THE LIGHTS WERE DIM.
Early on that very morning Miss Hart tapped at Mrs. Bell's door. That
good lady was not fully dressed, but she appeared in a voluminous
morning robe to answer her young visitor's summons.
"I am going away, Mrs. Bell," said Miss Hart.
"Oh, my dear!" Mrs. Bell's full-moon face turned absolutely pale. "Going
away, my love!" she said. She thought of her private hoard, not nearly
large enough, and her voice became absolutely pathetic. "Going away,
Miss Hart? I'm truly grieved to hear it. And haven't I made you
comfortable enough, my poor dear?"
"Oh, you misunderstand me, Mrs. Bell. I am going away, but only for a
little--just for a day or two. I don't know exactly when I shall be
back, but probably in a day or two. I am going by the early train, and I
tapped at your door to say good-bye."
Then Mrs. Bell in her delight and joy kissed Miss Hart, who soon
afterwards left the house.
She walked to the station, the hour was early, and there was no special
person about. She took a first-class ticket to a small town about thirty
miles away, and immediately afterwards her train came up.
During the greater part of her journey Miss Hart had the compartment to
herself. By-and-bye fellow-passengers got in, who almost started back at
the sight of the pale face of the girl, who sat with her veil thrown
back, looking straight out of the open window.
There was a strange expression on her face; her brows were slightly
drawn together, and the curves of her lips had a, weary and pathetic
droop. She had taken off her gloves, and now and then she clasped her
slender white hands together with a nervous, passionate tension. Then
the look in her eyes became almost ugly, and her fellow passengers were
uncomfortable as they watched her.
At the little country town of West Brockley, Miss Hart alighted. She had
brought all her luggage in a small handbag, and now she walked to her
destination. It was in the outskirts of the little town, and amongst a
row of poor houses. She stopped at one of these, and entered by the open
door. A woman met her in the passage.
"Is Mr. Hart within?"
"I don't know, madam, I'll inquire."
"No, don't do that. I'll go to him myself. He's at the top of the house,
of course, as usual?"
"Why, as usual, madam? Mr. Hart has never been my lodger before."
"I know his ways. He invariably seeks the top."
"From no prejudice, madam. He seems a very quiet gentleman."
"Exactly. Treasure him, he is a valuable lodger. Now let me pass,
please. I am going to seek him."
"Perhaps I had better tell him first, young lady."
"I am his grandchild. It is all right. Let me pass."
She brushed the woman aside, and flew lightly up the stairs. She knocked
at the door of the top attic, but followed her knock into the room
before any one had made response from within.
Old Hart was, as usual, messing over some cooking. He stopped it when he
saw Josephine, and an iron spoon which he held in his hand clattered
noisily to the floor.
"Now, Nina, what is the matter?"
"I am going to spend the day with you, Granddad, and probably the night
as well. You can give me a bed in a corner of this delightful
sitting-room. Is that breakfast? I wish you would serve it up; I am
starving."
"It's a very good breakfast, little Nina. Fried rabbit, done after a new
method. Bacon and eggs to follow, with a sauce of port wine. Olives and
sour claret for dessert. I know your taste, witch."
"I love olives," said Nina. "Sit at the table, Grand-dad, and let us
begin. By the way, when did you shave last?"
"Ha--ha, who have I to shave for now, my pretty Nina? Nobody cares for
the old man, nobody looks at him with eyes of admiration. Why should he
waste his money and his time over the barbarous rite of shaving? Nature
has her way with the old man now, sweet witch."
"Nature doesn't improve you, Grand-dad. You require the refining touches
of art. Your beard is unkempt, your hair too long. You shall visit the
barber after we have concluded our meal. It is distressing to mankind in
general to behold a spectacle like you. You owe a duty to the world at
large. You must visit the barber."
"Chut--chut! What a witch it is! Why didn't it stay at home, and not
worry the old man?"
"Serve up the breakfast, Grand-dad, and believe in the salutary nature
of your granddaughter's visitations."
The two sat down to their meal, and both ate for a time in unbroken
silence. After his third glass of sour claret, the old man spoke:
"How are you, Nina? You don't look up to much?"
"Would you be up to much if a fever consumed you day and night? Feel my
hand, Grand-dad."
The old man gripped the slender fingers, then flung them away.
"Good God! they burn!" he said. "Don't touch me, witch. You may have
contracted something catching."
"No, nothing that the old man can catch. Now, let us be pleasant, and
enjoy the day together."
"We can't. I am going to move to-day."
"You must stay here to-day; you can move tomorrow."
"Witch, how you order me. I won't be ordered. I shall move to-day."
"You have no idea of moving, either to-day or to-morrow. Don't talk
nonsense. You have had your breakfast. I will wash the things up. Go and
visit the barber."
The old man muttered and mumbled. Finally he tied a large crimson scarf
in a loose knot round his throat, shoved a soft felt hat on his head,
and donning a greasy and very old brown velvet cloak, he prepared to go
out.
"It's a rare nuisance," he said; "I meant to try some Chinese cooking
for dinner; something with a subtle aroma, delicate, and hard to obtain.
You boil the leeks for so many hours, and catch the essence in a
distiller. Bah! you care nothing for eating, witch."
"I like some of your dishes very well, Granddad, but I prefer
cleanliness to luxury. Now, go out and get shaved."
"It will cost me sixpence."
"Sixpence well spent. Don't talk any more; go!"
He blew her a kiss, half of derision, half of pride, and shambled
downstairs. A crowd of little boys followed him up the street; some
pulled his cloak, some mocked him openly. He neither felt the pulls nor
heard the words. He was absorbed in the thought of that delicious
Chinese dinner which he could not now partake of to-day.
As soon as he was gone, Nina, too, ran downstairs. She went to a
chemist's, and boldly asked for a small quantity of a certain drug.
"Have you a prescription?" the man inquired.
"No, but I understand the right proportions to take. Why do you
hesitate? I am not asking for poison."
The man stared hard at the bright, queer face of his customer.
"The drug is not poison," he slowly repeated, "but taken in too large
quantities it can inflict an injury. I will give it to you, but you must
enter your name and address in this book."
Josephine laughed lightly, entered old Hart's address in the book, paid
for her medicine, and departed. As soon as she got home she took out of
a cupboard a decanter which contained a small portion of a very bright
and clear wine. She mixed a little of the powder with the wine. It
dissolved instantly, and did not disturb the rare amber of the liquid.
The rest of the powder Nina threw into the fire, burning both paper and
string.
When Hart came back, shaven and neat, his hair shortened, his long
snow-white beard trimmed, he looked what he was--a strikingly handsome
man. His grand-daughter possessed his regular features, but, although
her eyes were as bright as his, they were not dark. She had black
eyelashes and black brows, but the eyes themselves were peculiarly
light.
Nina was in an excellent humor now. She helped her grandfather with his
cooking, and by-and-by, as the day wore on, she tempted him to come for
a stroll with her. She spoke very little of her present life, nor did he
question her. He had a certain fondness for his grandchild, but it never
rose to the extent of a genuine interest in her concerns. Of late she
had been to him a valuable chattel--a trump-card, by which he could
extract the good things of life out of another. With Nina he was
powerful, without her he was a helpless and penniless old man. But he
did not love Nina because of this. He was proud of her for what she
brought him, proud of her because if he was lowly born she was not. But
he loved her, after the slight fashion with which alone he could bestow
love, because, notwithstanding that good birth, she also belonged to
him--she was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. The ties of blood
were strong with him, and because of these ties he loved her after his
fashion.
The two came home presently and partook of supper together. Nina bought
some figs and peaches, and they had quite a dainty meal. Nina herself
prepared the board, and she put the decanter with the amber wine close
to the old man. He ate and drank. He said the wine was good, and he
helped himself twice to the sparkling contents of the decanter. "I feel
in spirits to-night, Nina," he said, looking at his grandchild.
"Have a little more wine, Grand-dad," she said, in retort.
In spite of all her efforts, her voice had an anxious ring in it as she
spoke. He looked at her keenly. He was as suspicious as man could be. He
half-stretched out his hand to seize the decanter, then with a sly smile
he replaced the stopper in the neck of the bottle.
"No, no, witch," he said. "This wine is rare and precious. It raises the
spirit and warms the heart. I have not much more wine from so rare a
vintage, and I'll keep what's in the bottle for another night, when you,
pretty Nina, are far away, and the spirits of the old man fail him."
"Do," she said. "Keep the precious wine, you don't need it to-night."
Then she handed him his pipe, and after a time he became drowsy and went
to bed.
Hart's bedroom was a small attic inside the larger one. He shut the
door, looked round for the key, for he generally locked himself in,
could not find it, and then, being very drowsy, undressed and went to
bed.
Nina was to sleep on the sofa in the sitting-room. She lay down, took a
novel out of her pocket, and tried to read. Her heart was beating hard,
and that burning fever of unrest and longing which was consuming her
very life, kept coursing madly through her veins.
"The fever is my wine," she muttered. "At first it supplies false
strength, false cheer, false hope. Afterwards--afterwards--" a queer
look came into her strange face--"I too, shall rest and sleep."
Profound stillness reigned in the next room. Nina softly rose, and going
to the sideboard took out the decanter of wine, opened a window, and
emptied it into the area below. She washed the decanter afterwards and
then put it back into the sideboard.
There was not a sound in the inner room. Candle in hand, she opened the
door and went in. She put the candle on the mantelpiece, and then going
to the bed, bent over it and looked at the sleeper.
"Poor Grand-dad!" said the girl. She stooped and kissed the old man's
forehead. "You have been good to me after your lights--it was not your
fault that those lights were dim. Had you been an educated man,
Grand-dad, you'd have educated me; and had you been a good man, you'd
have taught me goodness; and a kind man, you'd have guarded your poor
Nina. Was it your fault that you were ignorant--and wanting in
goodness--and lacking in kindness? You did your best--, after your
lights."
Then she stooped and kissed him again. He was heavy from the drug she
had put into the wine, and did not stir. She slipped her hand softly
under his pillow.
"Poor old man, I am taking away your trump-card," she said. She drew a
thick letter, yellow with age, from under the pillow, put it into her
pocket, and taking up the candle left the room.