When he awoke Awdrey felt much better. He expressed surprise at finding
himself sitting up instead of in bed, and Rumsey saw that he had once
more completely forgotten the occurrence of the night. The doctor
resolved that he should not see the sketch he had made--he put it
carefully away therefore in one of his own private drawers, for he knew
that it might possibly be useful later on. At the present moment the
patient was better without it.
The two men breakfasted together, and then Rumsey spoke.
"Now," he said, "I won't conceal the truth from you. I watched you last
night with great anxiety--I am glad I sat up with you, for I am now able
to make a fairly correct diagnosis of your case. You are certainly very
far from well--you are in a sort of condition when a very little more
might overbalance your mind. I tell you this because I think it best for
you to know the exact truth--at the same time pray do not be seriously
alarmed, there is nothing as yet in your case to prevent you from
completely recovering your mental equilibrium, but, in my opinion, to do
so you must have complete change of air and absolutely fresh
surroundings. I recommend therefore that you go away from home
immediately. Do not take your child nor yet your wife with you. If you
commission me to do so, I can get you a companion in the shape of a
clever young doctor who will never intrude his medical knowledge on you,
but yet will be at hand to advise you in case the state of your nerves
requires such interference. I shall put him in possession of one or two
facts with regard to your nervous condition, but will not tell him too
much. Make up your mind to go away at once, Awdrey, within the week if
possible. Start with a sea voyage--I should recommend to the Cape. The
soothing influence of the sea on nerves like yours could not but be
highly beneficial. Take a sea voyage--to the Cape by preference, but
anywhere. It does not greatly matter where you go. The winter is on us,
don't spend it in England. Keep moving about from one place to another.
Don't over-fatigue yourself in any way, but at the same time allow heaps
of fresh impressions to filter slowly through your brain. They will have
a healthy and salutary effect. It is my opinion that by slow but sure
degrees, if you fully take my advice in this matter, you will forget
what now assumes the aspect of monomania. In short, you will forget
yourself, and other lives and other interests mingling with yours will
give you the necessary health and cure. I must ask you to leave me now,
for it is the hour when my patients arrive for consultation, but I will
call round at your house late this evening. Do you consent to my scheme?
"I must take a day to think it over--this kind of thing cannot be
planned in a hurry."
"In your case it can and ought to be. You have heaps of money, which is,
as a rule, the main difficulty. Go home to your wife, tell her at once
what I recommend. This is Wednesday, you ought to be out of London on
Saturday. Well, my dear fellow, if you have not sufficient energy to
carry out what I consider essential to your recovery, some one else must
have energy in your behalf and simply take you away. Good-by--good-by."
Awdrey shook hands with the doctor and slowly left the house. When he
had gone a dozen yards down the street he had almost forgotten the
prescription which had been given to him. He had a dull sort of wish,
which scarcely amounted to a wish in his mind, to reach home in time to
take little Arthur for his morning walk. Beyond that faint desire he had
no longing of any sort.
He had nearly reached his own house when he was conscious of footsteps
hurrying after him. Presently they reached his side, and he heard the
hurried panting of quickened breath. He turned round with a vague sort
of wonder to see who had dared to come up and accost him in this way. To
his surprise he saw that the intruder was a woman. She was dressed in
the plain ungarnished style of the country. She wore an old-fashioned
and somewhat seedy jacket which reached down to her knees, her dress
below was of a faded summer tint, and thin in quality. Her hat was
trimmed with rusty velvet, she wore a veil which only reached half way
down her face. Her whole appearance was odd, and out of keeping with her
surroundings.
"Mr. Awdrey, you don't know me?" she cried, in a panting voice.
"Yes, I do," said Awdrey. He stopped in his walk and stared at her.
"Is it possible," he continued, "that you are little Hetty Armitage?"
"I was, sir, I ain't now; I'm Hetty Vincent now. I ventured up to town
unbeknown to any one to see you, Mr. Awdrey. It is of the greatest
importance that I should have a word with you, sir. Can you give me a
few minutes all alone?"
"Certainly I can, Hetty," replied Awdrey, in a kind voice. A good deal
of his old gentleness and graciousness of manner returned at sight of
Hetty. He overlooked her ugly attire--in short, he did not see it. She
recalled old times to him--gay old times before he had known sorrow or
trouble. She belonged to his own village, to his own people. He was
conscious of a grateful sense of refreshment at meeting her again.
"You shall come home with me," he said. "My wife will be glad to welcome
you. How are all the old folks at Grandcourt?"
"I believe they are well, sir, but I have not been to Grandcourt lately.
My husband's farm is three miles from the village. Mr. Robert," dropping
her voice, "I cannot go home with you. It would be dangerous if I were
to be seen at your house."
"Dangerous!" said Awdrey in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"What I say, sir; I must not be seen talking to you. On no account must
we two be seen together. I have come up to London unbeknown to anybody,
because it is necessary for me to tell you something, and to ask you--to
ask you--Oh, my God!" continued Hetty, raising her eyes skyward as she
spoke, "how am I to tell him?"
She turned white to her lips now; she trembled from head to foot.
"Sir," she continued, "there's some one who suspects."
"Suspects?" said Awdrey, knitting his brows, "Suspects what? What have
suspicious people to do with me? You puzzle me very much by this
extraordinary talk. Are you quite well yourself? I recall now that you
always were a mysterious little thing; but you are greatly changed,
Hetty." He turned and gave her a long look.
"I know I am, sir, but that don't matter now. I did not run this risk to
talk about myself. Mr. Robert, there's one living who suspects."
"Come home with me and tell me there," said Awdrey--he was conscious of
a feeling of irritation, otherwise Hetty's queer words aroused no
emotion of any sort within him.
"I cannot go home with you, sir--I came up to London at risk to myself
in order to warn you."
"Of what--of whom?"
"Of Mrs. Everett, sir."
"Mrs. Everett! my wife's friend!--you must have taken leave of your
sense. See, we are close to the Green Park; if you won't come to my
house, let us go there. Then you can tell me quickly what you want to
say."
Awdrey motioned to Hetty to follow him. They crossed the road near Hyde
Park Corner, and soon afterward were in the shelter of the Green Park.
"Now, speak out," said the Squire. "I cannot stay long with you, as I
want to take my little son for his customary walk. What extraordinary
thing have you to tell me about Mrs. Everett?"
"Mr. Robert, you may choose to make light of, but in your heart ...
there, I'll tell you everything. Mrs. Everett was down at Grandcourt
lately--she was stopping at uncle's inn in the village. She walked out
one day to the Plain--by ill-luck she met me on her road. She got me to
show her the place where the murder was committed. I stood just by the
clump of elders where--but of course you have forgotten, sir. Mrs.
Everett stood with me, and I showed her the very spot. I described the
scene to her, and showed her just where the two men fought together."
The memory of his dream came back to Awdrey. He was very quiet now--his
brain was quite alert.
"Go on, Hetty," he said. "Do you know this interests me vastly. I have
been troubled lately with visions of that queer murder. Only last night
I had one. Now why should such visions come to one who knows nothing
whatever about it?"
"Well, sir, they do say----"
"What?"
"It is the old proverb," muttered Hetty. "'Murder will out.'"
"I know the proverb, but I don't understand your application," replied
Awdrey, but he looked thoughtful. "If you were troubled with these bad
visions or dreams I should not be surprised," he continued, "for you
really witnessed the thing. By the way, as you are here, perhaps you can
help me. I lost my stick at the time of the murder, and never found it
since. I would give a good deal to find it. What is that you say?"
"You'll never find it, sir. Thank the good God above, you'll never find
it."
"I am glad that you recognize the loss not to be a trifle. Most people
laugh when I speak of anything so trivial as a stick. You say I shall
never find it again--perhaps so. The forgetting it so completely
troubles me, however. Hetty, I had a bad dream last night--no, it was
not really a dream, it was a vision. I saw that murder--I witnessed the
whole thing. I saw the dead man, and I saw the back of the man who
committed the murder. I tried hard, but I could not get a glimpse of his
face. I wanted to see his face badly. What is the matter, girl? How
white you look."
"Don't say another word, sir. I have borne much for you and for your
people, but there are limits, and if you say another word, I shall lose
my self-control."
"I am sorry my talk has such an effect upon you, Hetty. You don't look
too happy, my little girl. Your face is old--I hope your husband is good
to you."
"He is as good as I deserve, Mr. Awdrey. I never had any love to give
him--he knew that from the first. He married me five years ago because I
was pretty, and Aunt Fanny thought I'd best be married--she thought it
would make things safer--but it is a mistake to marry when your heart is
given to another."
"Ah yes, poor Frere--you were in love with him, were you not?"
"No, sir, that I was not."
"I forgot--it was with Everett--poor girl, no wonder you look old."
Awdrey gave Hetty a weary glance--his attention was already beginning to
flag.
"It was not with Mr. Everett," whispered Hetty in a low tone which
thrilled with passion.
Awdrey took no notice. His apathy calmed her, and saved her from making
a terrible avowal.
"I'll just tell you what I came to say and then leave you, sir," she
said in a broken voice. "It is all about Mrs. Everett. She stood with me
close to the alders, and I described the scene of the murder and how it
took place, and all of a sudden she looked me in the eyes and said
something. She said that Mr. Horace Frere was the man who was
murdered--but the man who committed the murder was not her son, Mr.
Everett. She spoke in an awful sort of voice, and said she knew the
truth--she knew that her son was innocent. Oh, sir, I got so awfully
frightened--I nearly let the truth out."
"You nearly let the truth out--the truth? What do you mean?"
"Mr. Robert, is it possible that you do not know?"
"I only know what all the rest of the world knows--that Everett is
guilty."
"I see, sir, that you still hold to that, and I am glad of it, but Mrs.
Everett is the sort of woman to frighten a body. Her eyes seem to pierce
right down to your very heart--they seem to read your secret. Mr.
Awdrey, will you do what I ask you? Will you leave England for a bit? It
would be dreadful for me to have done all that I have done and to find
it useless in the end."
Whatever reply Awdrey might have made to this appeal was never uttered.
His attention was at this moment effectually turned into another
channel. He saw Mrs. Everett, his wife, and boy coming to meet him. The
boy, a splendid little fellow with rosy cheeks and vigorous limbs, ran
down the path with a glad cry to fling himself into his father's arms.
He was a princely looking boy, a worthy scion of the old race. Awdrey,
absorbed with his son, took no notice of Hetty. Unperceived by him she
slipped down a side path and was lost to view.
"Dad," cried the child, in a voice of rapture.
Margaret and Mrs. Everett came up to the pair.
"I hope you are better, Robert," said his wife.
"I suppose I am," he answered. "I had a fairly good night. How well
Arthur looks this morning."
"Poor little boy, he was fretting to come to meet you," said Mrs.
Awdrey.
Awdrey turned to speak to Mrs. Everett. There was a good deal of color
in her cheeks, and her dark eyes looked brighter and more piercing than
ever.
"Forgive me," she said, "for interrupting this conversation. I want to
ask you a question. Mr. Awdrey, I saw you walking just now with a woman.
Who was she?"
Awdrey laughed.
"Why, she has gone," he said, glancing round. "Who do you think my
companion was?" he continued, glancing at Margaret. "None other than an
old acquaintance--pretty little Hetty Armitage. She has some other name
now, but I forget what it is. She said she came up to town on purpose to
see me, but I could not induce her to come to the house. What is the
matter, Mrs. Everett?"
"I should like to see Hetty Armitage. Did she give you her address?"
"No, I did not ask her. I wonder why she hurried off so quickly; but she
seemed in a queer, excitable state. I don't believe she is well."
"I want to see her again," continued Mrs. Everett. "I may as well say
frankly that I am fully convinced there is something queer about that
woman--a very little more and I should put a detective on her track. I
suspect her. If ever a woman carried a guilty secret she does."
"Oh, come," said Margaret, "you must not allow your prejudices to run
away with you. Please remember that Hetty grew up at Grandcourt. My
husband and I have known her almost from her birth."
"A giddy little thing, but wonderfully pretty," said Awdrey.
"Well, never mind about her now," interrupted Margaret, a slight touch
of impatience in her manner. "Please, Robert, tell me exactly what Dr.
Rumsey ordered for you."
"Nothing very alarming," he replied; "the doctor thinks my nerves want
tone. No doubt they do, although I feel wonderfully better this morning.
He said something about my leaving England for a time and taking a sea
voyage. I believe he intends to call round this evening to talk over the
scheme. Now, little man, are you ready for your walk?"
"Yes," said the child. He stamped his sturdy feet with impatience.
Awdrey took his hand and the two went off in the direction of the
Serpentine. Mrs. Everett and Margaret followed slowly in the background.
Awdrey remained out for some time with the boy. The day, which had begun
by being mild and spring-like, suddenly changed its character. The wind
blew strongly from the north--soon it rose to a gale. Piles of black
clouds came up over the horizon and covered the sky, then heavy sleet
showers poured down with biting intensity. Awdrey and the child were
quite in the open when they were caught by one of these, and before they
could reach any shelter they were wet through. They hurried into the
first hansom they met, but not before the mischief was done. Awdrey took
a chill, and before the evening was over he was shivering violently,
huddled up close to the fire. The boy, whose lungs were his weak point,
seemed, however, to have escaped without any serious result--he went to
bed in his usual high spirits, but his mother thought his pretty baby
voice sounded a little hoarse. Early the next morning the nurse called
her up; the child had been disturbed in the night by the hoarseness and
a croupy sensation in his throat; his eyes were now very bright and he
was feverish. The nurse said she did not like the look of the little
fellow; he seemed to find it difficult to breathe, and he was altogether
very unlike himself.
"I'll send a messenger immediately for Dr. Rumsey," said Margaret.
She returned to her bedroom and awoke her husband, who was in a heavy
sleep. At Margaret's first words he started up keen and interested.
"What are you saying, Maggie? The boy--little Arthur--ill?"
"Yes, he seems very ill; I do not like his look at all," she replied.
"It is I know, very early, but I think I'll send a messenger round at
once to ask Dr. Rumsey to call."
"We ought not to lose a minute," said Awdrey. "I'll go for him myself."
"You!" she exclaimed in surprise. "But do you feel well enough?"
"Of course I do, there's nothing the matter with me."
He sprang out of bed, and rushed off to his dressing-room, hastily put
on his clothes, and then went out. As he ran quickly downstairs Margaret
detected an almost forgotten quality in his steps.
"Why, he is awake again," she cried. "How strange that this trouble
about the child should have power to give him back his old vigorous
health!"
Rumsey quickly obeyed Awdrey's summons, and before eight o'clock that
morning he was bending over the sick child's cot.
It needed but a keen glance and an application of the stethoscope to
tell the doctor that there was grave mischief at work.
"It is a pity I was not sent for last night," he said. Then he moved
away from the cot, where the bright eyes of the sick baby were fixing
him with a too penetrating stare.
He walked across the large nursery. Awdrey followed him.
"The child is very ill," said the doctor.
"What do you mean?" replied Awdrey. "Very ill--do you infer that the
child is in danger?"
"Yes, Awdrey, he is undoubtedly in danger. Double pneumonia has set in.
Such a complaint at his tender age cannot but mean very grave danger. I
only hope we may pull him through."
"We must pull him through, doctor. Margaret," continued her husband, his
face was white as death, "Dr. Rumsey says that the child is in danger."
"Yes," answered Margaret. She was as quiet in her manner as he was
excited and troubled. She laid her hand now with great tenderness on his
arm. The touch was meant to soothe him, and to assure him of her
sympathy. Then she turned her eyes to fix them on the doctor.
"I know you will do what you can," she said. There was suppressed
passion in her words.
"Rest assured I will," he answered.
"Of course," cried Awdrey. "Listen to me, Dr. Rumsey, not a stone must
be left unturned to pull the child through. You know what his life means
to us--to his mother and me. We cannot possibly spare him--he must be
saved. Had we not better get other advice immediately?"
"It is not necessary, but you must please yourselves," answered Rumsey.
"I am not a specialist as regards lung affections, although this case is
perfectly straightforward. If you wish to have a specialist I shall be
very glad to consult with Edward Cowley."
"What is his address? I'll go for him at once," said Awdrey.
Dr. Rumsey sat down, wrote a short note and gave it to Awdrey, who
hurried off with it.
Dr. Rumsey looked at Mrs. Awdrey after her husband had left the room.
"It is marvellous," he said, "what a change for the better this illness
has made in your husband's condition."
Her eyes filled slowly with tears.
"Is his health to be won back at such a price?" she asked--she turned
once again to the sick child's bed.
"God grant not," said the doctor--"rest satisfied that what man can do
to save him I will do."
"I know that," she replied.
In an hour's time the specialist arrived and the two doctors had their
consultation. Certain remedies were prescribed, and Dr. Rumsey hurried
away promising to send in two trained nurses immediately. He came back
again himself at noon to find the boy, as he expected, much worse. The
child was now delirious. All during that long dreadful day the fever
rose and rose. The whole aspect of the house in Seymour Street was
altered. There were hushed steps, anxious faces, whispered
consultations. As the hours flew by the prognostications of the medical
men became graver and graver. Margaret gave up hope as the evening
approached. She knew that the little life could not long stand the
strain of that all-consuming fever. Awdrey alone was full of bustle,
excitement, and confidence.
"The child will and must recover," he said to his wife several times.
When the night began Dr. Rumsey resolved not to leave the child.
"A man like Rumsey must save him," cried the father. He forgot all about
his own nervous symptoms--he refused even to listen to his wife's words
of anxiety.
"Pooh!" he said, "when children are ill they are always very bad. I was
at death's door once or twice myself as a child. Children are bad one
moment and almost themselves the next. Is not that so, doctor?"
"In some cases," replied the doctor.
"Well, in this case? You think the boy will be all right in the
morning--come now, your honest opinion."
"My honest opinion is a grave one, Mr. Awdrey."
Awdrey laughed. There was a wild note in his merriment.
"You and Cowley can't be up to much if between you you can't manage to
keep the life in a little mite like that," he said.
"The issues of life and death belong to higher than us," answered the
doctor slowly.
Awdrey looked at him again, gave an incredulous smile, and went into the
sick-room.
During the entire night the father sat up with the boy. The sick child
did not know either parent. His voice grew weaker and weaker--the
struggle to breathe became greater. When he had strength to speak, he
babbled continually of his playthings, of his walk by the Serpentine the
previous day, and the little ships as they sailed on the water.
Presently he took a fancy into his head that he was in one of the tiny
ships, and that he was sailing away from shore. He laughed with feeble
pleasure, and tried to clap his burning hands. Toward morning his baby
notes were scarcely distinguishable. He dozed off for a little, then
woke again, and began to talk--he talked now all the time of his father.
"'Ittle boy 'ove dad," he said. "'Ittle Arthur 'oves dad best of
anybody--best of all."
Awdrey managed to retain one of the small hands in his. The child
quieted down then, gave him a look of long, unutterable love, and about
six in the morning, twenty-four hours after the seizure had declared
itself, the little spirit passed away. Awdrey, who was kneeling by the
child's cot, still holding his hand, did not know when this happened.
There was a sudden bustle round the bed, he raised his head with a
start, and looked around him.
"What is the matter? Is he better?" he asked. He looked anxiously at the
sunken face of the dead child. He noticed that the hurried breathing had
ceased.
"Come away with, me, Robert," said his wife.
"Why so?" he asked. "Do you think I will leave the child?"
"Darling, the child is dead."
Awdrey tottered to his feet.
"Dead!" he cried. "You don't mean it--impossible." He bent over the
little body, pulled down the bedclothes, and put his hand to the heart,
then bending low he listened intently for any breath to come from the
parted lips.
"Dead--no, no," he said again.
"My poor fellow, it is too true," said Dr. Rumsey.
"Then before God," began Awdrey--he stepped back, the words were
arrested on his lips, and he fell fainting to the floor.
Dr. Rumsey had him removed to his own room, and with some difficulty the
unhappy man was brought back to consciousness. He was now lying on his
bed.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"In your room, on your bed. You are better now, dearest," said Margaret.
She bent over him, trying valiantly to conceal her own anguish in order
to comfort him.
"But what has happened?" he asked. He suddenly sat up. "Why are you
here, Rumsey? Margaret, why are your eyes so red?"
Margaret Awdrey tried to speak, but the words would not come to her
lips.
Rumsey bent forward and took Awdrey's hand.
"It has pleased Providence to afflict you very sorely, my poor fellow,"
he said, "but I know for your wife's sake you will be man enough to
endure this fearful blow with fortitude."
"What blow, doctor?"
"Your child," began the doctor.
"My child?" said Awdrey. He put his feet on the floor, and stood up.
There was a strange note of query in his tone.
"My child?" he repeated. "What child?"
"Your child is dead, Awdrey. We did what we could to save him."
Awdrey uttered a wild laugh.
"Come, this is too much," he exclaimed. "You talk of a child of mine--I,
who never had a child. What are you dreaming about?"