"I have just discovered of whom it is that your very unpleasant agent
reminds me," observed Lady Cottesbrook at the breakfast-table on the
following morning. "It flashed upon me suddenly. He is the very image of
that nasty person, Nat Verney, who swindled such a crowd of people a few
years ago. I was present at part of his trial, and a more callous,
thoroughly insolent creature I never saw. I suppose he is still in
prison. I forget exactly what the sentence was, but I know it was a long
one. I should think this man must be his twin-brother, Jack. I never saw
a more remarkable likeness."
Babbacombe barely glanced up from his letter. "You are always finding
that the people you don't like resemble criminals, Ursula," he said,
with something less than his usual courtesy. "Did you say you were
leaving by the eleven-fifty? I think I shall come with you."
"My dear Jack, how you change! I thought you were going to stay down
here for another week."
"I was," he answered. "But I have had a line from Cynthia to tell me
that her hand is poisoned from that infernal trap. It may be very
serious. It probably is, or she would not have written."
That note of Cynthia's had in fact roused his deepest anxiety. He had
fancied all along that she had deliberately made light of the injury.
Soon after three o'clock he was in town, and he hastened forthwith to
Cynthia's flat in Mayfair.
He found her on a couch in her dainty boudoir, lying alone before the
fire. Her eyes shone like stars in her white face as she greeted him.
"It was just dear of you to come so soon," she said. "I kind of thought
you would. I'm having a really bad time for once, and I thought you'd
like to know."
"Tell me about it," he said, sitting down beside her.
Her left hand lay in his for a few moments, but after a little she
softly drew it away. Her right was in a sling.
"There's hardly anything to tell," she said. "Only my arm is bad right
up to the shoulder, and the doctor is putting things on the wound so
that it sha'n't leave off hurting night or day. I dreamt I was Dante
last night. But no, I won't tell you about that. It was too horrible.
I've never been really sick before, Jack. It frightens me some. I sent
for you because I felt I wanted--a friend to talk to. It was
outrageously selfish of me."
"It was the kindest thing you could do," Babbacombe said.
"Ah, but you mustn't misunderstand." A note of wistfulness sounded in
the high voice. "You won't misunderstand, will you, Jack? I only want--a
friend."
"You needn't be afraid, Cynthia," he said. "I shall never attempt to be
anything else to you without your free consent."
"Thank you," she murmured. "I know I'm very mean. But I had such a bad
night. I thought that all the devils in hell were jeering at me because
I had told you my romance was dead. Oh, Jack! it was a great big lie,
and it's come home to roost. I can't get rid of it. It won't die."
He heard the quiver of tears in her confession, and set his teeth.
"My dear," he said, "don't fret about that. I knew it at the bottom of
my heart."
She reached out her hand to him again. "I hate myself for treating you
like this," she whispered. "But I--I'm lonely, and I can't help it.
You--you shouldn't be so kind."
"Ah, child, don't grudge me your friendship," he said. "It is the
dearest thing I have."
"It's so hard," wailed Cynthia, "that I can give you so little, when I
would so gladly give all if I could."
"You are not to blame yourself for that," he answered steadily. "You
loved each other before I ever met you."
"Loved each other!" she said. "Do you really mean that, Jack?"
He hesitated. He had not intended to say so much.
"Jack," she urged piteously, "then you think he really cares?"
"Don't you know it, Cynthia?" he asked, in a low voice.
"My heart knows it," she said brokenly. "But my mind isn't sure. Do you
know, Jack, I almost proposed to him because I felt so sure he cared.
And he--he just looked beyond me, as if--as if he didn't even hear."
"He thinks he isn't good enough for you," Babbacombe said, with an
effort. "I don't think he will ever be persuaded to act otherwise. He
seems to consider himself hopelessly handicapped."
"What makes you say that?" whispered Cynthia.
He had not meant to tell her. It was against his will that he did so;
but he felt impelled to do it. For her peace of mind it seemed
imperative that she should understand.
And so, in a few words, he told her of West's abortive attempt to plunge
a second time into the black depths from which he had so recently
escaped, of the man's absolutely selfless devotion, of his rigid refusal
to suffer even her love for him to move him from this attitude.
Cynthia listened with her bright eyes fixed unswervingly upon
Babbacombe's face. She made no comment of any sort when he ended. She
only pressed his hand.
He remained with her for some time, and when he got up to go at length,
it was with manifest reluctance. He lingered beside her after he had
spoken his farewell, as though he still had something to say.
"You will come again soon," said Cynthia.
"To-morrow," he answered. "And--Cynthia, there is just one thing I want
to say."
She looked up at him questioningly.
"Only this," he said. "You sent for me because you wanted a friend. I
want you from now onward to treat me and to think of me in that light
only. As I now see things, I do not think I shall ever be anything more
to you than just that. Remember it, won't you, and make use of me in any
way that you wish. I will gladly do anything."
The words went straight from his heart to hers. Cynthia's eyes filled
with sudden tears. She reached out and clasped his hand very closely.
"Dear Jack," she said softly; "you're just the best friend I have in the
world, and I sha'n't forget it--ever."
He called early on the following day, and received the information that
she was keeping her bed by the doctor's orders. Later in the day he went
again, and found that the doctor was with her. He decided to wait, and
paced up and down the drawing-room for nearly an hour. Eventually the
doctor came.
Babbacombe knew him slightly, and was not surprised when, at sight of
him in the doorway, the doctor turned aside at once, and entered the
room.
"Miss Mortimer told me I should probably see you," he said, "and if I
did so, she desired me to tell you everything. I am sorry to say that I
think very seriously of the injury. I have just been persuading her to
go into a private nursing-home. This is no place to be ill in, and I
shall have to perform a slight operation to-morrow which will
necessitate the use of an anaesthetic."
"An operation!" Babbacombe exclaimed, aghast.
"It is absolutely imperative," the doctor said, "to get at the seat of
the poison. I am making every effort to prevent the mischief spreading
any further. Should the operation fail, no power on earth will save her
hand. It may mean the arm as well."
Babbacombe listened to further explanations, sick at heart.
"When do you propose to move her?" he asked presently.
"At once. I am going now to make arrangements."
"May I go in and see her if she will admit me?"
"I don't advise it to-night. She is excited and overstrung. To-morrow,
perhaps, if all goes well. Come round to my house at two o'clock, and I
will let you know."
But Babbacombe did not see her the next day, for it was found advisable
to keep her absolutely quiet. The doctor was very reticent, but he
gathered from his manner that he entertained very grave doubts as to the
success of his treatment.
On the day following he telephoned to Babbacombe to meet him at the home
in the afternoon.
Babbacombe arrived before the time appointed, and spent half an hour in
sick suspense, awaiting the doctor's coming.
The latter entered at last, and greeted him with a serious face.
"I am going to let you see Miss Mortimer," he said. "What I feared from
the outset has taken place. The mischief was neglected too long at the
beginning. There is nothing for it but amputation of the hand. And it
must be performed without delay."
Babbacombe said something inarticulate that resolved itself with an
effort into:
"Have you told her?"
"Yes, I have." The doctor's voice was stern. "And she absolutely refuses
to consent to it. I have given her till to-morrow morning to make up her
mind. After that--" He paused a moment, and looked Babbacombe straight
in the face. "After that," he said, with emphasis, "it will be too
late."
When Babbacombe entered Cynthia's presence a few minutes later, he
walked as a man dazed. He found her lying among pillows, with the
sunlight streaming over her, transforming her brown hair into a mass of
sparkling gold. The old quick, gracious smile welcomed him as he bent
over her. There were deep shadows about her eyes, but they were
wonderfully bright. The hand she gave him was as cold as ice, despite
the flush upon her cheeks.
"You have been told?" she questioned. "Yes, I see you have. Now, don't
preach to me, Jack--dear Jack. It's too shocking to talk about. Can you
believe it? I can't. I've always been so clever with my hands. Have you
a pencil? I want you to take down a wire for me."
In her bright, imperious way, she dominated him. It was well-nigh
impossible to realise that she was dangerously ill.
He sat down beside her with pencil and paper.
"Address it to Mr. West," said Cynthia, her eyes following his fingers.
"Yes. And now put just this: 'I am sick, and wanting you. Will you
come?--Cynthia.' And write the address. Do you think he'll come, Jack?"
"Let me add 'Urgent,'" he said.
"No, Jack. You are not to. Add nothing. If he doesn't come for that, he
will never come at all. And I sha'n't wait for him," she added under her
breath.
She seemed impatient for him to depart and despatch the message, but
when he took his leave her eyes followed him with a wistful gratitude
that sent a thrill to his heart. She had taken him at his word, and had
made him her friend in need.
X
"If he doesn't come for that, he will never come at all."
Over and over Cynthia whispered the words to herself as she lay, with
her wide, shining eyes upon the door, waiting. She was a gambler who had
staked all on the final throw, and she was watching, weak and ill as she
was after long suffering, watching restlessly, persistently, for the
result of that last great venture. Surely he would come--surely--surely!
Once she spoke imperiously to the nurse.
"If a gentleman named West calls, I must see him at once, whatever the
hour."
The nurse raised no obstacle. Perhaps she realised that it would do more
harm than good to thwart her patient's caprice.
And so hour after hour Cynthia lay waiting for the answer to her
message, and hour followed hour in slow, uneventful procession, bringing
her neither comfort nor repose.
At length the doctor came and offered her morphia, but she refused it,
with feverish emphasis.
"No, no, no! I don't want to sleep. I am expecting a friend."
"Won't it do in the morning?" he said persuasively.
Her grey eyes flashed eager inquiry up at him.
"He is here?"
The doctor nodded.
"He has been here some time, but I hoped you would settle down. I want
you to sleep."
Sleep! Cynthia almost laughed. How inexplicably foolish were even the
cleverest of men!
"I will see him now," she said. "And, please, alone," as the doctor made
a sign to the nurse.
He moved away reluctantly, and again she almost laughed at his
imbecility.
But a minute later she had forgotten everything in the world save that
upon which her eyes rested--a short, broad-shouldered man, clean-shaven,
with piercing blue eyes that looked straight at her with
something--something in their expression that made the heart within her
leap and quiver like the strings of an instrument under a master hand.
He came quietly to the bedside, and stood looking down upon her, not
uttering a word.
She stretched up her trembling hand.
"I'm very glad to see you," she said weakly. "You got my message?
It--it--I hope it didn't annoy you."
"It didn't," said West.
His voice was curt and strained. His fingers had closed very tightly
upon her hand.
"Sit down," murmured Cynthia. "No, don't let go. It helps me
some to have you hold my hand. Mr. West, I've got to tell you
something--something that will make you really angry. I'm rather
frightened, too. It's because I'm sick. You--you must just make
allowances."
A light kindled in West's eyes that shone like a blue flame, but still
he held himself rigid, inflexible as a figure hewn in granite.
"Pray don't distress yourself, Miss Mortimer," he said stiffly.
"Wouldn't it be wiser to wait till you are better before you go any
further?"
"I never shall be better," Cynthia rejoined, a tremor of passion in her
voice, "I never shall go any further, unless you hear me out to-night."
West frowned a little, but still that strange light shone in his steady
eyes.
"I am quite at your service," he said, "either now or at any future
time. But if this interview should make you worse----"
"Oh, shucks!" said Cynthia, with a ghostly little smile. "Don't talk
through your hat, Mr. West!"
West became silent. He was still holding her hand in a warm, close grasp
that never varied.
"Let's get to business," said Cynthia, with an effort to be brisk. "It
begins with a confession. You know better than any one how I managed to
hurt my hand so badly. But even you don't know everything. Even you
never suspected that--that it wasn't an accident at all; that, in fact,
I did it on purpose."
She broke off for a moment, avoiding his eyes, but clinging tightly to
his hand.
"I did it," she went on breathlessly--"I did it because I heard you in
the drive below, and I wanted to attract your attention. I couldn't see
you, but I knew it was you. I was just going to spring the trap with my
foot, and then--and then I heard you, and I stooped down--it came to me
to do it, and I never stopped to think--I stooped down and put my hand
in the way. I never thought--I never thought it would hurt so
frightfully, or that it could come to this."
She was crying as she ended, crying piteously; while West sat like a
stone image, gazing at her.
"Oh, do speak to me!" she sobbed. "Do say something! Do you know what
they want to do? But I won't let them--I won't let them! It--it's too
dreadful a thing to happen to a woman. I can't bear it. I won't bear it.
It will be much easier to die. But you shall know the truth first."
"Cynthia, stop!" It was West's voice at last, but not as she had ever
heard it. It came from him hoarse and desperate, as though wrung by the
extreme of torture. He had sunk to his knees by the bed. His face was
nearer to hers than it had ever been before. "Don't cry!" he begged her
huskily. "Don't cry! Why do you tell me this if it hurts you to tell
me?"
"Because I want you to know!" gasped Cynthia. "Wait! Let me finish! I
wanted--to see--if--if you really cared for me. I thought--if you
did--you wouldn't be able to go on pretending. But--but--you managed
to--somehow--after all."
She ended, battling with her tears; and West, the strong, the cold, the
cynical, bowed his head upon her hand and groaned.
"It was for--your own sake," he muttered brokenly, without looking up.
"I know," whispered back Cynthia. "That was just what made it so
impossible to bear. Because, you see, I cared, too."
He was silent, breathing heavily.
Cynthia watched his bent head wistfully, but she did not speak again
till she had mastered her own weakness.
"Mr. West," she said softly at length.
He stirred, pressing her hand more tightly to his eyes.
"I am going to tell you now," proceeded Cynthia, "just why I asked you
to come to me. I suppose you know all about this trouble of mine--that I
shall either die very soon, or else have to carry my arm in a sling for
the rest of my life. Now that's where you come in. Would you--would you
feel very badly if I died, I wonder?"
He raised his head at that, and she saw his face as she had seen it once
long ago--alert, vital, full of the passionate intensity of his love for
her.
"You sha'n't die!" he declared fiercely. "Who says you are going to
die?"
Cynthia's eyes fell before the sudden fire that blazed at her from his.
"Unless I consent to be a cripple all my days," she said, with a curious
timidity wholly unlike her usual dainty confidence.
"Of course you will consent," West said, sweeping down her half-offered
resistance with sheer, overmastering strength. "You'll face this thing
like the brave woman you are. Good heavens! As if there were any
choice!"
"There is," Cynthia whispered, looking at him shyly, through lowered
lids. "There is a choice. But it rests with you. Mr. West, if you want
me to do this thing--if you really want me to, and it's a big thing to
do, even for you--I'll do it. There! I'll do it! I'll go on living like
a chopped worm for your sake. But--but--you'll have to do something for
me in return. Now I wonder if you can guess what I'm hinting at?"
West's face changed. The eagerness went out of it. Something of his
habitual grimness of expression returned.
Yet his voice was full of tenderness when he spoke.
"Cynthia," he said very earnestly, "there is nothing on this earth that
I will not do for you. But don't ask me to be the means of ruining you
socially, of depriving you of all your friends, of degrading you to a
position that would break your heart."
A glimmer of amusement flashed across Cynthia's drawn face.
"Oh!" she said, a little quiver in her voice. "You are funny, you men,
dull as moles and blind as bats. My dear, there's only one person in
this little universe who has the power to break my heart, and it isn't
any fault of his that he didn't do it long ago. No, don't speak. There's
nothing left for you to say. The petition is dismissed, but not the
petitioner; so listen to me instead. I've a sentimental fancy to be able
to have 'Mrs. Nat V. West' written on my tombstone in the event of my
demise to-morrow. I want you to make arrangements for the same."
"Cynthia!"
The word was almost a cry, but she checked it, her fingers on his lips.
"You great big silly!" she murmured, laughing weakly. "Where's your
sense of humour? Can't you see I'm not going to die? But I'm going to be
Mrs. Nat V. West all the same. Now, is that quite understood, I wonder?
Because I don't want to cry any more--I'm tired."
"You wish to marry me in the morning--before the operation?" West said,
speaking almost under his breath.
His face was close to hers. She looked him suddenly straight in the
eyes.
"Yes, just that," she told him softly. "I want--dear--I want to go to
sleep, holding my husband's hand."