SUDDEN DEATH
There had been an outbreak of festivities in the neighbourhood of
lethargic Ottinge; the climax of these was a grand ball given by Mrs.
Woolcock at Westmere, to celebrate her youngest daughter’s engagement
to Lord Lowestoff. Every one who was any one--and indeed not a few
nobodies--were bidden as guests; Mrs. Woolcock liked to see her rooms
crammed to suffocation. No expense was spared--the arrangements were
made on a lavish scale. On this occasion the extra waiters and other
luxuries were imported from London by special train, and a carefully
selected house-party provided the bride-elect with a ready-made court
that intervened between the future peeress and the vulgar herd.
Dancing took place in the great drawing-room (in old days it was
called the White Saloon), and through its wide, open windows humble
spectators--such as coachmen and chauffeurs--were at liberty to look
on, to wonder, and to criticise.
The Misses Parrett and their niece were present. Miss Parrett--who had
nerved herself for the ordeal with a glass and a half of port--had
motored to Westmere through the darkness, with great, flaring lamps--a
truly heart-shaking experience! but she was determined to exhibit her
new velvet gown and her new diamonds. Her satisfaction with her own
appearance was such that, before she embarked on her venture into
the night and the motor, her household were summoned to a private
view--precisely as if she were a young beauty or a bride!
The old lady, who bore an absurd resemblance to a black velvet
penwiper, enjoyed the ball immensely, and took a number of mental
photographs; she also “took the wall” of various obnoxious people who
had dared to patronise her in her days of poverty. Her particular
satellites, stout widows and anxious-looking spinsters, rallied around
her, ardently admiring her toilette, and listened patiently to her
boring recollections of the balls she had attended years ago; but, in
point of fact, they were more keenly interested in the ball of to-night
and their prospects respecting escorts to the supper-table.
Much as she was engrossed in herself and her own importance, Miss
Parrett could not help noticing that her niece was singled out
for special attention by Bertie Woolcock. This, though a genuine
satisfaction to her, was no pleasure to her chauffeur, who, from a
coign of vantage on the lawn, commanded a capital view of the gay
scene--the illuminated room, the constant circulation of black and
white, and sometimes coloured, figures. Among these Miss Morven was
pre-eminent--the undisputed beauty of the evening--wearing a filmy
white gown, with a sparkling ornament glittering in her dark hair; she
looked radiantly lovely and radiantly happy, as she floated lightly by.
The chauffeur’s watchful eyes noted that she had (quite unnecessarily)
bestowed three waltzes on that blundering elephant, Bertie Woolcock;
how red and hot he looked--more as if he were threshing than dancing!
What would _he_ not give for just a couple of turns with the belle of
the ball! The band was “Iffs” and the floor seemed to be ripping!
Well, there was nothing for it but to wait as an outsider, and to hold
on to his patience with both hands.
After the great ball--its glories, shortcomings, surprises, and
failures--had died away into a nine days’ wonder, there were several
cricket matches, and Ottinge discovered, to its supreme elation, that
they had a notable man in Miss Parrett’s chauffeur! (This became
evident when the local eleven assembled for their evening practice
in the Manor fields.) The fame of Owen’s batting actually brought
old Thunder on the scene; for he, too, had been a fine cricketer,
long before gout had seized upon him and he had subsided into carpet
slippers.
“Ottinge _v._ Westmere” was a two days’ match, and the last day at the
park included a garden-party, arranged, as Mrs. Woolcock murderously
expressed it, “to kill off all the neighbours!”
“I say, Miss Morven,” said Bertie Woolcock, greeting her and her father
on their very late arrival. “We are catching it hot now, though Ottinge
was nearly out at three o’clock; that chauffeur fellow of your aunts’
has made sixty runs for his side. I hope you sympathise with us--we
shall lose the match.”
“No, no indeed, Ottinge for ever!” she replied. “Where is the
chauffeur?” glancing round.
“Out in the field now.”
For some time she did not discover him, standing, a good way off,
bareheaded, and in well-fitting flannels. He looked every inch a
gentleman! What a contrast to poor Bertie, who seemed, in comparison, a
great slouching yokel.
“He’s a good-looking chap, isn’t he?” said the Rector, with the
complacency of a man who is alluding to one of his own parishioners.
“Yes,” admitted young Woolcock in a grudging tone, “I suppose he is--a
ladies’ beauty! One hears such a lot of sultry stories, in these days,
about women being mashed on their chauffeurs, and runaway matches. For
my part, I call a chauffeur a rank idler--a chap who sits all day,
looks as solemn as an undertaker, and gets spoiled by the ladies.” Then
to Aurea, “Now, come over to the tent, Miss Morven, my mother has kept
a place for you.”
The match proved close and exciting. Westmere had a strong team, and
Aurea looked on with intense interest; the Park was in, and out in the
field were Dr. Boas, Hogben, Jones, Owen, and others. Time went on, the
last man was in, and making runs--the fate of the match hung in the
balance, when it was brought to an end by a capital catch; Owen had not
merely to run at top speed, but to stoop suddenly to catch the ball--a
fine effort--which was loudly and deservedly applauded.
“_He_ knows all about it,” remarked a man who was standing beside
Aurea. “He is a public school boy, I’ll bet my hat. What is he doing in
Ottinge? A chauffeur! Good Lord! Some young swell in disgrace with his
family.”
Miss Morven mentally endorsed this speech; but actually she shrugged
her shoulders.
Miss Susan beamed at the victory--Owen’s triumphs were hers. She felt
as proud of his cricket and his songs at the Parish Hall Concerts as if
he had been her own flesh and blood--other elderly spinsters have been
known to take young men into the recesses of their empty and innocent
hearts.
When the match was over, she kept her eye on the hero of the occasion,
and, seeing him getting into his coat and preparing to depart, she
beckoned eagerly, and then hurried towards him with outstretched hands.
“Congratulate you, Owen! I do feel so proud of you!”
“Thank you, miss. I’m going to fetch the car--it’s getting late.”
“Can you tell me the time?”
He pulled out his watch from his breast-pocket, and hastily touched--as
luck would have it--the wrong spring; the back flew open, and a small
photograph, no bigger than a finger-nail, fell upon the grass. In a
second Owen had put his foot upon it, swooped, and snatched it up.
Whether from stooping or otherwise, his colour was higher than usual,
as he boldly confronted Miss Susan, whose face had become unusually
grave--for, unless her eyes deceived her (and she had capital sight)
the treasure was a photograph of her niece Aurea, cut out of a group of
“First Aid” recently taken at the Rectory! She had recognised it in one
lightning glance!
However, the chauffeur met her eyes imperturbably, as he replaced
the little scrap, opened the face of his watch, and announced, with
staggering self-possession--
“Half-past six, Miss Susan.”
Miss Susan turned hastily away, her maiden mind in a violent commotion.
So Owen, the chauffeur, carried Aurea’s photograph about with him in
his watch! What did it mean? Well, of course, it could only mean one
thing, he was--and who could wonder--in love with the girl! Yes, and
the conviction gave Miss Susan a violent shock; she was scandalised,
she was pleased, and she was _not_ pleased--a peculiar and contrary
state of mind. She determined to keep the amazing revelation to
herself. Aurea must not be told on any account--it might put disturbing
ideas into her head--it would not be proper; and for one whole week
Miss Susan contained her mighty secret, which secret disagreed with her
both mentally and physically. She was short and snappy--a new phase of
her character--ate little, avoided the garden, and mainly subsisted on
tea. At the end of seven long days she found her endurance had reached
its limits, and, sitting with her back to the dim light of the Rectory
drawing-room, Susan Parrett solemnly divulged to her niece the tale of
her significant discovery.
Was she shocked? Did she turn red and white? No, indeed; Aurea received
the astonishing information with a peal of laughter.
“Oh, my dearest Susie, what a tale! Why, it was no more my photograph
than yours! Am I the only young woman that is known to Owen, the
chauffeur?”
This clever girl was so insistent and so amused that she actually
persuaded her deluded aunt that her eyes had deceived her, and she had
made a ridiculous and silly mistake--yet all the time the girl’s own
heart sang to the tune that the story was _true_.
This silent chauffeur was a gentleman who had been in the Service,
and he carried her picture inside his watch. These two facts were of
profound interest to Aurea Morven, and she turned them over in her
mind many, many times a day; the result being, that she held herself
as much as possible aloof from her aunts’ employé. When she did avail
herself of the car, it was never to sit, as heretofore, outside by the
driver, but within the stuffy interior. She shrank from coming into
contact with a man who was seldom, to tell the honest truth, out of
her thoughts. To garden-parties and tennis tournaments she now hailed
her father, instead of accompanying Susan; and together they drove in
the Rectory dog-cart--this arrangement entailing not a few excuses and
pleadings, that were not too firmly based on the truth--and the poor
forsaken car remained in the coach-house, or took Miss Parrett out for
a brief and agonising airing.
In consequence of all this, the car’s driver had more time than ever
on his hands! The summer days are long, and, when off duty, he saw
a good deal of the Ramsays. The captain seemed of late to have sunk
into a further depth of mental lethargy, and to have lost much of his
affectionate interest in his old schoolfellow, Owen Wynyard.
“I am giving up the dogs for the present,” announced Mrs. Ramsay one
morning at the kennels, as he brought back three leg-weary companions.
“I find I must not continue what absorbs so much of my time and carries
me from home--though you are so good, and have undertaken the three
worst characters--they’re just as wild as goats.”
“But I like them,” he declared; “they are capital company, and give me
an object for my tramps--these two fox-terriers and the little beagle
and I are great chums. We have done a fine round this morning--they
have had the time of their lives! Just look at them!” and she looked
and smiled at their bespattered legs, lolling tongues, and happy eyes.
“Oh, I am sure of that,” she replied; “for they are three town dogs!
However, I must send the poor fellows away, all the same. I want to be
with Jim altogether, and without his knowing it. You see, he will never
allow me to walk with him; and he always fancies he is being watched,
and looks behind him every now and then. All the same, I mean to follow
him.”
Wynyard listened in silence. Mrs. Ramsay was, in his opinion, little
short of a saint; for years and years she had devoted her own
individual life to this unhappy madman. It was for him she slaved
to increase their small income, trading in plants and cuttings, and
keeping other people’s dogs. With the money she earned she made Ivy
House homelike and comfortable. The captain’s food, drink, tobacco,
and surroundings were of a class that the exterior of the place did
not seem to warrant, and were accepted by him as a matter of course.
Nothing could induce him to believe that their income was less than a
thousand a year; he had no recollection of his money losses. But this
long-drawn-out effort and strain was beginning to tell on his wife.
There were many white strands in her thick black hair, many lines in
her face; she had grown thin and haggard, her beautiful Irish eyes
were sunken, and wore an expression of tragic anxiety. She alone knew
what she dreaded, and at last she put her fears into words--not to
old friends like the Parson, or Susan Parrett, but to this recent
acquaintance, this young Wynyard, who knew so much already.
“Tell me, Owen, don’t you think that Jim looks rather strange of late?”
she asked him, in a low voice.
“No--much as usual.”
“He sleeps so badly, and has no appetite, and seems horribly depressed.
Oh, I feel miserable about him!” and she buried her face in her thin
hands.
“I wish I could do something, Mrs. Ramsay. Would you like me to stop
here at night--you know you’ve only to say the word,” he urged, in a
boyish tone that was irresistible.
“Oh no, no, no; but it’s awfully good of you to offer. It’s not at
night, but when he is out by himself that is so trying. I do follow
as much as I dare. You see,” now lowering her voice, “once this mental
breakdown of his took the form of suicide”--and here her voice sank
to a whisper--“he tried to hang himself in Claringbold’s barn; but I
caught him just in time, and it never got out. That was years ago;
and afterwards he made a wonderful recovery. Now, it seems to me more
like a decay of will-power and memory, with occasional outbreaks of
violence--I can manage him then--but it’s the dying of the mind!” and
she gave a little sob.
“If I may speak plainly, Mrs. Ramsay, I really think you should get an
experienced man to look after him at once. I know nothing of mental
disease, but I’m sure it’s not right for you to be alone here with him,
and just two maids and old Mary.”
“You mean for me to get a keeper? No; I couldn’t do it; and think of
what people would suppose.”
Poor innocent lady! Did she imagine for a moment that all Ottinge did
not know for a fact that her husband was insane?
“You might let them suppose he had come to help with the dogs,” he
suggested, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Of course--of course--what a splendid idea!”
“And you will send for him to-morrow, won’t you? Or would you like me
to wire or write to-night? I know some one in London who would see
about this.”
(Leila would have been considerably astonished if her brother’s first
commission from Ottinge was to dispatch a keeper for a male lunatic!)
“I must consult Dr. Boas. Thank you very much. I won’t do anything in a
hurry.”
“Won’t you? Why not? I think you should see Dr. Boas at once.”
“Well, then, I will to-morrow. Jim complains of his head--he often
does, but now he says the pain is like a saw, and he can’t stand it.
Then he imagines he is back in the Service, and expecting to be warned
for parade or a court martial, and talks very strangely. Dr. Boas has
gone away to a funeral, and won’t be back till to-night, and then I
must confess Jim doesn’t like him; he likes no one but you, and some of
the dogs--and _me_, of course,” she added, with a sickly smile.
“Shall I come in this evening?”
“Oh, do; you _are_ a kind fellow! Even if he never speaks now, sure I
know he loves to see you sitting there. Ah, here he is, and I must go
and coax him to eat some dinner!”
To his visitor’s surprise, Captain Ramsay was unusually animated and
talkative that night, and mentioned many little details about his
father, and recalled certain daredevil deeds, acts of generosity, and
even nascent love-affairs.
“I say, Owen, you remember the pretty girl up at Simla--the dark-eyed
one you were so mad about--and how you swore you’d run away with her,
and marry her in spite of her father, the General, and the whole
family? Oh, of course I know--what a duffer I am! You eloped, tore down
the hill by special dâk, and were married at Saharanpore. Where is she
now?”
Wynyard made no reply. Captain Ramsay’s wandering memory had evidently
evoked a vision of his dark-eyed and remarkably pretty mother. She had
run away with the handsome Hussar officer, and had, in consequence,
been cast off by her relations.
“Dead?” inquired the other after a pause.
Wynyard nodded.
“Ah, well, we shall all be dead one day--some sooner--and some later,”
and he fell into one of his sudden silences.
“I think he is better!” whispered his wife to Wynyard, as they parted
at the hall door. “Didn’t he seem almost himself this evening? And he
took great notice of Topsy and Darkie, and made their dinner himself.”
Two days later, as the chauffeur was leaving Mrs. Hogben’s cottage
after his midday meal, preparatory to getting ready the car, Mrs.
Ramsay suddenly appeared at her gate and beckoned to him frantically.
She looked white and frightened.
“Jim went off this morning,” she began, “and hasn’t been home since. He
never did this before. Oh, I _ought_ to have taken your advice,” and
she wrung her hands. “I’ve been searching for him since eight o’clock.”
“Did he speak to any one before he left the house?” inquired Wynyard.
“No. Fanny saw him going out in a terrible hurry; he had on a pair of
white gloves, and said he would be late for parade.”
“Poor fellow!”
“And the stupid girl never said one word to me till she brought me my
hot water at eight o’clock.”
“I’m just off with the car, taking Miss Susan to a croquet tournament,
or I’d go and have a look round. What about the policeman?”
“The policeman! Why, he cannot walk! He weighs sixteen stone.”
“Well, anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ll send Tom Hogben and Jones; they
know the country, and will keep a shut mouth. I’ll just tell them now,”
and he hurried away.
Although Miss Susan had no money wherewith to buy diamonds, sables,
and motor cars, she contrived to extract a great deal of pleasure out
of her elderly spinster life. She enjoyed mild little tea-parties,
followed by bridge at sixpence a hundred--and received her partner’s
scoldings with disarming humility. Her one passion was croquet. “Miss
S. Parrett” was a notable player--her name appeared in print in
connection with local tournaments; her arm was steady, her aim was
deadly, and, not only this, she played the game with her head as well
as with her hands.
On the present occasion Miss Susan had lured her reluctant niece to a
meeting at Upstreet--a village about ten miles from Ottinge; in fact,
she made such a point of Aurea’s company, of Aurea’s support--whether
in success or failure--that the girl felt compelled to go--and, at
any rate, she took a sincere pride in Susan’s modest triumphs. The
tournament was prolonged till seven o’clock; Miss Susan was detained,
being in the Finals. Dusk was closing on the world when the two ladies,
with two prizes (salad bowl and a silver cigarette-case), took their
departure. The prize-winner, in exuberant spirits, uttering effusive
expressions of enjoyment and thanks, had talked herself into the car,
and there were so many after-thoughts and messages that even the
chauffeur became impatient with his dear Miss Susan; he was desperately
anxious to get home and hear the result of the search for Captain
Ramsay.
It was an unusually close evening--there was thunder in the air--and
the interior of the motor was stuffy even with the windows down on both
sides--and how they rattled! The old machine trundled along at its best
speed, as if inspired by the fear of Miss Parrett awaiting its arrival,
watch in hand. Its driver had another and more well-grounded dread in
his mind.
The ladies within discussed the recent party, the play, the prizes, and
the guests.
“The Wendovers were there; did you see them?” said Miss Susan--“Mrs.
Wendover and Gertrude. I thought they both looked very ill.”
“Yes, and I believe it was from hunger, Susan,” was her niece’s
surprising reply. “I never saw such a tea as they had--surreptitiously.
It’s shameful to watch, I know, but I was not playing, and happened to
be sitting near, and could not help myself. I felt so frightfully sorry
for them--I was inclined to cry!”
“My dear girl, surely you are not in earnest?”
“I only wish I wasn’t. Gertrude had a whole plate of sandwiches,
besides cakes; she took them quietly, when no one was looking, and
devoured them ravenously, and her mother pocketed several buns and
lumps of sugar.”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
“Because probably they have nothing to eat at home! Mrs. Lucas, the
parson’s wife, told me in confidence that they are almost penniless;
the little money they had has been lost in some bank that tempted
people with high interest and then went smash. The Wendovers cling to
the old cottage--it’s their own--but they have no servant; they do
their own washing and, very early in the morning, their own doorstep!
Everything is spick and span still. After dark they steal out and
collect firewood and apples, and even field turnips, and yet they hold
up their heads and ‘pretend.’ I heard Mrs. Wade pressing them to have
cake and tea--and they declined.”
“Have they no friends or relations?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Lucas said she did not like to ask for their
confidence. She always has them to supper on Sundays, and sends them
eggs; but she is poor enough herself with eight children. She thinks
the Wendovers will break down now that the winter is coming, and yet
they won’t allow any one to guess that they are destitute.”
“Dear, dear, dear, how shocking! What _is_ to be done, Aurea?”
“I’ve just had my allowance, and I’ll post them a five-pound note
to-morrow anonymously, and I’ll get something later on from dad.”
“Yes, yes, yes, and I must see what I can do too. Poverty is cruel--a
terrible thing--what a trial of one’s character!”
“It is indeed, and so are riches sometimes. They seem to change
people’s dispositions--if they come in for a fortune.”
“That’s true; but I do hope, dear child, you are not thinking of your
poor Aunt Bella?”
“Aunt Bella was much nicer when she lived in the Red Cottage, dined at
one o’clock, and put a penny in the plate.”
“Oh, now, Aurea, I can’t let you say that; she is very proud of you,
and a dear, kind sister to me. Why, only last week she gave me a lovely
lace parasol, and when she writes to me it is always ‘My own darling
Susan.’”
Aurea was silent. She was thinking of darling Susan’s many
deprivations, humiliations, and hardships.
“We all have our foibles, have we not, Aurea, my child?”
“Oh, I know that, Susan, and I----”
Whatever Aurea was going to add was cut short by her aunt’s piercing
scream. From some thick bushes on the left bank, a tall figure had
shot out; there was a lightning rush, a shout from the chauffeur,
who jammed on the brake, then a violent swerve, an upheaval, and a
sickening, crunching sensation.
A man had deliberately flung himself in front of the car, which had
gone over him, then stopped abruptly, shuddering throughout its rickety
frame.
The driver sprang off and dragged from beneath the wheels a limp and
motionless body. Yes, his vague fears had been justified.
“It’s Captain Ramsay!” he called to Aurea, who had already hurled
herself into the road. “I’m afraid he is done for. Stay where you are.”
As he spoke, he raised a limp and bleeding figure in his arms, which he
carried to the hedgerow; next, he took off his coat and laid him upon
it, and ran and lit a motor lamp. All his actions were surprisingly
prompt and vigorous.
“Now, will you come over here, miss?” he called to Susan
authoritatively, but she was almost beside him. In a crisis, simple,
talkative Susan was another person, and could rise to the occasion.
“And you, Miss Morven, try and find some water--we passed a stream just
now; bring it in anything--your hat or--yes, the salad bowl! I’m afraid
it’s a bad business,” he continued, “and his head is all cut--and his
wrist--it’s an artery. Miss Susan, fetch a stick quickly, quickly, and
I’ll make a tourniquet.”
The chauffeur seemed to have taken complete command of the
situation; he ordered the ladies hither and thither, he bandaged up
Captain Ramsay’s head with Aurea’s white scarf--which he tore into
strips--whilst Aurea stood by, eager to help, but trembling like an
aspen. She had never heard a man moan, or witnessed such a scene.
“I think I’ve fixed him up just for the moment,” said Owen, rising,
“and now I’ll fetch the doctor. You two ladies won’t mind stopping,
will you?”
“Certainly not! What do you think we are made of?” rejoined Miss Susan.
“Here,”--now sinking down--“place his head in my lap, and just go as
hard as ever you can!”
“He is in a very bad way, I’m afraid, and I really don’t like leaving
you, but there’s no help for it.” Then, after sticking a flaring lamp
on the ground beside them, he climbed into his place and sped away.
In less than half an hour he had returned, accompanied by Dr. Boas;
they found the poor sufferer still alive and moaning, his head
supported by Miss Susan, and his lips bathed by her niece.
“I half expected this,” said the doctor, as he knelt beside Captain
Ramsay. “Internal injuries,” he announced, after a rapid examination,
“and fatal.”
“The stretcher and the parish nurse will be here presently,” said Owen;
and, hearing a familiar voice, Captain Ramsay slowly opened his eyes
and asked--
“Oh, it’s cold. Where am I? Where’s Katie?”
As he recognised Owen bending over him, he murmured--
“Wynyard, Wynyard--hold on--I’m coming!”
“You see he is off his head,” said Miss Susan, “poor fellow; he did not
know what he was doing.”
Then, as the chauffeur relieved her of the dying man’s weight, he
regained consciousness, and, again opening his eyes, he whispered
“_Wynyard!_” and passed away in the arms of Wynyard’s son.