Chapter IX
_1-4-2-4-8_
A full fortnight went by, and we seemed to be simply marking time.Warriner was still away, and I had had no word of importance from him.Mr. Fielding Thaneford's condition showed little apparent change, butMiss Davenport told me privately that he was failing steadily. JohnThaneford had called some half a dozen times, but his visits to the sickroom had been brief and entirely devoid of incident. Either MissDavenport or Betty and I took care to be present whenever he appeared,and there had been no repetition of any untoward scene. The youngerThaneford contented himself with a few perfunctory inquiries, neveraddressing his father directly. What would have been the use, since theline of communication had been broken? Moreover, the patient, on hispart, never manifested the least desire for more definite intercourse;he seemed to recognize the physical presence of his son, but that wasall. And so John Thaneford would come and seem to fill the room for afew moments with his great, black bulk, and again depart. As the doorclosed behind him, there was never the slightest discernible quiver onthe immobile masque propped and bolstered in that amazing vastness of afour-poster, but always the glitter would seem to die out of thewatchful eyes, and the slow breathing would become more regular.Whatever the nature of the tension between father and son there could beno question of its reality.
I had taken upon myself the delicate task of telling Eunice Trevor thather volunteer service in the sick room could no longer be accepted. Butshe acquiesced in the decision with admirably assumed indifference, andthereafter never came near the invalid. Indeed, in those days, I hardlysaw her except at luncheon and dinner. Certainly we were not friends,but neither were we avowed enemies; I even realized that, to someextent, I was indispensable to the carrying out of her own tortuouspurposes. Once or twice, however, I sensed something in her voice, whenshe happened to be speaking to Betty, which filled me with a vaguedisquiet. For remember the knowledge I had acquired of the intimaterelations existing between this enigmatic woman and John Thaneford. Itwas also certain that the latter's financial ruin was impending, andthat Betty, even without the landed ownership of the "Hundred," waspossessed of no inconsiderable fortune, and therefore a prize worthacquiring. Not that I believed, for an instant, that a girl like BettyGraeme would even consider such a suitor, and Eunice Trevor had said asmuch to Thaneford himself; had warned him that his hopes in thatdirection were assuredly futile. Yet even that certainty could be madethe foundation, in the feminine mind, of a justifiable grudge; BettyGraeme could be kind or a good deal less than kind to John Thaneford,and in either case Eunice Trevor would hold it up against her. Any womanwill understand how this can be, and I may as well be honest and confessthat I got my explanation from Betty herself--only that was a long timeafterward.
I can easily comprehend why no one could meet Betty Graeme withoutwanting to love her, and most of us ended by actually doing so. But thateven Betty could have worked the miracle of reaching what passed withFielding Thaneford for a heart! It does seem incredible. And yet, if shehad not accomplished that impossible thing, I know very surely that Ishould not be telling this particular story. It had been ordained thatI should succeed to the seat perilous of "Hildebrand Hundred," andsooner or later must I have paid the predestined price of my greatpossession. Truly love is the master-key to every door, but few of usthink it worth while to try it, or are even willing to make the attempt.
I have spoken of the gulf which seemed to open between FieldingThaneford and me from the very moment of our first meeting--unbridgable,impassable. But Betty crossed it as easily and as surely as a bird onthe wing.
"It seems so unnatural and horrible," she said one afternoon as we weresitting in the sick room. "There he lies within hand reach, and yetimmeasurably removed. Silence and darkness--oh, I can't bear it!"
"I think he understands what is said to him," I ventured.
"All the worse if he can't break through from his side of the wall. Butthere must be a way, and I am going to find it."
She left the room, returning a few minutes later with a large square ofcardboard on which she had printed the letters of the alphabet. Now Ishould have made it plain that the sole physical function remaining toFielding Thaneford was a limited control of the right hand; we hadlearned to distinguish in its movements the two elementary expressionsof assent and dissent.
Betty went to the bedside, and gently slipped the sheet of cardboardunder the sick man's right hand. "You see what I mean, Mr. Thaneford,"she said, with an infinite note of sympathy in her voice. "If you wouldpoint out the letters one by one, no matter how slowly. We will both bevery patient--please now."
Fielding Thaneford's hand--the hand of a very old man, with itsthickened knuckles and swollen blue veins--quivered slightly, butremained motionless. Yet I fancied that his glance consciously soughtthe girl's face and rested there; ordinarily you felt that his gazemerely passed over you, and then travelled inimitably onward andoutward. It was certain that he understood the proposal, even whileunwilling to act upon it. Twice she repeated the suggestion; and then,too tactful to force the point, she smiled and withdrew the square ofcardboard. "Perhaps to-morrow," she said with exceeding gentleness,while I marvelled that any human being could have withstood her. Butthen what quality of our common humanity could inhere in that huge,inert mass of flesh, animated, as it was, by a mere spark of consciousintelligence.
Betty was not one to be easily discouraged. On the morrow she triedagain, and again without definite result. The third day the miracleseemed on the point of fulfillment. Fielding Thaneford's forefingeractually moved to the letter B, and rested there. No amount of femininecajolery could bring about any further compliance, but surely the firststep had been taken. "I really believe," said Betty to me, between asmile and a tear, "that he had my name in mind." "How could he help it,"I retorted; whereat she blushed so divinely that I could barely resisttaking her bodily in my arms--then and there, for once and for all. "Youwill see to-morrow," she predicted with gay confidence.
But to-morrow brought an unexpected turn. Some subtle change had comeupon the sick man in the night, and Doctor Marcy, after the usualexamination, looked grave. "I can't be positive," he said, "but I thinkhe has had another slight stroke. Probably a question now of a fewhours."
Nevertheless at noon he appeared to revive, and was able to take somegruel and the white of an egg whipped up in sherry. Miss Davenport wentfor her usual constitutional, and we decided that it would not benecessary to notify John Thaneford. The latter had not been near thehouse for two days, and had not even troubled himself to telephone. But,considered from any point of view, his absence was preferable to hispresence.
It was very quiet in the sick room. The day was warm, but notuncomfortably so, and a cooling breeze, heavy with the fragrance ofsummer flowers, drifted in at the casement windows.
Suddenly Betty seized her square of cardboard. "He wants to saysomething?" she whispered, as she passed me. "Don't you see it in hisface?" But I, being a man, and so dull of understanding, could only nodand wonder dumbly.
Too late it seemed, for the stiffening fingers had lost even the smallpowers of functioning that they had hitherto preserved. Even I could nowsee that Fielding Thaneford was desirous of speaking some last word, ofvoicing some final message. But, apparently, coordination between brainand muscle had ceased entirely. Absorbed and intent, Betty leaned overhim. "Is it John?" she asked. The hand achieved an almost imperceptiblemotion, but both of us recognized the emphatic quality of its dissent."Oh!" cried Betty, with an overwhelming rush of sympathy, and took thealmost nerveless member into the intimate fellowship of her two warm,exquisitely sensitive palms. Do you remember my speaking of the supremedistinction of her handclasp; how it seemed to fit so perfectly?
Yes, it was undeniably evident that the spirit of Fielding Thaneford wasstriving desperately to rend its clayey envelope, and deliver itsmessage in terms intelligible to mortal senses. But surely the vehiclewas wanting; it could not be. And then, quite certainly, I knew thatsomet
hing had been transmitted through the mediumship of that intimatehandclasp. Betty's eyes grew luminous as stars; she whispered some wordstoo low for me to hear. "Is that it?" she concluded. The fast glazingeyes said yes, as plainly as lips could have uttered the word.
What had happened? Suddenly the spark of life behind the monstrousmasque that had been Fielding Thaneford's face had disappeared; quite aswhen the wind extinguishes the candle in a paper lantern. Betty turnedto me in a rain of tears. "He is gone," she murmured.
* * * * *
Strange! that I of all men should be the one to compose FieldingThaneford's hands upon his breast and close his sightless eyes. Butlife's obligations are none the less imperative that they areunforeseen. The man lying dead upon the bed had never spoken a singleword to me; indeed our glances had met but once, and then had instantlyfallen away. How could we be other than eternally alien, and yet thesefinal offices to our common mortality had fallen to my hand. And it wasstill short of a month since the messenger of fate had brought me theinvitation to attend the funeral services of my kinsman, Francis Graeme.
* * * * *
Miss Davenport came back from her walk, and assumed charge of affairswith her accustomed efficiency. I offered to do the telephoning to JohnThaneford, but Betty determined that the announcement ought to come fromher. Just before dinner he drove over, and remained in the room forperhaps a quarter of an hour. None of us saw him, but he had the graceto leave a brief word of thanks to Betty for the profusion of whitecarnations that she had insisted on cutting and arranging with her ownhands.
Late that evening Betty came to me on the library terrace where I satsmoking innumerable cigarettes. "You know he tried to tell me somethingat the end," she said.
"Yes."
"All he could manage was just the slightest possible pressure of thehand. A succession of numbers then."
"Do you want to tell me what the numbers were?"
"Of course. They were 1-4-2-4-8. I am sure I got them correctly."
"Not much to be made out of that," I commented.
"No, but I feel certain that he meant something by the message,something of importance."
"To whom?"
"How can anyone say? Will you write the figures down, so that there canbe no possibility of my forgetting."
I pulled out my note-book, and inscribed the unintelligible formula:1-4-2-4-8. The resolution of the problem naturally intrigued me, and theobvious first line of approach was the application of the old Russian"knock" system in which each letter is identified with its numericalposition in the alphabetical sequence. I explained the theory to Betty,and she was all eagerness for me to try it out. It took but a moment ortwo to replace the numbers by their corresponding letters; for example,the figure 1 stands for A, the first letter of the alphabet, and thefigure 4 represents the fourth letter or D. The complete series read:A-D-B-D-H.
"Not even a vowel to juggle with," I said ruefully. "Blinder than ever,I should say."
"But it does mean something," returned Betty stoutly. "And some day weshall know."
In Jeopardy Page 9
