Dr. Twelves showed no sign of either surprise or gratification. He looked at her dispassionately, almost apathetically, from under his overhanging eyebrows.
"Can you walk upstairs without assistance?"
"I'm afraid not. I don't think my ankle is any better."
He stooped down.
"It's swollen; it looks as if it were going to be an awkward business. Your boot and stocking will have to be cut away; but there's no time to do it now--moments are precious. You will have to wait until you're married. It's only on the first floor. Do you think you'll be able to get up with the aid of my arm and of the baluster?"
"I'll try."
"Might I suggest, before we start, that it would do no harm if you were to remove your hat and jacket. It would seem more in keeping."
She acted on his suggestion.
"I ought to wash and tidy myself; I know I'm all anyhow."
"Now you will do very well. Your future husband is too far gone to be able to tell if your hair is straight or crooked; at the point he's reached that sort of thing doesn't matter." When they had reached the landing at the top of the stairs the doctor said to her: "By the way, the name of your future husband is Grahame--Cuthbert Grahame. May I ask what yours is? It is just as well that he should know it."
She hesitated a moment.
"My name is Isabel Burney."
"Miss Burney, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Grahame's room."
He threw open the door of the room in front of which they had been standing. As he did so Isabel slipped off her left-hand glove, bringing with it, at the same time, her wedding-ring. Crumpling up her glove she squeezed it into her waistband, the ring inside it. On the doctor's arm she hobbled to a big armchair, into which she sank with a sigh of unmistakable relief.
The room in which she found herself, although low-ceilinged, was a spacious one. It seemed to her that all the furniture it contained was old-fashioned, a fact which, although she did not know it, increased its value perhaps a hundred-fold. She thought it simply dowdy. A huge Chippendale bed was in the centre of the room. In it, propped up on pillows, was the figure of a man which, if only from the point of size, fitly matched the bed. Leaning over him, on the other side, was Nannie, the old woman who had admitted them into the house. The doctor addressed himself to her.
"How is he?"
"About the same."
Although they had both spoken in a whisper their voices were audible to the man in the bed.
"Is that that old devil Twelves come back again?"
The tone was harsh, and it was obvious that the speaker spoke with difficulty, but the words themselves were plain enough. The doctor evinced no sign of annoyance at the other's somewhat uncomplimentary reference to himself; on the contrary, he chose to apply to himself the other's epithet as he answered:--
"Yes, it's the old devil back again, and, what's more, he's brought the young devil too--begging your pardon, Miss Burney, for speaking of you in such a manner. But it's the fashion in this house to use strong language, and always has been. Laird, I've brought the lady."
"Where is she?"
"At this moment she's sitting in your armchair. As I told you, she's sprained her ankle, which makes it difficult for her to walk, or even stand."
"Damn her ankle!"
"By all means. You should know more about that sort of thing than I do. You're nearer to it than I am."
"You think that hurts me?"
"Not I. I know that nothing hurts you. I doubt if even the torments of hell will trouble you much. You're past all hurting. Shall I tell Miss Burney she isn't wanted, and can go again?"
"What's her name?"
"Burney--Isabel Burney. At least, she says so."
"Isabel Burney, you are my wife; you're Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame. I acknowledge you as my wife, and I wish all men to acknowledge you also. Are you content that it should be so?"
"I am."
"You hear, Nannie? You hear, Twelves? You're both witnesses. I take Isabel Burney to be my wife, and she agrees."
"I hear. But does she take you for her husband--eh, Miss Burney?"
"I do. I take Cuthbert Grahame to be my husband in the sight of God and man."
Isabel had returned to one of her old faults--overemphasis. There was a theatrical intensity about both her manner and her words which was singularly out of place when compared with the matter-of-fact ribaldry which seemed to mark the husky utterance of the man in the bed. Its inappropriateness seemed to strike the others. After a perceptible pause the man in the bed wheezed--
"Leave God out of it". Presently he added, still more wheezily, "Come here, Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame".
The doctor moved towards her.
"Can I assist you, Mrs. Grahame, to your husband's side?" With the doctor's aid she gained the bed. "Laird, here's your wife; can you see her?"
Isabel saw the man whom she had taken to be her husband. The sight of him shocked her. She told herself that she had never seen a more dreadful object even in her dreams. His size was abnormal. Not only was he naturally a big man, but his frame had become swollen and bloated till it was monstrous--a horror to look upon. His head and face were covered with scanty red hair, which needed cutting. He had a huge head, and his neck was so short and thick that it conveyed a grotesque impression that his head sprang directly from his trunk. His whole form seemed to be afflicted with some sort of tetanus, so that he was rigid, immovable. He lay on his back, with his arms straight down at his sides. Through his parted lips came jerky, stertorous breaths. His eyelids were partially open, but only the whites of his eyes were visible; his own words made it clear that they were of little use to him as organs of sight.
"See her? No, I can't see her. I don't want to."
As he spoke a tremor passed all over him. His whole frame heaved; as if seized by a sudden convulsion he began fighting for his life. The doctor spoke to her.
"You had better go, unless you'd like to see the last of him. This is likely to be the end. He'll hardly win through another bout."
He moved towards the bed, Nannie joining him. Isabel was left to her own devices. Powerless to move far unaided it was all she could do to stagger to the nearest chair. In it she sat, waiting, watching, listening, like an unwilling spectator in some bad dream. It was a scene which she never wholly forgot. The dim light, the quaintly furnished room, the figures of the old man and woman bending this way, then that, as they struggled with the creature on the bed. What ailed him she did not know; she vaguely surmised that he might be in the throes of some kind of epileptic fit. His contortions shook the bed, indeed the room. He kept uttering sounds which had a disagreeable resemblance to the half-strangled yelps of some wild beast.
How long it lasted she did not know. Long enough to strain her already highly strung nerves almost beyond endurance. At last there came a lull. The man on the bed was first quieter, then still. She took advantage of the silence to exclaim:--
"Can't you take me away somewhere? You know I can't move. If I have to stay here much longer I--I shall make a fool of myself."
The doctor and Nannie paid her no heed. Side by side they were stooping together over the silent figure. After affording them what she deemed a more than sufficient opportunity to answer, she appealed to them again.
"Can't you hear me? Take me away somewhere--I don't care where! I'll go mad if you don't."
The doctor did not answer her directly; he spoke to Nannie.
"Do as she bids you; take her away."
"Where'll I take her?" the woman asked.
"Take her and put her to bed in the best bedroom. Remember that she's now the mistress of this house."
Nannie moved towards Isabel. For a woman, she was tall and brawny, but she was probably well past fifty, and Isabel certainly had not credited her with the capacity to do what she immediately did. She eyed the stranger for a moment in silence, then she asked, in the broadest Scotch:--
"Can't you walk by your own self?"
Isabel resented both the tone and the scrutiny.
"You know I can't."
Without more ado the woman, stooping, put her arms about her and lifted her bodily from the chair as if she were some great child. Isabel was taken by surprise, and a little alarmed.
"You'll drop me!" she cried.
"I'll not drop you; you're nothing of a weight."
As if to prove it, the old woman bore her from the room, across the landing, to another room on the other side, one which was in darkness. But Nannie seemed to know its geography by instinct. She deposited her burden on what Isabel realised was a bed. Striking a match on a box which she took from her pocket, she lit some candles which stood on the mantelshelf. Isabel, remaining where she had been placed, eyed her as she moved about.
"You're very strong."
"I'm not so strong as once I was. There was a time when I'd have carried four of you, and thought nothing of it either. Now can you undress yourself, or will you be needing me to do it for you?"
"Thank you, I think I can undress myself; but if you would help me take the boot off my bad foot."
Nannie bent over the foot which the other extended. She regarded it in silence, then, still without a word, she left the room. So soon as she was gone Isabel dragged the glove which contained her wedding-ring out of her belt, and the canvas bag which had come out of Mrs. Macconichie's tobacco jar from her bodice, and thrust them as far as possible under the bolster which was beneath the pillow on which she was reclining. Scarcely had she done this when Nannie reappeared, in her hands a pair of large scissors. With their aid she proceeded, still speechless, to cut, first, the laces of Isabel's boot, and then the boot itself, till it came away from her foot. As it came away she did what she boasted she had never before done in her life--she fainted. When she came to herself again she found that Nannie, who had apparently remained indifferent to the fact that her senses had left her, having bathed her foot and ankle, was putting the finishing touches to the bandages in which she had swathed it. When the bandage was completed the old woman, still without vouchsafing a word, began to undress her, and did it with a deftness and neatness which would have done her credit had she played the part of lady's-maid her whole life long. Almost before she knew it, she was ready for the sheets, and so soon as she was ready she was placed between them.
"You're very good to me," she murmured, with a luxurious sigh, as she recognised what a delicious feeling it was to be between them.
"I'm not good to you--anyway I'm not wanting to be good to you."
Isabel looked up with surprise; the tone was almost savage.
"Why not? Don't you think that you will like me?"
"Like you!--like you!"
The emphasis with which the words were repeated was unmistakable. It would have been difficult for scorn to have been more eloquent. Without condescending to further speech, as if everything had been said which could be said, Nannie moved towards the door. Isabel put a question to her as she reached it.
"Is my husband dead?"
Nannie turned swiftly round to her.
"Your--what?"
"My husband."
"Your husband!--your husband!"
Again the repetition was marked by the same wealth of scorn. Isabel was moved to some show of resentment.
"He is my husband--you know he's my husband."
"Oh, he's your husband, Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame. I'm not doubting it, ma'am, or that you're a fit and proper wife for him. I'm ready to tell to any one that you're a well-matched pair."
"Is he dead?"
As she repeated her inquiry Isabel's manner was a trifle more subdued; she was finding Nannie a difficult person to contend with.
"You'd better be asking Dr. Twelves if your husband's dead, ma'am; he's a surer judge of dead folk than I am. You'll be feeling anxious till you know, and so I'll tell the doctor. When a woman's been acquainted with a man so long as you've been acquainted with your man, so that you've come to know all the secrets of his heart, and the very shape and fashion of the soul which God has lent him, to be sure all her nature stirs within her when she begins to fear he's near to dying. It's hard to lose the husband to whom you've only been married a couple of minutes, so I'll tell the doctor to hurry and let you know if you're a widow before you're a wife."
Without giving Isabel a chance to retort, Nannie opened the door with a swishing movement, which was in harmony with her state of mind, and vanished from the chamber.
She had slept well; Isabel admitted so much. She suspected something else, that the morning was far advanced. There was that in the atmosphere which conveyed that impression. Apparently some one had been in while she still slept and put the room in order. The blinds were up, the curtains drawn back, the sun streamed in through the small square windows which were set deep in the thickness of the wall. As she looked about her, from her vantage place on the pillow, she felt that this was the queerest place she ever had been in. Everything, including the room itself, seemed to her to be hundreds of years old. The paper on the walls was like nothing she had ever seen before. The furniture was of the oddest shapes; indeed, what some of the articles might be intended for was beyond her comprehension. As she gradually absorbed it all, she began to be conscious of an almost eerie feeling that she had woke up in some ancient habitation and in some bygone age of which she had no knowledge.
Then something else forced itself on her attention, she felt that she was helpless. As she tried to turn in bed, the better to enable her to see what was to be seen, a spasm of pain passed over her, which was so acute that she had to shut her eyes and bite her lips to prevent herself from crying out. For some moments she lay quite still, waiting for the pain to go. It was some time before it diminished; even when it was easier she learnt, to her dismay, that she would have to be very careful in her movements if she did not wish it to return with probably increasing violence. Her foot seemed, from the feel of it, to be about as bad as it could be. It was not only useless, it held her prisoner. The slightest attempt to move it in any direction resulted in the keenest anguish. It seemed that relief from almost unendurable torment could only be obtained by remaining entirely quiescent. That meant, in effect, that she was chained, possibly for an indefinite period, to the bed in which she was lying. An agreeable prospect!
As the true inwardness of the position began to dawn on her, in phantasmagoric procession the events of the previous night flashed across her mind. The letter to her husband--to Gregory Lamb--which she had opened and read, the letter with the Islington post-mark, containing the curt refusal to accord him further help; the resolution to leave him, which she had instantly arrived at after its perusal; her visit to Mrs. Macconichie's sitting-room; her forcible entry into the china cupboard; her abstraction of the canvas bag from the tobacco jar.
At this point, her thoughts branching off in another direction, she felt, gingerly enough, for it seemed that movement of any sort meant pain, under the bolster, and produced from it the bag in question and the glove in which she had secreted the wedding-ring. The sight of the ring started her thoughts travelling again.
To her flight through the darkness, with the leather handbag. By the way, what had become of that bag? She had no recollection of having done anything with it. Possibly she had put it down when she had sprained her ankle, and, in her trouble, had forgotten its existence; in which case it might be still upon the moor. If it were found, and nothing could be learned of her, what deductions would be drawn? She wondered. One thing was certain, it contained all her worldly possessions. Without it she had not so much as a pocket-handkerchief, not to speak of such a necessity of existence as a brush and comb.
Then the trap had come through the night, and borne her to the house in which she lay. There she had been married to a man upon his death-bed. Such a man and such a death-bed! Could it be possible? She clenched her fists, and asked herself if the whole business had not been the wild imaginings of some disordered dream. Even to herself she could not furnish a satisfactory answer.
Why had she suffered herself to be dragged through such a farce?--to play a part in such an odious scene? Because that old man who called himself a doctor had told her that the creature would be dead within two hours, and that then she would be richer by twenty thousand pounds. Twenty thousand pounds! Could that part of the tale be possible? Why, in that case, this house, the very room in which she was, the queer furniture which filled it, all might be hers. She would be a wealthy woman, who had won her wealth so easily without incurring risk worth mention. Because, even in the storm and stress of the moment, she had understood that bigamy was bigamy, even though one of the marriages into which she had entered was a Scotch one. Of course, nothing could make that marriage of the night before a real one, since she was a wife already. But, as the man was dead, and she was supposed to be his widow, if fortune favoured her the truth never need come out. She believed that she was clever enough to conceal it--at any rate from whom it was worth her while to do so. Only let her get hold of the twenty thousand pounds, or so much of it as could be turned into ready cash--let them find out afterwards what they chose--they would find it hard to get the money back from her. Twenty thousand pounds! She fancied herself letting go of such a sum as that if she once had it in her grip!
The first thing she had to do was to inform herself as fully as possible as to the actual situation. If she was a widow, and her husband had died without a will--he had certainly not made one after marrying her, while the doctor had assured her that marriage had rendered nugatory any he might have made before--then this house, and all that it contained, if it had been his property, was now hers. At least she hoped it was, because, after a little muddled consideration, it began to occur to her that, by English law, a wife did not necessarily inherit all that a husband who had died intestate left behind him. Exactly what share was hers she was not sure, but she had a more or less dim conviction that it was less than the whole. The same objectionable law might obtain in Scotland, or even a worse one. The sooner she ascertained exactly how the ground lay the better it would be for her peace of mind. So she began to call attention to the fact that she was wide awake. Since there was apparently no bell within reach, she had to make the best use of her voice.
"Nannie!" she called. "Nannie! Nannie!" And she kept on calling, because there was none that answered. Her voice was a strong one--she exerted it to the utmost--but it seemed that it was not strong enough to reach any one outside that room. She shouted till she was hoarse, and angry too, quite in vain; nothing resulted.
"If there's any one in the house they must hear me, and I expect they do, only they don't choose to come. Oh, if it weren't for this foot of mine! That Nannie's an insolent hag. She knows perfectly well that I can't move, and thinks she can treat me as she likes. If I could move I'd soon show her. Nannie! Nannie!" She shouted till she could really shout no longer. No one came; nor was there anything to show that she was heard. She began to be possessed by a fresh alarm. "I wonder if the house is empty? Suppose that old hag has gone off and left me alone in the house with that--that dead man. I'll be bound she's quite capable of doing it--old wretch! I shall starve to death! Nannie! Nannie!"
But all the strength had gone out of her voice--it was not strange that those muffled tones remained unheeded--a fact of which she herself was conscious. At last, wholly exhausted, she lay and thought hard things of every one. She was genuinely hungry. She told herself that if some one did not come soon and bring her food something would have to be done, though she had not the faintest notion what. Self-help was out of the question; she was as powerless to move as if she had been riveted to the bed.
She was rapidly reaching a despairing stage when Nannie entered with a tray in her hand, quite calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that she should come just then and not before. Isabel broke into angry expostulation.
"Why have you kept me waiting. Why didn't you come before? You must have heard me long ago--you're not stone deaf. I've screamed myself hoarse."
Nannie placed the tray upon a table. Then, with the most matter-of-fact air, putting her arms about the angry woman, she raised her to a sitting posture, arranging the pillows so that they formed a prop for her back. Divided between indignation and bewilderment, Isabel submitted in silence; she was so helpless, the old woman's manner was so masterful, that to expostulate seemed vain. The tray was put beside her on the coverlet, Nannie observing--
"When you've eaten your fill I'll come and take a look at that foot of yours".
"It's ever so much worse. I've been in agony--and am still. I believe I've broken a bone."
"Not you; it's no but a sprain."
"It's more than a sprain--much more, I'm convinced of it. Where's Dr. Twelves? He ought to attend to it at once. He said he would come and see me. Why hasn't he been?"
"He's been and gone hours ago."
"Been and gone! Why didn't you let me know that he was here?"
"What for should I let you know?"
"You knew that I wished to see him."
"You never said it; and, anyway, he never said that he was wishing to see you."
"You're taking advantage of me! You think I'm at your mercy, and that you can do as you like with me because I can't move! You're a wicked old woman!"
"Am I? Then I'm reckoning that age is the only difference there is between us."
Burning words flamed to Isabel's lips, but she had enough prudence and self-control not to allow them to go any farther. She was at the other's mercy, and she knew it. The only way to obtain from her some slight consideration was to endeavour to appease, not anger her. Instead of giving her anger vent, she put to her a question, the one she had put the night before.
"Is my husband dead?"
She received what was practically the same answer.
"Didn't I tell you that for that you must ask Dr. Twelves, since he's knowing when folks are dead better than me?"
Without affording Isabel another opportunity to speak Nannie left the room.
If the new Mrs. Grahame could have got out of bed there would have been some lively doings. It is not impossible that Nannie would have found that she had met her match. When that lady was really roused, and had a fair chance to show it, she was a difficult person to deal with. But she was, literally, held by the leg; as incapable of doing what she would have liked to have done as if she had been an infant in arms.
When, after an interval of no long duration, the ancient servitor returned, Isabel did treat her to what she meant to be a taste of her claws. For all the effect she produced she might have saved herself the trouble. The Scotchwoman evinced a serene indifference to anything she might say or do, which influenced her more than she would have cared to own. Then the pain she endured was exquisite. Nannie's ministrations were deft enough. She set about her task like one who understood well what she had to do, and was capable of doing it. She removed the bandages, bathed the injured foot, applied hot poultices; so far as Isabel was able to judge, did all that could be done. But the most delicate touches could not prevent her suffering agony. By the time the other had finished her anger was forgotten. All she desired was rest--peace--to be left alone.
For seven days Isabel remained, willy-nilly, in bed. All the time the only person she saw was Nannie. Dr. Twelves never came near her. Whether the fault was his or her attendant's was more than she could determine. She heard no news of any sort or kind. Nothing could be got out of Nannie. No answers to any of her questions; only the fewest possible words on unimportant subjects.
It is true that during the first two or three days her ankle gave her so much trouble, her sufferings from it were so intense, that she was, in a measure, content to be left alone and in ignorance. But as the pain lessened her impatience, and indignation, grew apace. More than once she attempted to get out of bed and to start on a voyage of exploration through the house to acquire information on her own account. Since, however, her attempts only resulted in disaster, and it was made plain that they only postponed her convalescence, common-sense gained the upper hand. She resolved to endure with as much calmness as she could command till the time arrived when, at least to some extent, she should again be mistress of her own powers of locomotion.
After the longest week she had ever known she decided that that time was not far off. She informed Nannie that, since her foot was now on the high road to recovery, on the morrow she would be capable of getting out of bed, and that, therefore, get out of bed she would. Nannie, as was her wont, kept silence when this piece of information was vouchsafed to her. But that she was impressed by it was evident when on the morrow in question, instead of the old woman, Dr. Twelves came into the room. It seemed as if Nannie must have told him that the time had now come when it was desirable that he should make his re-entry on the scene. At least that was the conclusion at which, at sight of him, the lady in the bed instantly arrived.
"So you've come, have you, at last! I suppose that old hag told you you had better before I came to you? I should have come in half an hour."
That was the greeting the angry lady accorded her tardy visitor.
Dr. Twelves seemed to be in no haste to answer. Coming to within a foot or two of her bed-side he stood and eyed her. He looked very old in the daylight, older than she had thought he was. Short; thin to the point of emaciation. There was something almost sinister in his attitude, in the way in which, inclining his head a little forward, his arms held close to his sides, he examined her keenly, as if he were some bird of prey, and she an object on which he was doubtful whether or not to pounce. As she gave him glance for glance she understood that this was a person who was not so frail as he might at first sight appear. But want of courage was not a deficiency which could justly be laid to the lady's charge. When he did reply it was with a question.
"Why do you speak to me like that?"
"You know very well why! You promised that first night that you would attend to my foot; but though I've asked for you again and again you've never been near me once, till you were afraid that I should be after you."
"You've been in good hands. Nannie has done all for you that I could have done."
"I don't doubt that."
"Then of what do you complain?"
"You've kept me a prisoner."
"Kept you a prisoner! I! Madam, you jest. Has not your foot had something to do with your confinement? Is it not holding you a prisoner still?"
"It won't do long, so don't you think it. I'll be out and about before the day's over, and when I am I'll make things hum. Is my husband dead?"
"Your husband?"
"My husband! Are you deaf?"
"No, madam, not yet. So far age has not robbed me of my hearing. But to whom do you refer when you speak of your husband?"
There was that in the fashion in which he asked the question which caused her to clench her fists, tighten her lips and descend to vulgarity--unfortunately an easy descent for her to make when her temper waxed warm.
"What are you playing at? Do you think you're clever, or that I'm an utter fool? You're wrong if you do, you may take it from me. Is my husband, Cuthbert Grahame, dead? I've not been able to get an answer out of that old harridan, but I'll get one out of you."
"Then is Cuthbert Grahame your husband?"
"Is he! Isn't he? Didn't he marry me the other night in front of you and that old woman?"
"Have you a certificate or any writing to show it?"
"A certificate! What do I want with a certificate? You said nothing about a certificate! Look here, old man, don't you try to play any fool-tricks with me, or you'll be sorry. Are you trying to make out that he's not my husband?"
"Not at all; I am trying to do nothing. I should like to ask you a question, to which, before you answer it, I would suggest that you should give a little careful consideration. Would you rather be Cuthbert Grahame's wife or not?"
"I am his wife, and you very well know it, so it's no use talking, and that's enough said. I ask you again, is my husband dead?"
"Your husband? That is the point which I am gradually approaching. Mr. Cuthbert Grahame is not dead."
Her jaw dropped open.
"Not dead?"
"Not dead."
"But you told me----"
"Precisely; I am aware that I told you. You will, however, remember that I made an express reservation in favour of a miracle. The miracle has happened."
"How long will he live?"
"Madam, I am not omniscient. I have once, within your knowledge, failed as a prophet; I should not care to fail again."
"Is he dying?"
"I may venture to say that, at the present moment, to the best of my knowledge and belief, he is not."
"You are beating about the bush. You can at least say if he is likely to live long."
"It is possible, madam, that he may outlive me--even you."
"Then you have cheated me!--cheated me! You have got me into this mess by your lies."
"Any injustice I may have done you was unintentional. You will also be so good as to observe that I have just now offered you something which was intended to be in the nature of a loophole out of the dilemma in which you are placed."
"You mean when you asked me if I wanted to be his wife. Am I his wife, or am I not?"
"It might present a pretty point for the lawyers. If you had chosen to repudiate the connection, it might not have been easy to establish. Nannie and I can hold our tongues--that I beg you to believe. The occasion for a wife having passed, he might have preferred to hold his too."
"Would he rather be unmarried?"
"That is not a matter on which I should care to positively pronounce."
"Then why was he so eager?"
"I explained at the time. He had made a will in favour of a certain person, which he desired to render ineffective; marriage makes null and void any will which a man may have previously made; under the circumstances that seemed to be the easiest and the shortest way out of it. As matters have turned out the measure seems to have been a little drastic, since he can now, if he chooses, make a dozen new wills each day."
"Is he so far recovered as that?"
The doctor seemed desirous to consider before he answered. He put up his long, thin hand to stroke his bristly chin. Moving a few steps, he leaned over the foot of the bed, and from that point attentively regarded her.
"Madam, I do not wish to trouble you with the medical names of all the complicated diseases with which Mr. Grahame is afflicted. I am not sure that I am myself acquainted with them all; some of them puzzle even me. Among other troubles he is paralysed. He cannot move hand or foot of his own volition, or crook a finger. Again, straying into the paths of prophecy, I dare assert that he never will be able to. He has his senses--after a fashion; he is sane--also after a fashion. That is, he is legally capable of making a will, or of taking a wife. But if he desires to affix his signature to a document a pen will have to be placed between his fingers, his hand will have to be guided. To that extent he has recovered, beyond that he almost certainly will never go."
"But he is not dying?"
"No, madam, he is not dying."
"Nor likely to die?"
"No office would insure his life for four-and-twenty hours, though it is quite within the range of possibility that the breath may continue in his body for years. Such cases have been known. Some people death takes at the first call; some have to be called again and again; some seem to go beyond the portal and yet return. Cuthbert Grahame is one of them. He'll not go till death is very much in earnest; when that will be I cannot say. I mistook death's mood the other night--the oldest of us make such mistakes at times. In this case my mistake may seem to press a little hardly upon you."
She looked at him askance. There was a whimsical gravity in his tone which was a little beyond her comprehension, a something which was almost sympathetic. She changed the subject; a fresh intonation had come into her voice also.
"I wish you'd look at my foot. It's better. I think that before long I'll be able to get about again as usual. I want to very much; it's awful being a prisoner in bed. I'm not good at keeping still."
He did as she requested, then pronounced a verdict.
"Your foot is better--much better, as you say. There is no reason why you should not get up, though it may be some little time before you have the entire use of it again."
"At any rate I'll get out of bed--at once."
"And, then, what do you propose to do when you are up?"
"I'm going to see my husband."
"Your husband?"
"Can't I? Why can't I?"
"Mrs. Grahame!--if it is your wish that you should be Mrs. Grahame."
"Aren't I Mrs. Grahame? If I am, what's the good of pretending that I'm not? I am Mrs. Grahame, so there's an end of it."
"Mrs. Grahame, haven't you any friends?"
"What do you mean by friends?"
"Haven't you any relatives? Is there no one to whom you are near and dear? no one to whom you are in any sense responsible for your actions; with whom in a measure your happiness or unhappiness must be shared?"
"No one in this world!"
He smiled at her vehemence, observing her closely all the time.
"Since I am, in a degree, responsible for the--we will call it situation--you are in, I am not unnaturally desirous of having my conscience as clear as I conveniently can. I would, therefore, beg you earnestly to let the first thing you do be this: If you have--we will say an acquaintance--on whose judgment you can rely, write to him; lay the facts before him clearly, and await his response before you take any further step whatever--certainly before you seek to have an interview with Mr. Grahame."
"There is no such person."
"It is unfortunate, since you are so young, and, therefore necessarily, so inexperienced, that you should be so entirely alone in the world. Will you allow me to offer you some advice?"
"What's the use? I've had enough of your advice already--too much."
"How do you make out your case? I am unconscious of having offered you any advice."
"You advised me to marry that man."
"I advised you!"
"Of course you did. There are more ways than one of offering advice; you chose the roundabout way. You told me that if I married him he'd be dead inside two hours, then I'd be richer by twenty thousand pounds. This is what comes of acting on your tip! No thank you. I've had enough and to spare of your advice; now and henceforward I'm going to act upon my own."
"None the less I'm going to give you a piece of advice--of very sincere advice. You have been subjected to some slight inconvenience--though, perhaps, inconvenience is hardly the proper word."
"I should think not."
"My advice to you is: When your foot permits leave this house--I assure you it is not a pleasant one to live in; accept a reasonable sum by way of compensation; then blot the whole episode from your memory."
"What do you call a reasonable sum?"
"Say a hundred pounds."
"A hundred pounds?--the idea! when you talked of twenty thousand! None of your kid's talk for me! Look here, Dr. Twelves, you're an old fox. Don't you think I don't know it however hard you try to play the lamb? You've got some game of your own on. I don't know what it is, but I soon will. If you offer me a hundred pounds to go, I'm dead sure it'll be worth a good deal more than that to me to stay--and I'm going to stay! This is my house; I'm the mistress here; and all the more the mistress because my husband's a rich man who can't look after himself. I'll look after him! I'll show you who's who and what's what!--and every one else as well!--you can take that straight from me!"
As he rubbed his chin, as if he found comfort in the feel of the bristles, the doctor's smile grew more pronounced.
"Content, Mrs. Grahame, content! Only--still a further scrap of advice!--postpone your first call on your husband till you are able to move about as you please."
This piece of advice the lady did act upon, for the simple reason that she was powerless to do otherwise. When she did get out of bed it was agony to hop even as far as the couch. Three more days passed before she was able to stand without flinching overmuch; another whole week had gone before she was able to hobble unaided to the door.
During that time she perhaps suffered more than she had done while she was still in bed. To her restless nature the compulsory inaction was almost unendurable. Her desire to attack the problem which confronted her, to solve it if she could--at any rate to learn what really was the position in which she stood--possessed her like a consuming fever. Nothing could be got out of Nannie; she was impervious to questions of every sort and kind. Arguments, coaxing, threats, alike were unavailing. The old woman could scarcely have been more taciturn had she taken on herself a vow of silence. And after that one visit she saw no more of Dr. Twelves; she could even hear nothing of him from Nannie. That angered her almost more than anything, that he should seem to ignore her so completely! She swore to herself that he should smart for it before very long.
During that week she laid up a fund of resentment against both the doctor and Nannie which she promised herself she would pour forth upon their heads at the earliest possible moment. Only let her be able to get about again as of old, and they should see!
On the eighth day she decided that her time had come, or, at least, that it had begun to come. She said nothing to Nannie, but having proved by actual experiment that she could move about with comparative ease, she dressed herself, waited till the old woman had paid her her usual morning call, then set out on a voyage of exploration. Hobbling to the door, she opened it as quietly as possible, then stood and listened She could hear Nannie moving about downstairs. Then she moved towards the door which was on the opposite side of the landing. Had she had a stick on which to lean her progress might have been quicker. In spite of her reiterated requests Nannie had failed to provide her with one. Without support of any sort she moved very slowly. But she did get to her destination at last. She laid her hand upon the handle, paused a moment to learn if her movements had been observed, then turned it as quietly as she could.