CRAWFORD'S PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.
Dr. Loftus pronounced Mrs. Crawford's condition to be very serious. He
told her husband he did not expect a fatal termination immediately,
but that in such cases there was no knowing what might happen, and it
would be prudent that all preparations should be made for the worst.
Above all, any violent shock was to be guarded against. There was now,
he thought, absolutely no hope of improvement. If she felt equal to
it, she might get up, and be wheeled about in her chair. In reply to
Crawford's inquiry, the doctor could not tell how far off the end
might be--hours, days, weeks.
"Months?"
"Scarcely."
When the doctor was gone Crawford sat a long time in deep thought. It
was daylight now, and he lay down on a couch in his own room to ponder
over the whole affair. The income of the property would be lost to him
on her death. The three thousand pounds of savings would come to him.
But how, and after what delay? There would be legal formalities and
bother, and he hated both. That fool the doctor either could not or
would not say how long the present state of things was likely to last.
Yet, as he had said, it was wise to be ready for anything, for
everything. Plainly, the best plan for him to adopt would be to induce
his wife to make him a deed of gift of the three thousand pounds. That
would diminish trouble in case of her death. There was no need of
cruelty in asking her to do this. The only thing absolutely necessary
was success. He need not even hint to her that he was taking the
precaution because of the fragility of her life. He could manage to
make the deed of gift seem desirable because of some other reason. One
should seldom tell men the truth, and women never. The truth was too
strong for women. Their delicate natures were not constructed to bear
it with advantage to themselves, and if you told the truth to men they
were likely to use it to their own advantage. Quite right: truth was a
jewel, but, like any other jewel, it was fit only for holiday wear.
As soon as he got that deed of gift executed there would not be much
more for him to do at Singleton Terrace. Viewed as a place of mere
free board and lodgings, it was not of much consequence. With three
thousand pounds and his present turn of luck he should be well off.
Viewed as the home of a confirmed invalid who doted on him, Singleton
Terrace was distasteful.
There would not be the least necessity for brutality or unkindness.
Unkindness and brutality were always cardinal mistakes. He believed he
could manage the whole matter with his wife, and appear in it greatly
to his own advantage. He'd try that very day to arrange matters, so
that at any hour he could quit Richmond for ever. What a merciful
deliverance that would be for him! During the past few months he had
scarcely dared to call his soul his own. Yes, if that deed could be
got ready and executed in twenty-four hours, there was no reason why
he should not shake the dust of Richmond off his feet in twenty-five.
Whither should he go? Ultimately back to the States, no doubt; but in
the first instance to Welford. The latter place would be perfect only
for two circumstances: first, that infernal Philip Ray visited
Boland's Ait close by, and, second, Hetty--that charming Hetty--had a
brother, a most forbidding and ruffianly-looking man, who might make
himself intensely disagreeable. But it would be delightful to be under
the same roof with that beautiful girl and saying agreeable things to
her when they met. In all his life he never saw any girl so lovely as
Hetty; and then look at the luck she had brought him! He would try
Welford for a week or two--try the effect of Hetty's luck by playing
every night for a fortnight. If he had won a good sum at the end of
his trial, he should then be certain it was owing to Hetty. It would
be easy to avoid Ray. He was engaged at his office until the
afternoon. Every afternoon Crawford could leave Welford, go to the
Counter Club, dine there, and not come back till morning. The affair
was as simple as possible.
Then he thought of his escape from drowning and his meeting with Kate.
But these were unpleasant memories, and he made it a rule never to
cherish any reminiscences which could depress him, so he banished them
from his mind and fell into a peaceful sleep.
It was late when he awoke. Some letters had come for him, and, after
reading them, he went to his wife's room, and put them down
impressively on a small table by the bedside. His inquiries were
exhaustive, sympathetic, affectionate. He kissed her tenderly, and sat
by her, holding her hand in his, and patting it. He said all the
soothing words he could think of, and assured her of his conviction
that in a few days she would be as well as she had been when they were
so happily married.
She smiled, and answered him in gentle words, and in her soft sweet
voice. She thanked him for his encouraging sayings, but told him
with a shake of her head that she felt certain she should never be
better--that this was the beginning of the end.
"But, indeed, you must get well," he said. "You must get well for my
sake. Look, what glorious news I have had this morning! Here is a
letter from my place in South America. It is, unfortunately, full of
technicalities. Shall I read it to you? or tell you the substance of
it?" He held up a bulky envelope, with several foreign stamps on it.
"O, tell me the substance, by all means! I am not clever like you over
technicalities."
"It is, in effect, that my manager there has himself invented a
machine quite capable of dealing with the fibre, and that we are now
in a position to set about manufacturing."
"What splendid news, William!" she cried, with gentle enthusiasm,
pressing the hand she still retained. "You did not expect anything of
this kind?"
"No. But excellent as the news is, it has a drawback; and that
drawback is one of the reasons why you must get well at once."
"Why, what has my recovery to do with the affair, and what is the
drawback?"
"Well, the fact of the matter is we cannot get the machinery made
without some money, and the little I have isn't nearly enough."
"But I have some. Take the savings. I have told you over and over
again that they are yours. Would what I have be enough?"
"Well, with what I have and what I can raise I think it would; but you
must get well first. It is only sentiment, no doubt; but I could not
bear to take your money while you are not as well as you were a little
while ago. The only interest or object I now have in this discovery is
that you may share the great benefit of it with me."
"Indeed, indeed, you must not think of me in this way. It is like your
dear kind self to say what you have just said; but it is not
businesslike, and you must take the money. I am only sorry it is not
ten times as much."
"No, no! Not, anyway, until you are as well as you were a couple of
months ago, dear Nellie."
"But you must. I will listen to no denial. Fancy, allowing my illness
to stand in the way of your success!"
For a good while he resisted, but in the end she prevailed, and he
reluctantly consented to accept the money, and settle about the
transfer from her to him that very day.
Accordingly, he went to town after breakfast, armed with a letter from
his wife to Mr. Brereton, Mrs. Crawford's lawyer.
He came back early in the afternoon somewhat disappointed: it would
take a day to complete the business.
"After all," he thought, "I must not grumble about the delay. The
direct transfer of the money will be better for me than the deed of
gift. In the one case I shall have the money, in the other I should
have only a document."
He had abstained from going to the Counter Club that day for two
reasons: first, he did not wish to risk discovery of his taste for
play while the three thousand pounds were hanging in the clouds; and,
second, he wished to believe the luck born of his acquaintance with
Hetty prevailed most on the days he saw her, and should, to operate
daily, be daily renewed by sight of her.
"When all is settled I'll write for Mrs. Farraday to come back and
stay here. She promised she would in case of need. Then I'll tell my
wife that my personal presence is absolutely necessary in America, and
I'll say good-bye to her and go down to Welford. I must arrange with
my wife that Blore, the former agent, is not set to work collecting
for a month or six weeks, so that I may have time to get out of the
country, or away from Welford at all events. I don't think I shall
require more than three weeks at Welford. I can get those gates put up
and taken down again, and stay there on pretence of superintending the
work."