It was on a lovely afternoon that they left London for Durham. A
Wednesday had been chosen, so that the usual week-end parties going to
the country or returning from it might be avoided. A compartment had
been reserved. Lady Wychcote went with them, and Gaynor travelled in the
same carriage to be at hand in case his master needed him. Chesney, pale
as always now, but quite composed, settled down with a copy of _Le
Mannequin d'Osier_. France's brilliant cynicism suited his present mood
admirably. Now and then he glanced out toward London as the train drew
swiftly away. There was that subtle, just sketched smile about his lips
that rested there so often during these days. He seemed to be savouring
a pleasant, ironical secret which he alone knew. Lady Wychcote was
absorbed in a novel by Mrs. Humphry Ward. She liked the political
atmosphere in these books, though she sniffed at the politicians
described in them. "Clockworks" she called them. She was very
intolerant of the achievements of other women.
Bobby was very good, playing in grave silence with his red and white
bricks on the shawl that Miller had spread for ham. But presently he
began to shove one up and down along the seat near his father, saying,
"Choo! Choo!" Sophy lifted him upon her lap and began to tell him
stories in a low voice. She was very glad to be thus mechanically
occupied. Dynehurst always depressed her. She felt a vague, grey gloom
rising about her at the thought of spending several months there, with
Cecil in this strange, cold, forbidding mood. She looked out of the
window as she told the oft-repeated story of "The Three Bears," her
subconscious mind attending to the tale, her fancy selecting bits in
flying hedge and fence that she would jump were she riding to hounds
across that country. Purposely she put serious matters from her. The
rough music of the train lulled her mind. She seemed caught up by the
swift motion, whirled from the ordinary course of life. The fixed events
in it seemed like the stations that they passed--existent only in a
world already wheeling backward.
By the time that Darlington was reached, Bobby had begun to grow fretful
from the journey. He demanded to be given the small engine on its stone
pedestal in the station there. "Baby Puff-Puff!" he announced. "Bobby
want--Bobby _want_!" Sophy sent Miller into the next carriage with him.
She had seen Chesney's eyes contract and fix upon the boy. The change of
train annoyed him. Besides, he was beginning to crave another dose of
morphia. The time for the dose to be given by Gaynor had not yet come.
When it did it would be so small that it would barely temper the fierce
lust of his accustomed nerves. He closed his eyes, frowning, his lip
between his teeth. There was a bluish shade about his mouth. His eyes
looked sunken thus closed, in the sidelight from the carriage-window.
Sophy watched him anxiously. She saw that Gaynor also glanced towards
him from time to time. Lady Wychcote had dozed off, with her little
travelling-cushion of green morocco behind her head. She slept tightly,
as one might say, her eyelids and lips shut fast. She looked old asleep.
Her mouth settled and drew down at the corners. Old and hard and
disappointed her face looked under its spotted veil, which from a hardy
vanity she had not raised when reading.
Chesney crossed and uncrossed his legs several times. The hand on his
knee clenched, until the great knuckles shone yellow with little reddish
streaks outlining the bones. The eyes of Sophy and Gaynor met. In answer
to her look the valet approached, treading softly.
"Do you not think--considering the long journey--we might give an--an
extra dose, Gaynor?" she whispered.
"Yes, madam. I was thinking that," he whispered back.
Chesney's lids flew open at these whisperings, which seemed to have
reached him even through the dull roar of the great wheels underneath.
His eyes looked hostile and mocking. There was a sort of cold hatred in
them. Sophy shivered.
"Quick, Gaynor," she said; "prepare it quickly."
She went over to her husband.
"Are you suffering, Cecil?" she asked pityingly.
"Like hell," he said.
"I was afraid so. I'm so sorry, dear. Gaynor is going to give you some
medicine at once."
Incredulity, then an almost foolish softness flowed over his face.
"By God, you're an angel!" he stammered. He seized her hand and covered
it with kisses, regardless of the valet's presence. This struck Sophy as
very painful. She flushed, drawing her hand away, and saying again:
"I'm so sorry-- I should have thought of it before. Dr. Hopkins warned
me that the journey might exhaust you."
"And-- I say, Sophy--make it double this time, will you? It will be no
good else. I'm suffering actual pain, as well as from the lack of the
damned stuff. The usual thing won't help me--not the least."
Sophy hesitated. She glanced towards Gaynor. He was holding a spoon
filled with water from a little flask over the flame of a spirit lamp.
He was absorbed in the delicate task and did not see her look. She
glanced back, still doubtful, to her husband. The expression of hatred
had again gathered in his eyes. He closed them, trying to smile. This
smile was like a grimace of pain and anger. Sophy went quickly over to
Gaynor.
"He seems very ill," she murmured. "Might not a little larger dose than
usual be better?"
Gaynor glanced, also, at his master. Then he said:
"Yes, I think in this instance it will be better, madam."
He dissolved a half-grain of morphia, drew it up into the little glass
syringe, and took it over to his master. Chesney had confessed to taking
six grains a day. They had cut this down to half in the past fortnight.
Every four hours now for three days Gaynor had been mixing a quarter of
a grain at each dose. During the coming week this was to be reduced to
an eighth.
Sophy turned aside her head as she saw the man approach Cecil with the
little instrument. She could not shake off the horror with which it
filled her.
She sat and gazed out, unseeing, at the reeling landscape as the train
rushed north--blind to all but the picture that memory painted on the
dim curtain of the present. The train rushed north with the ardour of a
Titan to a tryst. The great engine panted as with passion. Through the
deepening twilight the rolling pasture lands of Durham glowed with a
green that was more a feeling than an actual tint. The guard lighted the
little lamp in the roof of the carriage. At once the twilight hollowed
to a purple gulf through which they sped recklessly.
Now Sophy glanced again at her husband. His head was thrown back against
the cushions, his hands relaxed. There was an expression of supreme
peace on his quiet face. "The peace that passeth all understanding"
flashed through Sophy's mind. She shivered. This peace of Cecil's and
that other divine peace were so cruelly removed one from the other. Yet
this, too, was "past understanding" for all outside the black magic of
its influence. The lamp turned the window-pane near which he sat into a
dusky mirror. In its surface she saw repeated the sinister quiet of his
profile, and through this reflection of his face dimly she saw the
further landscape. Yes, thus it was that she saw the whole world
now--through the medium of her husband's image.
When they got out at Dynehurst Station they found the night chilly with
a promise of rain in the air. Gaynor hastened forward with his master's
overcoat-- Bobby was bundled up in Miller's shawl over his little
pea-jacket.
Sophy looked regretfully up at the sky, strewn thickly with little
shells of cloud. She dreaded a long rainy spell at Dynehurst--the
weeping trees, and flowers, and walls. It was like being enclosed in a
vast, grey-glass globe streaming with water, to be immured in Dynehurst
during a season of rain.
Gerald had sent a waggonette and a brougham to meet them.
"Come with me, Sophy," Cecil said, taking her hand and going toward the
brougham.
Side by side they went rolling swiftly between the darkling hedges,
across broad pasture lands that gave forth a dank, sweet country perfume
of earth and grass. There was a smell of cattle and the breath of cattle
in the moist air. These scents and the being so close beside him in the
brougham made her feel as though she were repeating her first drive to
Dynehurst, taken during her honeymoon. That also had been on a night in
May. But then all had been a wonder and a dream. Now she was horribly
wide awake. There was no wonder--only a sad surmise, half answered by
her own reason already. A long, dim corridor of locked doors seemed
stretching before her. She must force each lock, drag him through the
opened door with her, and lock it fast again behind them. They might
emerge into that "wide place" of which the Psalmist spoke--she could not
know. She could only hope; but hope seemed to have dwindled during that
painful journey.
They entered the Park. The trees rose dark and blurred about them,
deeper shadows on the pale grey shadow of the night. They gave forth a
soft, seething sound in the gentle wind. It was as if they sighed in
their sleep. A scent of dead leaves blew from the coverts--fresh and
bitter. A wholesome autumn smell, mingling oddly with the sound of
summer leafage. They passed the chapel, in which service was held every
Sunday for the family and servants of Dynehurst. There all the Chesneys
were buried. There Cecil would lie some day, and die, and little
Bobby--Bobby grown to be a man, an old man maybe, with children and
grandchildren of his own to follow. She imagined the dank crypt, and the
coffins ranged there. It seemed a horrid way to be buried. She pressed
closer to Cecil. She remembered how she had once wished that he would
die....
Now the severe, dark mass of the house came into sight, pierced by
squares of dusky orange. Against the skyey beach of cloud-shells it
reared like a grim cliff. The front door stood wide. Gerald was waiting
for them. He came forward to assist Cecil.
"Sorry, old man," he said shyly, holding out his hand. "Have a
shoulder?"
"Thanks," said his brother, "but I'm not a cripple, you know."
His tone was good-humoured. He got out first, being nearest the door,
then turned to help Sophy.
"How d'ye do, Sophy?" said Gerald. His face lighted up as he saw her.
"Glad Cecil seems so fit. Thought the journey might knock him up a bit."
They went into the huge, oppressive hall. The skylight that ran from end
to end of its hundred feet looked curiously blind in the glow from lamps
and candles. There was a fire burning in the big fireplace at one end.
"Thought you might get chilly driving up," explained Gerald. He was a
slight, dark man, rather Celtic in appearance. He was like the
great-grandfather, for whom he was named, and who also had been a
scholar and a dreamer.
"Good old chap!" said Chesney, expanding in the bright blaze. "Deuced
thoughtful of you!" He was as fond of artificial warmth as a cat.
"And I had tea served--though it's only an hour to dinner," continued
Gerald. He was much pleased at finding his brother so amiable. He had
thought that illness might make him quite unbearable. It was for Sophy's
sake that he was so glad. He himself merely kept out of the way when
Cecil was outrageous.
The others arrived. Lady Wychcote joined them. Bobby, who was fast
asleep, was taken straight to the nursery. Gaynor waited at the door for
orders.
"Will you go to your room at once, Cecil, or stay with us a little
while?" asked Sophy.
"Think I'll just have a nip of tea first," said Chesney. "Mind you make
it strong--no slops, please."
He turned to Gerald.
"They simply brim me with slops now, old boy."
Why he felt so amicably towards Gerald he could not have said. His elder
brother usually "got on his nerves." He had never been fond of him, even
when they were lads. To-night, though, somehow "good old Gerald" seemed
to appeal to him. He found his lank, dark face and shy eyes rather
touching. Noticing this, Gerald, on his part, had a nervous feeling that
his brother might be going to die, in spite of his apparent strength at
the moment. It was so highly unnatural, this excessive cordiality of
tone and manner.
Sophy, too, was unpleasantly struck by Cecil's manner to Gerald. She
felt sure now that the morphine was accountable for it--that she and
Gaynor had given him too much. She felt scared--and very tired. The
stillness of the country after London and the train was like a louder
roar of occult menace. When she handed him his cup, Chesney gulped the
hot, black tea eagerly. He was at the exact point in the effect of that
half-grain dose when he craved stimulant. He drank this cup, then
another. The heat was grateful to that _fade_ feeling of his stomach,
but what he really thirsted for was the more biting burn of raw spirit.
Suddenly the floor beneath his feet seemed to become transparent and he
could see as though they were actually visible to him the well-stocked
wine-cellars of Dynehurst. There was a special brand of cognac stored
there--an 1820 vintage, smooth, mellow, powerful--a liquid that was like
flame tempered in magic vats. He could taste it, as though a round
mouthful actually stung his palate with its smooth, fiery globule. He
determined to have a draught of it. How? The morphia cunning pointed out
the way. All at once he slipped sideways in his chair, letting the cup
drop from his hand. His head fell back. His lip lifted, showing the dry
teeth. He looked unspeakably ghastly in the huge limpness of his
slackened figure. Sophy and Gaynor ran to him. Gerald also started
forward, but his mother caught his arm.
"Wait!" she said sharply. "They know what to do for him."
"Poor old Cecil! It's awful!" muttered his brother, very pale.
Gaynor put his arms about Cecil, as though trying to lift him. When
Gerald saw this he broke from his mother and ran to help. Between them
they laid Cecil on the floor. He half opened his eyes and moaned. Again
his acting was so good that it deceived himself. He felt as he lay there
that he was really on the verge of swooning--that only brandy would save
him.
"Brandy!" he muttered.
Sophy looked wildly at Gaynor. She was shaking from head to foot.
"I'll get a dose of strychnine ready, madam," he said, turning towards
the tea-table. Chesney's lids fell again.
"Brandy!" It was just a whisper.
"Whatever you're going to do, for God's sake do it quickly!" cried
Gerald to Gaynor. He spoke in a high, shrill voice. He was terribly
excited and alarmed.
"Brandy!" came the faint whisper, almost inaudible.
Gerald sprang up, rushed from the room. As Gaynor was heating water in a
teaspoon to prepare the strychnine, he rushed back again, a bottle of
brandy and a liqueur glass in his hand.
"Here!" he cried. "At least try this while the other's being got ready."
Gaynor's hand shook so that he slopped the water he had already
prepared, and had to begin all over.
"Oh, hurry, Gaynor--hurry!" cried Sophy, in despair. Cecil seemed to
have fainted again.
"Let's try this--do let's try this," urged Gerald, kneeling down by her.
"I'm afraid," she murmured. She was white to the lips. "They say it's so
bad for him."
Gaynor came forward with the hypodermic needle. Sophy held it, shivering
with repulsion, while the valet unfastened his master's sleeve-links and
pushed back his sleeve.
"Good God! What's the matter with his arm?" whispered Gerald hoarsely.
Sophy felt sick to death. Life seemed to her like a sickness--a disease.
She, too, had caught a glimpse of the disfigured flesh.
"Result of the fever, your lordship," said Gaynor in a low voice. He
thrust the needle skilfully home between two less recent punctures.
Gerald drew back as though it had entered his own arm.
"He'll revive now, your lordship," said the valet in the same even
voice. They waited. Cecil lay there motionless, his lip still curled
back over his teeth. After a few moments:
"Brandy!" he breathed again.
"For God's sake, give it to him ... give it to him, Sophy!" Gerald
urged.
Gaynor had his master's wrist in his fingers. "His pulse is slow, madam,
but not bad," he said. Yet there was something of alarm, too, in his
quiet face. They waited a few seconds. Then Chesney's lips again just
formed the word that he seemed no longer able to utter.
"Oh, _try_ the brandy--just try it!" Gerald said again.
Sophy looked at Gaynor. His eyes were on his master's face.
"Gaynor--do you think? Might we?"
"I hardly know what to say, madam."
"Here! I'll give it him-- I'll risk it," said Gerald. He thrust his arm
under his brother's neck, and held the little glass of spirit to his
lips. Chesney drank feebly. Some of the brandy ran from the corner of
his mouth.
"Here! fill it again!" said Gerald imperiously to Gaynor. Like all
superficially timid people, he was overbold once his timidity was
conquered.
The valet looked at Sophy before obeying. She did not see this look. She
was staring at Cecil's face. The thought had come to her: "Is it all
_real_? Is he _really_ as ill as he seems?"
Gaynor had no course but to obey Lord Wychcote. He merely said very low
as he poured out the brandy:
"The doctor says it's very bad for him, your lordship."
But Gerald was past heeding such warnings. His usually rough, almost
brutal, brother had spoken to him with peculiar kindness only a few
moments ago. Now he lay there looking as though death had seized him.
Gerald had felt that presentiment of his death. He could not stand
inertly by, while others trifled with the red-tape of doctors' orders.
He gave Cecil the second glass of brandy. Every drop was swallowed this
time. The delicious fire burned its pleasant path to the very pit of the
craving stomach. Cecil felt that he really loved his brother. He lifted
his languid lids and gave him a look of grateful affection.
Lady Wychcote still stood by the tea-table, her handkerchief against her
lips. She had not moved a muscle during this scene.
Of all those present, she was the only one who, from first to last, had
felt sure that the attack was simulated. She was torn between
humiliation that a son of hers should condescend to such mummery, and an
odd, unwilling admiration for the skill with which it was done.
"He always had the will of demons," she told herself now. "I must put
Bellamy on his guard." It was perhaps natural that, with her ignorance
in regard to the habit of morphia, she should find this deadly
determination to procure spirits far more alarming. Her youngest
brother, a brilliant man, had drunk himself to death at forty-one.
Yes, she must speak to Bellamy. They must have a professional nurse for
Cecil.
She went to bed, feeling full her age that night.