If Carmichael lived to be a hundred he could never forget that first
impression. The room was but partly furnished, yet it gave at once the
idea that it was inhabited; it was even, in some strange way, rich and
splendid. Candles on the mantelpiece and a silver travelling-lamp on
the dressing-table threw a soft light on little articles of luxury,
and photographs in jewelled frames, and a couple of well-bound books,
and a gilt clock marking the half-hour after midnight. A wood fire
burned in the wide chimney-place, and before it a rug was spread. At
one side there was a huge mahogany four-post bedstead, and there,
propped up by the pillows, lay the noblest-looking woman that
Carmichael had ever seen.
She was dressed in some clinging stuff of soft black, with a diamond
at her breast, and a deep-red cloak thrown over her feet. She must
have been past middle age, for her thick, brown hair was already
touched with silver, and one lock of snow-white lay above her
forehead. But her face was one of those which time enriches; fearless
and tender and high-spirited, a speaking face in which the dark-lashed
grey eyes were like words of wonder and the sensitive mouth like a
clear song. She looked at the young doctor and held out her hand to
him.
"I am glad to see you," she said, in her low, pure voice, "very glad!
You are Roger Carmichael's son. Oh, I am glad to see you indeed."
"You are very kind," he answered, "and I am glad also to be of any
service to you, though I do not yet know who you are."
The Baron was bending over the fire rearranging the logs on the
andirons. He looked up sharply and spoke in his strong nasal tone.
"_Pardon! Madame la Baronne de Mortemer, j'ai l'honneur de vous
presenter Monsieur le Docteur Carmichael._"
The accent on the "doctor" was marked. A slight shadow came upon the
lady's face. She answered, quietly:
"Yes, I know. The doctor has come to see me because I was ill. We will
talk of that in a moment. But first I want to tell him who I am--and
by another name. Dr. Carmichael, did your father ever speak to you of
Jean Gordon?"
"Why, yes," he said, after an instant of thought, "it comes back to me
now quite clearly. She was the young girl to whom he taught Latin when
he first came here as a college instructor. He was very fond of her.
There was one of her books in his library--I have it now--a little
volume of Horace, with a few translations in verse written on the
fly-leaves, and her name on the title-page--Jean Gordon. My father
wrote under that, 'My best pupil, who left her lessons unfinished.'
He was very fond of the book, and so I kept it when he died."
The lady's eyes grew moist, but the tears did not fall. They trembled
in her voice.
"I was that Jean Gordon--a girl of fifteen--your father was the best
man I ever knew. You look like him, but he was handsomer than you. Ah,
no, I was not his best pupil, but his most wilful and ungrateful one.
Did he never tell you of my running away--of the unjust suspicions
that fell on him--of his voyage to Europe?"
"Never," answered Carmichael. "He only spoke, as I remember, of your
beauty and your brightness, and of the good times that you all had
when this old house was in its prime."
"Yes, yes," she said, quickly and with strong feeling, "they were good
times, and he was a man of honour. He never took an unfair advantage,
never boasted of a woman's favour, never tried to spare himself. He
was an American man. I hope you are like him."
The Baron, who had been leaning on the mantel, crossed the room
impatiently and stood beside the bed. He spoke in French again,
dragging the words in his insistent, masterful voice, as if they were
something heavy which he laid upon his wife.
Her grey eyes grew darker, almost black, with enlarging pupils. She
raised herself on the pillows as if about to get up. Then she sank
back again and said, with an evident effort:
"Rene, I must beg you not to speak in French again. The doctor does
not understand it. We must be more courteous. And now I will tell him
about my sudden illness to-night. It was the first time--like a flash
of lightning--an ice-cold hand of pain----"
Even as she spoke a swift and dreadful change passed over her face.
Her colour vanished in a morbid pallor; a cold sweat lay like
death-dew on her forehead; her eyes were fixed on some impending
horror; her lips, blue and rigid, were strained with an unspeakable,
intolerable anguish. Her left arm stiffened as if it were gripped in a
vise of pain. Her right hand fluttered over her heart, plucking at an
unseen weight. It seemed as if an invisible, silent death-wind were
quenching the flame of her life. It flickered in an agony of
strangulation.
"Be quick," cried the doctor; "lay her head lower on the pillows,
loosen her dress, warm her hands."
He had caught up his satchel, and was looking for a little vial. He
found it almost empty. But there were four or five drops of the
yellowish, oily liquid. He poured them on his handkerchief and held it
close to the lady's mouth. She was still breathing regularly though
slowly, and as she inhaled the pungent, fruity smell, like the odour
of a jargonelle pear, a look of relief flowed over her face, her
breathing deepened, her arm and her lips relaxed, the terror faded
from her eyes.
He went to his satchel again and took out a bottle of white tablets
marked "Nitroglycerin." He gave her one of them, and when he saw her
look of peace grow steadier, after a minute, he prepared the electric
battery. Softly he passed the sponges charged with their mysterious
current over her temples and her neck and down her slender arms and
blue-veined wrists, holding them for a while in the palms of her
hands, which grew rosy.
In all this the Baron had helped as he could, and watched closely, but
without a word. He was certainly not indifferent; neither was he
distressed; the expression of his black eyes and heavy, passionless
face was that of presence of mind, self-control covering an intense
curiosity. Carmichael conceived a vague sentiment of dislike for the
man.
When the patient rested easily they stepped outside the room together
for a moment.
"It is the _angina_, I suppose," droned the Baron, "hein? That is of
great inconvenience. But I think it is the false one, that is much
less grave--not truly dangerous, hein?"
"My dear sir," answered Carmichael, "who can tell the difference
between a false and a true _angina pectoris_, except by a post-mortem?
The symptoms are much alike, the result is sometimes identical, if the
paroxysm is severe enough. But in this case I hope that you may be
right. Your wife's illness is severe, dangerous, but not necessarily
fatal. This attack has passed and may not recur for months or even
years."
The lip-smile came back under the Baron's sullen eyes.
"Those are the good news, my dear doctor," said he, slowly. "Then we
shall be able to travel soon, perhaps to-morrow or the next day. It is
of an extreme importance. This place is insufferable to me. We have
engagements in Washington--a gay season."
Carmichael looked at him steadily and spoke with deliberation.
"Baron, you must understand me clearly. This is a serious case. If I
had not come in time your wife might be dead now. She cannot possibly
be moved for a week, perhaps it may take a month fully to restore her
strength. After that she must have a winter of absolute quiet and
repose."
The Frenchman's face hardened; his brows drew together in a black
line, and he lifted his hand quickly with a gesture of irritation.
Then he bowed.
"As you will, doctor! And for the present moment, what is it that I
may have the honour to do for your patient?"
"Just now," said the doctor, "she needs a stimulant--a glass of sherry
or of brandy, if you have it--and a hot-water bag--you have none?
Well, then, a couple of bottles filled with hot water and wrapped in
a cloth to put at her feet. Can you get them?"
The Baron bowed again, and went down the stairs. As Carmichael
returned to the bedroom he heard the droning, insistent voice below
calling "Gaspard, Gaspard!"
The great grey eyes were open as he entered the room, and there was a
sense of release from pain and fear in them that was like the deepest
kind of pleasure.
"Yes, I am much better," said she; "the attack has passed. Will it
come again? No? Not soon, you mean. Well, that is good. You need not
tell me what it is--time enough for that to-morrow. But come and sit
by me. I want to talk to you. Your first name is----"
"Leroy," he answered. "But you are weak; you must not talk much."
"Only a little," she replied, smiling; "it does me good. Leroy was
your mother's name--yes? It is not a Calvinton name. I wonder where
your father met her. Perhaps in France when he came to look for me.
But he did not find me--no, indeed--I was well hidden then--but he
found your mother. You are young enough to be my son. Will you be a
friend to me for your father's sake?"
She spoke gently, in a tone of infinite kindness and tender grace,
with pauses in which a hundred unspoken recollections and appeals were
suggested. The young man was deeply moved. He took her hand in his
firm clasp.
"Gladly," he said, "and for your sake too. But now I want you to
rest."
"Oh," she answered, "I am resting now. But let me talk a little more.
It will not harm me. I have been through so much! Twice married--a
great fortune to spend--all that the big world can give. But now I am
very tired of the whirl. There is only one thing I want--to stay here
in Calvinton. I rebelled against it once; but it draws me back. There
is a strange magic in the place. Haven't you felt it? How do you
explain it?"
"Yes," he said, "I have felt it surely, but I can't explain it, unless
it is a kind of ancient peace that makes you wish to be at home here
even while you rebel."
She nodded her head and smiled softly.
"That is it," she said, hesitating for a moment. "But my husband--you
see he is a very strong man, and he loves the world, the whirling
life--he took a dislike to this place at once. No wonder, with the
house in such a state! But I have plenty of money--it will be easy to
restore the house. Only, sometimes I think he cares more for the money
than--but no matter what I think. He wishes to go on at
once--to-morrow, if we can. I hate the thought of it. Is it possible
for me to stay? Can you help me?"
"Dear lady," he answered, lifting her hand to his lips, "set your mind
at rest. I have already told him that it is impossible for you to go
for many days. You can arrange to move to the inn to-morrow, and stay
there while you direct the putting of your house in order."
A sound in the hallway announced the return of the Baron and Gaspard
with the hot-water bottles and the cognac. The doctor made his patient
as comfortable as possible for the night, prepared a sleeping-draught,
and gave directions for the use of the tablets in an emergency.
"Good night," he said, bending over her. "I will see you in the
morning. You may count upon me."
"I do," she said, with her eyes resting on his; "thank you for all. I
shall expect you--_au revoir_."
As they went down the stairs he said to the Baron, "Remember, absolute
repose is necessary. With that you are safe enough for to-night. But
you may possibly need more of the nitrite of amyl. My vial is empty. I
will write the prescription, if you will allow me."
"In the dining-room," said the Baron, taking up the lamp and throwing
open the door of the back room on the right. The floor had been
hastily swept and the rubbish shoved into the fireplace. The heavy
chairs stood along the wall. But two of them were drawn up at the head
of the long mahogany table, and dishes and table utensils from a
travelling-basket were lying there, as if a late supper had been
served.
"You see," said the Baron, drawling, "our banquet-hall! Madame and I
have dined in this splendour to-night. Is it possible that you write
here?"
His secret irritation, his insolence, his contempt spoke clearly
enough in his tone. The remark was almost like an intentional insult.
For a second Carmichael hesitated. "No," he thought, "why should I
quarrel with him? He is only sullen. He can do no harm."
He pulled a chair to the foot of the table, took out his tablet and
his fountain-pen, and wrote the prescription. Tearing off the leaf, he
folded it crosswise and left it on the table.
In the hall, as he put on his coat he remembered the paper.
"My prescription," he said, "I must take it to the druggist to-night."
"Permit me," said the Baron, "the room is dark. I will take the paper,
and procure the drug as I return from escorting the doctor to his
residence."
He went into the dark room, groped about for a moment, and returned,
closing the door behind him.
"Come, Monsieur," he said, "your work at the Chateau Gordon is
finished for this night. I shall leave you with yourself--at home, as
you say--in a few moments. Gaspard--Gaspard, _fermez la porte a
cle_!"
The strong nasal voice echoed through the house, and the servant ran
lightly down the stairs. His master muttered a few sentences to him,
holding up his right hand as he did so, with the five fingers
extended, as if to impress something on the man's mind.
"Pardon," he said, turning to Carmichael, "that I speak always French,
after the rebuke. But this time it is of necessity. I repeat the
instruction for the pilules. One at each hour until eight
o'clock--five, not more--it is correct? Come, then, our equipage is
always harnessed, always ready, how convenient!"
The two men did not speak as the car rolled through the brumous night.
A rising wind was sifting the fog. The moon had set. The loosened
leaves came whirling, fluttering, sinking through the darkness like a
flight of huge dying moths. Now and then they brushed the faces of the
travellers with limp, moist wings.
The red night-lamp in the drug-store was still burning. Carmichael
called the other's attention to it.
"You have the prescription?"
"Without doubt!" he answered. "After I have escorted you, I shall
procure the drug."
The doctor's front door was lit up as he had left it. The light
streamed out rather brightly and illumined the Baron's sullen black
eyes and smiling lips as he leaned from the car, lifting his cap.
"A thousand thanks, my dear doctor, you have been excessively kind;
yes, truly of an excessive goodness for us. It is a great
pleasure--how do you tell it in English?--it is a great pleasure to
have met you. _Adieu._"
"Till to-morrow morning!" said Carmichael, cheerfully, waving his
hand.
The Baron stared at him curiously, and lifted his cap again.
"_Adieu!_" droned the insistent voice, and the great car slid into the
dark.