by Bill Bowers
“My chauffeur, Gaspard,” said the Baron, “also my valet, my cook, my chambermaid, my man to do all, what you call factotum, is it not? But he speaks not English, so pardon me once more.”
He spoke a few words to the man, who shrugged his shoulders and smiled with the same deferential grimace while his unchanging eyes gleamed through their slits. Carmichael caught only the word “Madame” while he was slipping off his overcoat, and understood that they were talking of his patient.
“Come,” said the Baron, “he says that it goes better, at least not worse—that is always something. Let us mount at the instant.”
The hall was bare, except for a table on which a kitchen lamp was burning, and two chairs with heavy automobile coats and rugs and veils thrown upon them. The stairway was uncarpeted, and the dust lay thick under the banisters. At the door of the back room on the second floor the Baron paused and knocked softly. A low voice answered, and he went in, beckoning the doctor to follow.
III
If Carmichael lived to be a hundred he could never forget that first impression. The room was but partly furnished, yet it gave at once the idea that it was inhabited; it was even, in some strange way, rich and splendid. Candles on the mantelpiece and a silver travelling-lamp on the dressing-table threw a soft light on little articles of luxury, and photographs in jewelled frames, and a couple of well-bound books, and a gilt clock marking the half-hour after midnight. A wood fire burned in the wide chimney-place, and before it a rug was spread. At one side there was a huge mahogany four-post bedstead, and there, propped up by the pillows, lay the noblest-looking woman that Carmichael had ever seen.
She was dressed in some clinging stuff of soft black, with a diamond at her breast, and a deep-red cloak thrown over her feet. She must have been past middle age, for her thick, brown hair was already touched with silver, and one lock of snow-white lay above her forehead. But her face was one of those which time enriches; fearless and tender and high-spirited, a speaking face in which the dark-lashed grey eyes were like words of wonder and the sensitive mouth like a clear song. She looked at the young doctor and held out her hand to him.
“I am glad to see you,” she said, in her low, pure voice, “very glad! You are Roger Carmichael’s son. Oh, I am glad to see you indeed.”
“You are very kind,” he answered, “and I am glad also to be of any service to you, though I do not yet know who you are.”
The Baron was bending over the fire rearranging the logs on the andirons. He looked up sharply and spoke in his strong nasal tone.
“Pardon! Madame la Baronne de Mortemer, j’ai l’honneur de vous presenter Monsieur le Docteur Carmichael.”
The accent on the “doctor” was marked. A slight shadow came upon the lady’s face. She answered, quietly:
“Yes, I know. The doctor has come to see me because I was ill. We will talk of that in a moment. But first I want to tell him who I am—and by another name. Dr. Carmichael, did your father ever speak to you of Jean Gordon?”
“Why, yes,” he said, after an instant of thought, “it comes back to me now quite clearly. She was the young girl to whom he taught Latin when he first came here as a college instructor. He was very fond of her. There was one of her books in his library—I have it now—a little volume of Horace, with a few translations in verse written on the fly-leaves, and her name on the title-page—Jean Gordon. My father wrote under that, ‘My best pupil, who left her lessons unfinished.’ He was very fond of the book, and so I kept it when he died.”
The lady’s eyes grew moist, but the tears did not fall. They trembled in her voice.
“I was that Jean Gordon—a girl of fifteen—your father was the best man I ever knew. You look like him, but he was handsomer than you. Ah, no, I was not his best pupil, but his most wilful and ungrateful one. Did he never tell you of my running away—of the unjust suspicions that fell on him—of his voyage to Europe?”
“Never,” answered Carmichael. “He only spoke, as I remember, of your beauty and your brightness, and of the good times that you all had when this old house was in its prime.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, quickly and with strong feeling, “they were good times, and he was a man of honour. He never took an unfair advantage, never boasted of a woman’s favour, never tried to spare himself. He was an American man. I hope you are like him.”
The Baron, who had been leaning on the mantel, crossed the room impatiently and stood beside the bed. He spoke in French again, dragging the words in his insistent, masterful voice, as if they were something heavy which he laid upon his wife.
Her grey eyes grew darker, almost black, with enlarging pupils. She raised herself on the pillows as if about to get up. Then she sank back again and said, with an evident effort:
“Rene, I must beg you not to speak in French again. The doctor does not understand it. We must be more courteous. And now I will tell him about my sudden illness to-night. It was the first time—like a flash of lightning—an ice-cold hand of pain—”
Even as she spoke a swift and dreadful change passed over her face. Her colour vanished in a morbid pallor; a cold sweat lay like death-dew on her forehead; her eyes were fixed on some impending horror; her lips, blue and rigid, were strained with an unspeakable, intolerable anguish. Her left arm stiffened as if it were gripped in a vise of pain. Her right hand fluttered over her heart, plucking at an unseen weight. It seemed as if an invisible, silent death-wind were quenching the flame of her life. It flickered in an agony of strangulation.
“Be quick,” cried the doctor; “lay her head lower on the pillows, loosen her dress, warm her hands.”
He had caught up his satchel, and was looking for a little vial. He found it almost empty. But there were four or five drops of the yellowish, oily liquid. He poured them on his handkerchief and held it close to the lady’s mouth. She was still breathing regularly though slowly, and as she inhaled the pungent, fruity smell, like the odour of a jargonelle pear, a look of relief flowed over her face, her breathing deepened, her arm and her lips relaxed, the terror faded from her eyes.
He went to his satchel again and took out a bottle of white tablets marked “Nitroglycerin.” He gave her one of them, and when he saw her look of peace grow steadier, after a minute, he prepared the electric battery. Softly he passed the sponges charged with their mysterious current over her temples and her neck and down her slender arms and blue-veined wrists, holding them for a while in the palms of her hands, which grew rosy.
In all this the Baron had helped as he could, and watched closely, but without a word. He was certainly not indifferent; neither was he distressed; the expression of his black eyes and heavy, passionless face was that of presence of mind, self-control covering an intense curiosity. Carmichael conceived a vague sentiment of dislike for the man.
When the patient rested easily they stepped outside the room together for a moment.
“It is the angina, I suppose,” droned the Baron, “hein? That is of great inconvenience. But I think it is the false one, that is much less grave—not truly dangerous, hein?”
“My dear sir,” answered Carmichael, “who can tell the difference between a false and a true angina pectoris, except by a post-mortem? The symptoms are much alike, the result is sometimes identical, if the paroxysm is severe enough. But in this case I hope that you may be right. Your wife’s illness is severe, dangerous, but not necessarily fatal. This attack has passed and may not recur for months or even years.”
The lip-smile came back under the Baron’s sullen eyes.
“Those are the good news, my dear doctor,” said he, slowly. “Then we shall be able to travel soon, perhaps to-morrow or the next day. It is of an extreme importance. This place is insufferable to me. We have engagements in Washington—a gay season.”
Carmichael looked at him steadily and spoke with deliberation.
“Baron, you must understand me clear
ly. This is a serious case. If I had not come in time your wife might be dead now. She cannot possibly be moved for a week, perhaps it may take a month fully to restore her strength. After that she must have a winter of absolute quiet and repose.”
The Frenchman’s face hardened; his brows drew together in a black line, and he lifted his hand quickly with a gesture of irritation. Then he bowed.
“As you will, doctor! And for the present moment, what is it that I may have the honour to do for your patient?”
“Just now,” said the doctor, “she needs a stimulant—a glass of sherry or of brandy, if you have it—and a hot-water bag—you have none? Well, then, a couple of bottles filled with hot water and wrapped in a cloth to put at her feet. Can you get them?”
The Baron bowed again, and went down the stairs. As Carmichael returned to the bedroom he heard the droning, insistent voice below calling “Gaspard, Gaspard!”
The great grey eyes were open as he entered the room, and there was a sense of release from pain and fear in them that was like the deepest kind of pleasure.
“Yes, I am much better,” said she; “the attack has passed. Will it come again? No? Not soon, you mean. Well, that is good. You need not tell me what it is—time enough for that to-morrow. But come and sit by me. I want to talk to you. Your first name is—”
“Leroy,” he answered. “But you are weak; you must not talk much.”
“Only a little,” she replied, smiling; “it does me good. Leroy was your mother’s name—yes? It is not a Calvinton name. I wonder where your father met her. Perhaps in France when he came to look for me. But he did not find me—no, indeed—I was well hidden then—but he found your mother. You are young enough to be my son. Will you be a friend to me for your father’s sake?”
She spoke gently, in a tone of infinite kindness and tender grace, with pauses in which a hundred unspoken recollections and appeals were suggested. The young man was deeply moved. He took her hand in his firm clasp.
“Gladly,” he said, “and for your sake too. But now I want you to rest.”
“Oh,” she answered, “I am resting now. But let me talk a little more. It will not harm me. I have been through so much! Twice married—a great fortune to spend—all that the big world can give. But now I am very tired of the whirl. There is only one thing I want—to stay here in Calvinton. I rebelled against it once; but it draws me back. There is a strange magic in the place. Haven’t you felt it? How do you explain it?”
“Yes,” he said, “I have felt it surely, but I can’t explain it, unless it is a kind of ancient peace that makes you wish to be at home here even while you rebel.”
She nodded her head and smiled softly.
“That is it,” she said, hesitating for a moment. “But my husband—you see he is a very strong man, and he loves the world, the whirling life—he took a dislike to this place at once. No wonder, with the house in such a state! But I have plenty of money—it will be easy to restore the house. Only, sometimes I think he cares more for the money than—but no matter what I think. He wishes to go on at once—to-morrow, if we can. I hate the thought of it. Is it possible for me to stay? Can you help me?”
“Dear lady,” he answered, lifting her hand to his lips, “set your mind at rest. I have already told him that it is impossible for you to go for many days. You can arrange to move to the inn to-morrow, and stay there while you direct the putting of your house in order.”
A sound in the hallway announced the return of the Baron and Gaspard with the hot-water bottles and the cognac. The doctor made his patient as comfortable as possible for the night, prepared a sleeping-draught, and gave directions for the use of the tablets in an emergency.
“Good night,” he said, bending over her. “I will see you in the morning. You may count upon me.”
“I do,” she said, with her eyes resting on his; “thank you for all. I shall expect you—au revoir.”
As they went down the stairs he said to the Baron, “Remember, absolute repose is necessary. With that you are safe enough for to-night. But you may possibly need more of the nitrite of amyl. My vial is empty. I will write the prescription, if you will allow me.”
“In the dining-room,” said the Baron, taking up the lamp and throwing open the door of the back room on the right. The floor had been hastily swept and the rubbish shoved into the fireplace. The heavy chairs stood along the wall. But two of them were drawn up at the head of the long mahogany table, and dishes and table utensils from a travelling-basket were lying there, as if a late supper had been served.
“You see,” said the Baron, drawling, “our banquet-hall! Madame and I have dined in this splendour to-night. Is it possible that you write here?”
His secret irritation, his insolence, his contempt spoke clearly enough in his tone. The remark was almost like an intentional insult. For a second Carmichael hesitated. “No,” he thought, “why should I quarrel with him? He is only sullen. He can do no harm.”
He pulled a chair to the foot of the table, took out his tablet and his fountain-pen, and wrote the prescription. Tearing off the leaf, he folded it crosswise and left it on the table.
In the hall, as he put on his coat he remembered the paper.
“My prescription,” he said, “I must take it to the druggist to-night.”
“Permit me,” said the Baron, “the room is dark. I will take the paper, and procure the drug as I return from escorting the doctor to his residence.”
He went into the dark room, groped about for a moment, and returned, closing the door behind him.
“Come, Monsieur,” he said, “your work at the Chateau Gordon is finished for this night. I shall leave you with yourself—at home, as you say—in a few moments. Gaspard—Gaspard, fermez la porte a clé!”
The strong nasal voice echoed through the house, and the servant ran lightly down the stairs. His master muttered a few sentences to him, holding up his right hand as he did so, with the five fingers extended, as if to impress something on the man’s mind.
“Pardon,” he said, turning to Carmichael, “that I speak always French, after the rebuke. But this time it is of necessity. I repeat the instruction for the pilules. One at each hour until eight o’clock—five, not more—it is correct? Come, then, our equipage is always harnessed, always ready, how convenient!”
The two men did not speak as the car rolled through the brumous night. A rising wind was sifting the fog. The moon had set. The loosened leaves came whirling, fluttering, sinking through the darkness like a flight of huge dying moths. Now and then they brushed the faces of the travellers with limp, moist wings.
The red night-lamp in the drug-store was still burning. Carmichael called the other’s attention to it.
“You have the prescription?”
“Without doubt!” he answered. “After I have escorted you, I shall procure the drug.”
The doctor’s front door was lit up as he had left it. The light streamed out rather brightly and illumined the Baron’s sullen black eyes and smiling lips as he leaned from the car, lifting his cap.
“A thousand thanks, my dear doctor, you have been excessively kind; yes, truly of an excessive goodness for us. It is a great pleasure—how do you tell it in English?—it is a great pleasure to have met you. Adieu.”
“Till to-morrow morning!” said Carmichael, cheerfully, waving his hand.
The Baron stared at him curiously, and lifted his cap again.
“Adieu!” droned the insistent voice, and the great car slid into the dark.
IV
The next morning was of crystal. It was after nine when Carmichael drove his electric-phaeton down the leaf-littered street, where the country wagons and the decrepit hacks were already meandering placidly, and out along the highroad, between the still green fields. It seemed to him as if the experience of the past night were “such stuff as dreams are made of.” Yet
the impression of what he had seen and heard in that firelit chamber—of the eyes, the voice, the hand of that strangely lovely lady—of her vision of sudden death, her essentially lonely struggle with it, her touching words to him when she came back to life—all this was so vivid and unforgettable that he drove straight to Castle Gordon.
The great house was shut up like a tomb: every door and window was closed, except where half of one of the shutters had broken loose and hung by a single hinge. He drove around to the back. It was the same there. A cobweb was spun across the lower corner of the door and tiny drops of moisture jewelled it. Perhaps it had been made in the early morning. If so, no one had come out of the door since night.
Carmichael knocked, and knocked again. No answer. He called. No reply. Then he drove around to the portico with the tall white pillars and tried the front door. It was locked. He peered through the half-open window into the drawing-room. The glass was crusted with dirt and the room was dark. He was trying to make out the outlines of the huddled furniture when he heard a step behind him. It was the old farmer from the nearest cottage on the road.
“Mornin’, doctor! I seen ye comin’ in, and tho’t ye might want to see the house.”
“Good morning, Scudder! I do, if you’ll let me in. But first tell me about these automobile tracks in the drive.”
The old man gazed at him with a kind of dull surprise as if the question were foolish.
“Why, ye made ’em yerself, comin’ up, didn’t ye?”
“I mean those larger tracks—they were made by a much heavier car than mine.”
