I
The last of the funeral guests had gone and Spencer Goddard, in decent
black, sat alone in his small, well-furnished study. There was a
queer sense of freedom in the house since the coffin had left it; the
coffin which was now hidden in its solitary grave beneath the yellow
earth. The air, which for the last three days had seemed stale and
contaminated, now smelt fresh and clean. He went to the open window
and, looking into the fading light of the autumn day, took a deep
breath.
He closed the window, and, stooping down, put a match to the fire, and,
dropping into his easy chair, sat listening to the cheery crackle of
the wood. At the age of thirty-eight he had turned over a fresh page.
Life, free and unencumbered, was before him. His dead wife’s money
was at last his, to spend as he pleased instead of being doled out in
reluctant driblets.
He turned at a step at the door and his face assumed the appearance of
gravity and sadness it had worn for the last four days. The cook, with
the same air of decorous grief, entered the room quietly and, crossing
to the mantelpiece placed upon it a photograph.
“I thought you’d like to have it, sir,” she said, in a low voice, “to
remind you.”
Goddard thanked her, and, rising, took it in his hand and stood
regarding it. He noticed with satisfaction that his hand was absolutely
steady.
“It is a very good likeness--till she was taken ill,” continued the
woman. “I never saw anybody change so sudden.”
“The nature of her disease, Hannah,” said her master.
The woman nodded, and, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief,
stood regarding him.
“Is there anything you want?” he inquired, after a time.
She shook her head. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said, in a low
voice. “Every now and then I have a queer feeling that she’s still
here----”
“It’s your nerves,” said her master sharply.
“----and wanting to tell me something.”
By a great effort Goddard refrained from looking at her.
“Nerves,” he said again. “Perhaps you ought to have a little holiday.
It has been a great strain upon you.”
“You, too, sir,” said the woman respectfully. “Waiting on her hand and
foot as you have done, I can’t think how you stood it. If you’d only
had a nurse----”
“I preferred to do it myself, Hannah,” said her master. “If I had had a
nurse it would have alarmed her.”
The woman assented. “And they are always peeking and prying into what
doesn’t concern them,” she added. “Always think they know more than the
doctors do.”
Goddard turned a slow look upon her. The tall, angular figure was
standing in an attitude of respectful attention; the cold slaty-brown
eyes were cast down, the sullen face expressionless.
“She couldn’t have had a better doctor,” he said, looking at the fire
again. “No man could have done more for her.”
“And nobody could have done more for her than you did, sir,” was the
reply. “There’s few husbands that would have done what you did.”
Goddard stiffened in his chair. “That will do, Hannah,” he said curtly.
“Or done it so well,” said the woman, with measured slowness.
With a strange, sinking sensation, her master paused to regain his
control. Then he turned and eyed her steadily. “Thank you,” he said,
slowly; “you mean well, but at present I cannot discuss it.”
For some time after the door had closed behind her he sat in deep
thought. The feeling of well-being of a few minutes before had
vanished, leaving in its place an apprehension which he refused to
consider, but which would not be allayed. He thought over his actions
of the last few weeks, carefully, and could remember no flaw. His
wife’s illness, the doctor’s diagnosis, his own solicitous care, were
all in keeping with the ordinary. He tried to remember the woman’s
exact words--her manner. Something had shown him Fear. What?
He could have laughed at his fears next morning. The dining-room was
full of sunshine and the fragrance of coffee and bacon was in the air.
Better still, a worried and commonplace Hannah. Worried over two eggs
with false birth-certificates, over the vendor of which she became
almost lyrical.
“The bacon is excellent,” said her smiling master, “so is the coffee;
but your coffee always is.”
Hannah smiled in return, and, taking fresh eggs from a rosy-cheeked
maid, put them before him.
A pipe, followed by a brisk walk, cheered him still further. He came
home glowing with exercise and again possessed with that sense of
freedom and freshness. He went into the garden--now his own--and
planned alterations.
After lunch he went over the house. The windows of his wife’s bedroom
were open and the room neat and airy. His glance wandered from the
made-up bed to the brightly-polished furniture. Then he went to the
dressing-table and opened the drawers, searching each in turn. With the
exception of a few odds and ends they were empty. He went out on to the
landing and called for Hannah.
“Do you know whether your mistress locked up any of her things?” he
inquired.
“What things?” said the woman.
“Well, her jewellery mostly.”
“Oh!” Hannah smiled. “She gave it all to me,” she said, quietly.
Goddard checked an exclamation. His heart was beating nervously, but he
spoke sternly.
“When?”
“Just before she died--of gastro-enteritis,” said the woman.
There was a long silence. He turned and with great care mechanically
closed the drawers of the dressing-table. The tilted glass showed him
the pallor of his face, and he spoke without turning round.
“That is all right, then,” he said, huskily. “I only wanted to know
what had become of it. I thought, perhaps, Milly----”
Hannah shook her head. “Milly’s all right,” she said, with a strange
smile. “She’s as honest as we are. Is there anything more you want,
sir?”
She closed the door behind her with the quietness of the well-trained
servant; Goddard, steadying himself with his hand on the rail of the
bed, stood looking into the future.