Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books
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2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
A DUEL
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Beetle: A Mystery
Garnered
A Metamorphosis
The Twickenham Peerage
Both Sides of the Veil
The Seen and the Unseen
Marvels and Mysteries
Miss Arnott's Marriage
The Goddess: a Demon
The Joss: a Reversion
The Crime and the Criminal
A DUEL
BY
RICHARD MARSH
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First published_, 1904
CONTENTS
BOOK I.--Wife
CHAPTER I
The End of the Honeymoon.
CHAPTER II
An Offer of Marriage.
CHAPTER III
Whom God hath Joined.
CHAPTER IV
A Second Honeymoon.
CHAPTER V
A Conversation with the Doctor.
CHAPTER VI
Husband and Wife.
CHAPTER VII
A Tug of War.
CHAPTER VIII
The Miniature.
CHAPTER IX
The Sliding Panel.
CHAPTER X
The Girl at the Door.
CHAPTER XI
Hot Water.
CHAPTER XII
Signing the Will.
CHAPTER XIII
The Encounter in the Wood.
CHAPTER XIV
In Cuthbert Grahame's Room.
BOOK II.--The Widow
CHAPTER XV
"The Gordian Knot".
CHAPTER XVI
Margaret is Puzzled.
CHAPTER XVII
An Unexpected Visitor.
CHAPTER XVIII
Cronies.
CHAPTER XIX
In Council.
CHAPTER XX
The Impending Sword.
CHAPTER XXI
Out of the Blue.
CHAPTER XXII
Margaret Settles the Question.
CHAPTER XXIII
Margaret Resolves to Fight.
CHAPTER XXIV
The Interior.
CHAPTER XXV
Alarums and Excursions.
CHAPTER XXVI
Solicitor and Client.
CHAPTER XXVII
Pure Ether.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Mr. Lamb in a Communicative Mood.
CHAPTER XXIX
Margaret Pays a Call.
CHAPTER XXX
Mrs. Lamb in Search of Advice.
CHAPTER XXXI
Mrs. Lamb Returns to Pitmuir.
CHAPTER XXXII
At the Gate.
CHAPTER XXXIII
At the Door.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Towards Judgment.
CHAPTER XXXV
Judges.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Pleasant Dreams!
BOOK I
WIFE
A DUEL
CHAPTER I
THE END OF THE HONEYMOON
Isabel waited till the rat-tat was repeated a second time, then
she went down to the front door. Since Mrs. Macconichie and her
husband were both out, and she had the house to herself, there
was nothing else for her to do, unless she wished the postman to
depart with the letters. As it was, when she appeared at the
door, he grumbled at being delayed.
"These Scotchmen are all boors," she told herself, in her
bitterness.
She looked at the letter which had been thrust into her hand. It
was addressed to "Mr. G. Lamb". The sight of it reopened the
fountains of her scorn.
"They might at least have put G. Lamb, Esq. G. Lamb! What a
fool I've been!"
Further consideration of the envelope led her to the conclusion
that it was the letter they had both been waiting for--the
answer to her husband's plea for help. She pressed it between
her fingers to learn, if possible by the sense of touch, what
the envelope contained.
"I believe there's only a letter--no cheque, nor anything. If
there isn't, then we are done."
She hesitated a moment, then tore it open. It contained merely a
sheet of common writing-paper, on the front page of which was
this brief note:--
"Dear Gregory,
"I like the idea of your asking me to help you. You've had all
the help you'll ever have from me. The shop won't bear it;
business is getting worse. If it weren't, you'd get no more
money out of me.
"You'd better get your wife to keep you.
"Susan Lamb."
Susan Lamb! That was his mother, the mother of the man she had
married. So the truth was out at last. His mother kept a shop;
he had been sponging on her for the money he had scattered
broadcast. There was neither address nor date upon the letter,
but the postmark on the envelope was Islington. Islington! His
mother was a small shopkeeper in that haunt of the needy clerk!
And she had believed him when he had posed before her as a
"swell"--an aristocrat; when he had talked about his "coin" and
his "gees". He had jockeyed her into supposing that money was a
matter of complete indifference to him; that, as she boasted to
her friends and rivals, "he rolled in it". So successfully had
he hoodwinked her that she married him within a month of their
first meeting--she, Belle Burney, the queen of song and dance!
Had thrown up all her engagements to do it, too; and she was
beginning to get some engagements which were not to be despised.
At the commencement he had done things in style: had taken her
up to Edinburgh, leisurely, in a motor. She had imagined that
the motor was his own. At Edinburgh it vanished; he told her to
receive some trifling repairs. But she, having already
discovered he was a liar, suspected him of having sold it. Later
she learned that the machine had only been hired for a
fortnight.
Already, at Edinburgh, money began to run short. He did his best
to conceal from her the state of the case, but the thing was so
obvious that his attempts at concealment were vain. He had lied
bravely, protesting that, in some inexplicable way, his
remittances had gone wrong; that in the course of a post or two
he would be in possession of an indefinitely large sum of money.
The posts came and went, but they brought no money. So they
drifted hither and thither, each time to humbler quarters. Now,
within six weeks of marriage, they were stranded at a remote
spot in Forfarshire, within a drive of Carnoustie. Isabel had
reason to suspect that, at the time of their marriage, her
husband had less than two hundred pounds in the world. He had
squandered more than that already; the motor had made a hole in
it. The pawnbroker had come to the rescue when the coin was
gone. They were penniless; owed for a week's food and lodging;
their landlady was already showing signs of anxiety. Now the
much-talked-of and long-expected letter had arrived which was to
bring the munificent remittance.
It turned out to be half-a-dozen lines from his shopkeeping
mother, who declined to advance him a single stiver!
When the young wife realised, or thought she realised, all that
the curt epistle meant, she told herself that now indeed the
worst had come. She had just had another bitter scene with her
husband; had, in fact, driven him out into the night before the
tempest of her scorn and opprobrium. The landlady had departed
on an errand of her own. Isabel told herself that now, if ever,
an opportunity presented itself to cut herself free from the
bonds in which she had foolishly allowed herself to be entwined.
She went upstairs, put on her hat and jacket, crammed a few of
her scanty possessions into a leather handbag, and then--and
only then--paused to think.
It was nearly nine o'clock, late for that part of the world. The
nearest railway station was at Carnoustie, more than seven miles
away. She knew that there was an early train which would take
her to Dundee, and thence to London; but, supposing she caught
it, how about the fare? The fare to London was nearly two
pounds; she had not a shilling. She did not doubt that, once in
London, she could live, as she always had lived; but she had to
get there first, across five hundred miles of intervening
country.
She arrived at a sudden resolution, one, however, which had
probably been at the back of her mind from the first. Yesterday,
going suddenly into the landlady's own sitting-room, she had
taken the old lady unawares. Mrs. Macconichie had what Isabel
felt sure were coins--gold coins--in one hand, and in the other
the lid of a tobacco jar which stood in a corner of the china
cupboard. Although seeming to notice nothing, Mrs. Lamb, struck
by the old lady's state of fluster, leaped to the conclusion
that that tobacco jar was her cash-box. Now, bag in hand, she
came downstairs to learn if her surmise had been correct.
Although she was aware that the sitting-room was empty, she was
conscious of an odd disinclination to enter, dallying for some
seconds with the handle in her hand. Once in, she lost no time
in ascertaining what she wished to learn, meeting, however, with
an unlooked-for obstacle. The china cupboard was locked; no
doubt Mrs. Macconichie had the key in her pocket. She took out
her own keys; not one of them was any use. She could see the
tobacco jar on the other side of the glass door. She did
not hesitate long; moments were precious. Taking a metal
paper-weight off the mantelshelf she smashed the pane, breaking
it right away to enable her to gain free access to the jar. She
removed the lid. The jar was full of odds and ends; she did not
examine them closely enough to gather what they were. At the
bottom, under everything else, was a canvas bag. She took it
out. It was tied round the neck with pink tape. It undoubtedly
contained coins; perhaps twenty or thirty. Should she open it,
and borrow two or three? or should she take it as it was?
The answer was acted, not spoken. Slipping the bag between the
buttons of her bodice, she passed from the room and from the
house. So soon as she was in the open air she thought she heard
the sound of approaching footsteps; as if involuntarily she
shrank back into the doorway, listening. She had been mistaken;
there was not a sound. She came out into the street again,
drawing a long breath. She looked to the right and left; not a
creature was in sight. She set off in the direction of
Carnoustie.
Her knowledge of the surrounding country was of the vaguest
kind. She had not gone far before it began to dawn on her that
this was a foolhardy venture in which she was engaged. It was a
habit of hers to act first and think afterwards, or she would
never have become Mrs. Gregory Lamb. Hard-headed enough when she
chose to give her wits fair play, she was, at that period of her
career, too much inclined to become a creature of impulse. The
impulses to which she was prone to yield were only too apt to be
wrong ones. For instance, she had not long left Mrs.
Macconichie's before she perceived clearly enough that the
chances were possibly a hundred to one against her reaching
Carnoustie in the darkness on foot. Houses were few and far
between; the road was a lonely one; it was quite on the cards
that she might not meet a soul from whom to make inquiries. If
she had given the thing any thought at all, she would have
perceived from the first how slight her chances were, in which
case, since it was no use jumping out of the frying-pan into the
fire, she would certainly have postponed her departure. Now it
was too late to return. The pane of glass in the china cupboard
was broken; the canvas bag was inside her bodice. With the best
will in the world she might find it difficult to conceal what
had happened, not to speak of the possibility of Mrs.
Macconichie's having already discovered her loss. So she pressed
on.
Indeed, shortly she could not have gone back if she had wished.
She had not started half an hour before she was forced to admit
that she had lost her bearings utterly; that she had not the
faintest notion in which direction Carnoustie lay, nor
whereabouts she was. She was on a black road; that was all she
knew. A rough, uneven road, which apparently straggled over open
moorland. She could make out trees here and there, but the road
itself seemed to have no boundaries. So far as she could make
out, there was nothing on either side in the shape of a hedge or
landmark.
Soon she was not at all sure that she was not off the road; that
she was not roaming, blindly, over the open country. It seemed
impossible that any road could be so uneven. She kept stumbling
over unseen obstacles. Once she caught herself descending what
seemed to be the steep sides of some sort of pit. With a sense
of shock she drew back in time. She listened; she seemed to hear
the sound of running waters. Could she be standing on the bank
of some stream or river, into which, in another second, she
might have descended? Anxious, even a little alarmed, turning
right about face, she moved forward in what she supposed was the
opposite direction. She seemed to be stumbling over a succession
of hillocks. This could not be the road; she must have gone
entirely astray. If she did not take care she would be running
into some serious danger.
All at once her foot caught in some trailing root or plant; she
went headforemost to the ground. Fortunately, she came down
lightly enough. The fall was of little consequence, but when she
tried to regain her perpendicular she learned, to her dismay,
that her ankle refused to support her. Willy-nilly, she had to
remain squatted where she had fallen.
"I seem to be in for a real good thing," she groaned. "Am I to
stay here all night? I shall be frozen to the bone before the
morning, to say nothing of waiting like a rat in a trap for Mrs.
Macconichie to catch me."
She had to wait there for probably more than an hour, not
exactly on the same spot. She managed, at intervals, to half
hobble, half crawl across, perhaps another couple of hundred
yards of ground. But the labour was thrown away. At that rate
she would not have covered a mile before daybreak. Yielding to
necessity, still clutching her bag, crouching on the turf, she
watched for the light to come. She felt no need for sleep; she
was only consumed by a great impatience, in that all things
seemed to be against her.
The skies were clouded like her fate. Nowhere was there a
glimmer of a star. A cool breeze was coming from what she judged
to be the sea. It made itself more and more felt as the time
stole on. By degrees it began to bring a mist with it. As she
had foreseen, she became chilled to the marrow of her bones.
"If this goes on I shall freeze to death."
The idea recurred to her like a sort of formula. She kept
telling herself again and again that that night would be the end
of her.
When her vitality seemed at its lowest point the stillness of
the night was broken by a sound--the sound of wheels.
CHAPTER II
AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE
She raised her head to listen, thinking that her senses must be
playing her a trick. No; it certainly was the sound of wheels,
coming nearer and nearer. Some one was driving fast through the
darkness, so fast that in what seemed to her to be less than a
minute the driver was close upon her. Apparently nearly in front
of her, although she could not see it, was a road along which
the vehicle was approaching. It carried no lights; nothing broke
the shadows; but, if her ears could be trusted, within a
stone's-throw of where she was some wheeled conveyance was
hurrying past. She stood upon her one sound foot and shouted:--
"Hallo!--hallo-o!--hallo-o-o!" again and again.
Her first shouts went unheeded. Possessed by a wild fear that
she might remain unnoticed, raising her voice to a desperate
yell, she started to scream herself hoarse.
This time her tones travelled. Suddenly the vehicle ceased to
move. An answering shout came back to her:--
"Who's there? What's the matter with you?"
The accent was broad Scotch. Had it been the purest Cockney
it could not have seemed more welcome. She replied to the
inquiry:--
"I've sprained my ankle so that I can hardly move".
This time in the other voice there was an unmistakable
suggestion of surprise.
"Is it a woman?"
"Yes."
Her tone was fainter.
"And what might you be doing here at this hour of the morning?"
"I'm going to Carnoustie."
"Carnoustie! You're going to Carnoustie!--along this road?
You're joking! Can you get as far as this, so that I can have a
look at you?"
"I'll try."
She did try. It was a distance of barely a hundred yards, but
traversing it was a work of time. When the space was covered it
was only by clutching at the wheel of the trap that she saved
herself from subsiding in a heap upon the ground. In an instant
the driver was off his seat, and with his arm about her.
"Is it so bad as that?"
"It is pretty bad," she stammered.
"For the Lord's sake, don't faint! We've no time to waste upon
such trifles."
"I'm not going to faint." At any rate the tone was faint enough.
Suddenly she seemed to pull herself together, as if stirred by a
spirit of resentment. "I never have fainted in my life--I'm not
going to begin to do it now."
He laughed--that is, the little husky sound he made might have
been intended for a laugh.
"If you'll keep quite still I'll lift you up into the trap
somehow, though, by the feel of you, you're as big as I am, and,
maybe, heavier. The mare won't move. She's one of the few female
things I ever met that wasn't troubled with the fidgets."
As he put it, "somehow" he did get her up into the trap, then
climbed on to the seat beside her. Presently they were bowling
along together. For some seconds neither spoke. She was
endeavouring to accustom herself to her new position. He,
possibly--as his questions immediately showed--was wondering who
it was that he had chanced upon.
"You're English?"
"I am."
"Staying in these parts?"
"I'm on a walking tour."
"A walking tour at one o'clock in the morning!"
"It wasn't one o'clock when I started. I've been where you found
me for hours and hours."
"Where were you making for?"
"I've told you, I was going to Carnoustie."
"Going from Carnoustie, you mean. You'll never be finding it in
this part of the country."
"I daresay. Since it became dark I've been hobbling round about
just anywhere. I don't know where I am; I've lost myself
completely." He was silent, as if he found something in her
words which made him think. Then she took up the _role_ of
questioner: "Where are you going?"
"To a man that's dying."
"Are you a doctor?"
"It's my trade."
"Then you'll be able to look at my ankle. I hope it's nothing
serious, but it seems to be getting worse instead of better."
"I'll look at your ankle, never fear. I'll find you an easier
patient than the one I'm bound for."
Little more was said on either side. The doctor seemed to be by
nature a taciturn man, or perhaps he was too preoccupied for
speech. Isabel was feeling too miserable to talk. She was cold
and wet; her ankle was occasioning her no little pain. She could
hardly have been less inclined for conversation, and she, also,
had at times a gift of silence. During the twenty or thirty
minutes the drive continued probably not half-a-dozen words were
exchanged.
At last the doctor brought his mare to a standstill.
"I suppose you couldn't get down and open a gate? There's one
right in front of us. I can see it's closed."
His eyes must have had the cat's quality of being able to
penetrate the darkness; she could see nothing.
"I might be able to get down--if I had to tumble, but I doubt if
I'd ever be able to get up again."
He grunted as if in disapprobation.
"Can you hold the reins while I get down?"
"I daresay I could do that."
He passed her the reins and descended. She heard a gate swing
back upon its hinges. He reappeared at the horse's head.
"I'd better lead her through and up to the house; it's as black
as the devil's painted under the trees. I ought to have brought
my lamps, but I came away in such a hurry. When some folks are
dying they will not wait."
They passed through a darkness which was so intense that she
could not see the horse which was drawing her on. The avenue
seemed a long one. It was some minutes before, drawing clear of
the overhanging foliage, they stopped in front of a house which
loomed grim and ominous in the shadows. Apparently their
approach had been heard. No sooner had they stopped than the
door was thrown wide open. The figure of a woman was seen
peering out into the darkness, with a lamp in her hand.
"Is it the doctor?" she demanded.
"Yes, it's the doctor. And how is he now?"
"He's as near to death as he can be to be still alive. I believe
he's only keeping the breath in his body till he gets a sight of
you."
"To be sure that's uncommonly good of him. Now, madam, will that
ankle of yours permit you to tumble down with the help of a hand
from me?"
Without answering Isabel commenced a laborious and painful
descent. At sight of her the woman on the doorstep evinced a
lively curiosity.
"Why, doctor, who is it you're bringing with you?"
"It's a visitor for you, and another patient for me, Nannie.
You'll have to find her a corner somewhere while I go up to see
the laird. When I've done with him I'll have to start with her.
I'm hoping that she'll be the easier job of the two. Come, lend
a hand. It's beyond my power to get her into the house alone,
and it seems that by herself she'll never do it."
Between them they got her up the steps, through the door and
into a room which, immediately after passing it, was entered on
the right. They placed her on a couch.
"Now, madam," observed the doctor, "here you'll have to stay
until I've seen my other patient. And since Heaven only knows
how long he'll keep me, you'll have to make the best of it until
I come. So keep up the character you told me of and don't you
faint, or any silliness of that kind, but just make yourself as
comfortable as ever you can."
With that the speaker left her, the woman going with him. She
had placed on a table the lamp which she had borne in her hand.
It was a common glass affair, which did not give too good a
light. For some minutes Isabel showed no inclination to avail
herself of its assistance to learn in what manner of place she
was. By degrees, however, as the time continued to pass, and
there were still no signs of any one appearing, she began to
show a languid interest in her surroundings. She was dimly
conscious that the room was not a large one; that it was
sparely, even austerely, furnished. She was aware that the couch
on which she lay was of the old-fashioned horsehair kind, both
slippery and uncomfortable. She had a vague suspicion that if
she was not careful she would slip right off it, and her misty
imaginings became mistier still. Before she knew it she was
asleep.
She slept for two good hours before she was disturbed; at least
that period of time had elapsed before the doctor made his
reappearance in the room. The sight of the sleeping woman seemed
to occasion him surprise. He observed her with a slight smile
adding another pucker to his wrinkled cheeks. He was a little,
thin man, clean shaven and bald-headed. He had a big, aquiline
nose. His eyes were sunk deep in his head, looking out from
overhanging shaggy eyebrows. His lips were drawn so tightly
together as to hint at a paucity of teeth.
"Who are you, I wonder? You've youth, health, good looks--three
good things for a woman to have. You're not ill-dressed. And yet
there's that about you, as you lie sleeping there--we're all of
us apt to give ourselves away when we're asleep--which makes me
wonder who you are, and how you came to sprain your ankle on
Crag Moor when going to Carnoustie. However that may be, there's
an adventure lying ready to your hand--if you've a fancy for
adventures. And, unless I'm much mistaken, I think you have."
He laid his hand upon the sleeper's shoulder. The touch was a
light one, but it was sufficient to arouse her. With a start she
sprang up to a sitting posture, crying--
"You shan't! It's a lie! You shan't." She put her hand to her
bodice, as if to guard something which was hidden there. The
doctor said nothing; he stood and watched. Waking to a clearer
sense of her surroundings, she perceived him standing by her
side. "Oh, it's you. How long have I been asleep?"
"Sufficiently long, I hope, to rest you. Will you allow me to
introduce myself? My name is Twelves--David Twelves, M.D., of
Edinburgh. May I ask if you have any objection to introduce
yourself to me, and tell me your name?"
"Not the least; why should I have? I'm not ashamed of my name.
Why do you want to know it?"
"Because the immediate object of my presence here is to make you
what is to all intents and purposes an offer of, say, twenty
thousand pounds, and I have a not unnatural desire to know to
whom I am offering it."
She sat more upright on the couch, swinging round so as to bring
her feet upon the floor, looking at him with eyes which were now
wide open.
"What do you mean? You are making fun of me."
"I am doing nothing of the kind. This is likely to be one of the
most serious moments of your life. I am not disposed to lighten
it by misplaced attempts at playfulness." Yet even as he spoke
again that nebulous smile seemed to add another pucker to his
cheeks. "What I say is said very much in earnest. There is a man
upstairs who's dying. Perhaps he is already dead while I stand
here talking to you. If he's not dead, before he dies he wants
another curious thing--a wife."
"A wife!--and you say he's dying!"
"It's because he's dying that he wants her. He has had no need
of such an encumbrance living. I have come to ask you if you'll
be his wife."
"I be his wife!"
Instinctively she doubled up the finger on which was the
wedding-ring. She still wore her gloves, so it had remained
unnoticed.
"Yes, you. You're the only woman within reach, except old
Nannie, who hardly counts, or I wouldn't trouble you. Answer me
shortly--yes or no--will you be his wife?"
"Marry a perfect stranger!--a man I've never seen!--who you say
is dying!"
"Precisely; it is a mere formula to which I'm asking your
subscription. He'll certainly be dead inside two hours, possibly
in very much less. You'll be a widow in one of the shortest
times on record; in possession of a wife's share of all his
worldly goods--and that, by all accounts, should be worth fully
twenty thousand pounds."
"Twenty thousand pounds! But why should he want to marry any one
if he's dying?"
"There's not much time for explanation, but I'll explain this
much. He's made a will in favour of a certain person. That will
he is anxious to revoke. If he marries it will become invalid.
As matters stand it will be easier for him to take a wife than
to make another will."
"You are sure he will be dead within two hours?"
"Quite. I shall not be surprised to learn that he's dead
already. You are losing your chances of becoming a well-to-do
widow by lingering here."
"You are certain he will leave me twenty thousand pounds?"
"The simple fact of his death will make it yours. So soon as the
breath is out of his body you will become entitled to a wife's
inheritance--if you are his wife."
"You are not playing me any trick? It is all just as you say?"
"On my honour, it is all just as I say. There is no trick. If
you will come with me upstairs you will be able to judge for
yourself."
"But how can we be married at a moment's notice? Is there a
clergyman in the house?"
"You forget you are in Scotland. Neither notice nor clergyman is
needed. It will be sufficient for you to recognise each other as
husband and wife in the presence of witnesses; that act of
mutual recognition will in itself constitute a legal marriage
which all the lawyers will not be able to break. That is why it
will be easier for him to marry than to make another will."
"There is not the least doubt that he will be dead within two
hours?"
"Not the least--unless a miracle intervenes."
She was sitting with her hands clenched in her lap, a
perceptible interval of silence intervening before the words
burst from her lips--
"Then I'll marry him!"
CHAPTER III
WHOM GOD HATH JOINED
Dr. Twelves showed no sign of either surprise or gratification.
He looked at her dispassionately, almost apathetically, from
under his overhanging eyebrows.
"Can you walk upstairs without assistance?"
"I'm afraid not. I don't think my ankle is any better."
He stooped down.
"It's swollen; it looks as if it were going to be an awkward
business. Your boot and stocking will have to be cut away; but
there's no time to do it now--moments are precious. You will
have to wait until you're married. It's only on the first floor.
Do you think you'll be able to get up with the aid of my arm and
of the baluster?"
"I'll try."
"Might I suggest, before we start, that it would do no harm if
you were to remove your hat and jacket. It would seem more in
keeping."
She acted on his suggestion.
"I ought to wash and tidy myself; I know I'm all anyhow."
"Now you will do very well. Your future husband is too far gone
to be able to tell if your hair is straight or crooked; at the
point he's reached that sort of thing doesn't matter." When they
had reached the landing at the top of the stairs the doctor said
to her: "By the way, the name of your future husband is
Grahame--Cuthbert Grahame. May I ask what yours is? It is just as
well that he should know it."
She hesitated a moment.
"My name is Isabel Burney."
"Miss Burney, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Grahame's room."
He threw open the door of the room in front of which they had
been standing. As he did so Isabel slipped off her left-hand
glove, bringing with it, at the same time, her wedding-ring.
Crumpling up her glove she squeezed it into her waistband, the
ring inside it. On the doctor's arm she hobbled to a big
armchair, into which she sank with a sigh of unmistakable
relief.
The room in which she found herself, although low-ceilinged, was
a spacious one. It seemed to her that all the furniture it
contained was old-fashioned, a fact which, although she did not
know it, increased its value perhaps a hundred-fold. She thought
it simply dowdy. A huge Chippendale bed was in the centre of the
room. In it, propped up on pillows, was the figure of a man
which, if only from the point of size, fitly matched the bed.
Leaning over him, on the other side, was Nannie, the old woman
who had admitted them into the house. The doctor addressed
himself to her.
"How is he?"
"About the same."
Although they had both spoken in a whisper their voices were
audible to the man in the bed.
"Is that that old devil Twelves come back again?"
The tone was harsh, and it was obvious that the speaker spoke
with difficulty, but the words themselves were plain enough. The
doctor evinced no sign of annoyance at the other's somewhat
uncomplimentary reference to himself; on the contrary, he chose
to apply to himself the other's epithet as he answered:--
"Yes, it's the old devil back again, and, what's more, he's
brought the young devil too--begging your pardon, Miss Burney,
for speaking of you in such a manner. But it's the fashion in
this house to use strong language, and always has been. Laird,
I've brought the lady."
"Where is she?"
"At this moment she's sitting in your armchair. As I told you,
she's sprained her ankle, which makes it difficult for her to
walk, or even stand."
"Damn her ankle!"
"By all means. You should know more about that sort of thing
than I do. You're nearer to it than I am."
"You think that hurts me?"
"Not I. I know that nothing hurts you. I doubt if even the
torments of hell will trouble you much. You're past all hurting.
Shall I tell Miss Burney she isn't wanted, and can go again?"
"What's her name?"
"Burney--Isabel Burney. At least, she says so."
"Isabel Burney, you are my wife; you're Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame. I
acknowledge you as my wife, and I wish all men to acknowledge
you also. Are you content that it should be so?"
"I am."
"You hear, Nannie? You hear, Twelves? You're both witnesses. I
take Isabel Burney to be my wife, and she agrees."
"I hear. But does she take you for her husband--eh, Miss
Burney?"
"I do. I take Cuthbert Grahame to be my husband in the sight of
God and man."
Isabel had returned to one of her old faults--overemphasis.
There was a theatrical intensity about both her manner and her
words which was singularly out of place when compared with the
matter-of-fact ribaldry which seemed to mark the husky utterance
of the man in the bed. Its inappropriateness seemed to strike
the others. After a perceptible pause the man in the bed
wheezed--
"Leave God out of it". Presently he added, still more wheezily,
"Come here, Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame".
The doctor moved towards her.
"Can I assist you, Mrs. Grahame, to your husband's side?" With
the doctor's aid she gained the bed. "Laird, here's your wife;
can you see her?"
Isabel saw the man whom she had taken to be her husband. The
sight of him shocked her. She told herself that she had never
seen a more dreadful object even in her dreams. His size was
abnormal. Not only was he naturally a big man, but his frame had
become swollen and bloated till it was monstrous--a horror to
look upon. His head and face were covered with scanty red hair,
which needed cutting. He had a huge head, and his neck was so
short and thick that it conveyed a grotesque impression that his
head sprang directly from his trunk. His whole form seemed to be
afflicted with some sort of tetanus, so that he was rigid,
immovable. He lay on his back, with his arms straight down at
his sides. Through his parted lips came jerky, stertorous
breaths. His eyelids were partially open, but only the whites of
his eyes were visible; his own words made it clear that they
were of little use to him as organs of sight.
"See her? No, I can't see her. I don't want to."
As he spoke a tremor passed all over him. His whole frame
heaved; as if seized by a sudden convulsion he began fighting
for his life. The doctor spoke to her.
"You had better go, unless you'd like to see the last of him.
This is likely to be the end. He'll hardly win through another
bout."
He moved towards the bed, Nannie joining him. Isabel was left to
her own devices. Powerless to move far unaided it was all she
could do to stagger to the nearest chair. In it she sat,
waiting, watching, listening, like an unwilling spectator in
some bad dream. It was a scene which she never wholly forgot.
The dim light, the quaintly furnished room, the figures of the
old man and woman bending this way, then that, as they struggled
with the creature on the bed. What ailed him she did not know;
she vaguely surmised that he might be in the throes of some kind
of epileptic fit. His contortions shook the bed, indeed the
room. He kept uttering sounds which had a disagreeable
resemblance to the half-strangled yelps of some wild beast.
How long it lasted she did not know. Long enough to strain her
already highly strung nerves almost beyond endurance. At last
there came a lull. The man on the bed was first quieter, then
still. She took advantage of the silence to exclaim:--
"Can't you take me away somewhere? You know I can't move. If I
have to stay here much longer I--I shall make a fool of myself."
The doctor and Nannie paid her no heed. Side by side they were
stooping together over the silent figure. After affording them
what she deemed a more than sufficient opportunity to answer,
she appealed to them again.
"Can't you hear me? Take me away somewhere--I don't care where!
I'll go mad if you don't."
The doctor did not answer her directly; he spoke to Nannie.
"Do as she bids you; take her away."
"Where'll I take her?" the woman asked.
"Take her and put her to bed in the best bedroom. Remember that
she's now the mistress of this house."
Nannie moved towards Isabel. For a woman, she was tall and
brawny, but she was probably well past fifty, and Isabel
certainly had not credited her with the capacity to do what she
immediately did. She eyed the stranger for a moment in silence,
then she asked, in the broadest Scotch:--
"Can't you walk by your own self?"
Isabel resented both the tone and the scrutiny.
"You know I can't."
Without more ado the woman, stooping, put her arms about her and
lifted her bodily from the chair as if she were some great
child. Isabel was taken by surprise, and a little alarmed.
"You'll drop me!" she cried.
"I'll not drop you; you're nothing of a weight."
As if to prove it, the old woman bore her from the room, across
the landing, to another room on the other side, one which was in
darkness. But Nannie seemed to know its geography by instinct.
She deposited her burden on what Isabel realised was a bed.
Striking a match on a box which she took from her pocket, she
lit some candles which stood on the mantelshelf. Isabel,
remaining where she had been placed, eyed her as she moved
about.
"You're very strong."
"I'm not so strong as once I was. There was a time when I'd have
carried four of you, and thought nothing of it either. Now can
you undress yourself, or will you be needing me to do it for
you?"
"Thank you, I think I can undress myself; but if you would help
me take the boot off my bad foot."
Nannie bent over the foot which the other extended. She regarded
it in silence, then, still without a word, she left the room. So
soon as she was gone Isabel dragged the glove which contained
her wedding-ring out of her belt, and the canvas bag which had
come out of Mrs. Macconichie's tobacco jar from her bodice, and
thrust them as far as possible under the bolster which was
beneath the pillow on which she was reclining. Scarcely had she
done this when Nannie reappeared, in her hands a pair of large
scissors. With their aid she proceeded, still speechless, to
cut, first, the laces of Isabel's boot, and then the boot
itself, till it came away from her foot. As it came away she did
what she boasted she had never before done in her life--she
fainted. When she came to herself again she found that Nannie,
who had apparently remained indifferent to the fact that her
senses had left her, having bathed her foot and ankle, was
putting the finishing touches to the bandages in which she had
swathed it. When the bandage was completed the old woman, still
without vouchsafing a word, began to undress her, and did it
with a deftness and neatness which would have done her credit
had she played the part of lady's-maid her whole life long.
Almost before she knew it, she was ready for the sheets, and so
soon as she was ready she was placed between them.
"You're very good to me," she murmured, with a luxurious sigh,
as she recognised what a delicious feeling it was to be between
them.
"I'm not good to you--anyway I'm not wanting to be good to you."
Isabel looked up with surprise; the tone was almost savage.
"Why not? Don't you think that you will like me?"
"Like you!--like you!"
The emphasis with which the words were repeated was
unmistakable. It would have been difficult for scorn to have
been more eloquent. Without condescending to further speech, as
if everything had been said which could be said, Nannie moved
towards the door. Isabel put a question to her as she reached
it.
"Is my husband dead?"
Nannie turned swiftly round to her.
"Your--what?"
"My husband."
"Your husband!--your husband!"
Again the repetition was marked by the same wealth of scorn.
Isabel was moved to some show of resentment.
"He is my husband--you know he's my husband."
"Oh, he's your husband, Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame. I'm not doubting
it, ma'am, or that you're a fit and proper wife for him. I'm
ready to tell to any one that you're a well-matched pair."
"Is he dead?"
As she repeated her inquiry Isabel's manner was a trifle more
subdued; she was finding Nannie a difficult person to contend
with.
"You'd better be asking Dr. Twelves if your husband's dead,
ma'am; he's a surer judge of dead folk than I am. You'll be
feeling anxious till you know, and so I'll tell the doctor. When
a woman's been acquainted with a man so long as you've been
acquainted with your man, so that you've come to know all the
secrets of his heart, and the very shape and fashion of the soul
which God has lent him, to be sure all her nature stirs within
her when she begins to fear he's near to dying. It's hard to
lose the husband to whom you've only been married a couple of
minutes, so I'll tell the doctor to hurry and let you know if
you're a widow before you're a wife."
Without giving Isabel a chance to retort, Nannie opened the door
with a swishing movement, which was in harmony with her state of
mind, and vanished from the chamber.
CHAPTER IV
A SECOND HONEYMOON
She had slept well; Isabel admitted so much. She suspected
something else, that the morning was far advanced. There was
that in the atmosphere which conveyed that impression.
Apparently some one had been in while she still slept and put
the room in order. The blinds were up, the curtains drawn back,
the sun streamed in through the small square windows which were
set deep in the thickness of the wall. As she looked about her,
from her vantage place on the pillow, she felt that this was the
queerest place she ever had been in. Everything, including the
room itself, seemed to her to be hundreds of years old. The
paper on the walls was like nothing she had ever seen before.
The furniture was of the oddest shapes; indeed, what some of the
articles might be intended for was beyond her comprehension. As
she gradually absorbed it all, she began to be conscious of an
almost eerie feeling that she had woke up in some ancient
habitation and in some bygone age of which she had no knowledge.
Then something else forced itself on her attention, she felt
that she was helpless. As she tried to turn in bed, the better
to enable her to see what was to be seen, a spasm of pain passed
over her, which was so acute that she had to shut her eyes and
bite her lips to prevent herself from crying out. For some
moments she lay quite still, waiting for the pain to go. It was
some time before it diminished; even when it was easier she
learnt, to her dismay, that she would have to be very careful in
her movements if she did not wish it to return with probably
increasing violence. Her foot seemed, from the feel of it, to be
about as bad as it could be. It was not only useless, it held
her prisoner. The slightest attempt to move it in any direction
resulted in the keenest anguish. It seemed that relief from
almost unendurable torment could only be obtained by remaining
entirely quiescent. That meant, in effect, that she was chained,
possibly for an indefinite period, to the bed in which she was
lying. An agreeable prospect!
As the true inwardness of the position began to dawn on her, in
phantasmagoric procession the events of the previous night
flashed across her mind. The letter to her husband--to Gregory
Lamb--which she had opened and read, the letter with the
Islington post-mark, containing the curt refusal to accord him
further help; the resolution to leave him, which she had
instantly arrived at after its perusal; her visit to Mrs.
Macconichie's sitting-room; her forcible entry into the china
cupboard; her abstraction of the canvas bag from the tobacco
jar.
At this point, her thoughts branching off in another direction,
she felt, gingerly enough, for it seemed that movement of any
sort meant pain, under the bolster, and produced from it the
bag in question and the glove in which she had secreted the
wedding-ring. The sight of the ring started her thoughts
travelling again.
To her flight through the darkness, with the leather handbag. By
the way, what had become of that bag? She had no recollection of
having done anything with it. Possibly she had put it down when
she had sprained her ankle, and, in her trouble, had forgotten
its existence; in which case it might be still upon the moor. If
it were found, and nothing could be learned of her, what
deductions would be drawn? She wondered. One thing was certain,
it contained all her worldly possessions. Without it she had not
so much as a pocket-handkerchief, not to speak of such a
necessity of existence as a brush and comb.
Then the trap had come through the night, and borne her to the
house in which she lay. There she had been married to a man upon
his death-bed. Such a man and such a death-bed! Could it be
possible? She clenched her fists, and asked herself if the whole
business had not been the wild imaginings of some disordered
dream. Even to herself she could not furnish a satisfactory
answer.
Why had she suffered herself to be dragged through such a
farce?--to play a part in such an odious scene? Because that old
man who called himself a doctor had told her that the creature
would be dead within two hours, and that then she would be
richer by twenty thousand pounds. Twenty thousand pounds! Could
that part of the tale be possible? Why, in that case, this
house, the very room in which she was, the queer furniture which
filled it, all might be hers. She would be a wealthy woman, who
had won her wealth so easily without incurring risk worth
mention. Because, even in the storm and stress of the moment,
she had understood that bigamy was bigamy, even though one of
the marriages into which she had entered was a Scotch one. Of
course, nothing could make that marriage of the night before a
real one, since she was a wife already. But, as the man was
dead, and she was supposed to be his widow, if fortune favoured
her the truth never need come out. She believed that she was
clever enough to conceal it--at any rate from whom it was worth
her while to do so. Only let her get hold of the twenty thousand
pounds, or so much of it as could be turned into ready cash--let
them find out afterwards what they chose--they would find it
hard to get the money back from her. Twenty thousand pounds! She
fancied herself letting go of such a sum as that if she once had
it in her grip!
The first thing she had to do was to inform herself as fully as
possible as to the actual situation. If she was a widow, and her
husband had died without a will--he had certainly not made one
after marrying her, while the doctor had assured her that
marriage had rendered nugatory any he might have made
before--then this house, and all that it contained, if it had
been his property, was now hers. At least she hoped it was,
because, after a little muddled consideration, it began to occur
to her that, by English law, a wife did not necessarily inherit
all that a husband who had died intestate left behind him.
Exactly what share was hers she was not sure, but she had a more
or less dim conviction that it was less than the whole. The same
objectionable law might obtain in Scotland, or even a worse one.
The sooner she ascertained exactly how the ground lay the better
it would be for her peace of mind. So she began to call
attention to the fact that she was wide awake. Since there was
apparently no bell within reach, she had to make the best use of
her voice.
"Nannie!" she called. "Nannie! Nannie!" And she kept on calling,
because there was none that answered. Her voice was a strong
one--she exerted it to the utmost--but it seemed that it was not
strong enough to reach any one outside that room. She shouted
till she was hoarse, and angry too, quite in vain; nothing
resulted.
"If there's any one in the house they must hear me, and I expect
they do, only they don't choose to come. Oh, if it weren't for
this foot of mine! That Nannie's an insolent hag. She knows
perfectly well that I can't move, and thinks she can treat me as
she likes. If I could move I'd soon show her. Nannie! Nannie!"
She shouted till she could really shout no longer. No one came;
nor was there anything to show that she was heard. She began to
be possessed by a fresh alarm. "I wonder if the house is empty?
Suppose that old hag has gone off and left me alone in the house
with that--that dead man. I'll be bound she's quite capable of
doing it--old wretch! I shall starve to death! Nannie! Nannie!"
But all the strength had gone out of her voice--it was not
strange that those muffled tones remained unheeded--a fact of
which she herself was conscious. At last, wholly exhausted, she
lay and thought hard things of every one. She was genuinely
hungry. She told herself that if some one did not come soon and
bring her food something would have to be done, though she had
not the faintest notion what. Self-help was out of the question;
she was as powerless to move as if she had been riveted to the
bed.
She was rapidly reaching a despairing stage when Nannie entered
with a tray in her hand, quite calmly, as if it were the most
natural thing in the world that she should come just then and
not before. Isabel broke into angry expostulation.
"Why have you kept me waiting. Why didn't you come before? You
must have heard me long ago--you're not stone deaf. I've
screamed myself hoarse."
Nannie placed the tray upon a table. Then, with the most
matter-of-fact air, putting her arms about the angry woman, she
raised her to a sitting posture, arranging the pillows so that
they formed a prop for her back. Divided between indignation and
bewilderment, Isabel submitted in silence; she was so helpless,
the old woman's manner was so masterful, that to expostulate
seemed vain. The tray was put beside her on the coverlet, Nannie
observing--
"When you've eaten your fill I'll come and take a look at that
foot of yours".
"It's ever so much worse. I've been in agony--and am still. I
believe I've broken a bone."
"Not you; it's no but a sprain."
"It's more than a sprain--much more, I'm convinced of it.
Where's Dr. Twelves? He ought to attend to it at once. He said
he would come and see me. Why hasn't he been?"
"He's been and gone hours ago."
"Been and gone! Why didn't you let me know that he was here?"
"What for should I let you know?"
"You knew that I wished to see him."
"You never said it; and, anyway, he never said that he was
wishing to see you."
"You're taking advantage of me! You think I'm at your mercy, and
that you can do as you like with me because I can't move! You're
a wicked old woman!"
"Am I? Then I'm reckoning that age is the only difference there
is between us."
Burning words flamed to Isabel's lips, but she had enough
prudence and self-control not to allow them to go any farther.
She was at the other's mercy, and she knew it. The only way to
obtain from her some slight consideration was to endeavour to
appease, not anger her. Instead of giving her anger vent, she
put to her a question, the one she had put the night before.
"Is my husband dead?"
She received what was practically the same answer.
"Didn't I tell you that for that you must ask Dr. Twelves, since
he's knowing when folks are dead better than me?"
Without affording Isabel another opportunity to speak Nannie
left the room.
If the new Mrs. Grahame could have got out of bed there would
have been some lively doings. It is not impossible that Nannie
would have found that she had met her match. When that lady was
really roused, and had a fair chance to show it, she was a
difficult person to deal with. But she was, literally, held by
the leg; as incapable of doing what she would have liked to have
done as if she had been an infant in arms.
When, after an interval of no long duration, the ancient
servitor returned, Isabel did treat her to what she meant to be
a taste of her claws. For all the effect she produced she might
have saved herself the trouble. The Scotchwoman evinced a serene
indifference to anything she might say or do, which influenced
her more than she would have cared to own. Then the pain she
endured was exquisite. Nannie's ministrations were deft enough.
She set about her task like one who understood well what she had
to do, and was capable of doing it. She removed the bandages,
bathed the injured foot, applied hot poultices; so far as Isabel
was able to judge, did all that could be done. But the most
delicate touches could not prevent her suffering agony. By the
time the other had finished her anger was forgotten. All she
desired was rest--peace--to be left alone.
For seven days Isabel remained, willy-nilly, in bed. All the
time the only person she saw was Nannie. Dr. Twelves never came
near her. Whether the fault was his or her attendant's was more
than she could determine. She heard no news of any sort or kind.
Nothing could be got out of Nannie. No answers to any of her
questions; only the fewest possible words on unimportant
subjects.
It is true that during the first two or three days her ankle
gave her so much trouble, her sufferings from it were so
intense, that she was, in a measure, content to be left alone
and in ignorance. But as the pain lessened her impatience, and
indignation, grew apace. More than once she attempted to get out
of bed and to start on a voyage of exploration through the house
to acquire information on her own account. Since, however, her
attempts only resulted in disaster, and it was made plain that
they only postponed her convalescence, common-sense gained the
upper hand. She resolved to endure with as much calmness as she
could command till the time arrived when, at least to some
extent, she should again be mistress of her own powers of
locomotion.
After the longest week she had ever known she decided that that
time was not far off. She informed Nannie that, since her foot
was now on the high road to recovery, on the morrow she would be
capable of getting out of bed, and that, therefore, get out of
bed she would. Nannie, as was her wont, kept silence when this
piece of information was vouchsafed to her. But that she was
impressed by it was evident when on the morrow in question,
instead of the old woman, Dr. Twelves came into the room. It
seemed as if Nannie must have told him that the time had now
come when it was desirable that he should make his re-entry on
the scene. At least that was the conclusion at which, at sight
of him, the lady in the bed instantly arrived.
CHAPTER V
A CONVERSATION WITH THE DOCTOR
"So you've come, have you, at last! I suppose that old hag told
you you had better before I came to you? I should have come in
half an hour."
That was the greeting the angry lady accorded her tardy visitor.
Dr. Twelves seemed to be in no haste to answer. Coming to within
a foot or two of her bed-side he stood and eyed her. He looked
very old in the daylight, older than she had thought he was.
Short; thin to the point of emaciation. There was something
almost sinister in his attitude, in the way in which, inclining
his head a little forward, his arms held close to his sides, he
examined her keenly, as if he were some bird of prey, and she an
object on which he was doubtful whether or not to pounce. As she
gave him glance for glance she understood that this was a person
who was not so frail as he might at first sight appear. But want
of courage was not a deficiency which could justly be laid to
the lady's charge. When he did reply it was with a question.
"Why do you speak to me like that?"
"You know very well why! You promised that first night that you
would attend to my foot; but though I've asked for you again and
again you've never been near me once, till you were afraid that
I should be after you."
"You've been in good hands. Nannie has done all for you that I
could have done."
"I don't doubt that."
"Then of what do you complain?"
"You've kept me a prisoner."
"Kept you a prisoner! I! Madam, you jest. Has not your foot had
something to do with your confinement? Is it not holding you a
prisoner still?"
"It won't do long, so don't you think it. I'll be out and about
before the day's over, and when I am I'll make things hum. Is my
husband dead?"
"Your husband?"
"My husband! Are you deaf?"
"No, madam, not yet. So far age has not robbed me of my hearing.
But to whom do you refer when you speak of your husband?"
There was that in the fashion in which he asked the question
which caused her to clench her fists, tighten her lips and
descend to vulgarity--unfortunately an easy descent for her to
make when her temper waxed warm.
"What are you playing at? Do you think you're clever, or that
I'm an utter fool? You're wrong if you do, you may take it from
me. Is my husband, Cuthbert Grahame, dead? I've not been able to
get an answer out of that old harridan, but I'll get one out of
you."
"Then is Cuthbert Grahame your husband?"
"Is he! Isn't he? Didn't he marry me the other night in front of
you and that old woman?"
"Have you a certificate or any writing to show it?"
"A certificate! What do I want with a certificate? You said
nothing about a certificate! Look here, old man, don't you try
to play any fool-tricks with me, or you'll be sorry. Are you
trying to make out that he's not my husband?"
"Not at all; I am trying to do nothing. I should like to ask you
a question, to which, before you answer it, I would suggest that
you should give a little careful consideration. Would you rather
be Cuthbert Grahame's wife or not?"
"I am his wife, and you very well know it, so it's no use
talking, and that's enough said. I ask you again, is my husband
dead?"
"Your husband? That is the point which I am gradually
approaching. Mr. Cuthbert Grahame is not dead."
Her jaw dropped open.
"Not dead?"
"Not dead."
"But you told me----"
"Precisely; I am aware that I told you. You will, however,
remember that I made an express reservation in favour of a
miracle. The miracle has happened."
"How long will he live?"
"Madam, I am not omniscient. I have once, within your knowledge,
failed as a prophet; I should not care to fail again."
"Is he dying?"
"I may venture to say that, at the present moment, to the best
of my knowledge and belief, he is not."
"You are beating about the bush. You can at least say if he is
likely to live long."
"It is possible, madam, that he may outlive me--even you."
"Then you have cheated me!--cheated me! You have got me into
this mess by your lies."
"Any injustice I may have done you was unintentional. You will
also be so good as to observe that I have just now offered you
something which was intended to be in the nature of a loophole
out of the dilemma in which you are placed."
"You mean when you asked me if I wanted to be his wife. Am I his
wife, or am I not?"
"It might present a pretty point for the lawyers. If you had
chosen to repudiate the connection, it might not have been easy
to establish. Nannie and I can hold our tongues--that I beg you
to believe. The occasion for a wife having passed, he might have
preferred to hold his too."
"Would he rather be unmarried?"
"That is not a matter on which I should care to positively
pronounce."
"Then why was he so eager?"
"I explained at the time. He had made a will in favour of a
certain person, which he desired to render ineffective; marriage
makes null and void any will which a man may have previously
made; under the circumstances that seemed to be the easiest and
the shortest way out of it. As matters have turned out the
measure seems to have been a little drastic, since he can now,
if he chooses, make a dozen new wills each day."
"Is he so far recovered as that?"
The doctor seemed desirous to consider before he answered. He
put up his long, thin hand to stroke his bristly chin. Moving a
few steps, he leaned over the foot of the bed, and from that
point attentively regarded her.
"Madam, I do not wish to trouble you with the medical names of
all the complicated diseases with which Mr. Grahame is
afflicted. I am not sure that I am myself acquainted with them
all; some of them puzzle even me. Among other troubles he is
paralysed. He cannot move hand or foot of his own volition, or
crook a finger. Again, straying into the paths of prophecy, I
dare assert that he never will be able to. He has his
senses--after a fashion; he is sane--also after a fashion. That
is, he is legally capable of making a will, or of taking a wife.
But if he desires to affix his signature to a document a pen
will have to be placed between his fingers, his hand will have
to be guided. To that extent he has recovered, beyond that he
almost certainly will never go."
"But he is not dying?"
"No, madam, he is not dying."
"Nor likely to die?"
"No office would insure his life for four-and-twenty hours,
though it is quite within the range of possibility that the
breath may continue in his body for years. Such cases have been
known. Some people death takes at the first call; some have to
be called again and again; some seem to go beyond the portal and
yet return. Cuthbert Grahame is one of them. He'll not go till
death is very much in earnest; when that will be I cannot say. I
mistook death's mood the other night--the oldest of us make such
mistakes at times. In this case my mistake may seem to press a
little hardly upon you."
She looked at him askance. There was a whimsical gravity in his
tone which was a little beyond her comprehension, a something
which was almost sympathetic. She changed the subject; a fresh
intonation had come into her voice also.
"I wish you'd look at my foot. It's better. I think that before
long I'll be able to get about again as usual. I want to very
much; it's awful being a prisoner in bed. I'm not good at
keeping still."
He did as she requested, then pronounced a verdict.
"Your foot is better--much better, as you say. There is no
reason why you should not get up, though it may be some little
time before you have the entire use of it again."
"At any rate I'll get out of bed--at once."
"And, then, what do you propose to do when you are up?"
"I'm going to see my husband."
"Your husband?"
"Can't I? Why can't I?"
"Mrs. Grahame!--if it is your wish that you should be Mrs.
Grahame."
"Aren't I Mrs. Grahame? If I am, what's the good of pretending
that I'm not? I am Mrs. Grahame, so there's an end of it."
"Mrs. Grahame, haven't you any friends?"
"What do you mean by friends?"
"Haven't you any relatives? Is there no one to whom you are near
and dear? no one to whom you are in any sense responsible for
your actions; with whom in a measure your happiness or
unhappiness must be shared?"
"No one in this world!"
He smiled at her vehemence, observing her closely all the time.
"Since I am, in a degree, responsible for the--we will call it
situation--you are in, I am not unnaturally desirous of having
my conscience as clear as I conveniently can. I would,
therefore, beg you earnestly to let the first thing you do be
this: If you have--we will say an acquaintance--on whose
judgment you can rely, write to him; lay the facts before him
clearly, and await his response before you take any further step
whatever--certainly before you seek to have an interview with
Mr. Grahame."
"There is no such person."
"It is unfortunate, since you are so young, and, therefore
necessarily, so inexperienced, that you should be so entirely
alone in the world. Will you allow me to offer you some advice?"
"What's the use? I've had enough of your advice already--too
much."
"How do you make out your case? I am unconscious of having
offered you any advice."
"You advised me to marry that man."
"I advised you!"
"Of course you did. There are more ways than one of offering
advice; you chose the roundabout way. You told me that if I
married him he'd be dead inside two hours, then I'd be richer by
twenty thousand pounds. This is what comes of acting on your
tip! No thank you. I've had enough and to spare of your advice;
now and henceforward I'm going to act upon my own."
"None the less I'm going to give you a piece of advice--of very
sincere advice. You have been subjected to some slight
inconvenience--though, perhaps, inconvenience is hardly the
proper word."
"I should think not."
"My advice to you is: When your foot permits leave this house--I
assure you it is not a pleasant one to live in; accept a
reasonable sum by way of compensation; then blot the whole
episode from your memory."
"What do you call a reasonable sum?"
"Say a hundred pounds."
"A hundred pounds?--the idea! when you talked of twenty
thousand! None of your kid's talk for me! Look here, Dr.
Twelves, you're an old fox. Don't you think I don't know it
however hard you try to play the lamb? You've got some game of
your own on. I don't know what it is, but I soon will. If you
offer me a hundred pounds to go, I'm dead sure it'll be worth a
good deal more than that to me to stay--and I'm going to stay!
This is my house; I'm the mistress here; and all the more the
mistress because my husband's a rich man who can't look after
himself. I'll look after him! I'll show you who's who and what's
what!--and every one else as well!--you can take that straight
from me!"
As he rubbed his chin, as if he found comfort in the feel of the
bristles, the doctor's smile grew more pronounced.
"Content, Mrs. Grahame, content! Only--still a further scrap of
advice!--postpone your first call on your husband till you are
able to move about as you please."
This piece of advice the lady did act upon, for the simple
reason that she was powerless to do otherwise. When she did get
out of bed it was agony to hop even as far as the couch. Three
more days passed before she was able to stand without flinching
overmuch; another whole week had gone before she was able to
hobble unaided to the door.
During that time she perhaps suffered more than she had done
while she was still in bed. To her restless nature the
compulsory inaction was almost unendurable. Her desire to attack
the problem which confronted her, to solve it if she could--at
any rate to learn what really was the position in which she
stood--possessed her like a consuming fever. Nothing could be
got out of Nannie; she was impervious to questions of every sort
and kind. Arguments, coaxing, threats, alike were unavailing.
The old woman could scarcely have been more taciturn had she
taken on herself a vow of silence. And after that one visit she
saw no more of Dr. Twelves; she could even hear nothing of him
from Nannie. That angered her almost more than anything, that he
should seem to ignore her so completely! She swore to herself
that he should smart for it before very long.
During that week she laid up a fund of resentment against both
the doctor and Nannie which she promised herself she would pour
forth upon their heads at the earliest possible moment. Only let
her be able to get about again as of old, and they should see!
On the eighth day she decided that her time had come, or, at
least, that it had begun to come. She said nothing to Nannie,
but having proved by actual experiment that she could move about
with comparative ease, she dressed herself, waited till the old
woman had paid her her usual morning call, then set out on a
voyage of exploration. Hobbling to the door, she opened it as
quietly as possible, then stood and listened She could hear
Nannie moving about downstairs. Then she moved towards the door
which was on the opposite side of the landing. Had she had a
stick on which to lean her progress might have been quicker. In
spite of her reiterated requests Nannie had failed to provide
her with one. Without support of any sort she moved very slowly.
But she did get to her destination at last. She laid her hand
upon the handle, paused a moment to learn if her movements had
been observed, then turned it as quietly as she could.
CHAPTER VI
HUSBAND AND WIFE
She stood just inside the threshold of the room, with the handle
of the open door between her fingers, and listened. She had
moved so noiselessly that, quite possibly, to the ear alone her
entry had been imperceptible. She looked about her, recalling
the picture which it had presented to her mind on that first
night. For some reason which she would have found it hard to
explain a shiver passed all over her; a sudden chill seemed to
penetrate to her very bones.
The room looked different by daylight, the windows wide open,
the sun sending wide, warm splashes of yellow light from wall to
wall. One of them came right at her as she remained there
motionless. As she lifted her face she was blinded by the glare.
It was odd that she should shiver in that glow of sunshine.
Everything was so neat and orderly; there was such an absence of
any signs of occupation, such complete stillness prevailed, that
her first impression was that she had in some way made a
mistake; that the room was empty. It was only when her wandering
glance reached the great bed, which stood in such a position
that it was partially screened by the door which she still held
open, that she understood.
Its occupant was asleep, or--he was so motionless, so silent,
her own heart seemed to cease beating--could he be dead? With
unexpected ease she moved closer to the bed. No, he certainly
was not dead; he merely slept, to all appearance, as peacefully
as a little child.
Sleep produced no improvement in his looks. She went still
nearer, so that, by leaning over, she could examine him in
detail.
The conviction which she had had at first sight of him recurred
with, if anything, even greater force. Beyond a doubt she had
never seen a more unprepossessing-looking man. She had an almost
morbid liking for good looks in a man. Gregory Lamb's handsome
face had had almost as much to do with winning her as his lying
tongue, which dowered him with splendid wealth. Her ideas of
good looks were probably her own--Gregory was there to show it.
But her attachment to them was so marked that she could with
difficulty be civil to a man who was positively plain. An
absolutely ugly man was to her an object of aversion; her first
feeling towards such an one was actual physical repulsion, as if
he were some unclean thing.
There could be no sort of doubt as to the ugliness of the man in
the bed. His huge size was in itself a sufficiently unpleasant
feature. It lent to him an uncomfortable aspect which was almost
inhuman. He seemed to have swelled and swelled till his skin had
become as tight as a drum. One had a disagreeable notion that if
one pricked him, like some distended bladder, he would burst. He
was all bloated, not only his body, but his head as well, and,
above all, his neck. She had once had an aunt who had died of
dropsy. This man seemed dropsical from the crown of his head to
the tip of his toe--monstrously dropsical.
Nor was his appearance improved by the manner in which his head
and face were covered with long sandy red hair, growing in
scanty tufts, with bare spaces in between. The hair matched ill
with his complexion, which was brick red, tinged, as it were,
with a suggestion of pallid blue. He slept so quietly that it
was difficult to be sure, at first sight, that his condition was
one of slumber, not death. As Isabel bent over, she did not
hesitate to tell herself that she wished he was as dead as he
seemed. The sight of him afflicted her with such a sensation of
aversion that she was then and there filled with an almost
irresistible desire to crush him out of existence, as if
he had been some loathsome reptile. She was possessed by a
shrewd suspicion that she had only to strike him a hearty
blow--anywhere!--to bring him to an end upon the spot. It would
be so easy. She had been tricked; he ought to have been dead ere
then. What was the use of such a creature living, and what
enjoyment could he get out of life? Where should she strike him?
She clenched her fist as if it had been actuated by an
involuntary tightening of the muscles. As she did so, he opened
his eyes, and looked at her.
It was a curious moment for both of them--so both of them seemed
to think. There was in his gaze such a take-it-for-granted air
that one could not but wonder if he had not been conscious of
her presence even while he slept. The sight of a strange woman
leaning over his bed, with such a queer expression on her
countenance, did not seem to surprise him in the least. That she
was strange to him was plain. He seemed to be searching in his
muddy brain for some clue which would tell him who she was. The
search did not seem to be meeting with much success.
For probably more than a minute they continued to look at each
other, the contrast between the fashion of their looks being
almost grotesque in its completeness. Her bold, handsome face
was, at the same time, illuminated by keen intelligence, and
marked by an expression of vindictiveness which gave it an
unpleasanter effect than if it had been actually ugly. His face,
on the other hand, was vacuous, expressionless; more, it was
incapable of expression. It reminded one, in some uncomfortable
way, of a piece of blubber, without form and void.
The eyes, particularly in comparison with the rest of him, were
small; with the exception of the pupils they were blood-shot.
One wondered how much, or how little, they could see; they
regarded Isabel blankly, as if she had been a wooden doll.
After an inspection which lasted, as it seemed, an unnatural
length of time, it was he who broke the silence. His voice was a
little clearer than when she had heard it first, but not much.
It still had the peculiar quality of appearing to belong to some
one who was at a distance.
"Who are you?"
There was a significant pause before she answered. In her tone
was significance of another kind.
"I'm your wife."
Either her words took him by surprise, or he did not gather what
she meant, or disliked what he did gather. He was still again,
as if ruminating on what she had said. When he did speak the
remark he made was a little startling.
"Damn you!"
The unparliamentary utterance, especially as addressed to a
lady, was accentuated by the matter-of-fact stolidity which
marked it. It was not impossible that for a moment or two she
was moved to give him back as good as he sent--and better.
Possibly, however, the impulse was changed, as regards form, in
the making. Instead of imitating the vigour of his epithet, she
cut at him with a lash of her own.
"You're my husband." It would have been difficult for the
strongest language to have been more scathing than her plain
pronouncement of a simple fact. As if desirous of driving her
dart still further home, she repeated her own words, with an
even added bitterness--"You're my husband!--you!"
It would appear that the man, object as he was, was not without
some sense of humour, and, also, that his feelings were not of
the kind which are unduly sensitive. After what seemed to be due
consideration of her words, he endorsed their correctness with a
brevity which in itself was eloquent.
"I am."
There was something in the two little monosyllables which seemed
to sting her more than his curse had done. She gave a movement,
as if she were disposed to let her resentment take some active
and visible form. But, again, maybe, her impulse changed in the
making; she endeavoured to put a meaning into her repetition of
a simple statement, which should make it strike him with greater
force than a blow could have done.
"I am your wife."
Once more he showed himself to be her match in the game of give
and take. Hardly were the words out of her mouth than he
endorsed them again, with what was almost like the semblance of
a grin upon his blubber-like face.
"You are."
"And I propose to let you see that I'm your wife."
"No doubt."
"Your real, actual wife, not a puppet, a thing you can pull by a
string."
"Quite so."
"You may imagine, perhaps, that I'm a mere dummy, an automaton,
which can be set in movement only when you choose. If you do,
you're wrong, as I intend to show you, Mr. Cuthbert Grahame."
"Precisely, Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame."
It seemed, for an instant, as if a torrent of words was
trembling at the tip of her tongue, needing but a touch to set
them loose; if so, the touch did not come. Turning, she went and
stood by an open window; resting her hand on the sill she leaned
out, as if she needed fresh air. She looked out on to a garden
which was evidently of considerable size, but which sadly needed
attention. The grass could not have been cut for months; it
competed with weeds for possession of the footpaths. There were
flowers, but they needed pruning; the weeds threatened to
choke them in their own beds. Beyond, the ground rose;
everywhere the slopes were covered with trees, pines for the
most part--scarcely a cheerful framework to what was already
bidding fair to become a scene of desolation. In spite of the
sweet, clean air and of the brilliant sunshine, in her
surroundings, as she saw them, there was a hint of something
uncongenial, unfriendly, which did not tend to make her mood a
gayer one.
While she still seemed to be absorbing the spirit of the
landscape, Mr. Grahame's voice came to her out of the bed.
"I want to speak to you."
She heard him, but it was not until he had repeated the same
sentence three times that she chose to favour him with her
attention. Bringing her head back into the room she turned her
face slightly towards the speaker.
"Well?"
"Why did you marry me?"
"Because I was told that you would be dead inside two hours."
Although the reply was brutal in its plainness, it did not seem
to hurt him in the least--indeed, it seemed rather to amuse him.
"That's a poor reason. What were you to gain by my death?"
"Dr. Twelves told me that I should have twenty thousand pounds."
"Did he? I see. That was the bait. You're a ready-witted young
woman."
"You mean that you think I'm a fool."
"Not at all; no more than the rest of your sex, or, for the
matter of that, of mine. We're all fools; only some of us are
fools of a special brand. Who are you?"
"I'm your wife."
"You've told me that already. I mean who were you before you
were my wife?"
She moved her hand to and fro, restlessly, upon the window sill.
"I've half a mind to tell you."
"Make it a whole one. Yours should be a story not without
features of interest. Besides, a husband ought to know something
about his wife."
She stood up straighter, her back to the window, looking towards
the bed with gleaming eyes. It was evidently easier to provoke
her to an exhibition of temper than him.
"I'll tell you nothing. I'm your wife; that's all I'll tell you;
and that ought to be enough."
"It is--more than enough. You're an embodied epigram. I think I
can guess at part of your story." The indifferent, almost
assured tone in which he said it brought her near to wincing.
"My eyes are not so bright as they were--no, not so bright--but
they're bright enough to enable me to perceive that you're
young, and not bad-looking--after a sufficiently common type.
You appear to be one of those big, bouncing, blusterous,
bonny--four b's--young females who spring out of the gutter by
the mere force of their own vitality; who push and elbow
themselves through life with but one thing continually in
view--self. You're probably ill-bred, ignorant, impudent and
imbecile--four i's--four which are apt to go together--and, in
consequence, blundering along rather than advancing by any
reasonable method of progression, you'll keep tumbling into
ditches and scrambling out again, until you tumble into one
which will be too deep for you to scramble out of, and in that
you'll lie for ever."
To hear him, in his dim, distant, uninterested tones, mapping
out, as it were, a chart of her life and conduct, affected her
unpleasantly. When he had finished she had to pull herself
together before she could deliver a retort which she was
conscious was sufficiently futile.
"I daresay you think yourself clever."
"I'm afraid you're disappointed. If I'm not altogether to be
congratulated on having you for a wife, neither are you to be
altogether congratulated on having me for a husband."
"Congratulated! My stars!"
"Exactly--your lucky stars. Come, I've drawn a little fancy
sketch of the kind of wife you appear to me to be; tell me, what
kind of husband do you think I am?"
"Think! I don't think; I'm sure you're a monster. You ought to
be in Barnum's show--that's where you ought to be."
"That is your candid opinion? Your tone has the ring of genuine
candour. It's an illustration of how one changes. Would you
believe that once--not so long ago--I was remarkable for my good
looks as well as my figure?"
"Tell that for a tale!"
"I'm telling it for a tale that is told--and over. It must have
been a disappointment when you learned that I was not dead."
"It was. I could have shook old Twelves when he told me. Perhaps
I'll do it yet."
"Will you? That will be nice for Twelves. I should like to be
present at the shaking. You look as if you could shake him."
"I should think I could--shake the bones right out of his body.
I'm as strong as a horse--stronger than most men. I once thought
of coming out as a strong woman, only I didn't fancy the
training."
"Didn't you? By training do you mean clean and healthy living?
Is that what you disliked?"
She had already repented her lapse into the autobiographical.
"Never you mind what I mean."
"We won't; why should we? May I take it that you have got over
the disappointment of not finding me dead, and have become
reconciled to the idea of my living?"
"You don't look to me as if you would live long, considering
that you're as good as dead already."
"You think so. We've not been long at arriving at that stage of
perfect candour which, I fancy, marks the career of the average
husband and wife. I think you're wrong. I am one of those beings
who are very tenacious of life. I'm only fifty, whatever I may
look. There's no real reason--your friend Dr. Twelves will tell
you--why I shouldn't live another five-and-twenty years."
"I don't care what he says after what he told me. I'll bet you
don't."
"Suppose I do, would you propose to spend them with me?"
"I should do as I like."
"I begin to suspect you'd try to. Let me put the case in another
way. What would you want to leave this house and never re-enter
it again?"
"Twenty thousand pounds."
"Is that your lowest figure?"
"It is."
"Thank you. I will give the matter my careful consideration. In
the meanwhile may I ask you to leave me for a time? My
conversational powers soon become exhausted; with them I am apt
to become exhausted too. A little rest might do you good."
"Listen to me. I came here so that you and I might understand
each other."
"We have gone some distance in that direction, haven't we?"
"I don't think you have, or you wouldn't talk to me like that.
It may be clever, and cutting, and that kind of thing, but I
don't like it. I'm your wife, your equal, more than your equal,
since you're lying there like a log, already more than three
parts dead. I'm the mistress of this house; this room is as much
mine as yours."
"Is it?"
"It is. That's what you've got to understand. When I choose to
leave it I will, but not a moment before. So don't you order me
about, because I don't intend to let you, and there'll be
trouble if you try."
"Am I to understand when I ask you to leave the room, my
bedroom, in spite of your courteous hint of a moment back, that
you refuse?"
"You are; you bet you are. And you're to understand more than
that; you're to understand that if you're not careful what airs
and graces you take on with me, I'll stuff a handkerchief into
your mouth. Then we'll see what you'll do next. A helpless lump
like you to talk to me--your lawful wife!--as if I were nothing
and no one. I'll soon show you."
"Will you? Maybe you'll first be shown a thing or two yourself,
my lady!"
The tones were familiar. They were not those of the man in the
bed. Looking round Isabel found that Nannie was glaring at her
from the other side of the room.
CHAPTER VII
A TUG OF WAR
Perceiving that Isabel made no reply, Nannie addressed her
again, with both in her manner and her words perhaps a
superfluity of truculence.
"What for have you left your room and come here disturbing Mr.
Grahame, you bold-faced hussy?"
Nannie's appearance and the vigour of her speech, both of which
were probably a trifle unexpected, seemed to take Isabel
somewhat aback. It was not unlikely that a rapid debate was
taking place in her mind as to what exactly was the _role_ it
was most advisable that she should play.
One point was obvious, that the moment had come when it would
have to be decided, possibly finally, just what position in the
household hers was going to be. If she was to be its real
mistress--as she had boasted that she was, and would be!--then
it was out of the question that Nannie should be allowed to
speak to her in such terms as she had just employed. How was she
to be prevented? In her own way Isabel was not a bad judge of
character. In the course of her short life her adventures had
been so many and various that it had grown to be a habit to
measure herself against nearly every one with whom she was
brought in contact. Nannie was a dour old Scotchwoman. Isabel
was perfectly conscious that she was not likely to be
subdued--to the point to which she desired to bring her--by
words alone. She herself was wholly devoid of scruples. As to
self-respect, she was incapable of realising what it meant. She
had been brought up in a school in which that sort of thing was
not taught. Her early days had been spent among women who were
quite as ready to resort to physical force as the men, which was
saying not a little. As she had grown older she had never
hesitated to use her muscles when her tongue was beaten. She was
quick to perceive that this was a case in which she would have
to use her muscles again, if she did not wish to degenerate into
something worse than a figure-head in the house which she
aspired to rule.
The only question she had to decide was whether she would be a
match for the Scotchwoman. It would be worse than vain to
challenge conclusions if she was likely to be proved the weaker.
Brief consideration, however, persuaded her that there was but
little fear of that. Her ankle was against her, and the fact
that she had been inactive for a fortnight. But, on the other
hand, though tough and brawny, Nannie might be old enough to be
her grandmother. Even though handicapped by her ankle, Isabel
did not doubt that she excelled her both in sheer strength and
in agility, while as to knowledge of how to make the best of her
powers she was convinced that, as compared with her, the other
was nowhere.
She resolved to bring the question as to who was to be mistress
to an issue then and there--if necessary, in the presence of the
man in the bed. Instead of answering Nannie she put a question
to him.
"Who is this objectionable old woman?"
"My housekeeper."
"Then, perhaps, you'll tell your housekeeper that, where I'm
concerned, if she can't keep a civil tongue in her head and mend
her manners, she won't be your housekeeper long--or mine
either."
"Hadn't you better tell her so yourself?"
"Does that mean you're afraid to?"
"Never interfered in the housekeeping since the day I was born,
nor with Nannie either. She's always run this house as if it
were her own."
"Then the sooner she understands that she's not going to do so
any longer the better it will be. If you won't make that plain
to her, then I will. Now, my woman, remember that I'm your
mistress, and that I'll stand impertinence from no one--least of
all from a servant of mine. Leave this room at once; I'll talk
to you when we're alone."
Nannie seemed to be surprised almost into speechlessness by the
other's attitude and manner of addressing her. It was a second
or two before she could find words with which to illustrate her
feelings.
"Of all the brazen impudence! That a nameless besom, picked up
from the roadside in the middle of the night, should have the
face to speak to me like that! And you to call yourself Mr.
Cuthbert's wife! Why, you're nothing but a shameless trollop!
And though the doctor said that Mr. Cuthbert was to be kept as
quiet as possible, if needs be I'll take you out of this room in
my two arms, as you well know I did before. So out you come
before I make you!"
"Go it, Nannie!"
The mocking encouragement from the man in the bed was to Isabel
as the final straw. She did not allow him to range himself,
before her face, on the woman's side. From words she proceeded
to measures. Traversing the room with a rapidity which wholly
ignored the twinges which proceeded from her injured ankle, she
planted herself immediately in front of Nannie.
"Are you going to leave this room, or am I to put you out of
it?"
"Me to leave Mr. Cuthbert's room, and ordered out of it by you!
It'll be you that'll be put out of it, and that pretty quick,
you----"
Isabel did not wait for her to finish; she anticipated the
volley of compliments which had no doubt been intended to follow
by straightening her left arm in the most approved fashion, and
striking the other full on the nose with a vigour and
unexpectedness which caused the old woman to lose her balance
and go toppling over on to the floor. Before she had a chance to
recover, Isabel had the door wide open, and began bundling the
still prostrate Nannie unceremoniously through it. She was
conscious that words were proceeding from the man in the bed,
but what they were she neither knew nor cared. It was not her
intention, if she could help it, to continue the proceedings in
his room. Having got the other out of the room somehow, she shut
the door behind her, determined to let him know as little of
what was to follow as circumstances would permit, at any rate
till all was over.
Then she waited for Nannie to rise, which she did with an
agility which did credit to her years. As the other had possibly
foreseen, the old woman was beside herself with rage. She rushed
blindly at her opponent, who was at once cooler and more
experienced in little discussions of the kind. Although hampered
by her ankle she had no difficulty in evading the other's mad
onrush, at least sufficiently long to enable her to receive her
with a hail of blows directed impartially at her face and body.
The proceedings had only lasted a few seconds, and were waxing
momentarily warmer, when they were interrupted by some one who
ascended the stairs. It was Dr. Twelves. As was only natural,
being very far from edified by the spectacle by which he was
confronted, he raised his voice to remonstrate.
"What does this mean? Have you two women gone mad, that you
behave like drunken fishwives? Nannie!--Mrs. Grahame!--shame on
you!"
Nannie, who had been severely pommelled, and had so far got much
the worst of it, abstained, for the moment, from her attempts to
return some of the marks of esteem with which she had been
presented, and proceeded to vouchsafe some sort of explanation.
As, however, she talked at the top of her voice, which failed
her badly, and had to stop at uncomfortably short intervals to
gasp, it was rather difficult to make out what she said, and
when that was done it was not easy to join her observations with
each other and supply them with a meaning.
"Put me out of Mr. Cuthbert's room!--ordered me out!--hit me in
the face, that had never been laid hands on by any but my
mother!--knocked me about as if I were an old rag-bag!--a
bold-faced besom that's nothing in the world but the clothes she
stands in!--and less character than that!--before I've done with
her I'll strip her to her impudent skin!"
Nannie proceeded to do it. The attempt could scarcely have been
called successful, because no sooner had she brought herself
within the reach of the other's dangerous left arm than she
received a smashing blow in the face which sent her staggering
backwards. The course of the combat had brought her near the
head of the stairs, uncomfortably near, as the event immediately
showed. Before she was able to recover herself, reaching the
topmost stair, she went crashing down it on to the doctor who
stood remonstrating below. Luckily for him he was on the bottom
step but one, so that he had time to move somewhat aside before
she was in his immediate neighbourhood. As it was she sent him
cannoning with uncomfortable violence against the wall, while
she herself came toppling on to the landing with a bang which
shook the house.
Silence followed--a speaking silence. Above was Isabel, a really
striking figure, as, with flushed cheeks, flaming eyes, clenched
fists, straightened arms, she stared down on her victim in the
depths below. The doctor, more startled than hurt, seemed to be
in two minds what to do or say. With one eye, as it were, he
looked at Isabel up above, and with the other at Nannie down
below. At last he spoke, addressing himself to the triumphant
figure up above.
"For all you know you may have killed her."
"It will serve her right if I have!" came the defiant response.
That she was not killed was soon made plain by Nannie herself.
"She's broken my leg!--and I'll be bound half the bones in my
body!--the she-devil! Oh, doctor, what'll I do?"
There came the voice from above.
"You'll stop that noise! and if you're wise you'll cut out your
tongue! Because the next time you say a rude thing to me, or of
me, as sure as you're lying there, I'll have you dragged into
the road, and there you shall be left; you shall never set foot
inside this house again--I promise you that!"
The doctor had been leaning over her, as if to ascertain the
nature of her injuries.
"I believe you have broken her leg."
"To be sure she has! Oh, doctor, doctor, I told you we'd rue the
day you brought her into the house!"
"Next time I'll not be content with breaking half the bones in
her body--I'll break them all!"
"Hush, woman! you forget yourself; have you no pity?"
"I've pity for those who deserve it, but not for an unmannerly
servant who tries to bully her mistress, and then whines when
she herself gets thrashed instead! And look here, Dr. Twelves,
don't you think that I'm an ordinary woman, because I'm not----"
"That I am rapidly beginning to believe."
"Don't you interrupt me when I'm speaking, not even by attempts
to be smart, especially as you happen to be one of those silly
old men who are not meant to shine in that line. If you'd got an
ordinary woman into the mess you've got me by your lies and
humbug, I daresay you'd have been able to do as you liked with
her. I suppose that's what you and that old woman have been
reckoning on. But I want you to understand just once, and once
for all, that you're mistaken. It's going to be the other way
round; I'm going to play this game, in my way, not yours; I'm
going to do as I like with you. You'll take your instructions
from me, and from me only. If you want to be allowed on these
premises you'll treat me as a lady and as the mistress of the
house ought to be treated. Who's that down there? I heard you
sneaking about and listening! Come up here and let me look at
you." A shock-headed young woman appeared, followed, at a
respectful distance, by one still younger. "If you two are my
servants--and I suppose you are, or you wouldn't be there--if
that old woman can't walk alone pick her up, carry her to her
room and put her to bed, and leave her there; then go on with
your work and let me have no nonsense."
All this time Nannie, who still lay motionless, had been
groaning in what was evidently genuine pain. The doctor, who had
been bending over her, remarked a little dryly:--
"I trust you will pardon me, Mrs. Grahame, but I think her leg
is broken".
"Well, what of it? It's her fault, not mine; she's brought it on
herself. She may think herself lucky that her neck's not broken
after the way she's behaved. I'd have thrown her out of a window
if there'd been one handy, and it would have served her
thoroughly well right. I suppose you don't want her to lie
there, littering up the stairs, even if her leg is broken. She
carried me to my room as if I were a sack of potatoes, now they
shall carry her. Do you hear what I say, you two?"
So Nannie was borne to her room with anything but the honours of
war.
CHAPTER VIII
THE MINIATURE
Like some other persons, so long as she had her own way, and
nothing occurred to annoy her, Isabel could be quite agreeable.
Now that Nannie was laid low, and Dr. Twelves accorded her the
respect she demanded--at least outwardly, for she continually
suspected him of having his tongue in his cheek--she proceeded
to show that there was a side to her character which was not
altogether unpleasant. The household--what remained of
it--consisted of two raw damsels, whose English was of such a
quality that Isabel not infrequently found herself at a loss to
understand what they were saying. They made no secret of the
fact that they were by no means heart-broken at Nannie's
discomfiture. She had ruled them with a rod of iron, and they
were by no means sorry that some one had tried her hand at
ruling her--with distinctly solid results. Especially was this
the case when they learned that the new mistress was inclined to
be as lax as the dethroned one had been rigid. So long as the
work of the house was done--and there was not much of it as
Isabel managed things--they were free to do pretty well as they
chose, even to the extent of there being practically no watch
kept on their outgoings and incomings.
The truth was that the new Mrs. Grahame was above all things
desirous that no watch should be kept on her. Most of her time
was spent in ransacking the house from top to bottom--an
occupation she enjoyed immensely, and found no little to her
profit. Now that Nannie was laid on her back, and--since at her
time of life a broken leg is no small matter--promised to remain
there for some time, there was no one to say her nay. Isabel
turned out every cupboard and every drawer; waded through every
scrap of writing they contained; appraised every article she
found--and, indeed, assembled quite a nice collection of what
she deemed the more valuable trifles in her own apartment, for
her personal use and consolation. She lighted on what, to her,
was a considerable sum of money. On this, she learned, Nannie
had been accustomed to draw for various current expenses. She,
of course, regarded it, there and then, as her own personal
property.
Her first appearance out of doors took the form of a visit to a
neighbouring small town--not Carnoustie--where she purchased
such articles of attire as she imagined she required, together
with a trunk to contain them. These she paid for out of Nannie's
store. She did not think it necessary to inform Mr. Grahame how
she had used what was, after all, his money. She did not seem to
think it worth her while to tell him anything.
Her mind was occupied with various problems. First and foremost,
she was extremely anxious to ascertain how much money the man
she called her husband actually had, where it was, and how it
could be got at, say by one who had a right to get at it. Almost
as if he were conscious of what was transpiring in her brain,
Cuthbert Grahame took advantage of an opportunity which arose,
or which he, perhaps, made himself, to volunteer some
information on the subject on his own account. The afternoon on
which the conversation took place would have been memorable for
something else, even if he had not seen fit to make her the
receptacle of some very interesting confidences.
Isabel was an active young woman; healthy, full-blooded,
vigorous, one in whose veins the blood ran strong. Inaction to
her was punishment. So soon as her ankle permitted, and it
proceeded to a rapid and complete recovery, she spent a portion
of each day in taking the air--that portion of the day which was
not spent in prying into everything the house contained. As her
researches drew to a conclusion--as even the most thorough
investigation allowed them to do in time--that unoccupied
portion became more and more. So, having examined the inside of
the house she turned her attention to the outside, to learn that
her husband's estate was of considerable extent. She wandered up
and down it, to and fro, till she began to be almost as
intimately acquainted with it as with the contents of the
residence. One afternoon she was indulging in one of these
rambles when she received what really amounted to a shock.
She was passing through one of the woods of which her husband's
property seemed chiefly to consist, and was resting on the bole
of a tree, when she heard the sound of wheels. She was perhaps
in a peculiar mood, because it immediately brought back to her
that night on which she had listened--with what an anxious
heart!--to the wheels of Dr. Twelves' approaching trap.
Passers-by, thereabouts, were few and far between; for days
together she would not encounter any. She had grown to love
seclusion, possibly for sufficient reasons of her own. She was
seated on a slope. The road began at the foot, perhaps thirty
feet away. She instinctively altered her position, so that,
while she could see herself, the trunk of the tree almost
entirely screened her from observation. She wondered who was
coming, peeping round to see. When she did see she drew back
with a start.
In the dogcart which presently appeared was her husband--her
real husband--Gregory Lamb. The sight of him took her wholly by
surprise, and filled her with unwonted perturbation. What was he
doing there? What could have brought him to that neighbourhood?
She had taken it for granted that he had long since returned to
London. Even Mrs. Macconichie's--supposing he was still there,
which seemed unlikely--was a good twelve miles away. She was
conscious that he was not alone in the trap. Who his companion
was she had not noticed; she had not time.
The vehicle drew rapidly level with the tree on which she
rested. She decided that she might venture to peep again, and
was just doing so when the horse shied so violently that the
cart was almost overturned. Recovering itself, apparently
getting the bit between its teeth, it bolted like a thing
possessed, and vanished from her sight, though not before she
had nearly convinced herself that the man with her husband--the
one who was driving--was Dr. Twelves. She had only seen him from
the back, and then had had but occasional glimpses through
intervening trees for half-a-dozen seconds, but she was almost
sure that it was he. There was, however, just a possibility that
she was mistaken, and it was that possibility which worried her.
She would have liked to have been certain, either one way or the
other. Then, in the case of the worst, she might have been
prepared.
For the juxtaposition could but mean trouble for her. She was
too clear-sighted to delude herself with the notion that the
doctor was anxious to be a friend of hers. He had, to outward
seeming, accepted the situation; probably, in part, because, as
she herself put it, she was no ordinary woman; and partly
because, under the circumstances, considering the part which he
himself had played, he did not see what else there was for him
to do. Let him, however, learn how wholly baseless was her claim
to occupy the place which she had arrogated to herself, and she
did not for a moment doubt that he would use that knowledge to
oust her from it in the shortest possible space of time.
The only two points on which she had her doubts were: Was it
really the doctor who was driving Gregory Lamb? and, if so, had
Gregory Lamb given him cause to even suspect the relation in
which she stood to him? On a third point there was no doubt--the
dogcart had been moving from, not towards the house, so that in
any case the peril was not actually approaching her now.
Another thought suddenly occurred to her, one which set her
heart beating faster than was altogether agreeable. The doctor
and her husband might have been to the house already, in which
case danger might be awaiting her return to what she had learned
to call her home.
That was a question which might be quickly resolved--she would
resolve it quickly. She started off homewards then and there,
telling herself as she went that, whatever had happened, or
might happen, they should only be rid of her on terms of her
own.
It turned out that, so far, nothing had happened; to that
extent, at least, her agitation had been uncalled for. No one
had been near the house since she had left it; nothing had
happened which was in any way out of the common. The relief she
felt at learning even so much showed how real she had imagined
the danger was. With some vague idea of subjecting him to
cross-examination and learning if he had suspicions of her of
any sort or kind, so soon as she had removed her hat she paid a
visit to Cuthbert Grahame's room.
As usual, he lay immobile between the sheets, preserving that
death-in-life rigidity which, it seemed, was to continue his
condition to the end. The sight of him struck in her an unwonted
note.
"Don't you get tired of lying there?--especially on a day like
this, when the sun is shining and the breeze is stealing among
the trees and flowers?"
She did not strike a responsive note in him. He was silent for
some seconds, then he asked, in his strange, far-away voice,
which was like a husky whisper--
"Aren't you well?"
"Oh yes, I'm well enough. I'm only wondering if you're not tired
of being ill. It seems to me that you might as well be dead as
keep on lying there with only your voice alive--and that's
pretty nearly done for."
She had returned to her more familiar mood.
"Tired!--tired!" He repeated the word twice, then after an
interval went on: "What's the use of being tired of what has to
be? I'm tired of you, but it seems you have to be--so what's the
use?"
"I don't see why you need be tired of me. I'm no more to you
than a chair or table."
"You're my wife."
"Your wife! It's because I'm your wife that I'm likely to get
tired instead of you. I'm not a helpless statue--I'm a woman; I
don't want a dead log--I want a man."
"I was once a man."
"You a man!"
"Seems queer, doesn't it?"
"I don't believe it."
"Yet I was, physically, not a bad sample of a man. Now the Lord
knows what I am!--a husk, I suppose. There's a man inside me
somewhere still."
"You look as if there were, and you sound it."
She laughed, not pleasantly. It was one of her defects that her
laughter seldom had a pleasant sound, as if it were only the
spirit of malice which had power to move her to mirth.
"You've confessed why you married me. Do you know why I wanted
to marry you, or any one? I'd have married your friend Nannie if
she'd agreed, but she refused point-blank."
"Is that true?"
"Quite. It was only when she persisted in her refusal that the
doctor thought of the woman he'd found in a ditch. Since
anything in the shape of a woman would serve he hauled you up
the stairs." She was still. She was standing in her favourite
position by the open window, looking out at the woods on the
slope of the hill. "Shall I tell you why, when already looking
into hell--and I had a good look, I promise you!--I wanted to
marry any one?"
"I know."
"Who told you?"
"Dr. Twelves."
"He seems to have imparted to you a good deal of useful
information. What did he tell you?"
"That you'd made a will in some one's favour, which you wanted
to break, and that was the easiest way to break it."
"Did he tell you who the some one was?"
"No."
"It was a woman. Do you hear--it was a woman!"
"I hear."
"A young woman--younger than you and prettier. Prettier? My God!
You're not bad-looking in a way, but there's a streak of the
vulgar in you now. No one could ever mistake you for a lady.
You're one of the blowzy sort; you'll become impossible;
hard-featured; flame-coloured cheeks; bold, staring eyes; huge,
unwieldy, gross. She!--she's the most perfect woman God ever
made, and she'll only improve as the years go by."
"I've met that kind of woman before."
"Not you. She's not to be found in the sort of society in which
you've moved."
"She's to be found in the penny novelettes--never out of them.
You and your perfect women! In spite of her perfection you don't
seem to have found her all milk and honey, or you wouldn't have
been so keen to break that will of yours."
"Do you know why I wanted to break it?"
"Some silly nonsense. Because she tried to scratch your eyes
out, I daresay--serve you right if she did."
"Because she wouldn't marry me."
"Because----!" She stopped to burst into noisy, strident
laughter. "She must have been a fool. I should have thought any
one would have married you if you'd made it worth their while."
"I told you that she was not the kind of woman you have ever
met; she's clean beyond your understanding. Put your hand
underneath my pillow--gently. You'll find a case; take it out."
Isabel looked at him, hesitating, as if in doubt of his meaning,
then she did as he had told her. He was propped up on a nicely
graduated series of pillows. As she withdrew her hand, the case
between her fingers, she dragged one of the pillows with it
right from under the one on which his head reposed, so that,
denuded of its support, his head fell back. In a second he began
to choke before her eyes. His face grew bluer and bluer; the
veins stood out through his skin; he fought for breath; his
stertorous gasps shook him from head to foot. She raised his
head to its normal position, returning the pillow to its place.
As she watched him struggle back to what--to him--was life, she
laughed.
"It wouldn't take long to make an end of you."
By degrees he regained the use of his attenuated voice.
"I do want careful handling--that's so. Still I wouldn't murder
me if I were you--it would be murder. Murder has to be paid for
in full. It would be hardly worth your while to be compelled to
render full payment for such a remnant as I am. Have you got the
case? Open it."
She held a square Russia leather case, in corn-flower blue. She
looked for a spring or for something which would enable her to
get at its interior, but found nothing.
"Does it open? I don't see how."
"It's a little idea of my own that spring. I didn't want any one
to see what is inside but me. But it's so long since I've seen
that I have grown hungry for a look, so you shall have one too.
I think I should like you to have one. Hold the case between
your finger and thumb, one of them exactly in the centre of each
side, then press firmly."
Obeying him, immediately one of the sides flew open in the
middle, revealing, framed in the other, the miniature of a young
girl. Isabel was no artist; she was incapable of appreciating
the artistic value of the portrait which confronted her. What
struck her instantly was that it was surrounded by what looked
like three rows of precious stones--pearls, sapphires, diamonds.
"Are they real?" she inquired.
"Do you mean the stones in the setting? They are. The pearls are
there because she is the queen of pearls; the sapphires, because
they are her favourite stones; the diamonds, because I chose to
have them."
"They must be very valuable."
"They cost a lot of money, and they'd fetch a lot. That is the
girl I wanted to marry me. What do you think of her?"
"She is pretty."
"Pretty! She's beautiful."
"She's too fair for me."
"That's because you're dark. I hate dark women--always have
done. Hold the case open in front of me. Let me look at her."
She did as he asked. No change took place in his expression;
none could take place. His voice remained the same; that also
was incapable of modulation. Yet she knew that an alteration had
taken place in him; that as he gazed the man of whom he had
spoken, who was inside him somewhere, was stirred to his inmost
depths.
"Not beautiful! She's the most beautiful creature in the world.
She always has been; she always will be. God bless her! though
He has been hard on me." Then, after a pause, "Take the case
away and shut it, and put it back beneath my pillow--gently.
That glimpse will last me a long time, thank you. Though I may
never look at her again, her face will be with me always to the
end. Before you close the case you might look at her again more
carefully. Perhaps, after you have gazed at her attentively,
understanding may come to you; you may begin to perceive the
beauty which was hidden from you at the first."
She returned, the case still open in her hand, to the window in
front of which she had been standing.
CHAPTER IX
THE SLIDING PANEL
The silence remained unbroken for some seconds. Then he asked--
"Well, what do you think of her now?"
"I think she's pretty, as I said. You may think her beautiful. I
daresay plenty of men would; that sort of thing's a question of
taste. I tell you what I do think beautiful--that's these
diamonds. The sapphires and the pearls are all very well, but
the diamonds are the stones for me."
"You would think that. You're the sort of woman who'd admire a
gaudy frame, and have no eyes for the picture that was in it. If
you like I'll tell you who she is and all about her. It may seem
like sacrilege to talk of her to you, but I think I'll tell you
all the same."
"Tell away. I suppose it's the old, old story: she met some one
she fancied more than you. Men always do think that sort of
thing is wonderful. But I don't mind listening."
"Yes, there was some one she liked better than me. That was the
trouble."
"It generally is, while it lasts; then it turns out to be a
blessing. But, of course, you've never had the chance."
"As you say, I've never had the chance. Her name--I won't tell
you her name--though why shouldn't I? Her name is Margaret
Wallace."
"Scotch, is she?"
"Her father was Scotch, her mother English. He was my dearest
friend. When he died----"
"He left his only daughter, then a mere child, and that was
all."
"That was all, and as you say she was a mere child. You seem to
have had some experiences of your own."
"One or two. I'm more than seven."
"So I should imagine."
"You took her to your own home, found her in food and washing,
and pocket-money now and then. As she grew older her wondrous
beauty and her many virtues--especially the first lot--warmed
your withered heart. When she attained to womanhood you breathed
to her the secret of your passion, which she had spotted about
eighteen years before; but as she didn't happen to be taking
any, of course the band began to play. Isn't that the sort of
story you were going to tell, only I daresay you wouldn't have
told it in quite that way?"
"I certainly shouldn't have told it in quite that way."
"You had expended on her two hundred and forty-nine pounds
nineteen and sixpence ha'penny, besides any amount of fuss, so
her ingratitude stung you to the marrow. Still you might have
borne with her; you might not even have altered the will which
you had made in her favour, and which you kept shaking in her
face; only when she took up with another chap she seemed to be
coming it a bit too thick. You cried in your anger, 'I'll make
you smart for this, my beauty!' So you started to make her
smart; but it seems to me that you've done most of the smarting
up to now. Was it her cruelty which made you the pretty sight
you are?"
"Not altogether."
"Not altogether! You don't mean to say that when you wanted her
to be your wife you were anything like what you are now? A nice
kind of love yours must have been!"
"I appear to have acquired a really delightful wife."
"If you weren't a dead log it might be that you'd find out how
true that was. Any man with a touch of spice in him would give
the eyes out of his head for a wife like me, and there have been
plenty who were ready to do it."
"As you yourself observed, these things are a question of taste.
So you think she was justified in treating me as she did?"
"Justified for not wanting to marry a thing like you! You ought
to have been drowned for hinting at it."
"I am myself beginning to think that your point of view may not
be wholly incorrect, and that, therefore, it was fortunate that
I did not die on the night we were married."
"I don't."
"You wouldn't--you have, of course, your own point of view. From
mine it is fortunate that I have been spared to enable me to
make another will."
"How are you going to make a will, when you can't move so much
as a finger?"
"I can have one drawn up according to my instructions. You will
find that I'm capable of signing it. Would you have any
objection?"
"It would depend on what there was in it."
"I see. May I ask if you are under the impression that if I die
without a will--even supposing our marriage is valid----"
"It's valid enough, don't you be afraid."
"I'm not afraid; you, I fancy, have the cause to fear. But I
say, supposing our marriage is a marriage--as to which I say
nothing either one way or the other--if I die intestate do you
imagine that you will necessarily come into possession of all I
have?"
"Have you any relatives?"
"Not one in the whole wide world."
"Then you bet I shall."
"You may bet you won't."
"Who's got more right to what you leave behind than your lawful
wife?"
"It depends. Under no circumstances would you inherit more than
half of my personal property, and a third of my real estate; the
rest would go to the Crown."
"Half's something! Look here, Dr. Twelves told me that if I
married you I should have twenty thousand pounds. Have you got
as much?"
There was an interval before an answer came. Possibly the man in
the bed was considering what answer he should make to such a
very leading question.
"I cannot tell you exactly what I have got, but I may safely
venture to assert this much: If all I possess--land, houses,
shares and so on--were to be turned into cash to-morrow, I
should find myself with at least two hundred thousand pounds."
"Two hundred thousand pounds! Go on!"
"This is a curious world, and Fortune is a curious jade; she
bestows her gifts with feminine irresponsibility. She gives one
health and strength and youth--and empty pockets--just when he
could get enjoyment out of full ones. To another, crippled
limbs, physical helplessness, premature old age--and pockets
brimming over--just when money is of as little use to him as
pictures to the blind. I have been denied most things except
fortune. Sounds ironical, doesn't it? As with Midas, everything
I have touched has turned to gold--in my case a thing wholly
worthless. I never made a bad money speculation in my life. I
doubt if I ever made an investment which did not pay me ten per
cent. Some of my investments have paid me forty and fifty per
cent, for years, and are worth ten times what I gave for them. I
wasn't worth twenty thousand pounds when I began life; now, to
adopt your phraseology, I'll bet I'm worth more than a quarter
of a million."
"And yet you live in a place like this, without a horse in the
stable, and the garden like a wilderness!"
"Why shouldn't I? Where would you have me live? In a castle?
with an array of servants who would take my money and from whom
I should have to hide. A well-bred servant wouldn't be able to
endure the sight of such an object as I am. All I need is a bed
to lie on, some one to put food between my lips, money to pay
for it. Since here I have those things, here I have all I need.
Besides, you should bear in mind that, as nothing is being
spent, there will be all the more to leave behind."
She was silent; her face turned towards the open window, the
miniature in its jewelled case still in her hand. His words had
fired her imagination. A quarter of a million!--this man worth a
quarter of a million!--and he supposed himself to be her
husband! Not long ago she had told herself that a certain and
clear five pounds a week earned by singing and dancing at the
minor music halls would be her idea of fortune. She had married
that deceitful humbug, Gregory Lamb, because she believed that
he might possibly have as much as a thousand a year. What was a
thousand a year compared to a quarter of a million! If he died
without a will half of it would be hers, or was it a third? Why
shouldn't she have more than that? If he had no relatives to
make a fuss, why shouldn't she have it all?
Even as she asked herself the question an answer came to her
dimly, yet with sufficient clearness to start her trembling. It
was born of an idea which would have disposed most women to do
more than tremble. Her breath came faster; her eyes brightened;
something like a smile wrinkled her lips; the vista presented to
her imagination, which would have appalled most persons,
titillated her.
After a while she asked, without turning her head--
"If you were to make a will, what would you put in it?"
"I'll show you."
"When?"
"Now. There's a secret hiding-place in this room. If you tried
do you think that you could find it?"
"I'd find it fast enough."
"Then find it."
"What sort of place is it?"
"That's asking for assistance. I'll give you this much. It's in
the wall, concealed by a panel of wood. Now I've given you the
scent, follow it to a finish--if you can."
"In a room like this there might be fifty hiding-places."
"There might."
"It would take days to examine it thoroughly; however long it
might take me I'd find it. I'd strip the walls of everything
before I'd give it up."
"I don't think you need go so far as that just yet. Look round;
you've hawk's eyes; I've given you a hint; can't you make a
likely guess, like the sharp-witted child who is playing
hide-and-seek?"
Isabel's glances were travelling round the room searchingly,
resting here and there, allowing nothing to escape them. When
they had traversed the whole apartment from floor to ceiling in
one direction they returned in another.
"You are not tricking me? There really is a secret
hiding-place?"
"There really is."
"And you say it's behind a panel in the wall?"
"That's it."
Her eyes in their return journey had reached the great wooden
fireplace. Although she did not know it, it was a fine specimen
of old carving. What she did notice were the rounded posts which
served as pillars. There were four, two longer and two shorter,
each supporting a shelf on which there were ornaments. She
wondered if the posts would turn. Probably something recurred to
her mind which she had read about a movable post, though she
could not have said just what it was or where she had read it.
She had a notion that she would try if the posts in the
fireplace turned, when she was stopped by a remark which came
from the man in the bed.
"You're looking in the wrong place; so as I don't want your
search to occupy you days, I'll tell you where it is." Even as
he spoke it struck her--rather as a vague suspicion than
anything else--that he did not want her to pay too much
attention to the fireplace. She waited for him to continue,
which he did at once. "You see the bracket in the corner on my
left. Go to it. Take down the vase which stands upon it, then
lift the bracket out of its socket." She did as he told her.
"You see the boss just at the top of the socket. That releases
the catch. Press it, then slide upwards that part of the panel
which is immediately at your right."
Again she followed his directions. A portion of the woodwork,
three or four inches wide, and about a foot in length, yielding
to her touch, disclosed an open space behind.
"There's an envelope in it, a blue envelope; take it out."
There was an envelope, apparently nothing else. On the front was
an inscription, whose crabbed characters had apparently been
written by a feminine hand. "This envelope contains Cuthbert
Grahame's will, and is not to be opened till after his death."
The two flaps at the back were secured by big red seals.
"Never mind what it says. I'm Cuthbert Grahame, and I tell you
to open the envelope, although I don't happen to be dead. Take
out the paper which you'll find inside. Read it; you can read it
aloud if you like."
She read it aloud. The handwriting was identical with the
cramped caligraphy on the envelope.
"'I give and bequeath all the property of which I die possessed,
both in real and personal estate, to Margaret Wallace,
absolutely, for her sole use and benefit.--CUTHBERT GRAHAME.
Witnesses, NANNIE FORESHAW, DAVID TWELVES, M.D., Edin.'"
With the exception of a date at the top that was all the paper
contained.
"That is the will you broke by marrying me, or, if you prefer
it, which I broke by marrying you. There isn't much to be said
for the phraseology--it wasn't drafted in a lawyer's office.
Nannie wrote it down to my dictation--at that table over by the
window there. She doesn't write a very excellent fist, but it'll
serve. That's as sound a will as if it had been drawn by a
council of lawyers, and, to the lay mind, a good deal plainer
than they'd have made it."
"Do you mean to say that what's on this paper is enough to put
Margaret Wallace into undisputed possession of a quarter of a
million of money?"
"It would have been if I hadn't married you; my marriage has
made it so much waste-paper. You may tear it up, or keep it if
you please; it makes no difference. I intend to make another
will."
"What are you going to put in it?"
"Exactly what's in that, only the date will be different. It's
the date in that which renders it nugatory."
"Aren't you going to leave me anything?"
"Why should I?"
"Dr. Twelves told me that if I married you I should have twenty
thousand pounds."
"I'm not responsible for what Dr. Twelves may assert."
"You are--in a way, and you know it. Because he only brought me
up so that you might die in peace, and, I expect, at your own
express command."
Mr. Grahame was silent, possibly considering her words.
"A cheque for a hundred pounds would amply repay you for what
you've done--or I might make it a hundred guineas."
"A hundred guineas! Listen to me--you're my husband."
"You've observed that on some previous occasion."
"And I'm your wife."
"That also has already become ancient history."
"I want you to understand just the way in which I see it. I'm
the mistress of this house, and no one sets foot in it--or in
your room--without my express sanction and approval."
"Won't any one? We shall see."
"We _shall_ see! I'll write you just the will you want, as
Nannie did, if you'll let me add a sentence leaving me--say,
five thousand pounds. It ought to be more--twenty thousand was
what Dr. Twelves promised--and you can make it as much more as
you like, but I'll do it if you make it that." As, when she
stopped, he was silent, she again went on: "If you don't let me
add such a sentence you shall make no will at all--as sure as
I'm alive I swear you shan't. I'll have my bed brought in here
to stop you doing it at night--you may trust me to take care you
don't do it by day. As your wife I've my rights, and you're a
helpless man. I mean to take advantage of my rights--to the
fullest possible extent!--and of your helplessness. You ought to
know by now that in such a matter I'm the sort of woman that
keeps her word."
"I have a sort of notion that you might do your best in that
direction--from what I've seen--and heard--of you."
"You can bet on it!"
"Let me follow you clearly. Am I to understand that you will
draw up yourself a will identical in all respects with the one
you have in your hand, if I allow you to add an additional
clause by which you are to benefit to the extent of five
thousand pounds?"
"That's what you're to understand--just that."
"And that you'll assist me to sign it in the presence of two
witnesses?"
"I'll assist you all I can."
"I'll think it over. Five thousand pounds is a deal of money for
what you've done, and for the sort of woman you are; but--I'll
think it over. When would you do it?"
"If you say the word I'll do it right now."
There was a considerable pause, then he repeated his former
observation:--
"I'll think it over." After a pause he added: "Put back that
miniature underneath my pillow--this time gently, if you please.
Close the panel; replace the bracket and the vase. You may take
the will with you if you like, so that you may get it well
into your head. I'm tired--I've talked enough. I want to be
still--and think."
CHAPTER X
THE GIRL AT THE DOOR
When Isabel left Cuthbert Grahame's room her brain was in a
tumult. She had so much of which to think that she found it hard
to think at all. The discovery that his wealth was so altogether
beyond anything of which she had dreamed as possible; the
unearthing of his will--from such a hiding-place; the facts she
had learned of Margaret Wallace, and which she had herself
embroidered--these things were in themselves enough to occupy
her mind to its full capacity for some time to come. Yet they
were far from being all she had to think about. The miniature,
in its jewelled setting--especially the jeweled setting!--was
likely to be a subject of covetous contemplation until--well,
until something had happened to it, or to her. Then there were
the pillars in the fireplace. Something--she could not have told
what--had filled her with the conviction that the recess behind
the sliding panel was not the only hiding-place the room
contained. She was possessed by a desire to examine those four
rounded posts--to examine them closely--to ascertain whether in
their construction there was anything peculiar.
But beyond and above all these sufficient causes for mental
agitation there was still another, one far greater--the will she
might have to draft, which she felt certain she would be asked
to draft. The idea which she had at the back of her head, which
had prompted her suggestion, was of such a character that it
almost frightened her. Like Cuthbert Grahame, she wanted time
and opportunity for thought. She had it in contemplation to risk
everything upon the hazard of a single throw--everything, in the
widest sense of that comprehensive word. To put her notion into
execution needed courage of a diabolical kind. Failure involved
utter and eternal ruin. Success, on the other hand, would bring
in its train all the pleasures of which she had scarcely dared
to dream.
On her return from her walk, having learned that Gregory Lamb
had not put in the appearance she had feared, she had sent the
two maids on an errand. They were raw, country wenches,
ignorant, slow-witted. It seemed hardly likely that, under any
circumstances, she would find them dangerous, yet she was
strongly of opinion that it was advisable, if, as was possible,
the deserted Gregory did call, that she should be the person to
receive him. Nannie was still confined to her room, so that
Isabel had but to be rid of the underlings to have practically
the whole house at her mercy.
It has been said that small things make great generals, since it
is the eye for trivial details which wins big battles. The
little act of foresight which prompted Isabel Lamb to clear the
premises of that pair of Scotch wenches not impossibly changed
the whole course of her life--not because what she had foreseen
happened; what actually occurred she had not even looked for.
The dining-room had a large bay window which commanded the path
leading to the front door. As she stood there, with her brain in
a state of almost chaotic confusion, something caught her eye--a
figure on the carriage drive. It was still at some distance; it
disappeared nearly as soon as she saw it. She kept her glance
fixed on its vanishing point. As for some moments nothing was
visible, she was beginning to suppose that she must have been
mistaken, when she saw it again. It was still to a great extent
hidden by the trees and brushwood, but it certainly was there.
Isabel instinctively drew back, although in any case she must
have been entirely invisible. Instantly her brain became clear.
The perception of approaching danger, which had on her the
effect of bracing her up, restored to her at once the full use
of her faculties.
"Is it Gregory?" she asked herself.
If it had been he would have had a warm reception. But it was
not, as was immediately made clear. The figure was that of a
woman--reaching a point where the ground was clearer, she could
be plainly seen. She was walking very fast, with long, even
strides.
"Who is it?" the woman at the window asked herself. "It can't be
one of the girls--they won't be back for a couple of hours or
more. I know them! Besides, they don't move like that. Nothing
feminine's been near the place since I've been in it. So far as
I know, there's nothing feminine hereabouts to come. As for
callers, we don't have them. What's likely to attract a woman to
a house like this? Why, I do believe it's a lady--that dress was
never made in this parish. And--she's young! Where on earth have
I seen her before? I have seen her, but where? My stars!--the
miniature! It's Margaret Wallace!--come to see the man she
jilted! Here's a nice to-do!"
The approaching figure had come clear of the carriage drive, and
was now in full sight. As Isabel had acknowledged to herself, it
was unmistakably that of a lady. The dress might be proof itself
to another woman's keen perception, but there was other evidence
as well. The way in which the stranger bore herself--her
carriage, the easy grace which marked her movements, at least
suggested breeding. As the face became visible all doubt was at
an end. This was certainly a lady who, as it seemed, was coming
to call.
Was the purport of her presence here merely to pay a passing
call? Did she simply wish to make a few inquiries, and then
return from whence she came? Would she be content with a few
more or less civil words being spoken to her at the partly open
door, or would she insist on entering and being allowed to visit
Cuthbert Grahame in his room? In that case Isabel's domination
would be at an end. The chances were that those two had but to
exchange half-a-dozen words, and the castle which she had
already in imagination builded would resolve itself into an
edifice even less substantial than a house of cards. The wild
scheme of which she had conceived the embryo would never move
from that condition. The situation out of which she had
determined to wrest a great opportunity would be there and then
at an end if Margaret Wallace won her way past that front door.
But would she win it? The fates were on Isabel's side. Nannie
upstairs helpless in her bed; Cuthbert Grahame still more
helpless in his; the two girls out--Margaret Wallace would have
to reckon with her. Isabel overrated herself if, in such a
contest as was likely to ensue, she did not prove the better of
the pair.
A sudden thought occurring to her she hurried into the hall. By
some fortunate chance the front door was closed, so that she
remained unseen by the approaching visitor. She remembered that
she had closed it when she herself had come in; as a rule it
stood wide open. If it had been then it would have been
impossible for her to perform the part she proposed to play. As
soon as she reached it she turned the key--only just in time.
Within thirty seconds the handle was tried by some one on the
other side.
"That settles it," observed Isabel to herself. "I didn't look at
the face in the miniature so closely as all that, it was the
setting which occupied me. I might have mistaken the likeness,
and it mightn't have been Margaret Wallace after all. But the
style in which she turned that handle gives her away. She's come
in and out of this house too often not to be aware that, even if
the door does happen to be shut, you've only got to turn the
handle to come in. When she found that it wouldn't open, I'll
bet that she had a bit of a shock. Holloa! it seems that she
can't believe it now. I daresay it's the first time in all her
life that she's found that door closed against her."
Something of the kind did seem possible. The person on the other
side was giving the handle various twists and turns, as if
unable to credit that the door was actually locked. It was only
after continued efforts that the fact was realised. There was an
interval, as if the person without was considering the position.
"Now what'll she do?" wondered Isabel. "Go round to the back,
and see if she can't get in that way? She won't think it a
possible thing that both doors can be locked. The odds are that
she's come in one way as often as the other. She won't come in
that way this time, and so I'll show her."
On stealthy feet Isabel, stealing to the back of the house, both
locked and bolted the door which gave ingress to the house on
that side. As she was ramming the top bolt home a bell clanged
through the house followed by the rat-tat-tat of a knocker.
"So she's concluded not to give herself the trouble of trying
the back door, at least for the present. Now what'll I do? One
thing's sure, I'm not going to be in any haste to answer either
her ringing or her knocking. Possibly if no one does answer
she'll be tricked into thinking the house is empty." The bell
and knocker were audible again.
"She's pretty impatient; she doesn't give a person over-much
time to answer, even if one wanted to. What a row that bell does
make--sounds as if it were rusty. I daresay it isn't rung more
than once a year. It'll startle those two upstairs--it's a time
since they heard it. There she is again. She'll hurt that bell
if she isn't careful. I'd like to hurt her--if she doesn't watch
out I will before she's finished. That's right, my dear, give
another pull at it! Pretty rough on Grahame. If he only knew who
was ringing what wouldn't he give to get at her--especially if
he understood that this is the only chance he'll ever have; and
to have to lie there like a log, and let it slip between his
fingers! As for Nannie--that old woman's got the nose of a
bloodhound--I shouldn't be surprised if she smells who's at the
door. If she does I shouldn't wonder if, broken leg or no broken
leg, she tumbles out of bed and tries to get down somehow to
open it. She hadn't better. She'll break it again if she
does--if I have to help her do it! No one's going to interfere
with that door but me! I'm not going to have her hammering and
clanging till those two girls come back, that won't suit my book
at all. And as she looks like doing it the sooner I get rid of
her the better."
The upper panels of the front door were of coloured glass, the
panes, which were of different hues, shapes and sizes, being set
in leaden frames. While it was possible for whoever was within
to obtain a vague impression of some one without, it was
impossible for whoever was without to see anything of the person
within. It was of this fact that the quick-witted Isabel
proposed to take advantage. Among the various accomplishments
which fitted her, in her opinion, to shine in the halls was that
of mimicry. Drawing close up to the glass panels she exclaimed,
in tones which were intended to represent the broken-legged
Nannie's--
"Who's that as wants to break the bell of a decent body's
house?"
That the assumption was not entirely unsuccessful was shown by
the response which came instantly from the other side of the
door.
"Is that you, Nannie? You silly old thing! Where have you
been? What have you been doing? And why have you locked this
door?--open it at once!"
"And to whom will I open it, please?"
There came a peal of girlish laughter as a prelude to this
reply.
"Nannie, you are an old stupid! Do you mean to say that you
don't recognise my voice as well as I do yours? Why, I'm Meg
come back to see you again!--open the door at once, you goose!"
"I'll no open the door this day."
"Nannie!"
"Margaret Wallace, I tell you I'll no open the door for you this
day, so back you go from where you came."
"Nannie! how can you speak to me like that! How dare you!"
"I'm but obeying Mr. Cuthbert's orders, and it's not fear of you
that'll stay me from doing that."
"Do you mean to tell me that Cuthbert Grahame forbade you to let
me into the house?"
"He did a great deal more. He said that if you ever came near it
he'd bring half-a-dozen dogs to set them at you. So take
yourself off, and be quick about it."
"But, Nannie, I don't understand."
"None of your lies! It's plain enough! So be off to where you're
wanted--if it's anywhere."
"But, Nannie, what have I done that you should speak to me like
this? You always used to take my part."
"It's no part of yours I'll ever take again. Are you going?"
"I only want to talk to you. If you'll only open the door I
promise you I won't try to get in if you don't want me to."
"I can have all the talk I want with you as we are. Will you be
off?"
"Won't you let me have one look at you, Nannie, and give you
just one kiss?"
"I'll have none of your kisses, and I never want to look at you
again till you're lying in your coffin."
"Nannie! there's something about the way you talk which I don't
understand. It's not you to speak to me like this. I insist upon
your opening the door. I don't believe Cuthbert Grahame ever
told you not to--I know him too well to think that's possible. I
shall keep on ringing and knocking till you do open, and so I
tell you."
"Then you'll keep on some time, I promise you that. I know what
Mr. Cuthbert's orders are better than you. If I was to empty his
gun at you I'd only do what he'd wish me to."
"Nannie! But, Nannie, I've come all the way from London. It's a
very long way, and costs a deal of money, and nowadays I haven't
much money, as you know. You're not going to send me back like
this."
"Is it the fare back to London that you're wanting? If it's to
beg you've come, I'll give you the fare out of my own pocket, so
that Mr. Cuthbert may be rid of you in peace."
This time in the girlish voice there was a ring of unmistakable
indignation.
"Nannie! you're a wicked old woman! I believe that you've some
wicked scheme in your head of which Cuthbert Grahame knows
nothing. You sound as if you were capable of anything. If you
don't let me in this moment I'll get in without your help."
"How are you going to do that, pray?"
"Do you think I can't? I'll soon show you! If you think I'm
still a foolish girl to be tyrannised over by you, you're very
much mistaken. I won't believe that Cuthbert Grahame doesn't
wish to see me till he tells me so with his own lips."
CHAPTER XI
HOT WATER
A hand was raised on the other side of the door and brought
smartly against the glass. The whole panel shivered; the blow
would only have to be repeated two or three times to destroy it
altogether. Whipping the key out of the lock, Isabel hurried up
the staircase, slipping it into her pocket as she went. Although
she had no fear of an entry being made, she was very far from
desirous of being seen. That would involve the discovery of the
fraud she had been practising. If Miss Wallace learned that it
was not Nannie who had been addressing her in such
uncompromising terms, it was scarcely likely, even if driven by
force from the house, that she would leave the neighbourhood
without effecting her purpose of seeing Cuthbert Grahame. So
Isabel, determined that that should not happen, resolved to
adopt extreme measures.
When she gained the top of the stairs she could already hear the
glass shivering in the door below. Rushing into the bath-room,
snatching up a couple of pails which the not too tidy maids had
left there, and filling them at the tap, she strode with them to
the landing-window which overlooked the entrance. She had filled
them at the hot-water tap, and the steam came against her hand.
"It isn't very hot," she told herself. "There's just enough
sting in it to make her a little warmer than she is already."
The window was wide open. She peeped out to see that the girl
was immediately below. Balancing both pails on the sill she
turned them over together. That the contents had reached the
mark was immediately made plain by the cries which ascended from
below.
"Nannie! Nannie! you've scalded me! you've scalded me!"
Isabel replied, still taking care not to allow so much as the
tip of her nose to be seen through the window--
"I'll scald you again in half a minute--you'll find the water's
boiling next time, I promise you. What's more, I'll take Mr.
Cuthbert's gun to you, as he bade me. You shameless hussy! to go
breaking his windows because he won't have you set your foot
inside the house that you've disgraced!"
This diatribe from the supposititious Nannie was followed by
silence below. Isabel, who found the suspense a little trying,
was half disposed to venture on a glance to learn what was
taking place. Unmistakable sounds, however, arose just as she
had made up her mind to run the risk. Margaret Wallace was
crying. Presently she exclaimed, in tones which were broken by
her sobs--
"I'm going, Nannie. You needn't trouble to get Mr. Cuthbert's
gun, nor to wait till the water's boiling. Whatever Mr.
Cuthbert's orders may have been--and I know I've used him badly,
and deserve anything from him--I never thought you'd have
treated me like this. I've never done you any harm, and you've
always pretended that you loved me. I hope you'll never regret
driving me away like this from the house that has always been a
home to me! Oh, Nannie! Nannie!"
The girl uttered the last two words in such poignant tones that
Isabel thought it extremely possible that they penetrated to the
woman to whom they were actually addressed. After a moment's
interval footsteps were audible below. Then, as Isabel drew back
behind the curtain, she could see through the loophole that
Margaret Wallace was returning whence she came. She moved with a
very different step to that which had marked her approach. Her
feet seemed to lag, her head hung down, and she kept putting her
hand up to her eyes to relieve them of blinding tears. Her
attitude was significant of the most extreme despondency.
Apparently some remnants of her pride still lingered. It was
probably those fragments of her self-respect which prevented her
from once looking round to glance at the house from whose
precincts she was being so contemptuously dismissed.
Isabel watched the defeated mien which characterised the girl's
whole bearing in the moment of her humiliation with a smile of
triumph.
"That's one to me. It's on the cards that it's the one that's
going to win the game. I guess she's feeling pretty bad. It
can't be nice, if your pockets aren't too well lined, to come
all the way from London just for this. I daresay she meant to do
the conscience-stricken act--tell him how sorry she was, ask his
forgiveness, have an affecting reconciliation, and all that kind
of thing. I expect she was drawing pictures of how it all was
going to be as she came along in the train. I rather fancy those
pictures won't get beyond the outline. She'll be trying her hand
at sketches of another kind as she goes back again. I wonder how
she'd feel if she knew how she's been bluffed by an insolent
adventuress, and that Nannie hadn't had a hand in the game at
all. She'd feel pretty mad! I wonder how Nannie feels if she so
much as guesses at what's been going on. I'll give the old lady
a call; and I'll call on Mr. Cuthbert Grahame. But before I do
that I think I'll write a few lines on a sheet of paper--on a
couple of sheets."
Before she quitted her post of observation the unhappy girl had
vanished from sight. Isabel waited for some minutes after she
had disappeared lest something should transpire which might
cause her to change her mind and return. As time passed and
nothing more was seen of her, Isabel decided that she had gone
for good. Descending to the dining-room, seating herself at a
writing-table, Isabel drew from a drawer two large sheets of
paper, similar to the one contained in the envelope which
Cuthbert Grahame had instructed her to take from behind the
sliding panel. On one of these sheets she wrote, in her large,
bold, round hand, a facsimile of the will which marriage had
rendered invalid.
"I give and bequeath all the property of which I die possessed,
both in real and personal estate, to Margaret Wallace,
absolutely, for her sole use and benefit." When she had finished
she surveyed what she had written, then added--"With the
exception of five thousand pounds in cash, which I give and
bequeath to Isabel Burney, and which it is my wish shall be paid
to her, free of legacy duty, within seven days of my being
buried".
"That only needs his signature and the signatures of the
witnesses. Shall I date it, or leave the date open? I think I'll
be safe in dating it to-morrow. Now for another document very
much like it, but not quite, though as far as appearance goes it
must be as exactly like it as it can be conveniently made."
She then wrote on the second sheet what was, with some slight,
but important, differences, an exact reproduction of the words
she had written on the other.
"I give and bequeath all the property of which I die possessed,
both in real and personal estate, to Isabel Burney"--she
hesitated, then wrote--"whom I have acknowledged to be my wife,
in the presence of Dr. Twelves and Nannie Foreshaw, absolutely,
for her sole use and benefit"--she hesitated again, and this
time added--"with the exception of five farthings in cash, which
I give and bequeath to Margaret Wallace, and which it is my wish
shall be paid to her, free of legacy duty, within seven days of
my being buried."
"That also needs but the signatures and--a little ingenuity."
She had made them, in all respects, so much alike, fitting into
the same space the extra words on the second sheet that at a
little distance it was easy to mistake one for the other. "Now
we'll tear up that old thing, which my appearance on the scene
was so unfortunate as to spoil, and we'll put the new will in
its place--with its brother."
She did as she said, folding up the two sheets in precisely the
same creases, putting them into the one envelope. Then she went
upstairs to see Nannie.
The old lady's leg bade fair to be a long time healing, nor was
a cure likely to be hastened by her impatience and general
unwillingness to take things easily. So soon as Isabel put her
head inside the room, Nannie, sitting up in bed, aimed at her a
volley of questions.
"Why haven't you been here before? What's all the clatter been
about--like as if the house was coming down? Such ringing and
hammering I never heard the likes of. What's been the meaning of
it all? Where's them two girls? Why didn't one of you open the
door, like as if it was a Christian house? Why did you suffer
such a hubbub--enough to disturb the countryside? Who's been
talking in a voice like a cracked tin trumpet?"
It occurred to Isabel that the last analogy was unfortunate,
since a "cracked tin trumpet" was a not inadequate description
of the screech in which Nannie herself was even then indulging.
The old lady presented a peculiar spectacle--in a huge, ancient
nightcap, tied in a big bow beneath her chin; a vivid tartan
shawl about her shoulders. The visitor replied to the whole of
the inquiries with an unhesitating lie.
"Nannie, do you know that a dreadful man's been begging, and
trying to force his way into the house. If I hadn't turned the
key just in time I don't know what would have happened." She did
not, but the happenings would have run on different lines to
those which she suggested. "As it was he broke the front-door
window, and I had to pour a couple of buckets of water over him
before he'd go."
"A man been begging, and trying to force his way into the house!
Such a thing's never happened in all the days I've known the
place."
"I daresay I expect it was some one who's heard that you were
confined to your bed, and thought that I might be easily
tackled. He's found out his mistake."
"Where's them two girls?"
"I've sent them on an errand. Perhaps he knew that too, and that
made him bolder."
"I thought I heard a voice I knew."
"That must have been mine."
"Yours! I haven't heard a sound of you. Who was it screeching?"
"That was me. I was imitating your voice, Nannie. You see I
thought it might frighten him more than mine--and it did."
"My voice! Do you mean to tell me that that rasping, creaking
screech was meant to be an imitation of my voice? I'd like to
know whoever heard me talk in that way."
"Why, Nannie, I'm hearing you talk that way now. Don't you know
your own musical accents when you hear them?--and me giving you
a taste of them to your face!"
Laughingly, Isabel treated Nannie to another imitation of her
curious nasal utterance then and there, and was out of the room
before the old lady had recovered sufficiently from her
astonishment to pronounce a candid criticism of the impertinent
performance.
From Nannie Isabel descended to the master of the house, to be
greeted by some very similar inquiries.
"What's been the meaning of all this uproar?" Isabel repeated
the lie she had told Nannie. "That was no man's voice I heard.
It was a woman's, and I could have sworn one I knew."
"I expect the voice you thought you knew was Nannie. I was
favouring the ruffian with as close an imitation of her genial
tongue as I could manage."
"That's not what I mean. I heard you imitating Nannie. Will you
swear it was a man at the door?"
"Of course I'll swear it. Whatever do you mean?"
"What was he like?"
She seemed to consider.
"He was rather tall and very broad, with a big red beard. He had
a cloth cap on the back of his head; his coat over his arm; and
he carried a huge stick--about as undesirable-looking a person
to encounter on a lonely road as you could very well imagine. I
should know him anywhere if I saw him again. Do you recognise
him from my description?"
"I do not. I heard nothing of any man speaking, the voice I
heard was a woman's."
"Of course it was; I tell you that that was me imitating Nannie.
Don't you understand?"
"It was neither your voice nor Nannie's. It was one I have heard
too often, and know too well, ever to mistake for another. I
could have sworn it was hers; I could have sworn I heard her
pronounce my name. I was not dreaming--I could not have been.
That I should lie here, chained and helpless, and she almost
within touch of me! Why didn't Nannie go down to the door?"
"Nannie?--she's as helpless as you are."
"Where are those two servants?"
"I sent them out on an errand long ago."
"So that you've had me at your mercy, and if it was her, you've
had her also. That God should permit it! If you are lying to
me--and I believe you can lie like truth!--may you soon be
consigned to hell fire, to rot there to all eternity."
"If the worst comes to the worst, that's a trip on which I hope
to follow you."
"Swear to me by all that you hold sacred--if there's
anything!--that it wasn't Margaret Wallace at the door."
"Margaret Wallace!--are you stark mad?"
"I believe you're tricking me! I believe I heard her voice! I
believe I heard her pronounce my name!"
"If I had thought that you could have got such an idea into your
head as that, I'd have thrown the door wide open, and invited
that murderous ruffian to walk upstairs to you. Then you would
have seen how much he was like Margaret Wallace--that is, if
she's anything like the picture which you showed me. You've been
talking and thinking so much about Margaret Wallace that you've
got her on the brain. Do you think that if it had been her I
wouldn't have brought her right up to you? You're very much
mistaken if you do. I'm no saint, any more than you are, but I'd
no more rob a woman of her happiness than you would--perhaps not
so much. You did try to rob her, and you got me to be your
accomplice--blindfold, as it were. If I'd known what you've told
me this afternoon I'd have seen you--and old Twelves!--the other
side of Jordan before I'd let you make a tool of me. Now that I
do know, I won't rest quiet till you've put her back into the
position in which she was before. Here's that will I spoke to
you about. It's the same as the one which was spoilt, except
that it leaves me five thousand pounds. Five thousand pounds
will be of no consequence to her, while it will make all the
difference in the world to me. After the way in which you've
treated me I ought to have something, and that's the something I
mean to have."
Taking out the will which left everything to Margaret Wallace
except the L5,000, she held it out in front of Cuthbert Grahame.
He read it through.
"That seems all right. Will you help me sign it?"
"Of course I'll help you sign it--now if you choose, though I've
dated it to-morrow, because I thought that would give you a
chance to think things over. I tell you that I shan't rest till
that girl's back into her own again." For some moments he was
silent, then he said--
"Perhaps I was mistaken."
"Mistaken about what?"
"Perhaps it wasn't her voice I heard."
"Man, I tell you you were dreaming."
"Perhaps I was. If you'd driven her from the door you'd hardly
bring me a will like that directly after. Even if you'd let her
in, you might have guessed that she wouldn't have wanted to rob
you of your five thousand."
"Of course she wouldn't, any more than I wanted to rob her. We
women are not so bad as that, whatever you men may think."
"Put the will under my pillow--gently--with her miniature. As
you say, I'll think things over. Maybe I'll sign it to-morrow."
CHAPTER XII
SIGNING THE WILL
Cuthbert Grahame did sign his last will and testament on the
morrow, though hardly in the fashion he intended. The way in
which he was tricked was this.
Before the woman who called herself his wife went down to her
breakfast she paid him a morning call. He had had a more restful
night than usual, so that he was in an exceptional good-humour.
The sight of her seemed almost to give him pleasure. She was all
smiles and sweetness, which were real enough, since she hoped to
be shortly in possession of a boundless stock of happiness. He
began on the subject directly he saw her.
"I'll sign that will of yours."
"That's right; so you shall. But won't you wait till after
breakfast, then we can have up Jane and Martha to be witnesses."
Jane and Martha were the two serving-maids whose absence
yesterday had been so opportune.
"I'll wait. You'll have to have me propped up a little higher; I
shan't be able to sign like this."
"I'll see to that; I'll do everything I can." And she did. She
communed with herself as she ate a substantial meal. "Propped
up? I'll see he's propped up high enough, I promise him--the
higher the better. He can't be propped up high enough for me. It
seems a dangerous game to try to change one paper for the other
right under his very nose, but I fancy I know how it can be
done--and with complete impunity. If he could move so much as a
finger it might be difficult, but propped up as he'll be he'll
be wholly at the mercy of my two hands. I think they're skilful
enough for the job they've got to do." Spreading out the second
sheet of paper on the breakfast-table in front of her, she
studied it carefully, with every appearance of complacency.
"Such a little difference and yet so much--only the substitution
of one word for another, and all the world is changed. I think
'whom I have acknowledged to be my wife in the presence of Dr.
Twelves and Nannie Foreshaw' is a positive stroke of genius. It
commits me to nothing, and establishes my position, because
while he admits his desire to claim me for his wife, there is no
reference to any wish on my part to have him for a husband. The
only trouble will be to prevent his noticing the difference in
the appearance of the two papers, which, however neatly I've
done it, is the necessary consequence of inserting those few
words. But I think I know how to manage that."
She did; she credited herself with no capacity which she did not
possess. In every respect she proved herself to be fully equal
to all the requirements of the occasion.
She returned to Cuthbert Grahame's bedroom so soon as she had
finished breakfast, the personification of brisk, hearty
good-humour.
"Now are you ready? Shall we get to business? Is the will still
underneath your pillow? Shall I get it out?" She took from its
resting-place the paper which he supposed himself to be about to
sign. With the aid of some pillows she raised him to a more
upright position. Then she spread the paper out in front of him.
"You see, there's the will. Is that just as you want it to be?"
He read it through.
"That's all right."
"Then I'll call up Martha and Jane to act as witnesses, and then
you'll be able to sign it in their presence." She called up the
two girls, who came up rubbing their hands on their aprons. She
said to him, "Hadn't you better explain to them what it is you
want them to do?"
He explained.
"I'm going to make a new will. Mrs. Grahame,"--he paused; one
almost suspected him of a desire to give the name satiric
emphasis--"has been drawing up a will at my dictation. I'm going
to sign it. I want you to act as witnesses of my signature.
Stand close to the bed so that you can see what I am doing. My
dear"--this was to Isabel; again there was the hint of an
ironical intention--"if you will bring me the will which you
have been so good as to draft for me I won't keep these young
women a moment longer than I can help."
She brought him the will--or, rather, a will. It was spread out
on a slope, and covered with a sheet of blotting-paper on which
she kept her fingers to prevent it slipping. Only the last four
lines were visible--"it is my wish shall be paid to her, free of
legacy duty, within seven days of my being buried". What went
before was hidden; the familiar conclusion seemed to be all that
he cared to see. Leaning over him, raising his right arm, as
gingerly as if it had been a piece of delicate porcelain, she
placed his dreadful, helpless fingers somehow about a pen. He
spoke to the two girls.
"As you know, I can do nothing by myself, so Mrs. Grahame, at my
request, is going to guide my hand so as to enable me to sign my
will. You understand, it is I who am signing it, not she."
It was a strange signature--"Cuthbert Grahame," in big,
sprawling letters; some of them unattached to each other, all
slanting in different directions. The owner of the name,
however, seemed to view the result with undiluted satisfaction.
"That's my signature--clear enough for any one to read. Now I
want you two girls to attach your names as witnesses to the fact
that I have signed my will in your presence."
Isabel removed the slope to the writing-table against the wall.
Then each of the girls wrote her name in turn. When they had
done so they left the room. So soon as they had gone Cuthbert
Grahame spoke to Isabel.
"Now let me have a look at that will of mine in its finished
condition. Thank goodness it is done. It's a weight off my
mind--a relief for which I have to thank you."
Isabel stood at the writing-table, looking down, with a smile on
her face, at the paper he had signed.
"Do you say that you want to see your will now that it's all
signed, sealed and finished?"
"Yes; didn't you hear what I said? Then I want you to put it
under my pillow. I'll show it Twelves when he comes. He'll laugh
when he sees it."
"I expect he will laugh. Is Dr. Twelves coming to-day?"
"He said something about it. If not, then he'll be here
to-morrow. It will keep till then."
"Oh yes; it will keep till then."
"What are you waiting for? Why don't you bring the will? Don't I
tell you I want to read it again?"
She went to the bed, the sheet of paper extended between her two
hands.
"Here's your will, Mr. Grahame; by all means read it again."
He read it, once, twice, then again. Then he tried to speak. It
seemed that his voice failed him. It was not pleasant to notice
the stammer which seemed to mark his struggles for breath.
"What--what folly's this? That's not the will I signed."
Her eyes were dancing with laughter. There was a merry ring in
her voice, as if she was in the enjoyment of an excellent joke.
"Oh yes, it is."
"It's not the one you drafted."
"Oh yes, it is."
"It isn't the one you showed me just now."
"Isn't it? Are you quite, quite sure?"
"Of course I'm sure! It's a trick!--a fraud! This is not my
will!"
"But, dear Mr. Grahame--I noticed how you called me your
dear!--it is your will. Here's your signature, attested by two
witnesses. After all, there's only a slight difference between
the one you saw and this."
"A slight difference, you--you----!"
In his efforts to find an expletive to fit the occasion, his
struggles for breath became greater. She went gaily on.
"The only difference is that I get everything instead of
Margaret Wallace, and that instead of my five thousand pounds
she gets five farthings. Surely the trifling substitution of a
few words won't matter to you in the least, Mr. Grahame."
It seemed that it mattered a good deal. After a tremendous
effort he regained some portion of his voice, enough to enable
him to burst into a string of expletives.
"You--you----! You----! It's a fraud! a----fraud! It's a
swindle! Don't you flatter yourself that it will stand! Don't
you think I'll let it stand! Wait till Twelves comes, then I'll
show you!"
"Wait till Dr. Twelves comes? Suppose he never comes?"
"What do you mean? What are you doing with that pillow?"
"Suppose Dr. Twelves never comes, what is to prevent this will
from standing?"
"What are you doing with that pillow, you----!"
"I'm going to stop your saying such dreadful things. It pains me
to have to listen to such language."
She snatched away one pillow from beneath his head, and then a
second. She had propped him in such a way that when he was
deprived of their support his head fell back, and there recurred
the scene of the previous afternoon. He began to choke; his
unwieldy frame was shaken by convulsive efforts to breathe;
stertorous gasps proceeded from the region of his chest. He
presented a dreadful spectacle.
The sight did not seem to in any way affect the woman who was
standing by his bed, with the pillows still in her hand. She
pressed the bolster farther up his back so that his head
declined at an acute angle; applying her palm to the point of
his chin she forced it lower still. Then she said--
"I'll place the will as you wished me, Mr. Grahame, under your
pillow".
She placed it there, under the single pillow which remained;
then she left the room.
CHAPTER XIII
THE ENCOUNTER IN THE WOOD
Isabel crossed to her own room, put on her hat, smiling at
herself in the looking-glass as she arranged it to her
satisfaction, then went downstairs, and out of the house without
a word to any one. It was perhaps because she was conscious that
Martha was peeping at her through the stillroom window that she
began to whistle. She was still whistling one of the latest
possible melodies when, entering the drive, she turned off among
the trees and struck into the woods. Whistling was one of her
accomplishments: she whistled very well. The sound of her clear
pipe travelled far and wide. No one to hear her, or, for the
matter of that, to look at her either, would have supposed that
she had a care upon her mind. She bore herself like some
lighthearted, happy girl, who, with unstained conscience, looks
the whole world in the face, thinking what a delightful place it
was for a pretty girl to be in.
As a matter of fact it was the bright side of the picture which
presented itself to her--the bright side only. In imagination
she saw herself, as she would herself have phrased it, with
"tons of money" and "heaps of friends"; the bright particular
star of a radiant circle. Everywhere she was greeted with
outstretched hands, glad faces and paeans of welcome. Her frocks
were the most numerous and the "sweetest," her carriages and
horses were the finest, everything she had was of the very best,
and she had everything the heart--her heart!--could desire.
With that union of the practical with the imaginative which was
not the least prominent of her characteristics she there and
then began to inquire of herself what exactly in her new
position she should do. To begin with, there was the delicate
question of what she should call herself. Should she be Mrs.
Lamb or Mrs. Grahame? Should she revert to her maiden
patronymic, or should she start life again, with a fresh name
altogether, one more in consonance with her new position? These
were points she felt which would depend largely upon
circumstances; she might not have so much freedom in the matter
as she might desire. Then there was the question of domicile.
Where should she reside? One thing was certain, she would not
stay where she was--nothing would induce her. If she had her own
way she would never come near the place again--never! As for
living in his house!--in the middle of her brilliant imaginings
the mere thought of such a thing seemed to make her blood run
cold.
On the instant her mood was changed. She stood still, amid the
trees and bushes. With clenched fists, a new expression in her
eyes, she looked behind her, first over one shoulder, then the
other, then to the right and to the left, as if in search of
something she had no desire to see. A sudden, strange reluctance
seemed to clog her limbs. She listened: there was only the
cawing of some distant rooks and the whisper of the breeze among
the pines. With a laugh at her stupidity, breaking through the
something which constrained her, she went striding on.
But she had not gone far when a very genuine sound brought her
to a halt. In itself a commonplace, there it was the most
unusual of noises: it was the sound of footsteps, of some one
tramping through the forest. In all the time she had known the
place she had never heard a step except her own. Could it be
Margaret Wallace, still lingering about the haunts she probably
knew well and loved? It would be disconcerting if it were. If
they met--but that was hardly a woman's step. Could it be the
doctor? What was he doing in the forest on foot? Besides, she
had noticed what little pattering steps he took; this person was
striding.
The walker was hidden from her by a clump of bracken which rose
to a height of some six or seven feet. He was moving in her
direction. Should she retreat? It could probably be done, and
before he caught a glimpse of her. Should she advance and meet
him? or should she wait until he came to her? While she
hesitated, the decision was taken out of her hands. The walker,
threading his way among the bracken, reached a point where the
stalks were shorter. All at once she found herself confronted
by--Gregory Lamb.
She stared at him with as much amazement as he stared at her,
and her amazement was unbounded. Possibly he was the last person
with whom she would have associated the advancing footsteps; no
thought of him had crossed her mind. Not improbably, since she
at least had cause to suspect that he might be in the
neighbourhood, his surprise was even greater than hers. He stood
looking at her in bewildered silence, as if unable to believe
the evidence of his own eyes. When he did speak the observation
which he made was characteristic.
"Well, I'm hanged!"
Her retort was equally in character.
"I wish you were!"
"I daresay; but I rather fancy that when it does come to
hanging, where you and I are concerned, it will be a case of the
lady first. Where the deuce have you been all this time? and
what on earth are you doing here?"
"What business is that of yours? Do you know you're
trespassing?"
"What business is it of mine? and do I know I'm trespassing?
Well, that's pretty good, considering you're my wife, and the
way you've behaved. Do you happen to know that the police are
scouring the country for you, and that they're only lying low
because they think you're dead, or something?"
"It's a lie! You're a natural born liar; you tell nothing but
lies."
"Don't you think you've a little gift of you're own in that
direction? I do! It was bad enough to sneak off from me like
that; but to steal the old girl's money was playing it too low
down!"
"What are you talking about? What do you mean?"
"You know very well what I'm talking about! Do you think that I
don't know--and that everybody doesn't know--that you broke into
Mrs. Macconichie's cupboard and stole her savings? A pretty mess
I got into because you were a thief! You don't happen to know, I
suppose, that they locked me up for what you'd done, and that
they only let me go when I proved that that sort of thing wasn't
quite in my line."
"Serve you right!"
"What served me right?--locking me up, or letting me go?"
"Anything would serve you right, you brute!"
"Brute, am I? All right, my lady! if that's the way you're going
to talk to me I'll soon let the police know whereabouts you are,
and then they'll serve you right. A good taste of prison would
do you good, you dirty thief!"
"Don't shout like that!"
"Then don't you call me names. I'm not a thief whatever else I
am."
"I'm not so sure of that. What are you doing here?"
"What do you mean, what am I doing here?"
"I thought you'd gone back to London long ago."
"Then you're wrong, because I haven't; and what's more, I'm not
likely to go. I've been having a real bad time, that's what I've
been having."
"Haven't those rich friends of yours sent that remittance you
were always gassing about?"
"No, they haven't." After a pause, he added, sullenly, "My old
mother's allowing me a pound a week, and I'm living on that. So
now you know."
"Honest?"
"It's the gospel truth. So you'll be able to judge for yourself
how likely I am to be able to get back to London on that,
especially as she won't let me have a penny in advance."
"A nice sort you are!--after the lies you told me about the tons
of money you'd got yourself, and the other tons your friends had
got!--a pound a week!"
"Anyhow I'm not a thief."
"And I shouldn't have been a thief if I hadn't listened to your
lies; and very well you know it. I've had enough of you; take
yourself off!"
"Take myself off?"
"Yes, take yourself off, before I tell some one to take you."
"Well! you've got a face! If I do go I'll put the police on to
you, and then you'll sing a different song."
"You dare!"
"Dare!" he laughed, not pleasantly. "What is there to dare? I'd
think as little of putting the police on to you as I would of
putting a dog on to a cat. They'd soon show you your place, you
thief!"
There was an interval of silence, during which she looked at him
over the intervening bracken. If looks could kill he would have
dropped dead where he stood.
"Well, are you going to take yourself off, or am I to tell them
to take you?"
"Who's them?--tell away! I think that when I tell them you're my
wife, and that the police have been looking for you for quite a
while, they--whoever they may be!--won't be so keen to interfere
with me as you perhaps fancy. There's another thing: you seem to
be forgetting that you're my wife. When I do go you'll go with
me."
"Will I? We'll see."
"We will see; or, if you prefer it, it shall be the other way
about, I'll go with you."
"Will you?"
"It'll have to be one or the other, you may take it from me.
Well, are you going to call those friends of yours? Are you
coming with me, or am I to go with you? Which is it to be? I'm
in no hurry; take your time. I'll have a pipe while you're
thinking it over."
He filled a pipe which he took from his pocket, while she glared
at him.
"I'm as strong as you; I believe I'm stronger; I believe I could
kill you if I chose."
"Be a murderer as well as a thief, would you? I shouldn't be
surprised. You mightn't find it so easy to bring off this job as
you did the other; killing a man is not so simple as killing a
pig, take my word for it."
"Listen to me, Gregory Lamb."
"I'm listening, Mrs. Lamb, and it gives me real pleasure to do
it."
"I'll make a rich man of you if you'll take yourself off."
He stayed the lighted match on its passage to his pipe.
"You'll make a rich man of me? Now you're singing in quite
another key. How are you going to do it?"
"I'm staying in the house of a man who's dying."
"Dying is he? Then what does he want you in the house for? Have
you turned nurse? Is that your latest caper?"
"Never mind what I've turned. He's a rich man."
"What do you call rich?--like me?"
"You fool! He owns all this"--she threw out her arms--"and ever
so much besides."
"Owns all this? Is it Cuthbert Grahame you're talking about?"
"What do you know about Cuthbert Grahame?"
"Only that I happen to be living in one of his cottages--just
over there--and a nice hole it is. But you can't expect much in
the way of board and lodging for a pound a week, especially when
you want some change left out of it. You're living in Cuthbert
Grahame's house? Why, then--great Scot!--you must be the woman
they're talking about who dropped from the skies." A change took
place in the expression of his countenance which in its way was
comical. "A pretty sort of she-devil you must be!"
"Now what are you talking about?"
"I know everything. Why, one of the servants up at Cuthbert
Grahame's--Martha Blair--is the daughter of the people I'm
lodging with. They talk of nothing else but you. You've been
passing yourself off as Cuthbert Grahame's wife."
"Well, what of it?"
"What of it?--that's good! First theft, then bigamy!"
"You fool! he's dying."
"I don't see what difference that makes; from what I understand
he's been dying for years."
"He's made a will in my favour."
"Did he tell you?"
"He did. He's left me everything--every shilling he has in the
world."
"You're a beauty, upon my soul you are!"
"And I tell you that he's dying while we are standing here. The
odds are that he'll be dead by the time that I get back."
"How do you know?"
"Then everything he has will be mine--ours."
"Ours?"
"Ours!--yours and mine!--if you can keep a still tongue in your
head, and keep on pretending that you know nothing about me."
He was trembling.
"What about the Mrs. Grahame?"
"Stuff the Mrs. Grahame! After he's dead I can soon be Mrs. Lamb
again. What's to stop me?"
"Shall we have to live here?"
She shuddered, involuntarily.
"Live here?--not much! We'll clear out of this in double quick
time. We'll take a house in London, and live like princes."
He moistened his lips with his tongue.
"You'll act on the square with me?"
"Of course I will, if you'll act on the square with me. Look
here, there's a ten-pound note for you. It's all I've got about
me, but as you seem hard up you may find it useful. You go back,
and unless I'm mistaken by to-morrow morning you'll hear he's
dead. It won't take me long to put things ship-shape. Don't you
write or try to see me, unless I give you the office. I'll keep
you posted in how things are going. And so soon as I can lay
hands on a good lot of the ready, if you like we'll go up to
town together, and we'll have a real old spree as we go."
"Belle, you--you're----"
He stopped, as if his vocabulary failed him altogether.
"Yes, I know I am; I'm all that, and more besides."
She laughed, and he laughed. In the laughter of neither of them
was there any merriment. The sounds they emitted were merely
mechanical.
CHAPTER XIV
IN CUTHBERT GRAHAME'S ROOM
On Isabel's return to the house she was greeted on the threshold
by Martha, the Martha Blair whose connection with Gregory Lamb's
present place of residence seemed destined to have a
considerable bearing on Isabel's future life, and, at least, to
settle the debated question of what her future name and title
were to be. Martha's whole attitude was significant of some
great happening. Her hands were raised; it seemed that if
possible her hair would have been raised too; her eyebrows were
elevated to quite a perceptible degree. Her eyes and mouth were
wide open; agitation, of a not unpleasant kind, streamed from
every pore of her. Behind was Jane, every whit as interested as
her companion; but as she happened to be both the younger and
the smaller her opportunities for display were less pronounced.
Outside stood Dr. Twelves' dogcart; the horse, untended and
untethered, apparently content to stand still as long as any one
desired.
Martha broke into speech before Isabel had a chance to plant her
foot upon the doorstep.
"Oh, Mrs. Grahame, the master! Mr. Cuthbert, ma'am!"
"Mr. Cuthbert, ma'am!" echoed Jane from the rear.
"Mr. Cuthbert? Well, what's the matter with Mr. Cuthbert? Let me
come in, don't stand there blocking up the way! Do you hear,
what's the matter with Mr. Cuthbert?"
"He's dead, ma'am--he's dead."
The words broke from both the girls in chorus.
"Dead? What do you mean? What nonsense are you talking? He was
well enough when I went out. I've never seen him better."
"He's had an accident, ma'am, and it's killed him."
"Accident? How could he have an accident? Is Dr. Twelves in the
house? Where is he?"
"The doctor is in Mr. Cuthbert's room. He's been there this
half-hour and more."
She went upstairs to Mr. Cuthbert's room. Her pulse did not
quicken; inwardly as well as outwardly she remained calm; she
was a woman whose self-control was above the average; yet she
was reluctant to enter that room. It was with an effort she
induced herself to grip the handle; when she had done so she had
to force herself to give it the necessary twist. Even then she
lingered on the threshold.
"Who's there?" came the doctor's voice, in accents of inquiry.
She showed herself.
"What's happened? What's the matter?"
The doctor was standing at the head of the bed. He had something
in either hand. Instead of replying to her inquiries he looked
at her from beneath his overhanging brows, as if he had been her
accuser.
"Why do you look at me like that? Do you hear me ask you what
has happened? Have you all lost your senses? Why don't you
answer?" He waved his hand towards the bed. Her gaze followed
his gesture, with an effort. She knew what she would see; she
did not want to see it. Instantly her glance returned to the
doctor.
"Is he--is he dead?"
"Quite dead."
"But I don't understand. When I left him he seemed brighter and
better than I have ever seen him before."
"He's been killed."
"Killed! What do you mean, he's been killed?"
"Come here, I'll show you." She went a little closer,
unwillingly. "Come this side of the bed." She did as he bade
her, with leaden feet. "You see, the pillows have fallen; he's
been choked."
"But how can they have fallen? They were all right when I left
him. Has any one been in since?"
"Are you sure they were all right when you left him?"
"Perfectly sure. I tell you I have never seen him in better
health or in brighter spirits."
"He could not have pushed them from under him himself."
"He might have done it in a fit."
"Perhaps; but it would have had to be a singular sort of a fit.
You say you are sure they were in their usual position when you
left him?"
"Why do you ask me that again? Why do you look at me like that,
and speak in such a tone? Are you suggesting that I have had a
hand in his death?"
"I am suggesting nothing."
"It seems to me that you are suggesting a good deal, which you
dare not say right out. At least your manner is peculiar--but
that it generally is. If you have anything to say, say it--like
a man!--at once! Don't hint it, like a sneak. I hate your
underhanded ways."
"I found this under his pillow--his one remaining pillow."
"It's his will. He made it this morning."
"So I am told by the two servants. I perceive it is in your
writing. Did he dictate to you this document?"
"He did. I wrote it from his dictation, word for word as he told
me. I wrote it yesterday afternoon. He read it through, and kept
it under his pillow all night. He signed it this morning."
"It seems odd that, after completing such a will as this, he
should have immediately died--in such a manner. If he could come
to life again I wonder what he'd say."
"Give me that will, if you please, Dr. Twelves."
"Hadn't I better hand it to his lawyer for safe keeping?"
"His lawyer? His lawyer is now my lawyer; I will give all
necessary instructions. The will will be in safe keeping with
me. Give it me at once." He gave it her. "What have you in your
other hand? Some more property of mine?"
"It is the miniature of the woman he loved best in the world.
Don't you think it might go with him, in his coffin, to the
grave?"
"Give it me. I will give all necessary instructions, as I have
already told you. Your interference is not desired, nor will it
be tolerated. To be quite frank with you, Dr. Twelves--it is
always my desire to be frank and open--I have endured too much
from you already; I will endure nothing more. The less I see, or
hear, of you in the future the better I shall be pleased, since
you are, in all respects, the most objectionable person I ever
met. Don't you venture to intrude yourself again; if medical
attendance is required it will be obtained elsewhere. I
am now the mistress of this house--since there is no master,
its mistress in the most literal sense. Everything is
mine--everything. Be so good as to bear that in mind."
He looked at her, and smiled.
"I am not likely to forget that--ever."
She did not know which she liked least--his tone, his look, or
his smile.
BOOK II
THE WIDOW