One thing I saw at once; that he wasn't anything like so much at his ease as the lady was. Perhaps he wasn't much used to dropping down promiscuous-like on folks like me. I felt fuddled enough, I will admit; and was beginning to wonder if I was standing on my head or heels. But then I'm not used to high society; and it doesn't take much to upset a silly thing like me. He seemed even more fuddled than I was--I was conscious of so much, at any rate--and stood there, staring, on the doorstep as if his tongue was tied. And what there was about me to tie his tongue, or anybody else's, was what I couldn't think. Only his behaving like that made me worse; so that the only thing I could do was to keep on rubbing my hands together as if I was half-witted.
At last he did manage to say something.
'Can I speak to you, Mrs. Merrett, in private?'
It reminded me of what he had wanted to do the day before. But this time I didn't know how to refuse. I don't believe that I had sense enough.
'If you'll walk in, sir.'
He did walk in. Now as soon as you step into my passage, there's the parlour door upon the left. And as it was standing open, without waiting to be invited he walked right in. I meant to tell him about Miss Desmond being in the kitchen; but I felt that stupid that I didn't know how to say it. He upset me much more than he had done the day before.
To begin with, I couldn't imagine what he was at. He was all of a fidget. And he being so big, and all the gentleman, it did seem so ridiculous. First he put his hat upon the table, with his umbrella alongside of it. Then he took up his hat, and began to brush it with his sleeve. Then he took up his umbrella, and sticking the point into my carpet, leaned upon the handle. Then he appeared to make up his mind that perhaps, after all, they might both of them be safe, so back again he laid them. Then he started rubbing his gloves together, and putting his hands in front of him and behind. Then he got as far as a remark.
'May I ask you, Mrs. Merrett, to sit down for a few minutes?'
'If you don't mind, sir, I'd rather stand.'
My answer seemed at once to disconcert him and to make him pull himself together. He went and leaned against the mantelshelf; as I've noticed men, whether they're gentlemen or not, seem fond of doing. It's like a looking-glass to some women. I'm sure Mr. FitzHoward is standing in front of a fireplace most of the time there's one about for him to stand in front of. Directly Mr. Howarth felt that mantelpiece in the small of his back, he began to seem more at his ease.
'I was sorry to hear yesterday that you have had no news of your husband lately.'
'Were you indeed, sir?'
'I cannot imagine what possible grounds you have for associating me with his absence.'
'Whether that is true or not, sir, you know better than I do.'
'I understand that these absences of his are by no means infrequent.'
'That is so. Sometimes he has been away from me for months together.'
'Then why, in this particular case, should you suggest that I have been inciting him to desert his wife and home?'
'I suggest nothing, sir. It is you who are suggesting.'
'I may as well tell you that during my very brief acquaintance with your husband, I was very much struck by what I saw of him.'
'I hope, sir, that he was equally struck by you.'
'Well, we'll hope so. Indeed, without self-conceit, I think I may safely say that I believe he was.'
There was something in his tone which struck me.
'I don't know what you mean, sir, but I see you do mean something. I hope it's something to your credit.'
He moved, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, so that his face was half-turned away from me. He was so tall that he had to stoop to get his elbow in its place, though the shelf is pretty high.
'So the real name of the man I knew as Montagu Babbacombe is Merrett.'
'Yes, sir; James Merrett.'
'James Merrett. That is his real name?'
'So far as I know.'
'At any rate it is the name under which you married him.'
'It is.'
'Where were you married, Mrs. Merrett?'
'What has that to do with you, sir?'
He smiled, though not what I should call merrily.
'True. What has it? I was only thinking that, if he had one pseudonym he may quite possibly have had another, and that his name might not be Merrett after all: in which case, as his wife, you might find yourself in a peculiar position.'
'I don't see how. I married him in good faith, and whether his name is Brown or Robinson, I'm his wife.'
'I should advise you not to be too certain. The law has its own way of looking at such matters.'
'I'm not afraid of the law. When I require its protection, Mr. Howarth, I shall have it. Why have you come to put such thoughts into my head?'
'I was thinking of you last night after you had gone, and I could not but feel interested in your case, both on account of your youth and your beauty.'
My fingers began to tingle that he should talk to me like that.
'If that's all you have to say, Mr. Howarth, you must excuse my saying that I was just making a pudding when you came.'
'And an excellent pudding, too, I am sure. By the way, Mrs. Merrett, have you any children?'
'I have two.'
Just then there came screams of laughter from the other side of the wall. He held up his hands.
'Ah? There they are! I thought I heard childish voices. Both girls?'
'A boy and a girl.'
What he was driving at I could not think. Somehow I felt pretty sure that the idea of my having children was one he didn't like at all; though what it had to do with him was beyond me altogether, and like his impudence. The queer thing was that, in spite of the fuss she made of them, I'd had the same feeling about Miss Desmond. I was beginning to wonder what connection there was between them; and how it came about that they were both in my house at the same time. That they were there to find out something, I could see; I could also see that they already knew more about me than I did about them. The interest which this fine lady and gentleman took in my belongings was clean out of the common. It was a good deal more than mere curiosity. And as for supposing that it was just sympathy with a stranger, I wasn't so simple as to do that. That Mr. FitzHoward was right, and that Mr. Howarth was mixed up in some way with my James, was getting clearer and clearer; but exactly in what way I had yet to discover.
He had got back to his fidgeting again. I could see that there was something which he very much wanted to say, but which he didn't find it easy to put quite in the shape he wanted. When he did start to get it out, and I began to have some idea of what it was he meant, I was almost too taken aback for words.
'As I have already remarked, I took the greatest possible interest in Mr. Merrett--or, as he was known to me, Mr. Montagu Babbacombe.'
'I heard you say it.'
'And while not accepting even the slightest shadow of a shade of responsibility for his--er--no doubt temporary absence from his family, I should like, at the same time, to assure you that my interest is of a thoroughly practical kind.'
He stopped, as if expecting me to say something. I didn't know what he meant; and said so.
'If you'll explain, Mr. Howarth, I dare say I shall understand what you're talking about.'
'It's quite simple, Mrs. Merrett; perfectly simple.'
I didn't think so. If I'd been asked I should have said that there wasn't anything simple about him. He wasn't that kind. He went on in that smooth, easy voice of his, every tone of which rang false to me.
'Be frank with me, Mrs. Merrett. Believe me, you will find in me a friend.' I didn't believe anything of the kind. 'Financially, has Mr. Merrett left you in any way awkwardly placed?'
'Do you mean, am I short of money?'
'Exactly. Plain language is always the best; isn't it, Mrs. Merrett? Are you short of money?'
'And what business have you to ask me such a question, any more than I have to ask you?'
'I ask merely because I should propose, if such were the case, to supply any deficiency. It would give me genuine pleasure.'
'What would give you genuine pleasure?'
Holding out his hands in front of him he began to wave them up and down--as if he wanted to persuade me how simple he really was. But it wouldn't do. Especially as what he started saying nearly took my breath away.
'It's in this way. From what you've said of your husband's previous proceedings--we won't call them eccentricities, you might object.'
'I should object.'
He smiled.
'I thought so. Well, from what you've said, it appears to be quite within the range of possibility that his absence may continue several weeks; even months. Under those circumstances one can easily understand how, as you yourself put it, you may become short of money. One moment!' He saw how words were trembling on the tip of my tongue, which it was all I could do to keep from tumbling off it. 'If that is, or should become, the case, I shall be very happy, while his absence continues, to make you an allowance.'
'To make me an allowance?' I stared. 'What allowance?'
'Well, shall we say, five pounds a week?'
'Five pounds a week?' I gasped. 'You'll allow me five pounds a week?'
'As I observed, to do so would give me genuine pleasure. I wish you to understand, Mrs. Merrett, that in me you have a sincere friend.' I believed it every moment less and less. 'Indeed, not only should I be willing to make you such an allowance, but I should be happy to see that your children are properly educated; particularly your boy.'
'You'll educate Jimmy?'
'Is that his name? I will see that he is educated. And, also, if you like, your little girl.'
For a moment or two I struggled against a rush of words. There were so many things which seemed to want saying all at once.
'Mr. Howarth, what has my James to do with you?'
'To do with me? I don't understand.'
'Oh yes, you do. What is there between my James and you?'
'Nothing; absolutely nothing. We have gone into that before; is it necessary to do so again?'
'Listen to me, Mr. Howarth. You take my advice, be careful what you say. Here's my husband's portrait. You look at it; and when you've looked at it you tell me what there is between you two.'
I handed him one of the heap off the table, which I had got out for Miss Desmond to see. He took it with a frown.
'So he was photographed? I shouldn't have thought he was that kind of man.'
'Then you're wrong. Because he was always being photographed.'
'It's not unlike him.'
'It's his very image. As you know very well.'
He had got to the table and was taking up the likenesses one by one.
'There are a great many here. Do I understand you to say that there are others in existence?'
'Plenty.'
'Where are they?'
'That's my business. Answer my question if you please. Did you never see my James--the man whose likeness that is--before you saw him that Thursday afternoon at the Aquarium?'
He looked me straight in the face and spoke as bold as brass.
'Never. To the best of my knowledge and belief, never.'
'That you swear?'
'I say it, Mrs. Merrett, on my honour, as a gentleman.'
'Then there's lying somewhere. Then do you mean to say that you come to me--a stranger, and the wife of a stranger--and offer to make me an allowance of five pounds a week, and to educate my children? Why, Mr. Howarth, why?'
'From quixotic motives, if you like to put it so. I say--which is the simple truth, Mrs. Merrett, although it seems so strange to you,--because of the interest with which your husband inspired me, even after our very brief acquaintance.'
'He called to me last night.'
'He? Who?'
'My James.'
'He called to you? What do you mean?
Returning to the fireplace, Mr. Howarth stood so that I couldn't see his face.
'Out of a box.'
He turned sharply round.
'Out of a box?'
'Out of a box into which you put him.
'Into which I put him? Woman! Are you mad?'
Whether I was mad or not I could see that he was more upset than he cared to own.
'Didn't you put him in a box? and leave him there?'
His face changed as it had done when I put the question to him the day before. He quite frightened me. He seemed to have been seized with a sort of paralysis. I half-expected to see him tumble all of a heap; I dare say he would have done, if it hadn't been for a voice which, coming from the door, startled me almost as much as it did him.
'Don't you think you'd better own it, Douglas? Hasn't the farce been carried far enough? Haven't we soiled our hands enough already?'
It was Miss Desmond. If I'd only thought, it was exactly what I might have looked for. She'd get tired of playing with the children; wonder what had become of me; leave the kitchen to find out; and discover him there. That it was a discovery there was very soon no doubt. That it was one of which he'd never dreamt there was just as little. If I'd ever had any suspicion that either knew of the other's visit, or that their presence in my house together was arranged, it was all blown away as I saw his look when he heard her voice.
My question seemed to have knocked the stuffing right out of him, as I have heard them say; hers made him jump straight up in the air. I never saw a man give such a jump. It was like a jack-in-the-box. And when he did come down he stared as if the jump had woke him out of a dream.
'Edith!'
'Yes, it is I. Odd that we should both have taken into our heads to pay Mrs. Merrett a morning call; isn't it, Douglas?'
'What--what are you doing here?'
'That is precisely the inquiry I was about to put to you. Because it would really seem as if your reiterated assurance to me last night that you took no personal interest whatever in Mrs. Merrett was--What shall we call it, Douglas?'
'I don't know what bee you've got in your bonnet lately. I believe you're going mad.'
'I think I just now heard you accuse Mrs. Merrett of going mad. It does seem strange that we should all of us be going mad together, and that you should be the only one to continue sane.' He turned his back on us. I saw that for some cause he was afraid of her; that she knew it; and that the knowledge stung her to the heart. 'Douglas, don't you think we'd better prick the bubble?'
'What do you mean?'
'Shall I tell you what I mean?'
'I have no desire to know. Your meaning, lately, is a puzzle to which I have no clue; nor wish for any. I have no taste for the twists and turns of a disordered brain.'
'Douglas! You didn't use to speak to me like that--before.'
'You mean before you developed your new fancy for prying into matters which are no concern of yours; and, in consequence, discovering mountains where there are not even molehills.'
'I have heard it stated that, when it comes to the sticking-point, a woman has more courage than a man; but I never dreamed, Douglas, to learn that it was true of you.'
'Fools, my dear Edith, step in where angels fear to tread.'
It appeared to dawn on her more quickly than it did on him that they were beginning to talk to each other in a way which wasn't exactly dignified in the presence of a stranger. Her voice and manner both changed as she came farther into the room, holding Jimmy with one hand, and Pollie with the other.
'Come, Douglas, let's play the game. You've often said it to me; now it seems as if it were my turn to say it to you.'
'You see, Edith, it depends on what is your idea of what you call the game. Unfortunately it sometimes happens that the feminine idea is a peculiar one.'
'My idea, on the present occasion, is to be frank, honest, and above-board; to use another phrase of yours, to face the music.'
'I'm afraid the music you want to face comes from a very funny sort of band.'
'Douglas, let's stop chopping phrases, you and I. Let me introduce you to some one instead.'
'Introduce me? What do you mean?'
'Let me introduce you to the Marquis of Twickenham.'
He had turned. Now he stared. I stared too. What she meant I did not understand, if he did.
'Edith! are you stark, staring mad?'
'Douglas, haven't you heard that it's a symptom of insanity to hurl at others reckless accusations of insanity. I can say to you, with Paul, I am not mad. But I am beginning to wonder if, somewhere deep down in your heart, you are not inclined to credit me with being something worse. For the second time let me ask your permission to make you known to the Marquis of Twickenham.'
She held Jimmy a little forward. What she meant I still had not the faintest notion. But it was plain that Mr. Howarth had. I could see that he shook; but whether it was passion or not was more than I could say.
'Edith, you are--you are making a serious mistake. Be careful; before you do mischief which you may be never able to undo.'
She looked at him for a second, as if she didn't catch what he meant. Then she took up one of James's likenesses.
'Isn't that Leonard?'
'No; it is not.'
'Douglas!--are you seriously saying that to me?'
'I tell you it is not. You are under a complete misapprehension. I am not able, nor, at this moment, am I willing, to tell you what the facts of the case actually are, but I do assure you of this--and I beg you to be so good as to remember that I have never told you a falsehood in my life--that the original of that photograph is not the person you suppose; and that any conclusions you may deduce from the supposition that he is are erroneous.'
'Douglas, in reply, shall I tell you what I think? Not all; for that would be to entirely destroy the whole fabric on which my life has been reared; but in part.'
'Edith, I entreat you to be warned in time; before the mischief's done beyond repair. Whatever you have to say to me say when we're alone.'
'You've not allowed me to say anything even when we've been alone; you've always wished to put a lock upon my lips. And think what you have said to me! No; it will not do. By some process of reasoning which is beyond my comprehension you appear to have made a compromise with your own conscience which will be productive of more evil than that of which you are afraid.'
'Afraid!--I am afraid of nothing.'
'Of nothing? And yet you're afraid that I should speak; and do not dare to speak yourself.'
I simply fear your rashness.'
Then, indeed, my dear Douglas, you are afraid of nothing; for I'm not of that constitution from which rashness springs. The truth is, you exaggerate. Your life has been so dominated by a single hope that, now a new factor appears, you over-estimate the consequences which may accrue. I have always held it better policy to look the truth straight in the face; and, until now, I have imagined that you thought with me.'
'And you've been right. In this case I tell you again and again, that what you take to be the truth is not the truth.'
'Douglas, all our lives we have known each other, but until now I have not known you to be this man.'
What she meant I couldn't say; whatever it was, it made him turn away from her.
'Edith! You're--you're doing me a great injustice.'
Her voice faltered when she spoke again.
'Is this--is this to be parting of the ways? Won't you speak, and so save me from shaming you?'
'You'll shame yourself if you will not be advised by me.'
'Then I'll be shamed. For I'm of opinion that to be a party to the concealment of what I deem to be the truth, now that I know it, would be to make my shame much more.' She lifted Jimmy in her arms. 'My little man, it's my sad duty to have to inform you that you're the Most Honourable the Marquis of Twickenham. My Lord Marquis, I salute you.'
She kissed him. It was plain that Jimmy had no more notion why she did it, or what was the meaning of her hotch-potch of words, than I had. He wasn't very far from crying.
I had been listening to their going at it hammer and tongs, in a genteel sort of way, with, strong on me, a growing feeling that the world was turning topsy-turvy. When she said that to my boy I at last had a chance of getting a word in edgeways.
'If you please, miss, what was that you said to Jimmy?'
For answer she set down Jimmy and picked up his father's likeness.
'You say that this was your husband?'
'Yes, miss; he was; and is.'
'Then, my dear, in that case you're the Marchioness of Twickenham.'
'Miss! What--what's that you say?'
'I say that you're the Marchioness of Twickenham, since it's certain your husband was the Marquis; and I say also that your son, reigning in his stead, is the Marquis of Twickenham now.'
'I--I don't understand.'
My heart was beating against my ribs--oh, dear!
'Your husband's life was a strange one. One day I'll tell you as much of it as you care to know. But its strangeness did not alter the fact that he was the Marquis of Twickenham; and, indeed, now that I have seen you, I am beginning to understand that at least the latter part of it was not so strange as I imagined.'
'You--you say my James is--the Marquis of Twickenham?'
'He was.'
'Was? Where is he?'
'My dear, he's dead. Your boy is the Marquis now.'
'Dead?--dead?--dead? My James--dead?'
'He died on the day following that on which you saw him last.'
'Died? He died? And--you knew it?'
'I did not know that you were his wife; or, indeed, that he had a wife at all, until just now.'
'And--he knew it?'
'Mr. Howarth knew that the late Marquis was dead; whether he knew that he was your husband is another matter. My dear, you must judge him leniently. When you know the whole strange story you will think better of us all than you may be disposed to do at present.'
'You say--my James is dead? Then--he killed him?'
'Hush! You mustn't utter such wild words; you mustn't think such dreadful thoughts. Your husband died in his bed--in my presence, and in the presence of other persons, among whom were two doctors.'
'He killed him!' She laid her hand upon my shoulder. I shook it off. 'Don't touch me!--don't dare! He killed him!'
'My dear child, if, as you will have it, there was any killing, the hand which slew him was the Lord's. Although you don't seem to have been aware of the fact, your husband's heart was always weak. What had been expected for years took place at last; his heart collapsed, and there was an end.'
'You, who've been in my house all the morning pretending you knew nothing, when all the time you knew that my James was dead--you now want to make out that you knew him better than I did! You may be a sly fine lady, but you're a fool. What you say's lies--lies--all lies! But it's not you I want to speak to--you're nothing. It's him! Get out of my way, and let me pass.'
She got out of my way, or I'd have knocked her down. I could have done it. And I went to Mr. Howarth.
'You killed him; and, as I stand here, in the presence of your God and mine, I swear that you shall hang for it, unless you kill me too. He called to me last night. How often, in the night, does he call to you?--out of the box into which you put him? As I live, I believe his voice is always in your ears--calling, calling, calling.'
Although he was a big man and I'm a little woman, I could have taken him and killed him, then and there, with my two hands, and he could have done nothing to have stayed me. For his heart was as butter, and his soul was white with fear.
They went; and my curse went with them. I would listen to nothing they had to say; neither he nor she. For while she tried to whisper soft words into my ears, and quiet me, and make me think the things she wished that I should think, I knew that, the whole time, at the bottom of her heart, she was all for him. I threw open the door, and I told him to go, if he did not wish me to shriek out 'Murder!' in the street. He did not need a second telling. He was glad, at any price, to take himself away. His face was like an old man's--his knees shook as he passed me. I had it in my mind to strike him as he slunk out into the street. My word for it he'd have shivered if I had! But I held my hand. Not in such fashion would I strike the man who'd killed my James. When I did strike it should be once for all. From nothing living should he ever feel another blow.
When he'd gone I packed her after him. She begged and prayed that I'd be calm; that I'd hear what she called reason; that I'd do this, that, and the other thing. But not I! not I! I'd see the back of her; and that was all I would see. And I saw it. She went out as white as he had been, with her heart as heavy. It was only her pride kept her from crying.
I didn't cry. I couldn't. When they had gone, and I was alone with the children, I felt as if I was going mad; but I couldn't cry. It was only when I began to understand that the children were afraid of me that I tried to keep a tight hold of the few senses I had left. I sat down at the table and tried to think. There were the children, as far off in the corner as they could get--holding each other by the hand. They wouldn't come near me--their mother, because they were frightened; too frightened even for tears.
What was I to do to calm their fear? I couldn't imagine. I wasn't the same woman I had been. I knew that I was altogether different; that I had changed in the twinkling of an eye. Still, I didn't want my children to be afraid of me; not Pollie and Jimmy. I tried to think of words with which to speak to them. But they wouldn't come. I sat there like a thing turned stupid, knowing that they were growing more and more afraid of me.
It was a strange thing which roused me at least a little; it was the smell of burning. I couldn't think what it was, or where it came from. Then I remembered. It was the rice which I had put into the oven to soak. The milk had caught; it wanted stirring. I got up, and I went to stir it. It was burnt badly; the rice was all stuck to the bottom; the pudding was spoilt. We should never be able to eat it for dinner.
The thought of dinner made me look at the clock. It was dinner time. No wonder the pudding was spoilt. It had been in the oven all that time without being once stirred. What was I to do? There was nothing cooked. The children must be hungry. Something made me look round. There they were, standing at the door. They were evidently still afraid, for they still were hand in hand, half in the room, half out. I found my voice and words. Yet, somehow, it didn't sound as if it was me who was speaking.
'If you children are hungry, you'll have to have a piece of bread and butter or jam. Dinner isn't ready; and the fire's gone down.'
They said nothing, but looked at each other, as if they wondered if it was I who spoke to them, and what it was I said. I had some difficulty in keeping myself from being cross. It seemed stupid of them to be standing there as if they couldn't make out who or what I was. It was only my thinking that it might make them more afraid that kept me from starting to scold. I went to the cupboard, and cut some bread and jam, and sat them down at the table, and set them to make their dinner off that. It was funny how they seemed to take it all as a matter of course, and ate their bread and jam as if that was the sort of dinner they were used to every day. They followed me with their eyes wherever I went, and never said a word.
It was funny, too, how calm I felt. All the rage had gone clean out of me. While they ate I made up the fire, and did odd jobs about the room. Doing something seemed to clear my head. As it got clearer, I grew quieter. That seemed funny too. Something in me seemed to be dead. I felt more like a machine than a human being, and moved about, feeling as if I had been wound up and had to go.
After a while there came a knock at the door. I had just got out a pile of mending, and was sitting down to do the children's socks. Jimmy and Pollie were quieter than I had ever known them. I was conscious of their quietude in a curious, uninterested sort of way. They were playing at some game in a corner, talking to each other in whispers. They'd neither of them spoken to me since I'd been left alone. When I went to see who was at the door, I found it was Mr. FitzHoward. I showed him into the sitting-room, and sat down to my mending again without a word. I dare say he thought my manner was strange, for he took up his favourite position in front of the fire, and, for a moment or two, was as silent as I was. At last he spoke.
'Well--and how are things?'
'James is dead.'
I had startled him back into silence. I don't know how long it was before he spoke again. It seemed to me an age.
'Mrs. Merrett! What do you mean?'
'James is dead.'
'Dead! How--how do you know?'
By degrees, in reply to the questions which he put, I told him all that there was to tell. He stood staring at me, biting his finger-nails, as if he found it difficult to turn it into sense.
'Then am I to understand that Montagu Babbacombe is--or was--the Marquis of Twickenham?'
'They say so.'
'But the Twickenham peerage is one of the richest in England?'
'Maybe.'
'Then if he was the Marquis, you, as his wife, are the Marchioness.'
'I dare say.'
'Dare say! But there's no dare say about it. It's a question of fact. And, by George, that Jimmy of yours, he's a Marquis too.'
'So Miss Desmond says.'
'She does, does she? And Pollie, she's the Lady Pollie. Why, you've got a room full of titles, and I'm the only common person in it. I'm not accustomed to having intimate relations with the upper circles, so you'll have to excuse me if my manners fall short of what they ought to be. Talk of the romance of the stage. Nothing I ever heard of in that line comes within shouting distance of this. To think of you having been a Marchioness all these years and never knowing it! And such a Marchioness too! None of your pauper peeresses who have to introduce American young women to the Queen in order to make two ends meet, but the real, gilt-edged, rolling-in-riches, house-in-Grosvenor Square kind. Why, I have heard that the income of the Marquis of Twickenham is over a hundred thousand pounds a year, all profit--besides plenty of perquisites. That's better than being a Star of the Halls.'
He was silent; I expect because he was turning things over in his mind.
'I remember now reading about the Marquis of Twickenham's being rather a funny lot, and I've a sort of notion that I did hear that no one knew where he was. So Babbacombe was he! Well, tastes do differ. And without wanting to know too much about what caused him to turn up, being a Marquis, I can only say that it would have wanted a lot to have made me take to the game of Wonderful Sleeping Man instead. Between a real live Marquis and even a Marvel of the Age there is a difference.'
Another pause. I seemed to hear him talking to me like a person in a dream.
'Well, Marchioness--I don't know if that's the proper way in which to address a lady in your position, but if it isn't you'll have to excuse me till I do know--you are now one of the greatest ladies in the land, and I shall have to behave to you as such. As for my lord the Marquis, I shall have to mind my p's and q's with a vengeance when I'm talking to him. I suppose he'll give up his taste for hardbake, and won't look at anything under chocolate creams. Which is a pity--because I happen to have some hardbake in my pocket at this very moment--My Lord Marquis!' Spoken to like that, Jimmy wouldn't go. 'Pardon me if I'm over familiar just this once, but--Jimmy!'
Jimmy went. Mr. FitzHoward was mistaken if he really did think hardbake wasn't good enough; because Pollie and the boy began to get rid of what he gave them in a style which I knew meant sticky fingers and dirty faces.
'There is only one remark, my dear Marchioness--if you'll allow me to make so bold as to call you so--which I wish to make, and that is that it's a pretty sure thing that you'll do honour to the high position to which you have so suddenly been called. You'll look the part just as well as you will act it, And if there's any woman who's more worthy of being the great lady than you are, I've yet to come across her. In a man who's had such a varied experience of the profession as I have had, that's saying something, as you know.'
'Mr. FitzHoward, you forget one thing.'
'What's that?'
'James is dead.'
'I don't forget it. I remember it all the time. But there are visitations of Providence, Marchioness, which we must all put up with; the lowly like me, as well as the great like you.'
'He was killed.'
'Killed! Mrs. Merrett! I mean, Marchioness!'
'Mr. Howarth killed him.'
'I say! My dear lady--if you'll pardon my dropping the title for just this once--don't you go taking foolish words of mine as if they'd been meant. As I explained to you yesterday, I've a professional way of talking and an unprofessional; and when I'm talking professionally, I'm not, between you and me, to be taken as meaning just exactly what I say. Now this is an unprofessional moment, in which we're dealing with the cold, dry truth; so let me take this opportunity to tell you that what I was saying about Mr. Howarth, in my professional manner, was just tommy rot, and nothing more. A man in Mr. Howarth's position is no more likely to kill your husband, or any one else, than he is to ride on a broomstick to the moon.'
'But he did kill him.'
'Now, my dear, my esteemed Marchioness, what grounds have you for saying that? What tittle of evidence--outside my balderdash, which, mind, was balderdash, and nothing else--have you which points that way?'
'I haven't told you how they say he died.'
'Well, let's hear.'
'They say he died of heart disease.'
'Of what?'
'Of heart disease--on the day after he left home.'
'That he certainly never did. There's some mistake there. His heart was sound as a bell. He had it examined by three doctors before the Aquarium people would let him start upon that sleep of his. They were unanimously of opinion that its condition was perfect. They gave their certificate to that effect--I have it at home now. And the night he woke he was overhauled by at least half-a-dozen. Every man Jack of them said that his heart and lungs were flawless, and that his general condition was altogether beyond their expectation.'
'Miss Desmond says he has suffered from a weak heart his whole life long.'
'A mistake altogether. The truth is, your husband was as hard as nails, and had a constitution like iron. I shouldn't have been mixed up with him in a game like that if I hadn't known that was the case. I remember his saying to the doctors that he'd never had a day's illness in his life, and their replying that they rather fancied it would be a good long time before he did have.'
'And yet his heart collapsed so that he was dead upon the Monday.'
'It does seem odd. I should like to have a look at that medical certificate. I suppose there was one.'
'I can't tell.'
'There must have been. Where's he buried?'
'I don't know.'
'Don't know where your own husband's buried?'
'I didn't ask. All I wanted to do was to get them out of the house, because I knew that his blood was on their hands.'
'Without going so far as that--and if I were you I shouldn't be quite so, what I may call, virulent--I do think that there are circumstances about the case which it would be as well to look into. The position, so far as I understand, is this. Your husband's been away from his family for--how long?'
'They said fifteen years.'
Fifteen years; we'll say, for reasons of his own. All that time he never went near them, though he must have known exactly where they were, and all about them; so that his reasons for keeping away must have been tolerably strong. Suddenly a friend--who seems to have taken an uncommon interest in him--sees him, we'll say, engaged in a remarkable line of business. He's so conscious that your husband, if he knows who he is, won't see him, that he bribes me to slip him in as plain John Smith. On the Sunday there's an interview between them, at which we don't know what took place; and on the Monday he returns to his family. By the way, did he return to his family.'
'I don't know.'
'If he did, it seems--queer; his arriving at such a sudden resolution after knowing for fifteen years just where they could be found. He must have had strong reasons; it's only right that Mr. Howarth should tell you clearly what those reasons were. On the day of his return, he dies; of a disease he never had. His health seems to have had a quick change for the worse directly he got back to the bosom of his family. However you look at it, it's a queer start all the way along. I should like to see that medical certificate. I've heard of some funny ones, but that must have been an oddity worth looking at. I should also like to have a peep at the man who gave it. Where did your husband die?'
'I never asked.'
'Then I'll tell you what we'll do. You and I will go together, and we'll pay another call on Mr. Howarth, and we'll put to him, or to some one else, one or two of those questions which you didn't ask. This time I rather fancy that the Marchioness of Twickenham won't be refused the information she requires. And if she is refused, her humble friend and servant--meaning me--will soon show her how to get it in one way if not in another. We're in a position to command; and if Howarth and Co. don't see it, it won't take us long to compel due and proper recognition. As we'll show them.'
I didn't altogether like the way he spoke. There was too much of the Marchioness and not enough of James. It was ridiculous to speak to me as if I was any one, or ever should be. But he meant well. And, after all, he was a man. And he had known James. And I felt that in the trouble which might be coming I should want to have a man upon my side--one, too, who'd stand by me through thick and thin. And that I believed Mr. FitzHoward would do. If he wouldn't, no one else would; because, besides my James, he was the only man in the world I knew. And in spite of the nonsensical way he had of talking he had got some sense in his head, besides knowing as much of the world and its ways in his little finger as I did in my whole body. I never knew how silly I really was till I wanted to be wise.
So I decided that I'd go with him to pay another call, as he put it, on Mr. Howarth; though I shrank, in a way I can't describe, from seeing that smooth-voiced, false-tongued man again. But just as I was going to send Mr. FitzHoward to ask Mrs. Ordish if she'd look after the children, a hansom cab came rattling along the street, and pulled up before the house.
'Hollo,' cried FitzHoward in that absurd way of his, 'here's another member of the Upper Ten. All the British aristocracy are paying calls in Little Olive Street to-day.'
There came a hammering at the knocker.
'You go and see who it is,' I said. 'And if it's Mr. Howarth----'
'I'll show him in; and, also, I'll show him up.'
But it wasn't Mr. Howarth. I could hear that the voice was different directly Mr. FitzHoward opened the door. What was taking place I didn't know. But it was quite two or three minutes before Mr. FitzHoward returned. Then he threw open the door with a flourish.
'This gentleman wishes to speak to you--though he has not done me the honour of mentioning his name.'
Some one came into the room.
'I'm the Marquis of Twickenham,' he said.
He was quite young, and not bad-looking, and carried himself as, to my mind, only a gentleman can. He was very polite, though in quite a different way to Mr. Howarth. What he said I felt he meant; and I never had that feeling about the other man. I liked him, in spite of all my trouble, directly I set eyes on him and heard him speak. Though the idea of my mixing as an equal with the likes of him did strike me, even then, as against nature. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear; and a sow's ear I am, so to speak, and shall be.
When he saw me he stared at me; not as if he wanted to, but as if he couldn't help it.
'I beg your pardon, but are you the lady Miss Desmond saw this morning?'
'This morning I did see Miss Desmond.'
'This,' said Mr. FitzHoward, stretching out his arm towards me as if he was a sign-post, 'is the Marchioness of Twickenham.'
I could have shaken him. The young gentleman looked him up and down, in that Who-on-earth-are-you kind-of-way which gentlemen do have; sometimes, I have heard say, without their knowing it.
'Indeed.--And may I ask, sir, who are you?'
'You may. I'm not ashamed of my name, and never shall be. I'm Augustus FitzHoward. For the last twenty years I have been connected with the profession, acting in a managerial capacity for some of the greatest stars who have ever illuminated the theatrical firmament. There, sir, is my card.'
The young gentleman held it between his finger and thumb as if he was afraid it would scorch him.
'Ah.' He turned to me. 'Is this gentleman a friend of yours?'
'He's a friend of my husband's.'
I said it pretty briskly--because I didn't mean to have Mr. FitzHoward sat upon, even though he would talk silly.
'May I speak in front of him?'
'Certainly. I have no secrets from Mr. FitzHoward.
The absurd man must put in his word. He pulled up his shirt collar and arranged his tie.
'Thank you, Marchioness, for this mark of your confidence; though, knowing you as I do, I have no hesitation in saying that it's no more than I expected. I may take this opportunity of informing the gentleman that I was on the most intimate terms with the late Marquis, both as regards business and friendship.'
'The late Marquis?'
'The late Marquis is what I said, and the late Marquis is what I meant. He was known to the public, with whom he had a world-wide reputation, as that Marvel of the Age--Montagu Babbacombe.'