I am inclined to think that I had not given Mr. Montagu Babbacombe credit for all the cleverness he possessed. I began, indeed, to suspect that to his cleverness--if it was only cleverness--there were no limits. While we stared and wondered, a waiter entered the room with a card on a salver, which he brought to me. It was Edith's card. On it she had pencilled a line:
'I am here with Violet. Can't I see him? I should like to.'
'Let her come! Let her come!'
The instruction--it amounted to that--came from the man in the bed. It seemed that he had not only known that the women were in the house before I had had any intimation of their presence, and that the knowledge had prompted him to make his remark, but it also appeared that he knew what was written on that card. Was the fellow possessed of the occult powers of which we read in fairy-books? While the others eyed me askance, inquiring his meaning, I eyed him.
As a matter of fact I welcomed neither Edith nor Violet. I had far rather they both of them had kept away. The business on hand was one with which I desired that they should have no sort of connection. It was bad enough that I should be entering, with my eyes wide open, into such a sea of falsehood. That they should soil even the hem of their skirts by standing, unwittingly, upon the edge was a notion I did not fancy. They were stainless: above reproach. It was my business to keep them so. It did not matter so much for me.
Yet I did not see how I could prevent them coming if they chose to come, even into that atmosphere of foul fraud and lying; especially if my friend, the dying man, desired their presence. The motive which had brought Edith I could understand. After all, Twickenham had been the playmate of her childish days. And he had wooed and won her dearest friend, who still waited, in full confidence, his coming. But why Violet? The man had not even a pseudo-sentimental attraction for her. I turned to the waiter.
'Tell the ladies I will be with them directly.'
The dying man was not to be balked. He evinced a degree of vigour which was altogether beyond anything he had previously shown.
'Let them come! Let them come!' he repeated.
He stretched out his hand, from which the pen dropped out unused, in such a condition of tremulous agitation that Hancock promptly laid him back upon the pillow.
'Gently! Gently! Don't excite yourself, my lord; be calm! What does he mean?' he asked me. I perforce explained.
'Miss Desmond is below, and wishes to know if she may come up.'
'Let her come!' gasped the invalid.
'Better humour him,' murmured Hancock.
'I will go down and speak to her.'
But when I prepared to go the patient shook his head at me in a frenzy of excitement; struggling all the while for breath in a fashion which it was not agreeable to witness. Hancock strove to soothe him.
'Gently, my lord, gently.'
'He's--he's not--to--go. Let them--let them--come.'
'It appears, Mr. Howarth, that his lordship would like Miss Desmond to come without your going to fetch her. Can you not send a message through the waiter?' He added,sotto voce, 'Better do as he wishes; she'll get no harm.'
I had my doubts; but I directed the waiter as Hancock desired. As soon as he was gone Foster returned to the charge.
'Now, if your lordship will be pleased to attach your signature.'
The sick man would have none of him. He merely continued to mumble:
'Let them--come! Let them--come!'
It was clear that the completion of that will would have to be postponed. Foster's chagrin was obvious. To his legal mind form and precedent were everything. What does it matter if we die, so long as our affairs are left in order? To have been so near the attainment of his wishes--for it had looked as if the wily sinner was about to sign--only to be disappointed after all, was a severe trial to his sense of professional propriety. For my part, on that point at least, I was at ease. I was persuaded that Reggie would not find so many thorns in his path as his man of business predicted.
While the sick man mumbled, I regarding him askance, with half an eye on Foster's discomfiture, in came Edith, with Violet at her heels. I had not meant that Violet should come, too, and made a half-step forward to request her to withdraw. But both Reggie and Hancock were in front of me. Reggie made a dash towards Vi, the physician appropriating Edith. Indeed he assumed command of both; his remarks being addressed to the pair. He spoke in a sort of stage aside; his words being perfectly audible to me.
'My dear Miss Desmond! My dear Lady Violet! Our long-lost friend is in a sad way; very, very sad. At any moment the end may come. But he expresses such a desire to see you, and shows so much impatience at the idea of your being kept from him that I thought we might venture. Only be careful not to agitate him.'
'Our long-lost friend' showed impatience then and there.
'What's he--what's he--gabbling about? ---- the man! Let them come!'
Hancock shrugged his shoulders; he dropped his voice.
'You hear?--Such language! But you mustn't mind.' He brought them forward. 'Here, my dear lord, are two ladies who have come to see you--Miss Desmond and Lady Violet Howarth.'
'Edith?' He hit upon her surname; he alone knew how. 'You're an old woman--aren't you?'
That was a civil thing to say,--particularly from a man in his position. I could have shaken him again. Edith only smiled.
'I'm not so young as I was. But you're not an old man, and I'm younger than you.'
'Old?--I am old. Rotten. Done. I feel a thousand. The years lie heavy--on me. I was--never--young.'
The thing was curiously true of Twickenham. He never had been young. Mentally, physically, and morally, he had been born old. As a boy he had all an old man's vices. As Edith perceived what a wreck the creature seemed I saw that tears were in her eyes.
'I am sorry to meet you, after all these years, like this. Poor Leonard!'
She stretched out her hand to touch his brow. I could have snatched it back. He lay perfectly still, staring up at her with fixed, unseeing eyes.
'Why--sorry?'
'I had hoped it would all have seemed so different.'
'It's all right. I've had enough. Glad it's over.'
'Are you in pain?'
'Pains of hell.'
He said this, in his tremulous, croaking tones, with a depth of sincerity which impressed even me. The fellow was a past master of his art, or in possession of unholy powers. Edith's hand visibly trembled.
'Poor Leonard!'
'Soon--over. Who's the girl?'
'This is Violet Howarth--Douglas's sister. Vi, you remember Twickenham? This is Reggie's brother.'
Vi said nothing; possibly because she had nothing to say. She surveyed the object in front of her with looks which were a blend of pity, curiosity, and, unless I err, disgust. She had, perhaps, more than her share of the severity of youth, and I knew what she had thought of the man she supposed herself to be looking at. He spoke to her, with the same request which he had made to Reggie.
'Come--closer; lean--down.'
I believe that Vi rebelled; but when Edith touched her on the shoulder she did as he asked. Whereupon he went through the same performance with which he had favoured Reggie; putting up his hand, and examining her features with his finger-tips.
'You're a pretty girl--but ---- hard.'
It was not surprising that the blood flamed through her skin, although, saving the perhaps unnecessary vigour of the adjective, the thing was true enough. When she likes she can be as hard as nails.
'Why don't you--marry--Reggie?'
'I'm going to, when you're dead.'
I fancy, in her impetuous fashion, that the words were out of her mouth before she was able to stop them. They were out, anyhow; creating a small sensation. It is a common feeling that a deathbed, even of such a character as Twickenham had been, is a place where one ought only to say sentimental and, also, agreeable things; especially young women. One wants to keep the clear, dry light of truth outside. Vi turned white; then red again. Reggie endeavoured to insinuate her hand in his; by way, perhaps, of expressing his sympathy. But she would have none of it. She took her hand away. The sick man's comment showed that his wits moved pretty quickly.
'A nice--wife--you'll make him. He'll be married--and done for--when he's got you.'
Unmistakably a retort quivered on the young lady's tongue. Edith, slipping her arm about her, restrained its utterance.
'It's all right, Vi,' she whispered. Instead, therefore, of that retort, Vi addressed him an inquiry, in even, measured tones.
'Have you quite finished with me?'
'What a girl! Doug--she does you--proud.'
A peculiar sound proceeded from his throat, which was perhaps intended for a chuckle. His hand dropped. Vi stood up. We were silent. A feeling of awkwardness was in the air; a consciousness that Vi had struck an inharmonious note. Hancock relieved the situation--or tried to.
'I think now, my lord, if you were to take a little sleep.'
'Hang--sleep. Shan't I--have enough--sleep soon?'
Foster proffered his suggestion.
'Will your lordship be pleased to attach your signature?'
'Foster!'
'My lord?'
'Give me the will.'
Foster advanced the sheet of paper, on the blotting-pad, and a pen, newly dipped in ink. To the pen the sick man paid no heed.
'The will?'
'Here is the will.'
'Give it--to me.'
The lawyer held out the sheet of paper. The sick man took it, and tore it in half. It was rather a niggling process: he made one or two abortive attempts. But the result was unmistakable. Two crumpled fragments represented the document which Foster had deemed of such importance. Its destroyer made a single remark.
'I--hate--wills.'
The lawyer's face was a study. There was a common feeling that Violet's behaviour had something to do with what had happened. I think that for little he would have told her so, in language of vigour. Perhaps her own conscience assailed her. She whispered to Reggie:
'What's he torn?'
'His will.'
'His will? What was in it?'
'Everything to me.'
'Everything? Reggie, you don't mean that you'll have nothing then?'
'Not so bad as that.--Hush.'
The admonition was only administered in the nick of time. Then came a voice from the bed.
'That girl's ---- tongue! She's a--jade, Reggie!'
'Yes.'
'You'll be a fool--if you marry her. Don't you do it.'
Reggie spoke hotly in reply. 'You don't know what you're talking about.'
'You--you--young devil--speak to me like that? Foster.'
'My lord?' Hancock interposed.
'I beg, my lord, that you will not excite yourself.'
'Excite myself! What in thunder do you mean? I'll do--what I please--with myself.' He was illumined by a sudden burst of really vigorous passion; actually raising himself in bed to give it tongue. He spoke with an amount of fluency which after the recent struggle he had made to utter disconnected words was surprising. 'I'm not dead yet, so don't let any one order me about as if I were--curse you, you bald-headed old fool!' This was to Hancock; the top of whose scalp is smooth. 'I'm not going to have my brother mixed up with a bold-faced judy; he's not going to make a girl of whom I disapprove the Marchioness of Twickenham. I tell you, Foster, that if Reggie marries that jade--if he marries--if he----'
He stopped as if at a loss for a word. Then a shudder passed all over him; his whole frame became perceptibly rigid; he dropped back, still. Hancock turned to us.
'I think if one of you gentlemen were to take the ladies out. I'm afraid this may be serious.'
As we were going, the door opened to admit Dr. Robert White. I welcomed him.
'Dr. White, you are just in time. I don't know if you are known to Sir Gregory Hancock. Your patient has just had a relapse.'
The two doctors bent together in consultation over the bed. Edith touched me on the arm.
'Let us wait,' she whispered.
Presently Hancock spoke to Reggie.
'My lord marquis, it becomes my painful duty to inform you that your brother is dead.'
It was a diplomatic way of announcing the news. Vi, as usual, told the truth with too much candour: 'He was a wicked man; he died as he had lived.'
Hancock shook his head.
'Of the dead, my dear young lady, let no man speak ill.'
I led her from the room, Edith following with Reggie. So soon as I got her outside I started to scold her there and then.
'I need not tell you, Violet, that you have behaved very badly.'
'You should not have let him touch me. I could not bear his fingers against my skin.' She shuddered at the recollection. 'Those dreadful hands! To think of all they've done!'
'You might at least have remembered that the man was on the threshold of the grave. One day you may yourself stand in need of a lenient judgment.'
'I wish I'd never seen him.'
'I wish it also. The mischief you have done is irrevocable. If it hadn't been for you a will would be in existence by the terms of which Reggie would be in indisputable possession of everything.'
'But, surely, the destruction of that piece of paper will make no difference.'
'Won't it? You wait till you hear what Foster has to say.'
'Reggie, is it true that I've done you so much harm?'
'My dear Vi, you've done me no harm at all. Douglas exaggerates. If I had been in your place I should have said and done exactly what you said and did. But, come--hadn't you better go? There's no use your staying now. We'll follow you as soon as we can.'
As we were going down the stairs I heard her whisper in his ear--'My lord marquis!'
What he said I did not catch; but it was something which made her smile.
So they went, and we were left to minister to the dead man.
On one point it was absolutely essential that I should know at once exactly where I stood. I settled it as we were returning up the stairs.
'Reggie, there is one thing I wish to say. I will do everything for Twickenham that remains to be done.'
'You mean as regards the funeral and that kind of thing?'
'I do. If you will leave everything to me I will make all necessary arrangements.'
'Thank you. That's one more service. I wonder for how many things I am really in your debt, besides bread and cheese, and--even kisses.'
'Don't talk nonsense.'
'It's not nonsense. And it'll have to be talked about some day. My turn's coming.'
'We've been in stormy waters; if now we're going to sail over summer seas together, I'll be content.'
'I'll see we do.'
I had not the slightest doubt of it. And I also would see. The time of the harvest was at hand. I was quite ready to take my share of the golden grain.
The doctor was chatting to Foster. Striding up to the bed I looked down on the recumbent figure.
'I suppose, gentlemen, that there's no doubt whatever that he's dead?'
Hancock was unable to conceal his amusement.
'Are you suggesting, Mr. Howarth, that we don't know our business, or that I don't know mine? That is the late Marquis; the present Marquis is here.' He motioned with one hand towards the bed, with the other towards Reggie. To Reggie he addressed himself. 'I beg, my lord, to offer you my congratulations. I will not disguise from you that I am aware that this is an occasion on which you are entitled to receive them. We all know that your late brother was not all that he ought to be, and that he has been to you the occasion of great, long-continued, and undeserved anxiety. That burden has now been happily removed. I am sure that in the future your noble house will be worthily represented.'
'Thank you. I hope you're right.'
After all, Hancock was a prosy old fool.
'Is there anything else I can do for you, or arrange before I go? Dr. White has kindly promised to see that the late Marquis receives all proper attention.'
'Much obliged; but Mr. Howarth will see to everything.'
'I will see to the funeral.' This was Foster.
'Well, Mr. Howarth has undertaken----'
'Quite right, Reggie, I will see to everything--including the funeral, Mr. Foster. We don't propose to trouble you more than we can help.'
Mr. Foster made a few remarks to Reggie which were also meant for me.
'I trust, my lord, that my attitude towards you in the past will not be misconstrued. As I did what I held to be my duty towards your brother, so I will observe equal fidelity towards you. If it should be happily shown--which I do not doubt it will be--that you are now the Marquis and in possession of the family estates, I will study your interests with the same honesty of purpose with which I studied his.'
'Very good of you, Foster. You shall hear from me in due course.'
Reggie turned on his heel; and the great, and hitherto supreme, Mr. Foster, was snubbed. It was injudicious, perhaps, but we both of us owed him a good deal more than a snubbing.
At last Reggie and I were alone. The first thing he said, directly their backs were turned, showed what was in his mind.
'It would be awkward if what that brute Foster keeps hinting at was true, and Twickenham was married.'
'No fear of that. He wasn't. Twickenham wasn't a marrying man.'
'Let's hope it. A wife and family of his would be a crowning mercy.'
'There's not the slightest fear of anything of the kind. I'm sure of it. It's Foster's cue to make you fidgety. Don't you let him have the satisfaction of thinking that he even retains the power of making himself disagreeable.'
Reggie was observing the silent figure.
'He does look a bad lot, even now.'
'He was.'
'Vi was quite right; he died as he had lived. I believed that if he had had a few minutes longer he would have robbed me of all he could.'
'I shouldn't be surprised; the ruling passion strong in death.'
Presently he departed. I was alone with the man in the bed.
It was a curious sensation. It had all been so much easier than I had ever ventured to hope. So quickly over too. The idea which had been only mooted yesterday was already carried out. And in such triumphant fashion. And we had waited fifteen years! But then during that period I had never lighted on a Mr. Montagu Babbacombe. The man was a consummate actor; altogether beyond anything I had ever seen or heard of. On the stage his fame would fill the world; and then ring down the ages. The arch-impostor had duped them all; with the most ridiculous ease. No wonder; on one or two points he had deceived even me--whose idea the whole thing was. The death certificate would be forthcoming--poor old Hancock's conduct had been fatuous. This was a great physician! If all documents of the kind are granted with equal readiness, how many people are buried alive? The reflection was not an agreeable one. The recognition in each case had been unhesitating. Even that Didymus, Foster, was persuaded at last. There only remained one or two trifling details which required attention, and the stakes were ours.
I was a little at a loss how exactly to proceed. The key had been turned to prevent untoward interruption, but still the fact remained that voices might be audible without. If we were heard--or even if I was heard, I might be asked whom I was talking to,--which, conceivably, might be awkward. Obviously, it was a case for the extremest caution.
I leant over the bed, and I whispered,
'Babbacombe!'
He did not answer. I had not expected he would. By now I had gained some insight into his methods.
'I only want to tell you that I understand a woman's coming to wash you; "lay you out," I believe, they call it. I suppose you don't object?'
Not a sign; not a sound.
'That's all right; I don't suppose she'll worry you overmuch. By the way, where have you put that money? I don't want to know; only women of that kind are as sharp as needles; and not over scrupulous either. If you like to confide it to my keeping it will be quite safe in my charge, and you can have it whenever you want it, with the other five hundred, as you know very well.'
Nothing to show he heard.
I turned down the bedclothes, thinking that he might have slipped the notes between the sheets. Not he! Nothing in the shape of a bank-note was to be seen. My curiosity being piqued--the depths of this man really were too deep!--I looked for them in every place I could think of, subjecting the whole bed to a minute examination; he evincing not the slightest apparent interest in my proceedings. Not the vestige of a note. Could he have swallowed them? If he had not, I could not conceive what had become of them. They were not upon his body. They could hardly, at his bidding, have vanished into air. Although I was quite prepared to admit that, 'for ways that are dark,' compared to him the Heathen Chinee was an innocent suckling.
'Well, as I can't find it I imagine that the woman won't; so I suppose I make take it that the money's safe. There's only one other topic on which I wish to touch--the funeral. The undertaker's man will come and measure you to-day. The shell, and, I presume, the coffin also, will arrive to-morrow morning. You'll be placed inside, and, in the afternoon, the coffin will be closed. It will be taken down in the evening by a special train to Cressland--where you may, or may not, be aware is the family vault--the interment taking place on Wednesday. As we are none of us particularly proud of you, the interment will be as private as possible. As, I take it, you don't want to be inside the coffin when it's placed in its last resting-place, I'll look in before the undertaker's fellows; you must give up being dead, and, between us, we'll screw down the lid. I'll find an excuse which will satisfy them. I have an idea in this fertile brain of mine.--You clearly understand and agree. Say so if you don't!'
He said nothing, nor signified in any way whatever that he had attained to even a glimmer of comprehension. But I knew him. Taking his immobility to signify acquiescence, I left him asleep upon the bed.
But though I left him he was with me all the time. I could not get him out of my head. I interviewed the landlord, with whom I made arrangements on a very liberal scale to compensate him for the inconvenience the affair was causing him; and all the while that we were talking I saw, with my mental eye, the silent figure on the bed!
Thence I went to Tattenham, the funeral furnisher. The figure was with me there. I wondered what my feelings would be if I knew that I was being measured for my coffin. With what amount of ceremony would the measurer treat me? To be touched for such a purpose by such hands! I feared that under his kind offices I should not lie so still as I trusted Mr. Montagu Babbacombe would do.
At home I found, as I expected, Edith and Reggie confabulating with Violet. As I also expected, Vi began at me at once--though her tone and bearing were alike surprising. She was unwontedly meek.
'Doug'--it was very rarely that she called me 'Doug,' I had rather she had not done so then. I had too recently heard the abbreviation proceeding from other lips--'Doug, I'm sorry I behaved so badly. I know I was a wretch. Edith has made me see that, and it's no use Reggie pretending that I wasn't.'
My manner was brusque. It was a subject about which I wished to hear nothing more.
'That's all right. I wouldn't be too penitent if I were you. There was no harm done.'
'But it prevented him making his will?'
'If it did it did; and what's done can't be undone. Not that I think it matters.'
'Don't you really think it matters? Supposing any of those things happen at which it seems that Mr. Foster hinted; what then?'
'What then? Wait till then. Till then say nothing.'
I do not think she altogether grasped my meaning. Indeed I doubt if I myself clearly understood what it was I wished to say. I told them what arrangements I was making with regard to the funeral, and so on, Reggie showing himself quite of my opinion that everything should be done as quietly as possible. Had the third marquis died, after a well-ordered life, in the odour of sanctity, his corpse might have been interred with all possible honour; as things were, it was advisable that he should be laid in his last resting-place with as little form and ceremony as was compatible with decency.
When I left the room, anxious to be by myself, to think, Edith followed me. For the first time in my life I found her presence irksome. She followed me to the small apartment which I dignified by the name of library, evidently assured of the welcome which hitherto had never failed her.
'At last!' she began, as soon as we were alone together. I busied myself with some papers which were on my writing-table.
'Yes; at last.'
'We have waited for it a good many years; you and I.'
'That is so.'
This was platitudinous. I felt that if she had nothing more original to say I should have to ask her to excuse me if I gave my attention to matters which pressed. Her words, her voice, her very neighbourhood, seemed to have a singular effect upon my nervous system. It was as if I were ashamed. In some curious way, it was as if I were afraid of her. I wanted to take her in my arms; to hold her to me; to find strength in her sweet tenderness; for it was strength I needed. But I was conscious of an awkward inability to do as I had done a hundred times before--ay, a thousand. A shadowy something seemed to have interposed itself between us, as her own quick sight perceived.
'What is the matter with you, Douglas?'
The question took me aback. I looked up at her with a start, experiencing an unwonted difficulty in meeting her inquiring glances.
'The matter? Why?'
'You seem changed.'
'Changed? It's your fancy.'
'It's a very vivid fancy then. I noticed it first the night you dined with us.' On the afternoon of that day I had first seen the sleeping man. Are there any detectives like the eyes of the woman who loves? 'It has grown more perceptible since. Until now it sits upon you in a guise so that you seem transformed.'
'Many things have happened during the last day or two.'
'Yes. Have you told us of them all?'
'Of them all? What do you mean?'
'Douglas, don't you know what I mean?' She came close to me, laying her hand upon my arm. I actually quivered beneath her touch; a fact of which I had an uncomfortable conviction she was conscious. 'I've another fancy--which is also a very vivid one, that there is something behind all this of which you've said nothing. Douglas, can't you tell me?'
'What your fancy is? I'm afraid you ask something which is beyond my capacity; since it probably takes the shape of poetry rather than prose.'
'Douglas--is Twickenham married?'
'Married? My dear Edith, is that the shape your fancy takes? I know no more whether he was married than you do. Although I have a private conviction--to which I intend to adhere till the contrary is proved--that he wasn't.'
My manner plainly showed her that her shot had failed to hit the mark. She let fly another arrow; this time with a better aim.
'Douglas, where did you see him first?'
'Some day I may tell you. I don't propose to now.'
'Was he ill?'
'Not that I'm aware of.'
'It wasn't in a hospital?'
'A hospital! Edith, what is it you are driving at?'
'Nor in any place of the kind?'
'Are you suggesting that I dragged him from a sick bed to die for our benefit? Because, if so, let me assure you that when I first saw him I had no notion that anything ailed him, or that he was any nearer death than I am.'
'Well, Douglas, I won't worry you now, because I know that you are already worried about something, the burden of which I hope that one day you'll share with me.'
So she went, leaving me in a condition of mental unrest to which I had never supposed I could have fallen a prey. I could not shake off that ridiculous feeling that I had for company the silent figure on the bed; the dead man who was not dead. The interview with Edith invested him with a new significance. Already she suspected that there was more in the matter than met the eye. Was I so poor an actor? Had I so wholly failed to profit by the great example which had been set me? If it was Edith now, when would it be Violet and Reggie? If either of them gained the faintest inkling of the actual state of affairs, what would become of my house of cards, and of me? How infinitely worse would my latter state be than my first! I had never, so far as I knew, done a dishonourable thing till then. Now, on a sudden, here I was, tilting against the laws both of God and man. If I had a fall, there would be an end of me.
The next day I was busied about a multitude of things. The story had already got about, thanks, I imagine, to the people at the hotel; as a consequence I was inundated with inquiries, to some of which I was compelled to give personal attention. For instance, Morris Acrodato--grown old, but still relentless--came, assuring me that he had that unfortunate bill of Twickenham's in his pocket, and wanting to know--if he did not take out a warrant to arrest the corpse, if his claim would be favourably considered by the succeeding peer. Over and over again both Reggie and I had begged Foster to pay him what he asked, and so silence him so far as he could be silenced; but with equal persistency he had retorted by requesting us to furnish him with Twickenham's instructions to do as we desired. So after fifteen years Acrodato was still waiting for his money or his man. A portentous sum the amount which he demanded had become. Although I laughed at his notion of arresting a dead man--we are not in Sheridan's days, when a corpse was seizable--I had no hesitation in giving him my personal assurance that all should be done for him which equity called for. He rather pulled a face at my allusion to equity, that being hardly the point of view from which he wished his case to be regarded.
Try as I would, I could not get through the things which had to be done at anything like the rate which I desired, the result being that the afternoon was already well advanced before I was able to make my promised visit to Cortin's Hotel.
I realised, with a sense of shock, that a hearse stood before the door. What had happened? I looked at my watch. It was after six. The train which was to bear the coffin to Cressland was due to start in something like an hour. What an idiot I had been! Better have left everything else undone rather than run the risk of being too late.
Suppose the undertaker's men were already in the room, and Mr. Babbacombe--mistaking the cause of my non-arrival, and setting it down as intentional--had realised that their purpose was to prison him in that narrow box, and shut him off for ever from the light of day, what might not be taking place! I leaped from the cab and rushed up the steps. The landlord met me in the hall.
'The undertaker's men have arrived, sir. They are closing the coffin now.'
'Closing the coffin!'
I waited to hear no more. Never before had I mounted a flight of stairs as I did those then. I was up them in a hop, skip, and jump; not pausing to consider what I was to say or do when I reached the chamber of the supposititious dead, but only anxious to get there.
When I got there it was already too late. I saw it at a glance. Never shall I forget with what sensations!
Four men were in the room, all dressed in black. One had his hat on; the hats of the other three were together on a single chair. An oak coffin stood on a black velvet pall, which doubtless covered trestles. Two men, one at either end, were screwing on the lid. A third was prowling about the room. The fourth--the one with his hat on--was standing, with his hands in his pockets, surveying the proceedings. They all glanced towards me as I entered, unmistakably taken by surprise. The fourth man, withdrawing his hands from his pockets, made haste to remove his hat. The prowler came hurrying towards the others.
'You're--you're not closing the coffin?'
'Yes, sir. By Mr. Tattenham's instructions.'
'But it's not time.'
'Excuse me, sir, but it is. The coffin has to be placed in the van before it's attached to the train; and that means some time before it's due to start. Did you wish, sir, to see him?'
I felt dazed; filled with a whirl of confused thoughts. The voice of the undertaker's man sounded to me like a voice in a dream.
'See him. Is he'--I was about to add 'in there?' Because it seemed incredible that even so consummate an artist as Mr. Montagu Babbacombe could consent to remain quiescent while being consigned to a living tomb. But the question in such a form might have seemed too suggestive; so I substituted, 'Is he all right?'
It seemed that the man somewhat mistook my drift.
'Perfectly, sir. Make a fine photograph, sir. Looks calm and peaceful; as well as he possibly could look. We can easily remove the lid; would you like to see him, sir?'
'See him? No. I--I don't want to see him.'
'In that case, since the lid is closed, we'll be starting, sir, if you don't mind.'
I do not know what I said. Something, I suppose; because shouldering the coffin there and then, they started. They carried it from the room and bore it from my sight. I remained behind, picturing the man inside fighting for freedom. I wondered when the struggle would begin. What was that? I thought I heard a voice calling to me from the stairs without; a voice I seemed to know. I went to the door and listened. Not a sound. Across the hall below passed the four men in black, bearing the living man shut up in the box upon their shoulders.
Was he already tapping at the inner shell? Would they hear him if he were? The shell was presumably a substantial one; the wood of the outer coffin thick. He would be shrouded in his winding-clothes; his movements would be cumbered. He would quite possibly be unable to rap with sufficient force to make them hear him. He might call; or try to. In that stifling atmosphere would he be able to use his voice?
At any rate it seemed plain that nothing took place inside that polished tomb to attract their attention. The bearers passed through the swing doors, out into the street. I waited. No doubt the coffin was being placed inside the hearse. Was Mr. Babbacombe aware of it? Presently one of the undertaker's men returned to fetch the four hats which had been left behind in the room. He went down the stairs with two in either hand. Another interval. Presumably the hearse had started.
What was that noise--like the scratching of fingernails against wood? Whose voice called me? Did it come from the bed? I spun round like a teetotum.
It was merely a delusion. It must have been. The bed was unoccupied. Its emptiness affected me more than anything which had gone before. It exercised on me so singular a fascination that I continued to stare at it as if unable to take my eyes away.
What was that noise--like the scratching of a man's nails against wood? The hearse must have long since got out of the street. If it had a fast pair of horses it was probably already half-way to the station. It could not come from the bed.
When--I do not know how long afterwards--I went down the stairs, feeling as if a century had elapsed since I went up them, the landlord stopped me to express a hope that everything had been done to my satisfaction.
I couldn't make it out. Nor could Mr. FitzHoward.
'Well,' said Mr. FitzHoward to me, 'your governor certainly is a caution'--which I was far from denying it--'but this beats anything; it does that.'
And tilting his hat on to the back of his head, he looked at the ceiling, as if in the hope of seeing James up there. But nothing of the kind.
'You say you've heard nothing of him,' he continued. 'You're quite sure? This isn't a little game he's playing off on me, in which you're taking a hand?'
'Mr. FitzHoward, I'm not that sort of person. I've not heard one word; nor half a one. He came home that night after he'd been doing that sleep at the Aquarium--well, he'd been drinking.'
'You'd have been drinking if you'd only just woke up after being asleep for thirty days.'
'No, Mr. FitzHoward, I should not; though I can quite understand what an awful feeling it must be. And how he can go wasting his life like that----'
'You don't call it wasting his life when he earns nearly a hundred pounds in a month?'
'It's the first I've heard of it if he did earn nearly a hundred pounds. He gave me the money to pay the rent, and five pounds to pay the bills, and another five pounds to buy the children and me some clothes--it's a lucky thing I didn't buy them, or I should have been penniless--and that's all the money I ever heard of. That was on the Sunday morning. He had on a suit of clothes which I'd never seen before, and in them he looked a perfect gentleman.'
'He's a gentleman to his finger-tips--when he likes.'
'When he chooses he's anything and everything. His equal I never knew or heard tell of. I'm not a superstitious woman, but it's sometimes my belief that he has dealings with those he didn't ought to.'
'I shouldn't be surprised.'
I could tell from his tone that he was laughing; as I let him see.
'You may laugh, Mr. FitzHoward, and welcome. But I know more about him than you do, and he's done things which make me believe he has traffic with the powers of evil.'
'You'd better tell him so.'
'I have told him so, more than once; and then he's spoken as if he was running a sword right through me. Not cross--that's one of his queer ways--he never is cross; you can't make him cross. But for sarcasm there never was his match. He makes you wish that you'd bitten your tongue off before you spoke. Well, as I was saying, that Sunday morning he came down with a new suit of clothes on, laid the money on the table, said what it was for, and walked right out. I didn't dare to ask him where he was going to.'
'They aren't many wives like you, Mrs. Merrett.'
'And there aren't many wives, Mr. FitzHoward, who've got husbands like mine. However, though I asked no questions I thought that, after being away a month, he'd be home for dinner, especially as I had expressly told him that I'd got as good a dinner for him as man could want. The children and I waited till the dinner was spoilt, but he never came. I cried; I was disappointed. That's nearly a fortnight ago, and from that hour to this I've seen and heard nothing of him.'
'Has he done this kind of thing before?'
'Plenty of times. Sometimes he's been away months at a stretch.'
'And left you penniless?'
'He's never done that. Money's always come along just as I was beginning to want it; with nothing, except his writing on the envelope, to show from whom it came.'
'He's a curiosity.'
'He's more than that. He's a mystery.'
'I don't know if you're aware that he's entered into certain contracts, and that, if he doesn't keep them, it'll be a serious thing for me.'
'He thinks nothing of breaking contracts; not he.'
'That's pleasant hearing. I hope he'll think something of breaking these.' He stood biting his fingernails; which is a habit I can't abide.
'Do you know anything about a man named Smith?'
'I've known something about a good many Smiths.'
'Yes, but this is a particular Smith. A very tall, well-set man; swell written large all over him; a military swagger; and a big brown moustache just turning grey.'
'I can't say that I recognise him from your description. But there's very few of my husband's friends I do know. Was this Mr. Smith a friend of his?'
'That's what I would like to know. I can give you one piece of information, Mrs. Merrett. When your husband left here that Sunday morning I can tell you where he went.'
'Perhaps you can tell me where he is now.'
'I wish I could. It would be a weight off my mind. He's booked to open at Manchester next week, and I want to see him to make arrangements. That Sunday morning he went to the York Hotel. There he engaged a private sitting-room, in which he had an interview, by appointment, with Mr. John Smith. After Mr. Smith went he had dinner.'
'Did he?'
'He did; and a good one, too--from what I hear. He stayed at the York Hotel all day; he slept there that night.'
'How could he! And I sat up half the night hoping and longing for him to come home.'
'He left very early the next morning, without leaving word where he was going; and where he did go is what I want to know.'
'How do you know all this?'
'It's no secret. I happened to mention, in the hearing of the young lady behind the bar, that I couldn't make out what had become of Babbacombe, and she said that he'd slept there one night. Then the boss told me all there was to tell.'
'Who is this Mr. Smith James had the interview with?'
'That's another thing I want to know; and that's why I asked if you knew. The first time I saw him was on the Thursday--the twenty-eighth day of your husband's sleep. When he caught sight of your governor he turned quite queer.'
'Queer? What do you mean?'
'Why, he went so white and tottery that, for all the big man he is, I thought he was going to faint. If he hadn't seen your husband before, and wasn't precious sorry to see him again, I'm a Dutchman. The next day, Friday, he turned up again. Then he said that if I'd manage to let him speak to your husband he'd give me a five-pound note.'
'Good gracious! He must have been very anxious to speak to him.'
'He was--uncommon. Sure enough on the Saturday night he was there. After your husband had finished his show, I told him that a party named Smith wanted to see him.'
'Did you tell him he had offered to give you a five-pound note?'
'No; I didn't think that was necessary. The governor said, "Show him in." As I showed him in he slipped me the fiver. When I came back, I saw that something had taken place between them which had put your husband in a mood I couldn't understand. He must have made an appointment with this Smith for the next morning--though he said nothing about it to me. As he kept that appointment, and after keeping it disappeared, it looks very much as if Smith knew where he disappeared to, and why: if we could only find him.'
'If you take my advice, Mr. FitzHoward, you won't interfere in my husband's private affairs any more than you can help. He's not the kind of man who takes interference kindly.'
'His private affairs in this case are mine. At his request I have made certain engagements for him. If he doesn't keep them I shall be blamed. I'm a man, Mrs. Merrett, to whom professional reputation is dear. If he doesn't keep them it shall be through no fault of mine. If what you call interference is necessary to induce him to keep them, I'm going in for just as much of it as ever I can.'
'Very well, Mr. FitzHoward. Only don't ask me to help you. I've long since given up interfering with Mr. Merrett's comings and goings, either by word or deed.'
'As I said before, Mrs. Merrett, you're a remarkable wife. You see, I'm only his business manager; so I expect I'm actuated by different motives.'
Shortly after that he took himself away. And I wasn't sorry to see him go. Though, when he went, he left behind him as unhappy a woman as you'd find in England.
James used to tell me I was pretty. He tells me so sometimes now. I wish he'd say it oftener; because it won't be true of me much longer, and my prettiness is all I ever had. I'm not a bit clever. I'm an ignorant, common woman. That's all. My father was a small farmer over Horsham way. James came to lodge with us one summer; for we took lodgers sometimes, when we could get them. He hadn't been in the house a week before he was all the world to me. He was years and years older than I was; nigh as old as father. But that made no difference. There never was another man like him. Not all the other men put together would make his equal. I thought so then, and I think so now.
The strange thing was that he cared for me. He told me so one afternoon. And while I was half beside myself with joy they came and told me father was dead. He had been thatching the big barn, and had slipped off the roof and broken his neck. The day after father was buried, I went over with James to Horsham, and was married at the registrar's by special licence. Father was all the relation I had, and me being alone in the world, with no money, James thought it would be best.
James being as near as possible a stranger, it wasn't till after we were married that I learned anything at all about him; and then only what he chose to tell me. It wasn't long, however, before I began to find out that I'd got a queer one for a husband; but how queer I don't believe I know to this very hour. I'm not one to tell tales of my own man, the father of my children, but I could tell tales which would make some people's hair stand up on end. Some of the things he's done have made me wonder if he's not in league with the devil. Not that I wasn't happy--at least until I saw that to him a woman was just nothing at all. Though he loved me in his way. But his way was such a funny one. For a week together he'd be so nice that I'd begin to think I was in Heaven. Then he'd go out, as I'd think just for a stroll, and I'd never see him again for weeks, and sometimes months. Where he went to, or what he did, he'd never tell me. And, in time, I gave up asking; because the way he treated me when I did ask made me more miserable than ever.
I'm not old now. I've not been married six years, and I wasn't seventeen when I was married. And twenty-three isn't old compared to some. And I've two of the dearest little children. I believe they're a blessing God has given me to make up for what I have to bear from James. Jimmy, he's four and a half, and good as gold; and Pollie, she's three, the prettiest and best child that ever lived. They say that she takes after me; but I'm sure that I don't know. What I should do without them I tremble to think.
And now here was James gone off again! He'd been giving some dreadful performance--though, to my thinking, performance was not the word--at the Royal Aquarium. Actually been to sleep for thirty days on end. It made my blood run cold to think of it. What people could see in such a thing beats me. But there--you never know. Some like all kinds of things. There was once a lady who lived near me who called herself the Boneless Wonder. She was a wonder! She'd twist herself into the most horrid shapes you ever saw. Yet she seemed to like to do it, and people paid to see her. One afternoon when I was having a cup of tea with her, she did such awful things right in front of me upon the kitchen table that I was ill for a week.
There are some women who wish their husbands never would come home. But I'm not that sort. When James has been away, how I've waited and watched for him no one knows, or ever will. And prayed too. And I've taught the children to pray for Daddy to come home. We've all three knelt down together, though they can hardly speak. And when Jimmy says 'Please, God, send Daddy soon,' it goes right through me. I wish He would--to stop. Every footfall I've hoped was his, and at a rap at the door my heart stopped beating. And then when he did come, he'd be as cool and as calm as if he'd never been away. If you ran to him, and made a fuss, he'd say something that would cut you like a knife. But if you kept yourself in as tight as you could, and waited for him to start the fussing, sometimes he'd be that nice that I'd forget all my heavy heart and weary watching, and be as happy as the day was long.
Mr. FitzHoward hadn't got used to him like I had. He hadn't been his 'business manager' for long--though what business James had that he was manager of was beyond me altogether--and the way in which James had taken himself away again seemed to worry him even more than it did me. So far as I could make out, James had bound himself to go to certain towns on certain dates; and if he didn't go Mr. FitzHoward would have to pay. He didn't like the idea of that at all. And I can't say that I blame him. He was in and out sometimes two or three times a day to know if there was news of him. What with his constant worrying, and James keeping away, it was almost more than I could stand. It was only the children kept me up. If I hadn't loved my husband it wouldn't have mattered; but I did. And though I let no one guess it, least of all Mr. FitzHoward, my heart kept crying out for him as if it would break.
One morning, two days after he'd been telling me about that mysterious Mr. Smith, he came rushing into the house without even so much as knocking. He was so excited that he made me excited too. I went up to him with my hands clenched at my sides, feeling all of a tremble.
'Well, where is he?'
His answer made me go as cold as I'd gone hot.
'I'd give a five-pound note to know; the one presented me by Mr. Smith, with another one on top of it.'
'What's the matter with you then, if you don't know?'
He seemed to think that there was something singular in my appearance.
'I say--Mrs. Merrett--don't hit me!' As if I was going to hit him. Though he deserved shaking for making me think such things. I went back to the roly-poly pudding I was making for the children's dinner. 'I tell you what it is, Mrs. Merrett; I'm beginning to feel uneasy.'
'Who cares what you feel?'
Disappointment had made me angry.
'Not many people, I admit. It's a solemn fact that my feelings are not of national importance; but when you've heard what I've got to say, perhaps you'll begin to feel uneasy; then it'll be my turn to make inquiries. You know that Mr. Smith I told you about?' I nodded. I had heard enough of the mysterious Smith. 'Yesterday afternoon, as I was going along Piccadilly on a 'bus, I saw him on the pavement.
'Alone?'
'He was alone right enough; though, for all I know, a ghost ought to have been walking by his side.'
'Mr. FitzHoward! What do you mean?'
'Aren't I going to tell you, if you'll wait? Even the best of women--and, Mrs. Merrett, you must pardon my saying that you are the best I ever met, and I've met some--are impatient.' I wished he'd stop his nonsense. 'I jumped off the 'bus, went up to Mr. Smith from behind, reached out my hand, and touched him on the shoulder. He gave such a jump that he made me jump too. I never saw a man so startled. He didn't look much happier when he saw me; he knew me right enough. "Good God!" he said. "You!" "Yes," I said. "Mr.--Mr. Smith, might I be permitted to inquire what you've done with Mr. Babbacombe?" I don't know what made me ask the question, at least in that way. It must have been a kind of inspiration. For when I did ask it, it seemed to strike him all of a heap. He gave a lurch so that I thought that he was going to fall; and if the wall of St. James's Church hadn't been handy for him to lean against, he'd have come a cropper. The sight he was took me quite aback. It made me think all sorts of things. I couldn't make it out at all. It was some time before he'd got hold of himself enough to speak; and then it was with a stammer. "What--what do you mean by--by asking me such a question?" "I asked it because I want an answer. What's become of him since you had that interview with him at the York Hotel?" "How do you know I had an interview with him?" "That's tellings. I know one or two things, and I want to know one or two more. Mr. Smith, what have you done with Mr. Babbacombe?" "I know nothing whatever, sir, of the person to whom you refer." He tried to pull himself together, and pass things off with an air. But it wasn't altogether a success. Just as he was making as if to take himself off, a friend came rushing up to him. "Hollo, Howarth!" he cried, "you're the very man I wanted to see." I pricked up my ears at this. "Excuse me, sir," I said. "Is this gentleman's name Howarth?" The friend looked me up and down; like those swells do. "Who's this?" he asked. Mr. Smith--or Mr. Howarth--took his arm. "Some person who wishes to make himself offensive to me." And he was going to walk off. But I got in front of him. "Excuse me, Mr. Smith, or Mr. Howarth, or whatever your name is, but before you go perhaps you'll tell me what you've done with Mr. Babbacombe." He was more himself by now, and looked at me in a way I didn't like; as if I was so much dirt under his feet. "What's he mean?" asked his friend. My gentleman beckoned to a policeman who was standing a little way off. "Officer," he said, "be so good as to prevent this person from annoying me." "Constable," I said in my turn, "I want to know what this gentleman has done with a friend of mine." However, Mr. Smith, or Mr. Howarth, called a cab; and as the bobby had as near as a toucher, planted himself on my toes, I had to let him get into it. "Who's that?" I asked the copper, as he was driving off. "That's the Honourable Douglas Howarth. What do you want with him?" "I want to know what size he takes in boots," I said. That gentleman in blue had given me the needle. There's a Court Guide where I live. When I opened it this morning the first name I saw was Howarth. The Hon. Douglas Howarth is the third son of the late Earl of Barnes, and the uncle of the present Earl. He's a bachelor. He has a sister, Lady Violet, who's unmarried; and he lives in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square. All of which sounds very different to "John Smith."'
'But why should he have called himself Smith? And what was it he was so anxious to say to James?'
'Exactly. That's what you're going to find out.'
'I! Mr. FitzHoward!'
'You--Mrs. Merrett! Who's entitled to know who killed the husband if it isn't his wife?'
'Mr. FitzHoward!'
'So this afternoon you're going to call on the Hon. Douglas Howarth, alias Mr. John Smith, at his residence in Brook Street, to make inquiries.'