THE MARCHIONESS IN SPITE OF HERSELF
I could see that the young gentleman didn't altogether know what to
make of Mr. FitzHoward. I'm not sure myself that I wouldn't just as
soon he'd left us alone together. Anyhow I did wish he wouldn't keep
on everlastingly talking about theatres, just as though sensible
people cared about such things.
The young gentleman said to me--
'Miss Desmond has been telling me such a very remarkable story, that,
though I fear that my presence here at this moment may be the occasion
to you of inconvenience, I felt myself compelled to endeavour to
learn, from your own lips, with the least possible delay, exactly how
the matter stands. Is it a fact that you are my brother's wife?'
'I know nothing about that, sir. My husband called himself James
Merrett; and it was under that name I married him.'
'So I'm told. You have your husband's portrait, I hear. May I see it?'
I gave him one. 'Is this the portrait of your husband?'
'It is.'
'Then, as it is certainly the portrait of my brother, it seems that
you must be my sister--or sister-in-law, whichever you please. And
you've a son.'
I showed him Jimmy. He stood him on the table in front of him. Jimmy
did not seem a bit afraid.
'Young man, you settle it. You're my brother's son; a superior
edition--for which you're indebted probably to your mother--but his
son. Do you know that I'm your uncle, and that you're a Marquis? I
thought I was, but it seems I'm not. I was a usurper in your place.
You go up, I go down; it's the fortune of war.' He turned to me again.
'You understand that my presence here is quite informal. I'm simply
here for my own peace of mind. If the lawyers knew, they'd probably
object. So far as I'm concerned, if I'm personally satisfied that I'm
holding what isn't mine, and occupying a position to which I have no
right, that personal knowledge is sufficient. I shall need no legal
forms to compel me to retire from a false situation. I suppose you
have a copy of your marriage-certificate.'
'It's in my box upstairs.'
'And therefore can easily be verified. And I take it that your husband
has left papers?'
'I don't know where they are. He never would keep letters. He tore
them up as fast as he received them.'
'I can testify to that,' put in Mr. FitzHoward. 'And I remember what
he said when I spoke to him about it. His answer struck me at the time
as being a funny one, but now I think I can see what he was after. 'I
never do keep papers,' he said, 'because you can't tell what tales
some day they may tell of you.'
'Well, we won't go into that now. I think that, until the things are
gone into, it would be better that you should come, with your
children, to my house; or, rather, to what I expect will turn out to
be your son's house.'
'Do you mean that you want me to--leave home?'
'On the contrary, I want you to come home; to your real home; to the
home which I believe to be yours. It would be better, for your son's
sake, as well as your own, that you should not stay here.'
'But--if James were to come--and find me gone!'
'James? You mean my brother? My dear lady, he is dead.'
'You talk about all sorts of things I don't understand, like those
other two, but you say nothing about the only thing I care for. I
can't believe that my James is dead--unless he was killed.'
'You would have no difficulty if you'd seen him as I saw him; and as
for killing, that's absurd. I don't wish to say anything to pain you,
but your words make it necessary that you should be told the truth.
When I saw him he was nothing but skin and bone; the mere shadow of
what he had been; weak and helpless as a new-born child. The doctors
agreed that he must have been dying for weeks, if not months, and that
the only marvel was how he had lived so long.'
'Then--then there was witchcraft.'
'Witchcraft? What do you mean?'
I couldn't tell him. I hardly knew myself. Only if what he said was
true, and I felt sure that he believed it was, then somewhere there
was a mystery which was beyond my understanding. I let Mr. FitzHoward
talk to him instead of me.
'Excuse me, sir--or my lord, as it seems you are--but might I ask what
the late Marquis is supposed to have died of?'
'Supposed? There is no supposition about it. He died of heart
disease.'
'Then give me leave to tell you there's a good deal of supposition
about it. Although I'm not a betting man, I'm ready to bet a thousand
pounds to a brass button that he did nothing of the kind.'
'Do you add medical qualifications to those others you were speaking
of.'
'I do not; but I do add common-sense. I suppose there was a medical
certificate? Who signed it?'
'Sir Gregory Hancock, a physician of whom you may have heard, and Dr.
White.'
'Then, between them, they made a jolly fine muddle. The day before he
died he was in perfect health, and as fit as you and I--if not
fitter!'
'It's incredible.'
'Is it? I'll produce half-a-dozen doctors, at least, who'll certify--I
have some of their certificates at home in my desk at this
minute--that his heart was sound as sound could be, and that his
general health and condition were the best possible.'
'I say again it's incredible.'
'Do you? The night before he died he slept at the York Hotel. Before
he left, on the morning of his death, he ate a good breakfast and had
two or three goes of whisky. The landlord had a chat with him before
he went, and he'll tell you, as he told me, that he never saw him in
better health or spirits; and you can bet your life that that wasn't
the first time he'd seen him.'
'If what you say is correct, then there's something which I fail to
understand.'
'There's a good deal which I fail to understand. I believe there's
only one person who does understand, and that's the Hon. Douglas
Howarth.'
'Your tone seems to convey something injurious to Mr. Howarth.'
'I don't know about injurious, only I should just like to know how he
managed it, that's all.'
'Managed what?'
'Well, doesn't it strike you there was management about it somewhere?
It does me.'
'I have been intimately acquainted with Mr. Howarth my whole life
long, and I know him to be incapable of doing anything in the least
degree unworthy.'
'Well, I've known him to tell a lie or two--and red-hot ones at that.'
'How dare you say, sir, that Mr. Howarth told you a lie?'
'Look here, my lord, this isn't a question of words, but of fact. How
did Mr. Howarth transform a man who, in the morning, was hale and
hearty, by the afternoon, into the kind of creature you spoke
about--so that, by the night, he was dead? If he's a friend of yours,
you'll get him to explain how he did it before he's made to.'
'Mr. Howarth will give you any and every explanation you have a right
to demand.'
'My lord, I'm a mouthpiece for this lady. It's her husband we're
talking about. A wife has as much right as a brother, not to speak of
a brother's friend.'
The young gentleman turned to me.
'Surely you cannot seriously suppose that your husband was--as this
gentleman seems to suggest--the subject of foul play?'
'My James was well upon the Sunday; you say he died upon the Monday. I
don't believe he did die; but if he did die, he was killed.'
'But this is monstrous. If what Mr. FitzHoward says about the
condition of your husband's health when you last saw him is
correct----'
'It is correct.'
'Then in that case there is something somewhere which I own that I
don't understand; but to suggest that it is anything which will not
bear the light of day, or which a few words will not make clear--that
is absurd. But come with me, and you shall have all the explanation
which you can possibly require, probably inside half-an-hour.'
'From Mr. Howarth?'
It was Mr. FitzHoward who asked.
'If Mr. Howarth has anything to explain, I am quite sure he will
explain it--to the proper person.'
'With your permission, Marchioness'--the man would keep talking to me
in that silly way; I wished he wouldn't!--'we'll have this matter
settled, once for all, in a proper business manner. His lordship keeps
snubbing me, thinking, I suppose, that I'm the sort of person who
oughtn't to have anything to do with his aristocratic family; but as I
also happen to have had some interest in his brother, the nature of
which I'll explain to him a little later on, he won't find that I'm
easily snubbed. This is an affair which is not likely to be pleasant
to any of us; therefore I say that the sooner we get at the bottom of
it, so that we can be quit of it for good and all, the better. So as I
say, Marchioness, with your permission I'll go and get those
certificates of which I spoke, and I'll hunt up at least one of the
gentlemen who signed them, and with him I'll follow you to Mr.
Howarth's.'
'We're not going to Mr. Howarth's, but to my--or rather--well, to what
is at present my house in St. James's Square.'
'Very good; I'll be there nearly as soon as you are. And if you'll
allow me to suggest, my lord, you'll have one of the gentlemen who
signed that certificate to meet my doctor when he comes.'
'It will be quite unnecessary.'
'You must excuse my remarking that I rather fancy you'll find you're
wrong. I don't want to be accused of saying anything monstrous; but
the more I think things over, the more I become convinced that there's
something in this business which will--well, we'll say, create
astonishment. Anyhow, this lady is entitled to be made acquainted with
all the details of her husband's unexpected and mysterious death; and
also to see, and talk to, the medical gentleman who attended him in
his last hours.'
'If that is the way in which you put it, it will be easy to call at
Sir Gregory Hancock's as we go, and to request him to favour us with
his presence at Twickenham House. He will soon satisfy any doubts
which this lady may entertain.'
In this way it was arranged, though not altogether to my liking. The
children and I went with the young gentleman in a four wheeler, though
it was with a heavy heart I shut the door of No. 32 behind me. He
wouldn't let me take hardly any clothing, except a few things I put
together in a bag. He wouldn't even let me put the children into their
best things; I had to take them just as they were. He said we should
get everything we wanted at Twickenham House. Just as though I wanted
other people's things when I'd got everything as nice as possible of
my own!
As we rattled through the streets--and the cab did rattle!--my head
was all in a whirl. What I had gone through during the last few hours
was almost more than I could bear. I had got used to watching and
waiting, day after day and week after week, for what seemed as if it
would never come, but this was beyond that altogether. It doesn't take
much to muddle me, and amidst it all the only thing I could take right
hold of was that they said that my James was dead. I sat with my heart
as cold as ice, and my eyes burning, as if something had stung them.
If I could have cried, it would have been something; but I couldn't.
Whether I was doing a wise thing in leaving my own house, and coming
to this strange place, I couldn't think.
We stopped at a house which I understood was Sir Gregory Somebody's,
the great doctor. It seemed, from what passed, that he was to come on
after us. It wasn't long before we stopped again; this time at a great
house in a great square. The young gentleman got out, and he had
hardly touched the bell before the door was open, and he was leading
the children and me into the house. I never saw the likes of it. There
were footmen in white stockings and powdered hair, and a hall which
was bigger than any room I ever came across. It seemed against nature
that I should go into such a place as if I owned it. No wonder that I
pressed the children's hands, so that they clung tighter to me. I felt
that the mites were trembling; I don't doubt I trembled too.
He took me into a room in which were the two ladies who had been the
day before at Mr. Howarth's--Miss Desmond and the young one. Miss
Desmond came hurrying towards us.
'So you've brought them, have you? You clever man!' She put her hands
upon my shoulder, and kissed me--before I could stop her. 'My dear
Mary, welcome home.'
'Begging your pardon, miss, but this isn't my home, or ever will be.'
Somehow the very thought of such a thing made me shiver again. She
laughed.
'Isn't it? We shall see.' She knelt down to talk to Jimmy. She kissed
him too. 'Well, my Lord Marquis, and what do you think of your new
house? You haven't seen much of it, but you shall see it all before
you are much older. We think it's rather a nice house; and we hope
you'll think so too.' Jimmy said never a word. 'What!--you won't
speak!--not even to me! Never mind; I dare say you'll let me know you
have a tongue when we've made friends.' Getting up, she turned to the
young lady--who had been standing on one side, eyeing me and the
children in a way I was conscious of and didn't like. 'Mary, this is
Violet Howarth.'
The young lady put out her hand, keeping herself as stiff and cold as
if she were a kind of iceberg.
'How do you do? Is it true that you're the widow of the late Marquis
of Twickenham?'
I paid no attention to her hand whatever.
'About that I know nothing. I am Mrs. Merrett.'
I let her see I could be as stiff as she was--in spite of all that I
was feeling. Miss Desmond slipped her arm through mine.
'That's right, Mary; you're a faithful creature--stick to the name
which you know best. Leonard must have had some redeeming qualities,
or he would never have been able to win the love of a good woman and
keep it. There must be something in a man if he can do that. Come, you
three, let's go and see what we can find upstairs.'
She was leading us out of the room--I seemed to have lost all power of
resisting anything or any one--when the door opened and Mr. Howarth
entered. His face when he saw us was a picture.
'Reggie, what--what insensate folly's this?'
'My dear Douglas, it's no folly at all. There'll come a time, and that
before very long, when you'll realise that it's the truest wisdom. Let
me introduce you to the Marquis of Twickenham, and to his mother, my
sister, the Marchioness.'
'Don't--don't talk such d---- nonsense. You don't know what an ass
you're making of yourself.' He strode across the room, avoiding us as
much as he possibly could--as if we wanted him to come near! He turned
on Miss Desmond with a sort of snarl. 'Is it you who have instigated
him to make such a crass exhibition of this masterpiece of
imbecility?'
'I told him the truth, Douglas. Whereupon he concluded that, from
every point of view, honesty would be the better policy. It surprises
and pains me to learn you don't.'
'Honesty! honesty! honesty!' He put his hands up to his head, so that
I thought he was going to tear his hair, like those people in the
Bible. But he didn't. 'Good Lord! You're only fit for a lunatic
asylum, all the lot of you!'
'There are worse places than lunatic asylums, Douglas.'
'But there's none more suitable. You haven't the faintest notion of
what it is you're doing. I tell you you're doing irreparable mischief,
in complete unconsciousness of the career of stark, staring madness on
which you've started.'
Silence followed his burst of temper. I don't fancy the young
gentleman was best pleased, either by his words or his manner. When he
spoke there was something in his voice which I hadn't heard in it
before.