His Wife
To Sydney it was all as if it were part of a dream. He had not
dreamed--he did not know since when. This was like one of the dreams he
used to have when he was a boy; a delightful dream. The sense of
comfort which filled the room, the charmingly laid breakfast table,
glorious with pretty china and shining plate; the charming woman who,
with the most natural air, was treating him as one who not only had an
assured footing, but who was both near and dear. Whether in this matter
it was he who dreamed or she, he could not make sure. He wondered if he
had been ill. He had such a strange feeling that he very easily might
have been; he might have been ill for quite a long time; all sorts of
things might have happened, and he might have forgotten all about them.
It was the more possible since he could remember nothing; all he could
remember was that he had awakened and found the man at his bedside with
a tray on which was a tumbler. Before that, beyond that, his mind was a
hazy blank.
But there seemed nothing hazy about his hostess, if she was his
hostess; he supposed she was. If she was not his hostess, then who was
she? She was ministering to his creature comforts in a manner which
made the dream seem still more delightful, and such a very real one,
too.
Through the haze which served him as a mind there seemed to gleam
something which troubled him. The breakfast was excellent, the coffee,
the food, everything. Was that not, in part, because at some remote
period he had gone without breakfast, without--anything? He was
frantically hungry. There was a fragrance about the hot rolls which
recalled something. Was there not a time when he had wanted a hot roll
very badly, or something like it? The effort of recollection caused him
to stop eating, a fact on which the lady commented.
"Of what are you thinking? You looked as if your thoughts were miles
away. Won't you have a little more bacon?"
He had a little more. There was an exquisite flavour about that bacon
which made it seem fit food for a god. He ate and ate, while she sat
by, putting more food upon his plate as soon as it was empty or
replacing one plate with another. At last he ceased. How much he had
eaten he had no notion; he could eat no more.
"Now," she said, "you must have a cigar and a liqueur."
It did not occur to him to ask if it was usual to follow such a
breakfast as he had had with a liqueur; he was too full of physical
content to care. He watched her as she brought a box of cigars to the
table, choose one, cut it, put it between his lips, and, striking a
match, held it up to him. The first puff at that cigar was ecstasy, so
great as to be almost painful. What was the flood of recollections
which it brought back? How long ago was it since he had tasted such a
cigar as that--a cigar at all? What dreadful things had happened to him
since? She had poured something out of a bottle into a glass. She had
spoken of a liqueur; but it was not a liqueur glass which she held out
to him and from which he sipped.
It was curious how willing he seemed to be to have everything done for
him; to eat and drink what was given to him; to have no taste of his
own; to behave almost as if he were a puppet, moving when she pulled
the string. And it seemed to amuse her to observe that it was so. One
felt that she was curious to learn how far in this direction she might
go, to what extent she could pull the strings and he would move. She
put almost the same question to him as the man had put to him upstairs:
"Now, how are you feeling?"
"I'm feeling--well, I can't tell you how I'm feeling. I'm feeling just
right. But do you know--I hope you'll forgive my saying so--but do you
know, it's a fact that I can't make things out at all."
"What sort of things?"
"Why--everything; all sorts of things."
"Explain just what you mean."
"I'll try; but somehow, you know, it doesn't seem easy." He took the
cigar from between his lips and had another sip from the glass which
was not a liqueur glass. Something in his manner seemed to be tickling
her more and more; each moment the smile on her face seemed to be
growing more pronounced; it was, apparently, only with an effort that
she could keep herself from bursting into a roar of laughter. He was
looking her straight in the face with something in his eyes which
seemed to cause her profound amusement. "Have I been ill, or--or queer,
or something? I don't quite know how it is, but I feel so--rummy, if
you'll excuse the word, that I feel as if I had had something."
It was some seconds before she answered. She sat with her elbows on the
table looking at him with twinkling eyes.
"Well, you have had something; indeed, I should say that you had
something now."
"That's how I feel. You know"--he put his hands up to his forehead--"it
seems as if there was something wrong with the works. I can't think nor
understand. As for remembering--I can't remember anything at all."
"I should imagine that that might be awkward."
"It is; you've no idea. For instance--you laugh--but I can't make out
where I am, or how I got here, or--and that's the worst of it, it does
seem so ridiculous--but I can't remember who you are."
"I'm your wife."
She said it with a face all laughter. That the statement took him aback
was evident. He started and stared as if he could not make out if she
were in jest or earnest.
"My--what?"
"Your wife."
"I suppose you're joking?"
"Not at all; I've seldom felt less like it. Being a wife is a very
serious thing. Aren't you conscious of your weighty responsibilities as
a husband?"
"I know you're joking." A strange something came on to his face which
might have been a smile, but, if it was, it was a pathetic one. She
smiled back at him. Into her smile there came, upon an instant, a
something which was hardly genial.
"But I'm not joking. You are Sir Jocelyn Kingstone, and I am Lady
Kingstone, your lawful wife."
"Now, I do know that you are pulling my leg, in spite of the something
wrong up here." He touched his forehead with his finger. "I do know
that my name is not Kingstone, and I'm just as sure that I'm not
married--no such luck."
"Can't you regard yourself as married for, say, a few hours, perhaps
even less? Can't you act as if you were?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing much. But, you see, I've done you a favour--I don't want to
mention it, but I have--and couldn't you do me one in return?"
"I feel you've done me a favour--I've a sort of consciousness of it in
my bones--but for the life of me I can't straighten things out."
He presented an odd picture as he sat there endeavouring to get his
wits into working order; he seemed to be gradually collapsing under the
strain. Instead of being touched by his obviously piteous plight, it
seemed to add to her amusement.
"Don't let's go into details; don't try, it will only worry you. I have
done you a service, and that's enough. Now I want you to do me one, and
as you're a gentleman, and all that sort of thing, I don't think I
shall need to ask you twice; you'll do it the first time of asking."
"What is it you want me to do? I'll do what I can, but there's precious
little I can do; I'm so--well, you can see for yourself how it is with
me."
"I've told you already what it is I want you to do. I want you to
consent to regard yourself as my husband for--probably only a very few
minutes."
"But I don't understand. I don't see what good you're going to get from
my pretending to be your husband. A very poor sort of a husband I
should make."
"You'll only be my husband _pro forma_--I think that's the proper term.
You see, I'm in a position in which I've got to have a husband, just
for a very few minutes; it doesn't matter what sort, so long as he's
fairly presentable, and you know you're quite nice looking."
If he heard the compliment, it went unnoticed.
"It may be my muddled head, but I still don't see what you're driving
at."
"It's like this--I'll try to make it plain: There's a large sum of
money which is due to me, but I can't get it without my husband's
assistance. He's got to come with me to the banker's, and sign papers,
and things like that."
"Sign papers, and things like that?"
"That's all."
"That's all?" Again he echoed her words, as if, by dint of doing so, he
was trying to get at their meaning. "But, signing papers, and things
like that, isn't that rather a deal? What sort of papers would he have
to sign?"
"Oh, nothing very dreadful." The smile with which she regarded him was
a bewitching one. "You're not drinking your liqueur." She took up the
glass and put it into his hand. He sipped at it with that docility with
which he seemed to do all things. "You'd merely have to sign your
name."
"Yes; but to what?"
"I really can scarcely tell you. I'm not a lawyer or a banker. I don't
know what the forms are on such occasions, but I guess--mind you, it's
only a guess--that you'll have to say you are my husband, and sign for
the money after you've got it."
"Wouldn't that be forgery?"
"Forgery? How?" The smile did not fade, but a gleam came into her eyes
which hinted that the question had taken her a trifle aback; it is
conceivable that she had not supposed that he was sufficiently
clear-headed for it to occur to him. "What an extraordinary thing to
say! My dear man, it would be done with my authority, at my wish, and
in my presence."
"Yes; but where is your husband?"
"At this moment he is not easily accessible, or I shouldn't want to
worry you. I'd no idea that you'd have made such a fuss."
She made a little grimace, which became her very well. There was
nothing to show that he observed it. He seemed to be struggling to
follow out the line of thought which had come into his head.
"Is the money to be paid to your husband or to you?"
"Nominally to him, but really to me."
"Does he know about it?"
"How do you mean, does he know?" All at once she rose, and came and
stood in front of him. "Young man, you're not to ask curious questions.
This is a very private matter; there's a lot about it which I don't
wish to explain, and which I don't think you're quite in a state to
understand if I did. I'll tell you exactly what it is I want you to do.
I want you to drive with me in, say, half an hour to the banker's.
There I shall take you into a private room, and I shall tell them that
you are my husband, Sir Jocelyn Kingstone; that you have not been very
well, and cannot stand much worry, so that they're to get matters
through as quickly as they can. If you like, you need not speak at all;
you can leave all the talking to me, and, I may add, all the
responsibility, too. Then, I imagine, they may ask you to sign a paper
of some sort--I don't quite know what, but it won't be very much--then
they'll hand you the money, and you'll sign for it, and then we'll come
away. You see that the whole thing won't last more than five or, at the
outside, ten minutes. We'll drive back here together, and in return for
the service you've done me I'll do anything you like--mind, anything
you like--for you. You'll find in me the best friend you ever had."
She knelt beside him on the floor, cajoling him, whispering things
which he barely understood, but which were pleasant to hear. Somehow
the feeling of physical well-being seemed to dull his senses still
more. The dream became more dream-like; the woman's hands softly
smoothed his hair; her lips were close to his; her eyes bewitched him;
her words charmed his ears. She refilled the big sherry glass, and,
even unwittingly, he sipped the insidious liqueur. In short, she played
the fool with him, which, after all, was easy. At the best, after what
he had lately gone through, he was little more than the husk of a man;
but they had taken care that he should not be at his best. Her male
accomplice had, as they put it, "readied" him. It was true that they
had fed and washed and clothed him, but it was also true that they had
dosed and drugged him. Being helpless in their hands, they had played
tricks with him of which he had no notion and against which he had no
defence.
After awhile the woman went out of the room. Without, suspiciously
close to the door, was the man. They exchanged a few hurried sentences.
She asked: "Is the brougham outside?"
"It's been there ever since I brought him down."
"I'm going to put on my hat. Give me his; I'll put it on for him. He's
in a state in which he's more in my line than in yours."
The man grinned. He rubbed his chin as if considering.
"How long shall you be?"
"I ought to be back inside an hour. I shall come straight back."
She began to ascend the stairs, the man watching her as she went.
"I'll take care that you come straight back. You may have a card up
your sleeve which you mean to play; but I have another, which will
perhaps surprise you."
These words were not spoken aloud; they were said to himself. He looked
as if he meant them, and as if they had a significance--an ominous
significance--which was a little secret of his own.