I have to go out,” he said. “Give me a cup of tea; I want nothing
more.”
She turned into their sitting-room, and he followed her.
“But you mustn’t go out, Bernard,” she objected timidly, looking at him
in distress. “You are not fit----”
“I have to go,” he repeated, in a dogged manner. “Is there tea here? If
you won’t give me any I must go without it.”
“But you are so ill, dear! Bernard, do, do wait till you are better! I
cannot let you go out like this!”
He looked at her, and spoke with perfect calmness.
“I am not ill. My head is much better. I am going into the country, and
it will do me good.”
“Are you going to Knightswell?” she asked, laying a hand gently upon
him.
“Yes, I am. She goes into Scotland tomorrow; I must see her before. I am
dreadfully thirsty. Give me some tea, Mary, there’s a good girl.”
When she brought it from the kitchen, he had his hat in his hand. She
in vain tried to persuade him to eat. He said he should have an appetite
when he reached Winstoke. In a few minutes he was ready to start.
“I may be late back; don’t trouble yourself about me.”
“But I _shall_ trouble dreadfully about you, Bernard; how can I help?”
But she was as helpless to prevent his going. He merely waved his hand,
and hastened into the street.
He knew by heart all the trains by which he could reach Winstoke. One
at twenty minutes to eleven he should not be able to catch, and the next
was at five minutes past twelve; for that he had more than enough time.
He loitered on till an omnibus should overtake him; fortunately the
first that came was one which would carry him as far as Charing Cross.
He sat through the journey with closed eyes; at every jolt of the
vehicle it was as though a blow fell upon his aching brain. Alighting
at Charing Cross, he proceeded to pass the river by the foot-bridge; the
clock at Westminster told him that it was only half-past eleven. At one
time he had never crossed this bridge without pausing to admire the fine
view eastwards, the finest obtainable, from any point, of the City of
London; the river winding on beneath many arches, the dome of St. Paul’s
crowning the hilly mass of edifices, and beyond it the dark-drifting
vapours of the region of toil. Even now he leaned upon the parapet, but
only to look down into the dull, gross, heavy-flowing stream. He took
from his pocket the letter which he had received from Isabel, and tore
it mechanically into small fragments; they fell from his hands, wavered
downwards in the still, hot air, and made specks upon the water. Thames
knows many such offerings.
Yet he had to wait at Waterloo, and the last few minutes were the most
impatient. Then it seemed to him that he travelled for hours and hours.
Constantly he looked at his watch; when it assured him that but a few
minutes had passed, he examined it in the belief that it had stopped.
With his impatience his fever grew. His brain throbbed to agony; he
could not bear to look at the sunlight on the meadows.
There were two young people, a man and a girl, travelling with him for
some distance; they seemed a couple recently wedded. It was holiday with
them; they talked over what they would do at the place to which they
were going, talked and laughed right joyfully. The sick man who sat
opposite, perforce hearing and seeing their happiness, hated them as he
had never hated mortal.
The end came. With difficulty he descended from the carriage; then drew
back for a few moments under the shed of the station, to recover from
his dizziness and shield his eyes against the light. In walking towards
Knightswell the sun was full in his face; he held his hands clasped upon
his brows as a shelter. Quicker and quicker he paced on strangely, he
could not feel the ground upon which he trod; he often stumbled.
It was not necessary to go round to the front gates. There was an
entrance to the back of the park, and through this he passed. It led him
into the garden by the rear of the shrubbery; to reach the house-door he
would have to go past the arbour, where, at this moment, Isabel and her
cousin were together. He came near, and, through the leaves, saw them.
Isabel stood looking down at Asquith, who, holding her hands, seemed
to speak affectionately. Kingcote did not watch them. He turned, pushed
between boughs, and, without consciousness of purpose, went from the
garden into the park again....
He was standing by a great elm-tree, his arms hanging at his sides, his
eyes fixed on the ground. He must have stood there long and unmoving,
for a rabbit nibbled a few paces off. Presently the rabbit showed its
white tail in flight. Kingcote saw a shadow move near to him; he looked
up, and there was Ada Warren.
She uttered his name with surprise; then the sight of his face held her
speechless. He seemed to recognise her, for a dreadful smile came to his
lips; but, without speaking, he walked from the spot, shielding his eyes
with one hand. Ada gazed after him for a moment, then hastened up to him
again.
“Mr. Kingcote, are you ill?--can I help you?”
He smiled in the same way as before, and shook his head.
“No; you can’t help me,” he rather muttered than spoke, only half facing
her.
“Are you going to London?”
“To London, yes,” was his answer.
And he pursued his way....
Ada went to the house. Mrs. Stratton was in the drawing-room.
“Can you tell me where Mrs. Clarendon is?” the girl asked of her.
“She has gone up to her room, Ada,” was the reply. “Do you want her? She
has a little headache, and meant to lie down for an hour.”
“In that case I won’t trouble her; it is nothing.”
She wandered back into the park. King-cote was long since out of sight.
She went as far as the gate leading out into the road, and stood by it
for a long time....
He did not walk towards Winstoke station, but turned into a lane which
would bring him to Salcot East. Going slowly at first, even standing
still at times, his pace at length quickened, and before long he was
walking at his utmost speed. Even thus, it took him an hour and a half
to reach Salcot. He went straight to the post-office, which was also
a shop where stationery and very various things were sold. Having
purchased paper and a large envelope, he wrote this:
“I cannot please you by leaving England, but there are much simpler ways
of giving you what you wish. I send your portrait. It is a long time
since I have dared to look at it, and I cannot do so now. May you be
happy!”
He enclosed Isabel’s picture, without taking it from the envelope in
which he always carried it about with him; then addressed the letter to
her and posted it.
He walked towards the railway station. Ah, there was the inn at which he
lost his purse; he stood and looked at it for a moment. He looked, too,
towards the branching of the old and the new roads to Winstoke. He had
chosen the old road that day; it was picturesque. Even so it looked now,
descending into the hollows, leafy, grass-grown, peaceful. To what had
it led him!
He found at the station that there would not be a train for nearly two
hours. But he dreaded waiting; motion was imperative. He would walk back
again to Winstoke station, by the way he had come, and catch the train
there. His head did not ache so badly now. Though he had eaten nothing
all day, hunger he felt none, but much thirst. He remembered a stream on
the way, and hastened that he might reach it.
The stream he had in view ran across the lane; he made his way into the
field, lay down, and drank at a convenient spot. The water had an ill
taste, or seemed to have, but it refreshed him. Still, he found it hard
to rise again; a heaviness tempted him to rest here. His head lay upon
his arm, and for a time he dozed.
Then up and on again, or he would miss the train. The last half-mile he
walked by the railway. He was not yet in sight of the station when the
train he had hoped to take came along. He watched it with a strange
sort of indifference, as if incapable of the effort of feeling annoyed.
Nothing greatly mattered, it seemed as if nothing henceforth would
greatly matter. Still more singular, he found himself confused with
the idea of the future, unable to make it a subject of conscious
speculation. His mind was occupied with a fixed idea that his life had
been, as it were, broken off short, and had a ragged edge; no forward
continuity seemed possible.
It was a possession; he could not think of the details of his present,
scarcely suffered from the thought of what he had done; his trouble took
the shape of an intellectual difficulty. Wrestling with it he walked
straight on, past the station, and in a direction away from Winstoke.
His mental distress was the same in kind as that we experience when
striving with wearied faculties to see clearly into a mathematical
problem, a dogged exertion of the brain, painful, _acharné_, but
accompanied with a terrible desolation of the heart. He would half
forget what had brought him to this pass, and set to work to review
events. There were no passionate outbreaks; a dead weight lay upon his
emotions, and vitality was in the brain alone. He did not even pity
himself; the calamity which crushed him was too vast.
He was conscious again of a torturing thirst, and the object of his
progress became to discover a wayside inn where he might drink. He came
to one at last, and entered it very much as any pedestrian might have
done. What could they give him to drink?--he asked. Beer; no, for beer
he had no palate. They had spirits. He diluted two half-tumblers, and
drank them off in quick succession. A couple of men were talking in the
parlour, discussing politics. One of them jocularly appealed to him, and
he replied energetically, laying down the law on a subject which never
occupied his thoughts, or had not done for years. Again he set forth,
with understanding that he must make for Winstoke station. His limbs
were of iron, he had not a sensation of weariness. The sun was no longer
shining; there were clouds in the west, and the evening was drawing on.
Again with dogged mental effort he clung to the fact that his end was
Winstoke station; he did not question but that he was on the right
road. On and on, and it grew dusk about him. Presently something shot
painfully into his eyes; it was a flash of summer lightning; no thunder
followed. He pressed his hands against his head, and moaned a little.
The flashes became frequent, and then, of a sudden, the strength of his
limbs failed him. He would have to rest, and the grassy edge of the road
gave an opportunity. He lay down at full length, and hid his face; the
lightning pained him too much.
It was as if he slept, but always with the weight of shapeless woe
burdening his heart and brain. He turned at times, and knew that he was
lying by the road-side, knew, too, that night was coming on, but was
powerless to rise. He talked much and loud, inveighed with forceful
bitterness against some one who had done him a wrong, vast and vague. If
he could but get one hours quiet sleep; and that cruel tormentor would
not suffer him....
The summer lightning ceased, and it grew very dark. Over the meadows
swept a warm wind, bearing mysterious voices, wafting sobs and sighs.
Then a cloud broke, and rain began to fall....
That night Mary sat long after every one else in the house had gone to
rest. Till eleven o’clock she was only in a vague uneasiness, an anxious
expectation of her brother’s return; when midnight came her fears were
excited. She constantly opened her window and looked up and down the
street. It had rained since evening, and the street lamps shimmered
drearily on the wet pavement. It grew too late to hope for his return.
It was easy to find plausible explanations of his absence, if only they
could have given her genuine comfort. What more simple than that Bernard
should have remained for the night either in Mrs. Clarendon’s house,
or with his friend the rector, of whom she had heard so much? Possibly
there might not be a telegraph-office near enough to allow of his
relieving her by a message, as he assuredly would wish to do. Her reason
listened, but she could not overcome the presage of evil which had
lurked in her heart since he left home. He was utterly unfit to take
such a journey; his condition, she knew, was graver than he had been
willing to admit. If illness prostrated him somewhere, quite away from
friends, what would become of him? She could not try to sleep. The
misery of suspense was scarcely to be borne.
She rose at a very early hour, and tried to occupy herself till the
arrival of the post; if all were well, she could not but have a line of
explanation. He had spoken of possibly being late, but not of remaining
away all night; it would be cruelty most unlike him if he had not
anticipated her anxiety. But the postman came and for her brought
nothing. With difficulty she discharged her morning duties to the
children. The trial was harder to bear because of her loneliness. The
engraver and his wife from whom their rooms were rented, belonged to a
decent class of people, but Kingcote had uniformly discouraged
anything like intimacy with them. Mary could not relieve her mind with
interchange of suggestion and encouragement. When the children had gone
to school, she sat at the open window, watching the end of the street
with painful intentness. Often she deceived herself into a belief that
she had caught sight of him, but a moment undid her hope.
What should she do if he neither came nor sent news of himself? There
was but one source of help; she must write to Mrs. Clarendon. Only the
extremest need could justify that; but what point was to be the limit of
her endurance? She dare not wait for day after day to pass. One day she
must live through, with what strength she might be able to summon. If he
still remained silent, evil had surely befallen him.
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon, when, still looking from
the window, she saw a policeman pause before the house, and ring the
bell. Any unknown visitor would have filled her with apprehension; the
sight of this one shook her with terror. She could not let any one else
go to the door, it was so certain that the visit must be for her. It did
not seem by her own strength that she reached the foot of the stairs;
she opened, and stood for an instant in fearful waiting.
The constable made inquiry if any person of the name of Kingcote was
known in the house.
“Yes. I am his sister.”
“We have received information,” the man continued, “that a Mr. B.
Kingcote has been brought to the hospital at Lindow, in ------shire, in
an insensible state, and lies there very ill.”
He showed her a telegram from the police-station in the town of Lindow.
She looked at it, but could not read.
“May I keep this?” she asked.
He allowed her to do so, and, after naming the line of railway by which
Lindow could be reached, took his departure with constabulary tramp.
Mary had to act, and she found the strength. She went to her landlady,
communicated in part the news she had received, and begged that the
children might be cared for in case she should have to be absent through
the night. The charge was readily undertaken. Then she took a cab and
drove to Gabriel’s lodgings. This was the only friend whose aid she
could seek. Gabriel put himself at her disposal immediately, discovered
the first train to Lindow, and, better still, offered to accompany her.
“Is it far?” Mary asked, moved to her first tears by the blessed relief
of a friend’s helpful presence.
“A journey of two hours and a quarter,” Gabriel replied. “We shall be
there a little after six.”
They had not too much time to reach Waterloo Station, even with the aid
of a cab.
“What on earth does this mean?” Gabriel asked as they went along.
“He left home yesterday very ill,” she answered, “to go to--to Winstoke,
to see friends.”
“What friends?” asked the artist, with his natural abruptness. “Why did
he go when he was ill?”
Mary professed that she knew nothing certainly, and after that they
scarcely exchanged half-a-dozen words all the way to their destination.
Lindow is some ten miles nearer to London than Winstoke, a flourishing
market-town. They had no difficulty in finding the hospital; it was a
very new building in the centre of the town. The house-surgeon came
to them in the waiting-room; a young-looking man, with an apparent
difficulty in suppressing native high spirits; he seemed often on the
point of chuckling as he talked with them. The information he had to
give amounted to this: Kingcote had been found early in the morning
lying by the road-side a mile out of the town, and found, as good luck
would have it, by a doctor, who was driving past. The respectable attire
of the prostrate man had naturally invited close inspection, with the
result that he was discovered to be in a state of coma. The night-long
rain had completely soaked his garments. Robbery with violence had at
the first glance suggested itself; but, on examination, watch and purse
was found untouched. He was carried straightway to the hospital. A
letter in his pocket had disclosed his name and address, and the police
had been communicated with. He lay at present in high fever; there had
been as yet no return of consciousness.
The house-surgeon proceeded to interrogations, several of them so
obviously needless that Gabriel made decisive interposal.
“The facts seem to be these,” he said at length: “Our friend, Mr.
Kingcote, left London yesterday morning to see friends in Winstoke. The
need being urgent, he set forth in an unfit state, having suffered for
two or three days from severe headache and feverish symptoms. He had,
Mrs. Jalland tells us, experienced a good deal of mental trouble for
some time. I suppose we may take it for granted that he, for some reason
or other, tried to walk to your town here, and failed by the way.”
The medical man gave a somewhat grudging assent to these propositions,
as probably true. Mary, at her pressing wish, was then permitted to see
her brother. The doctor could not tell her as yet whether or not the
fever was infectious; mindful of her children, she kept at some distance
from the bedside. Poor Kingcote lay in a sad state. There was no
intelligence in his wide eyes; he muttered incessantly.
“My proposal is this,” said Gabriel, when she returned to him in the
waiting-room, “you had better take a lodging in the town, and I will
fetch the children to you. Can they be left where they are over night?”
They could; so Gabriel would bring them in the morning. The
house-surgeon was able to suggest a likely quarter for finding lodgings,
and Mary rested at the hospital--subject to much interrogation--whilst
her friend sought and discovered a suitable abode.
He saw her installed, said what he could in the way of encouragement,
and took train back to London.