THE RACE WITH DEATH
It might have been considered great promotion for the daughter of Walter
Gray, who attended all day to the ailments of watches with a magnifying
glass stuck in his eye, to be the friend of Lady Agatha Chenevix as well
as the adopted child almost of Lady Anne Hamilton. Indeed, in the early
days, when Lady Agatha's friendship for Mary brought her into the finest
society the country provided, Lady Anne sometimes watched Mary narrowly,
to see how she was taking it. The result of these observations must have
been quite satisfactory to the old lady, judging by the energetic
shaking of her head after one or two of these occasions when she was
alone and thought over things. Once she spoke her thoughts to Lady
Agatha, to whom, indeed, she found herself often talking in a way that
surprised herself. There was something about the minx that forced even a
suspicious and reticent old lady into trust and confidence, and as her
trust and confidence increased so did her affection for the brilliant
young peeress.
"People said I was mad," she remarked, "when I took Mary Gray into my
house, and into my heart. Matilda Drummond even said--and I have never
forgotten it to her--that if she was my nephew, Jarvis, she'd have my
condition of mind inquired into. Yet see how it has turned out! Is she
spoilt? Is she an upstart? Is she set above her family? She's over there
this minute with that poor little drab stepmother of hers. She worships
her father. The joys and sorrows of the poor little household are as
much to her to-day as the day she left them."
"I know," said Lady Agatha. "She's pure gold. I saw it in her face the
first day I laid eyes on her. The only quarrel I have with her is that
so many people push me out with her. I don't mean you, of course, Lady
Anne. But yesterday I could not have her because she must go to your
doctor's wife, and to-day she was going for a long walk with that little
Miss Baynes. To-morrow it will be her father. It is his free afternoon."
"I heard an amusing thing about the father the other day," said Lady
Anne. "Of course, Mary knows nothing about it. I called at
Gordon's--that is where Mr. Gray is employed--about a new catch for my
amethyst bracelet. I have known Mr. Gordon for years. He is a thoroughly
respectable man. It seems there is a very ill-conditioned person who
works in the same room as Mr. Gray--a good workman, but most
ill-conditioned. When he is especially bad-tempered he vents his anger
on his quiet room-fellow, who never seems to hear him but works away as
though he were a thousand miles distant from the grumbling and scolding.
Well, it seems that the other day, despairing, perhaps, of rousing Mr.
Gray by any other methods, he made a reference to Mary as having got
into fine society and looking down on her father. It's a little place,
after all, my dear, and you and your motor-car are known as well as the
Town Hall. Mr. Gray got up very quietly and threw the man downstairs;
then went back to his work without a word. Gordon saw it in quite the
right way. He said that the person thoroughly well deserved it, but that
the next time he mightn't get off with a few bruises, and that would be
awkward for Mr. Gray. So he has given him another room."
"Ah, bravo!" Lady Agatha clapped her hands together. "That's where Mary
gets it. I've seen the light of battle in her eye--haven't you?"
"Sometimes--when she has heard of cruelty and injustice."
Now that Mary's schooling was over, she was to see the world under Lady
Anne's auspices. They were to go abroad soon after Christmas, to be in
Rome for Easter, to dawdle about the Continent where they would and for
as long as they would. Everything was planned and mapped out. Mary had
her neat travelling-dress of grey cloth, tailor-made, her close-fitting
toque, her veil and gloves, all her equipment, lying ready to put on.
Her old friend, Simmons, had packed her travelling trunk. It had come to
almost the last day.
And, to be sure, Mary must be much with her father and the others during
those last hours. She had gone with her father for a long country walk.
"I wish you were coming, too," said Mary, clinging closely to his arm.
"You will be bringing me back fine stories," her father said, patting
her hand. "I shall be seeing the world through your eyes, child."
"I shall write to you every day."
"I shan't expect that, Mary. You will be moving from place to place. I
know you will write when you can, and I am always sure of your love."
While they talked Lady Anne was receiving Dr. Carruthers professionally.
She had had symptoms, weaknesses, pangs, of which she had told nobody.
"I was inclined to go without telling you anything about it, doctor,"
she said. "I was as keen upon it as the child. I am more disappointed
than she will be. I have been wilful all my life, but I am glad I did
not take my own way this time. It would have been a nice thing for poor
Mary if I had been taken ill in some of those foreign places."
"You will be much better in your own comfortable home."
Dr. Carruthers spoke cheerfully, but he could not keep the anxiety out
of his face.
"You must have suffered a deal lately," he said pityingly. He had not
forgotten what Lady Anne had done for him and his Mildred. She had been
their faithful and kind friend from that propitious day when he had
picked Mary Gray from under the feet of the tram-horses. His position
was now an assured one, and he and his wife had a tender affection for
their benefactress.
"I'm an obstinate old woman," said Lady Anne, with very bright eyes. The
doctor's visit had been an ordeal to her. "I have had the pain off and
on for the last few months, but I assured myself that it was merely
indigestion, which mimics so many things. I am glad my common-sense came
to the rescue at last. Do you think I shall go off suddenly, or shall I
have to lie, panting, like those poor creatures I've seen at the
hospital, labouring for breath? I shouldn't like that."
The doctor shook his head. How was he to know when the worn-out heart
would cease to perform its functions, and after what manner?
"We must hope that you will not suffer," he said gently. "I will do my
best to save you that."
"And I've plenty of spirit for whatever the good God sends," Lady Anne
said, her face lighting up. "I've always had great spirit. They said I
pulled through my childish illnesses twice as well because of my spirit.
I remember my dear mother telling me that when I had croup at two years
old I mimicked the cows and sheep and cats and dogs between the
paroxysms. I was just the same later on. I ought to have married a
soldier. My poor husband was a man of peace. He couldn't bear a loud
voice. Have a glass of wine before you go, doctor. I've just had a
bottle of Comet port opened. Try it. There's very little like it left in
the world."
After Dr. Carruthers had taken his departure she went to her desk and
set about writing a letter. But she paused after she had written a few
lines, looked at the clock, and sat for a minute thinking.
"No," she said aloud. "I won't wait till to-morrow. Mary shan't take the
chances. Who knows if I shall be here to-morrow? If I drive out to
Marleigh I shall just catch Buckton. He will be pottering round that
orchid-house of his. He will just be home from the office. He can make
me a new will there as well as here. Indeed, I ought not to have
postponed it for so long."
She ordered her little pony phaeton. It was nearly five o'clock. There
would be plenty of time to drive to Marleigh Abbey, where her lawyer
lived, to interview him, and get back again before it was dark. She
would make Mary's interests safe. She had come to care for the child
more than she had ever expected to care. She was going to make a
provision for her, so that she should be secure against the chances and
changes of this life. Nothing very startling, nothing that need make
Jarvis grumble to any great extent; just a modest provision which would
not keep Mary from making use of the talents with which God had endowed
her and the education her fairy godmother had given her.
It was not long before she had left the town behind, and was driving
along the winding road that ran by the foot of the mountains. The road
was very lonely.
Chloe was rather nervous, not to say hysterical, on this particular
afternoon. Her mistress had not considered her as was her wont. She had
taken the shortest road, forcing her to meet a black monster of a
steam-tram which she had sometimes seen at a distance, a thing which was
her special abomination. Chloe had made a bolt for it, and had passed
the tram safely and got away on to the back road. She had been
accustomed, when she had made her small runaways before, to be petted
and soothed afterwards. Indeed, as soon as her terror had calmed a
little, and she was on the road she knew to be harmless, she slackened
down, expecting to hear her mistress's voice of tender scolding, to have
her mistress alight and stroke her with soft words. Instead of that she
was touched up pretty sharply.
"Get me there, my girl," said Lady Anne. "Get me there quickly. You can
take your time going home, and we'll go the lower road. I feel as though
Death and I were running a race. I could never forgive myself if I died
before I'd provided for Mary."
The pony gave her head a shake as though in answer to her mistress's
words, pricked up her ears and set off at a sharp canter.
Suddenly something happened. Lady Anne had at first no realisation of
what it was. Jennings, the coachman, said afterwards that it must have
been the work of one of the mischievous lads whom he had driven with his
whip from staring in at his stable door. What happened was that the
pony's bridle, which had been snipped with a knife, had come apart,
fallen about her neck and then under her feet. She was off like the
wind.
As for poor Lady Anne, suddenly rendered helpless, she caught at the
side of the little carriage, which was being dragged violently at the
pony's heels. She had need of all her spirit. Fortunately, the road was
a straight one, but there was not a soul in sight to help her, not a
sower in the fields, not a ploughman, not even a boy herding cattle
along the road. Her right hand still grasped the useless rein. She
stared before her, while the rocking of the little carriage grew more
and more violent, and the hedges and trees flew past them. How long
would it be before the terrified pony shook herself free of the carriage
altogether, or upset it on one of those mud-banks?
The old spirit kept wonderfully calm and collected. There was just one
chance--that Chloe might keep the middle of the road, and presently pull
up of herself, being exhausted. If only the phaeton would not rock so
much. It was swaying from side to side at a terrific rate. The few
seconds of the runaway seemed æons of time to Lady Anne. She was holding
on now to both sides of the carriage, but her arm was through the reins.
Thank Heaven, the road seemed absolutely open and Chloe must exhaust
herself soon.
Then--her eyes were distended in her face. They had swung round a little
incline, with a miraculous escape of running on a heap of shingle
intended for mending the roads. Just ahead of them were the lodge gates
and lodge of a big house. The gates were open. Out through them there
toddled a small child about three years old. The child set out to cross
the road. His attention was arrested by the noise of the runaway. He
stood in the middle of the road staring.
Lady Anne uttered a loud, sharp cry. The child moved a few steps, fell,
and lay directly in the path of Chloe's feet. A woman ran out of the
lodge, screaming "Patsy, Patsy; where are you, Patsy?" Then she began to
wring her hands and call on all the saints.
The pony, however, had of herself come to a standstill. The child was
under her feet, between her four little hoofs. She was shaking and
sweating and looking down. As for the child, after a second or so he
broke into a lusty roar. He was only frightened, not hurt, but it took a
little time for the mother to find that out by reason of the mud on his
face and the noise he was making. When she had reassured herself, she
carried him inside and closed the door of the lodge upon him. Then she
returned to the pony-carriage.
Chloe was still standing there, in a piteous state of terror. Someone
was coming along the road--a policeman. Someone else was running from
the opposite direction.
As for Lady Anne, the little figure had fallen forward. Her forehead was
down on the reins. Her eyes were wide open, and had a mortal terror in
their gaze. She would never set things right for Mary in this world. She
and Death had run a race together, and she had been beaten.