by Sax Rohmer
Gradually that shadow fell between them and the sun; the grim thing which loomed big in the lives of them both, refused any longer to be ignored. Robert Cairn, his arm about the girl’s waist, broached the hated subject.
“When did you last see — Ferrara?”
Myra looked up suddenly.
“Over a week — nearly a fortnight, ago—”
“Ah!”
Cairn noted that the girl spoke of Ferrara with an odd sort of restraint for which he was at a loss to account. Myra had always regarded her guardian’s adopted son in the light of a brother; therefore her present attitude was all the more singular.
“You did not expect him to return to England so soon?” he asked.
“I had no idea that he was in England,” said Myra, “until he walked in here one day. I was glad to see him — then.”
“And should you not be glad to see him now?” inquired Cairn eagerly.
Myra, her head lowered, deliberately pressed out a crease in her white skirt.
“One day, last week,” she replied slowly, “he — came here, and — acted strangely—”
“In what way?” jerked Cairn.
“He pointed out to me that actually we — he and I — were in no way related.”
“Well?”
“You know how I have always liked Antony? I have always thought of him as my brother.”
Again she hesitated, and a troubled expression crept over her pale face. Cairn raised his arm and clasped it about her shoulders.
“Tell me all about it,” he whispered reassuringly.
“Well,” continued Myra in evident confusion, “his behaviour became — embarrassing; and suddenly — he asked me if I could ever love him, not as a brother, but—”
“I understand!” said Cairn grimly. “And you replied?”
“For some time I could not reply at all: I was so surprised, and so — horrified. I cannot explain how I felt about it, but it seemed horrible — it seemed horrible!—”
“But of course, you told him?”
“I told him that I could never be fond of him in any different way — that I could never think of it. And although I endeavoured to avoid hurting his feelings, he — took it very badly. He said, in such a queer, choking voice, that he was going away—”
“Away! — from England?”
“Yes; and — he made a strange request.”
“What was it?”
“In the circumstances — you see — I felt sorry for him — I did not like to refuse him; it was only a trifling thing. He asked for a lock of my hair!”
“A lock of your hair! And you—”
“I told you that I did not like to refuse — and I let him snip off a tiny piece, with a pair of pocket scissors which he had. Are you angry?”
“Of course not! You — were almost brought up together. You — ?”
“Then—” she paused— “he seemed to change. Suddenly, I found myself afraid — dreadfully afraid—”
“Of Ferrara?”
“Not of Antony, exactly. But what is the good of my trying to explain! A most awful dread seized me. His face was no longer the face that I have always known; something—”
Her voice trembled, and she seemed disposed to leave the sentence unfinished; then:
“Something evil — sinister, had come into it.”
“And since then,” said Cairn, “you have not seen him?”
“He has not been here since then — no.”
Cairn, his hands resting upon the girl’s shoulders, leant back in the seat, and looked into her troubled eyes with a kind of sad scrutiny.
“You have not been fretting about him?”
Myra shook her head.
“Yet you look as though something were troubling you. This house” — he indicated the low-lying garden with a certain irritation— “is not healthily situated. This place lies in a valley; look at the rank grass — and there are mosquitoes everywhere. You do not look well, Myra.”
The girl smiled — a little wistful smile.
“But I was so tired of Scotland,” she said. “You do not know how I looked forward to London again. I must admit, though, that I was in better health there; I was quite ashamed of my dairy-maid appearance.”
“You have nothing to amuse you here,” said Cairn tenderly; “no company, for Mr. Saunderson only lives for his orchids.”
“They are very fascinating,” said Myra dreamily, “I, too, have felt their glamour. I am the only member of the household whom he allows amongst his orchids—”
“Perhaps you spend too much time there,” interrupted Cairn; “that superheated, artificial atmosphere—”
Myra shook her head playfully, patting his arm.
“There is nothing in the world the matter with me,” she said, almost in her old bright manner— “now that you are back—”
“I do not approve of orchids,” jerked Cairn doggedly. “They are parodies of what a flower should be. Place an Odontoglossum beside a rose, and what a distorted unholy thing it looks!”
“Unholy?” laughed Myra.
“Unholy, — yes! — they are products of feverish swamps and deathly jungles. I hate orchids. The atmosphere of an orchid-house cannot possibly be clean and healthy. One might as well spend one’s time in a bacteriological laboratory!”
Myra shook her head with affected seriousness.
“You must not let Mr. Saunderson hear you,” she said. “His orchids are his children. Their very mystery enthrals him — and really it is most fascinating. To look at one of those shapeless bulbs, and to speculate upon what kind of bloom it will produce, is almost as thrilling as reading a sensational novel! He has one growing now — it will bloom some time this week — about which he is frantically excited.”
“Where did he get it?” asked Cairn without interest.
“He bought it from a man who had almost certainly stolen it! There were six bulbs in the parcel; only two have lived and one of these is much more advanced than the other; it is so high—”
She held out her hand, indicating a height of some three feet from the ground.
“It has not flowered yet?”
“No. But the buds — huge, smooth, egg-shaped things — seem on the point of bursting at any moment. We call it the ‘Mystery,’ and it is my special care. Mr. Saunderson has shown me how to attend to its simple needs, and if it proves to be a new species — which is almost certain — he is going to exhibit it, and name it after me! Shall you be proud of having an orchid named after—”
“After my wife?” Cairn concluded, seizing her hands. “I could never be more proud of you than I am already....”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FACE IN THE ORCHID-HOUSE
Dr. Cairn walked to the window, with its old-fashioned leaded panes. A lamp stood by the bedside, and he had tilted the shade so that it shone upon the pale face of the patient — Myra Duquesne.
Two days had wrought a dreadful change in her. She lay with closed eyes, and sunken face upon which ominous shadows played. Her respiration was imperceptible. The reputation of Dr. Bruce Cairn was a well deserved one, but this case puzzled him. He knew that Myra Duquesne was dying before his eyes; he could still see the agonised face of his son, Robert, who at that moment was waiting, filled with intolerable suspense, downstairs in Mr. Saunderson’s study; but, withal, he was helpless. He looked out from the rose-entwined casement across the shrubbery, to where the moonlight glittered among the trees.
Those were the orchid-houses; and with his back to the bed, Dr. Cairn stood for long, thoughtfully watching the distant gleams of reflected light. Craig Fenton and Sir Elwin Groves, with whom he had been consulting, were but just gone. The nature of Myra Duquesne’s illness had utterly puzzled them, and they had left, mystified.
Downstairs, Robert Cairn was pacing the study, wondering if his reason would survive this final blow which threatened. He knew, and his father knew, that a sinister something underlay this strange illness — an illness whic
h had commenced on the day that Antony Ferrara had last visited the house.
The evening was insufferably hot; not a breeze stirred in the leaves; and despite open windows, the air of the room was heavy and lifeless. A faint perfume, having a sort of sweetness, but which yet was unutterably revolting, made itself perceptible to the nostrils. Apparently it had pervaded the house by slow degrees. The occupants were so used to it that they did not notice it at all.
Dr. Cairn had busied himself that evening in the sick-room, burning some pungent preparation, to the amazement of the nurse and of the consultants. Now the biting fumes of his pastilles had all been wafted out of the window and the faint sweet smell was as noticeable as ever.
Not a sound broke the silence of the house; and when the nurse quietly opened the door and entered, Dr. Cairn was still standing staring thoughtfully out of the window in the direction of the orchid-houses. He turned, and walking back to the bedside, bent over the patient.
Her face was like a white mask; she was quite unconscious; and so far as he could see showed no change either for better or worse. But her pulse was slightly more feeble and the doctor suppressed a groan of despair; for this mysterious progressive weakness could only have one end. All his experience told him that unless something could be done — and every expedient thus far attempted had proved futile — Myra Duquesne would die about dawn.
He turned on his heel, and strode from the room, whispering a few words of instruction to the nurse. Descending the stairs, he passed the closed study door, not daring to think of his son who waited within, and entered the dining-room. A single lamp burnt there, and the gaunt figure of Mr. Saunderson was outlined dimly where he sat in the window seat. Crombie, the gardener, stood by the table.
“Now, Crombie,” said Dr. Cairn, quietly, closing the door behind him, “what is this story about the orchid-houses, and why did you not mention it before?”
The man stared persistently into the shadows of the room, avoiding Dr. Cairn’s glance.
“Since he has had the courage to own up,” interrupted Mr. Saunderson, “I have overlooked the matter: but he was afraid to speak before, because he had no business to be in the orchid-houses.” His voice grew suddenly fierce— “He knows it well enough!”
“I know, sir, that you don’t want me to interfere with the orchids,” replied the man, “but I only ventured in because I thought I saw a light moving there—”
“Rubbish!” snapped Mr. Saunderson.
“Pardon me, Saunderson,” said Dr. Cairn, “but a matter of more importance than the welfare of all the orchids in the world is under consideration now.”
Saunderson coughed dryly.
“You are right, Cairn,” he said. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper for such a trifle, at a time like this. Tell your own tale, Crombie; I won’t interrupt.”
“It was last night then,” continued the man. “I was standing at the door of my cottage smoking a pipe before turning in, when I saw a faint light moving over by the orchid-houses—”
“Reflection of the moon,” muttered Saunderson. “I am sorry. Go on, Crombie!”
“I knew that some of the orchids were very valuable, and I thought there would not be time to call you; also I did not want to worry you, knowing you had worry enough already. So I knocked out my pipe and put it in my pocket, and went through the shrubbery. I saw the light again — it seemed to be moving from the first house into the second. I couldn’t see what it was.”
“Was it like a candle, or a pocket-lamp?” jerked Dr. Cairn.
“Nothing like that, sir; a softer light, more like a glow-worm; but much brighter. I went around and tried the door, and it was locked. Then I remembered the door at the other end, and I cut round by the path between the houses and the wall, so that I had no chance to see the light again, until I got to the other door. I found this unlocked. There was a close kind of smell in there, sir, and the air was very hot—”
“Naturally, it was hot,” interrupted Saunderson.
“I mean much hotter than it should have been. It was like an oven, and the smell was stifling—”
“What smell?” asked Dr. Cairn. “Can you describe it?”
“Excuse me, sir, but I seem to notice it here in this room to-night, and I think I noticed it about the place before — never so strong as in the orchid-houses.”
“Go on!” said Dr. Cairn.
“I went through the first house, and saw nothing. The shadow of the wall prevented the moonlight from shining in there. But just as I was about to enter the middle house, I thought I saw — a face.”
“What do you mean you thought you saw?” snapped Mr. Saunderson.
“I mean, sir, that it was so horrible and so strange that I could not believe it was real — which is one of the reasons why I did not speak before. It reminded me of the face of a gentleman I have seen here — Mr. Ferrara—”
Dr. Cairn stifled an exclamation.
“But in other ways it was quite unlike the gentleman. In some ways it was more like the face of a woman — a very bad woman. It had a sort of bluish light on it, but where it could have come from, I don’t know. It seemed to be smiling, and two bright eyes looked straight out at me.”
Crombie stopped, raising his hand to his head confusedly.
“I could see nothing but just this face — low down as if the person it belonged to was crouching on the floor; and there was a tall plant of some kind just beside it—”
“Well,” said Dr. Cairn, “go on! What did you do?”
“I turned to run!” confessed the man. “If you had seen that horrible face, you would understand how frightened I was. Then when I got to the door, I looked back.”
“I hope you had closed the door behind you,” snapped Saunderson.
“Never mind that, never mind that!” interrupted Dr. Cairn.
“I had closed the door behind me — yes, sir — but just as I was going to open it again, I took a quick glance back, and the face had gone! I came out, and I was walking over the lawn, wondering whether I should tell you, when it occurred to me that I hadn’t noticed whether the key had been left in or not.”
“Did you go back to see?” asked Dr. Cairn.
“I didn’t want to,” admitted Crombie, “but I did — and—”
“Well?”
“The door was locked, sir!”
“So you concluded that your imagination had been playing you tricks,” said Saunderson grimly. “In my opinion you were right.”
Dr. Cairn dropped into an armchair.
“All right, Crombie; that will do.”
Crombie, with a mumbled “Good-night, gentlemen,” turned and left the room.
“Why are you worrying about this matter,” inquired Saunderson, when the door had closed, “at a time like the present?”
“Never mind,” replied Dr. Cairn wearily. “I must return to Half-Moon Street, now, but I shall be back within an hour.”
With no other word to Saunderson, he stood up and walked out to the hall. He rapped at the study door, and it was instantly opened by Robert Cairn. No spoken word was necessary; the burning question could be read in his too-bright eyes. Dr. Cairn laid his hand upon his son’s shoulder.
“I won’t excite false hopes, Rob,” he said huskily. “I am going back to the house, and I want you to come with me.”
Robert Cairn turned his head aside, groaning aloud, but his father grasped him by the arm, and together they left that house of shadows, entered the car which waited at the gate, and without exchanging a word en route, came to Half-Moon Street.
CHAPTER XXIV
FLOWERING OF THE LOTUS
Dr. Cairn led the way into the library, switching on the reading-lamp upon the large table. His son stood just within the doorway, his arms folded and his chin upon his breast.
The doctor sat down at the table, watching the other.
Suddenly Robert spoke:
“Is it possible, sir, is it possible—” his voice was barely audible— “th
at her illness can in any way be due to the orchids?”
Dr. Cairn frowned thoughtfully.
“What do you mean, exactly?” he asked.
“Orchids are mysterious things. They come from places where there are strange and dreadful diseases. Is it not possible that they may convey—”
“Some sort of contagion?” concluded Dr. Cairn. “It is a point that I have seen raised, certainly. But nothing of the sort has ever been established. I have heard something, to-night, though, which—”
“What have you heard, sir?” asked his son eagerly, stepping forward to the table.
“Never mind at the moment, Rob; let me think.”
He rested his elbow upon the table, and his chin in his hand. His professional instincts had told him that unless something could be done — something which the highest medical skill in London had thus far been unable to devise — Myra Duquesne had but four hours to live. Somewhere in his mind a memory lurked, evasive, taunting him. This wild suggestion of his son’s, that the girl’s illness might be due in some way to her contact with the orchids, was in part responsible for this confused memory, but it seemed to be associated, too, with the story of Crombie the gardener — and with Antony Ferrara. He felt that somewhere in the darkness surrounding him there was a speck of light, if he could but turn in the right direction to see it. So, whilst Robert Cairn walked restlessly about the big room, the doctor sat with his chin resting in the palm of his hand, seeking to concentrate his mind upon that vague memory, which defied him, whilst the hand of the library clock crept from twelve towards one; whilst he knew that the faint life in Myra Duquesne was slowly ebbing away in response to some mysterious condition, utterly outside his experience.
Distant clocks chimed One! Three hours only!
