A week later Enid Crofton lay in her drawing-room on the one couch which
The Trellis House contained. She looked very charming in her new guise
of invalid.
Several people had already called to know how she was, including Jack
Tosswill and his father, but no visitor had yet been admitted. Now it was
past four, and she was expecting the doctor--also, she hoped, in due
course, Godfrey Radmore. That was why she had come downstairs, after
having had an early cup of tea in her bedroom, and lain herself on the
sofa.
The door opened, and as his burly form came through the door, Dr.
O'Farrell told himself that he had seldom if ever attended such an
attractive looking patient! She was still very pale, for the shock had
been great; but to-day, for the first time since her widowhood, she had
put on a pink silk jacket, and it supplied the touch of colour which was
needed by her white cheeks. She had made up her mind that even a little
rouge would be injudicious, but she had just used her lip-stick. It was
pleasant to know that she had every right to be an interesting invalid
with all an interesting invalid's privileges.
And yet, well acquainted as she was with the turns and twists of
masculine human nature, Mrs. Crofton would have been surprised to
know how suddenly repelled was the genial Irishman when she exclaimed
eagerly:--"I do hope that horrible cat has been killed! Didn't I hear
you say that you meant to shoot her yourself?"
It was not without a touch of sly satisfaction that Dr. O'Farrell
answered:--"That was my intention certainly, Mrs. Crofton. But I was
frustrated. The cat and her kittens vanished--just entirely away!"
"Vanished?" she exclaimed. "Then perhaps someone else has killed her?"
"Bless you, no. I'm afraid that the brute has still got her nine lives
before her! She was spirited away by that broth of a boy. Timmy
Tosswill's a good hater and a good lover, and that's the truth of it! I
wasn't a bit surprised when I got the news that my services wouldn't be
wanted--that the cat wasn't any longer at Old Place."
"D'you mean you don't know what's happened to the horrible creature?" she
exclaimed vexedly.
"That's just what I do mean, Mrs. Crofton. That smart little fellow just
spirited the creature away."
As he spoke, sitting with his back to the window, he was observing his
pretty patient very closely. She had reddened angrily and was biting her
lips. What a little vixen _she_ was, to be sure! And suddenly she saw
what he was thinking.
"I'd like to put a question to you, Mrs. Crofton."
"Do!" she insisted, but his question, when it came, displeased her.
"Is it true that that wasn't the first time you'd had an unpleasant
experience with an animal at Old Place?"
Dr. O'Farrell had not meant to ask his patient this question to-day, but
he really felt curious to know the truth concerning something Godfrey
Radmore had told him that morning.
"Yes," she answered, slowly, "the first time I was in Old Place, Timmy
Tosswill's dog frightened me out of my wits."
"That's very strange," said the doctor, "Flick's such a mild-mannered
dog."
Enid Crofton lifted herself up from her reclining position. "Dr.
O'Farrell! I wouldn't say so to anyone but you, but don't you think
there's something uncanny about Timmy Tosswill? My little maid told me
last night that the village people think he's a kind of--well, I don't
know what to call it!--a kind of boy-witch. She says they're awfully
afraid of him, that they think he can do a mischief to people he doesn't
like." As he said nothing for a moment, she added rather defiantly:--"I
daresay you think it is absurd that I should listen to village gossip,
but the truth is, I've a kind of horror of the child. He terrifies me!"
Dr. O'Farrell looked round the room as if he feared eavesdroppers. He
even got up and went to see if the door was really shut. "That's very
curious," he said thoughtfully. "Very curious indeed. But no, I'm not
thinking you absurd, Mrs. Crofton. The child's a very peculiar child.
Have you ever heard of thought transference?"
She looked at him, astonished. "No," she answered, rather bewildered, "I
haven't an idea what you mean by that."
"Well, you've heard of hypnotism?"
"Oh, yes, but I've never believed in it!"
To that remark he made no answer, and he went on, more as if speaking
to himself than to her:--"We needn't consider what the village people
say. Timmy just tries to frighten them--like all boys he's fond of his
practical joke, and of course it's a temptation to him to work on their
fears. But the little lad certainly presents a curious natural
phenomenon, if I may so express myself."
She looked at him puzzled. She had no idea what he meant.
"If that child wasn't the child of sensible people, he'd have become
famous--he'd be what silly people call a medium."
"Would he?" she said. "Do you mean that he can turn tables and do that
sort of thing?"
The doctor shook his head. "What I mean is that in some way as yet
unexplained by science, he can create simulacra of what people are
thinking about, or of what may simply be hidden far away in the recesses
of their memory. In a sort of way Timmy Tosswill can make things seem to
appear which, as a matter of fact, are not there. But how he does it?
Well, I can't tell you _that_."
Enid Crofton stared at Dr. O'Farrell. It was as if he were speaking to
her in a foreign language, and yet his words made her feel vaguely
apprehensive. Surely Timmy could not divine the hidden thoughts of the
people about him? She grew hot with dismay at the idea.
The doctor bent forward, and looked at her keenly: "I should like to ask
you another question, Mrs. Crofton. Have you in your past life ever had
some very painful association with a dog--I mean any very peculiar
experience with a terrier?"
The colour receded from her face. She was so surprised that she hardly
knew what to answer.
"I don't think so. My first experience of a really disagreeable kind was
when that boy's terrier flew at me. It's true that I've always had a
peculiar dislike to dogs--at least for a long time," she corrected
herself hastily. She added after a moment's pause, "I expect you know
that Colonel Crofton bred dogs?"
"Aye, and that very dog, Flick, was bred by your husband--isn't that so?"
"I believe he was."
She was wondering anxiously why he asked her this question, and her mind
all at once flew off to Piper and Mrs. Piper, and she felt sick with
fear.
"I ask you these questions," said the doctor very deliberately, "because,
according to Mrs. Tosswill, Timmy thinks, or says he thinks, that you are
always accompanied by--well, how can I put it?--by a phantom dog."
"A phantom dog?"
She stared at him with her large dark eyes, and then, all at once, she
remembered Dandy, her husband's terrier, who, after his master's tragic
death, had refused all food, and had howled so long and so dismally that,
in a fit of temper, she had herself ordered him to be destroyed.
She lay back on her pretty, frilled pillow, and covered her face with the
hand belonging to the arm that was uninjured.
"Oh," she gasped out, "I see now. What a horrible idea!"
"Then you have no painful associations with any one particular terrier
apart from Flick?" persisted Dr. O'Farrell.
He really wanted to know. According to his theory, Timmy's subconscious
self could in some utterly inexplicable way build up an image of what was
in the minds of those about him.
"Perhaps I have," she confessed in a very low voice. "My husband had a
favourite terrier called Dandy, Flick's father in fact. The poor brute
got into such a state after his master's death that he had to be sent to
one of those lethal chambers in London. The whole thing was a great
trouble, and a great pain to me."
Dr. O'Farrell felt a thrill of exultation run through him. To find his
theory thus miraculously confirmed was very gratifying.
"That's most interesting!" he exclaimed, "for Timmy, even the very first
time he saw you walking down the avenue towards the front door of Old
Place, thought you were followed by a dog uncommonly like his terrier,
Flick. His theory seemed to be that both Flick and the cat did not fly at
_you_, but at your invisible companion."
"My invisible companion?"
He saw the colour again receding from her face. "Don't for a moment
believe _I_ think there is any phantom dog there," he said soothingly.
"All I believe--and what you have told me confirmed my theory--is that
Timmy Tosswill can not only see what's in your subconscious mind, but
that he can build up a kind of image of it and produce what is called, I
believe, in the East, collective hypnotism. I should never be surprised,
for instance, if someone else thought they saw you with a dog--that is
as long as that boy was present. It's a most interesting and curious
case."
"It's a very horrible case," said Enid faintly.
She felt as if she were moving in a terrible nightmare world,
unsuspected, unrealised by her till then.
"All abnormality is unpleasant," said the doctor cheerfully, "I always
thought the boy would grow out of it, and, to a certain extent, he _has_
grown out of it. You'll hardly believe me, Mrs. Crofton, when I tell
you that, as a little child, Timmy actually declared he could see
fairies and gnomes, 'the little people' as we call them in my country!
I think that's what first started this queer reputation of his among
the village folk. I tell you he's anything but a welcome guest in the
cottages--people with evil consciences, you know!" The doctor laughed.
"They're afraid of Master Timmy, that's what the bad folks in Beechfield
are--they think he can 'blight' them, bring ill-luck on them. Well, well,
I mustn't stop, gossiping here with you, though it's very pleasant. By
the way, I'll ask you to keep all I've said to you to yourself--not
but what the boy's parents know quite well what I think about him!"
Then followed a few professional questions and answers, and then the
doctor went off, well satisfied with his visit.
After Dr. O'Farrell had gone, Enid Crofton lay back and shut her eyes.
Her nerves had by no means recovered from the horrible experience,
and she felt a sort of utter distaste to Beechfield and to everybody
there--with the one exception of Godfrey Radmore. She promised herself
fiercely that if Radmore did what she was always telling herself secretly
he would surely end by doing, then she would make it her business to see
that they never, either of them, came back to this horrible place any
more.
Apart from anything else, Jack Tosswill was already beginning to be more
of a complication than was pleasant to one in her weak, excited state.
He had left a letter when he called that morning--an eager, ardent
love-letter, entirely assuming that they were engaged to be married.
She took it out of the pretty fancy bag, which lay on her pale blue silk
eiderdown, and read it through again with a mixture of amusement and
irritation. It was a long letter, written on the cheap, grey Old Place
notepaper, very unlike another love-letter she had had to-day, written
on nice, thick, highly-glazed letter-paper which had a small coronet
embossed above the address. In that letter Captain Tremaine urgently
asked to be allowed to come down for the next week-end. He pointed out
that his leave was drawing to a close, and that they had a lot of things
to discuss. He, too, considered himself engaged to her, but somehow she
didn't mind that. She told herself pettishly that Providence has a way of
managing things very badly. If only Tremaine had Radmore's money, even
only a portion of his money, how gladly she would leave England behind
her, and start a new, free, delightful life in India! Tremaine knew the
kind of grand, smart people she longed to know. He was staying with some
of them now.
Just as this thought was drifting through her mind, the door opened
and she hurriedly stuffed Jack's letter beneath her silk quilt.
Radmore walked in, and his face softened as he looked down on the pale,
fragile-looking girl--for she did look very much like a girl--lying on
the sofa.
"I've brought you a lot of messages from Old Place," he began. "They
really are most awfully miserable about you!"
"I'm glad the cat hasn't been killed after all," she said weakly.
She had at last seen the look of recoil on Dr. O'Farrell's face, and she
was now trimming her sails accordingly.
"That's very magnanimous of you." Radmore smiled. He was surprised, and a
little touched, too. "May I sit down?"
He drew up a chair, and then he touched the hand belonging to the
bandaged arm. "I do hope you are fairly free from pain?" he said
solicitously.
"It does hurt a good deal."
There was a pause; his hand was still lying protectingly over her hand.
She lay quite still--a vision of lovely Paris frocks, a Rolls-Royce
running smoothly by a deep blue sea, a long rope of pearls, flashed
before her inner consciousness. Then she was awakened from this dream of
bliss by Radmore's next words:--"My godson's going to write you a letter
of apology," he said.
And then, to her chagrin, he took his hand away; it was as though Timmy's
malign influence had fallen between them. His very tone changed; it was
no longer tender, solicitous--only kindly.
"Mr. Radmore, I want to tell you something. I'm horribly afraid of
Timmy!"
There was an accent of absolute sincerity in her low voice. She went
on:--"Dr. O'Farrell has been talking to me about him. He seems a most
strange, unnatural child. The village people believe that he has
supernatural powers. Do you believe that?"
"I don't quite know what I think about Timmy," he answered hesitatingly.
He felt acutely uncomfortable, also rather shocked that Dr. O'Farrell had
said anything about a child who might, after all, be regarded as his
patient. But Enid Crofton was looking at him very intently, and so he
went on:--
"I've never spoken to any of them about it, but, yes, if you ask me for
my honest opinion, I do think the child has very peculiar powers."
And then, all at once, Enid Crofton burst into tears. "Timmy terrifies
me," she sobbed. "I wish he never came near me! He hates me--I feel it
all the time. I'm sure he made that cat fly at me!"
Radmore remained silent--he didn't know what to say, what to admit. He
wondered uncomfortably how she had come so near the truth.
"Come, come," he said, bending forward, "you mustn't feel like that. I
don't think the child hates you, but I do think that he loves trying
experiments with that queer power of his. I'm afraid he wanted to see
whether the cat would behave as the dog had done."
"That's what I mean," she exclaimed, dabbing her eyes, "that's exactly
what I mean! I don't want to hurt his feelings, or to make a fuss, but I
should be so grateful if you could manage to prevent his coming here. I
don't want to make you vain," she smiled, very winningly, "but sometimes
I do feel that 'two's company.' Since I've been here I've hardly ever
seen you alone. I used to enjoy our talks in London! I feel, I know that
you're the only friend I've got in Beechfield."
"That's rather hard on Jack Tosswill," and though he smiled, he looked at
her significantly.
Enid was so surprised that for a moment her composure gave way, and the
colour rushed into her pale face. Then she pulled herself together. "It
really hasn't been my fault," she said plaintively.
"I'm sure it hasn't. But in a village one has to be careful. Would
it surprise you to hear that as I came along this morning, one of
the inhabitants of Beechfield spoke to me of you and Jack, and
suggested--forgive me for saying so--not only that the boy was very much
in love with you but that you--well--encouraged him!"
Enid Crofton sat up. "I've always heard that villages were far more
wicked places than towns, and now I know it's true!"
"Steady on," he said smiling, "forgive me for having repeated a silly bit
of gossip. But, after all, what you said just now is quite true--I am
your oldest friend by a long way, and so I feel I ought to give you a
word of warning. I do think the poor boy _is_ very fond of you, eh?"
Enid Crofton put out her hand and took his in hers. She squeezed it
convulsively. "I feel so miserable," she sobbed, "so miserable and
lonely!"
"Do you, dear--" And then they both started violently, and Radmore moved
his chair away with a quick movement, for the door behind them had swung
open, and Jack Tosswill, quite unaware of the other man's presence, came
through it, and at once began speaking eagerly, excitedly, in a voice so
unlike his usual "home" voice that Radmore hardly recognised it:--
"I'm so glad you're downstairs. I came this morning I hope you got
my--" and then he saw the other man, and checked himself abruptly.
He had given the beloved woman he regarded as his future wife, his most
solemn word of honour that no one should suspect that they were more than
mere acquaintances. So, after a perceptible pause, he concluded, lamely,
"my step-mother's message."
"Yes, I did; thank you very much."
He saw that she had been crying, and his heart welled up with tenderness,
and with angry, impatient annoyance against Radmore's presence.
Why didn't the stupid fellow go? Surely he must realise, surely there
must be something in the atmosphere, which must tell even the blindest of
onlookers, how things were between him, Jack Tosswill, and the invalid?
But Radmore was quite impervious to the atmosphere of emotion and
strain--or so it seemed. On and on he sat, Enid Crofton languidly making
conversation with them both in turn, until at last Rosamund came in, and
both men rose to leave together.
And then something curious happened. Radmore, even while conscious that
he was a fool, felt a violent desire to see Enid Crofton again and very
soon, alone. He was trying to make up a form of words to convey this to
her before the other two, when good fortune seemed to favour him, for
brother and sister began--as they were wont to do--wrangling together.
Seeing his opportunity he bent down a little over Mrs. Crofton's couch in
order to suggest to her that he should come again to-morrow. And then, in
a flash, the whole expression of his face altered and stiffened. Half
under the lace coverlet over the eiderdown a letter written on familiar
looking pale grey notepaper was sticking out, and he couldn't help
seeing the words:--"My own darling angel."
Straightening himself quickly and hardly knowing what he was saying, he
exclaimed, "I do hope you'll soon feel all right again."
And then he saw that she was aware of what had happened for she became
even whiter than she had been before. Every bit of colour fled from her
face--except for the unnaturally pink lips.