"My mission," I announced, "has been a failure. He declines even to discuss the matter."
Mr. Stanley knocked the ash off his cigar and rose to his feet. His face showed neither disappointment nor surprise.
"The lady, I am afraid," he remarked, "will be sorry."
"It will be a great blow to her," I answered, "if he should die!"
Mr. Stanley shrugged his shoulders.
"He will die, and very soon," he declared. "You and I know that very well. You are a young man, Mr. Courage," he added very slowly, and with his eyes fixed intently upon me. "You have a beautiful home and a simple, useful life--a long one, I trust--before you! Mr. Guest is not by any means old, but he made enemies! It is never wise to make enemies."
"Is this a warning?" I asked.
"Accept it as one, if a warning is necessary," he answered. "Take my advice. If Leslie Guest, or the man who is dying upstairs, has a legacy to leave, let him choose another legatee! There is death in that legacy for you!"
"Death comes to all of us," I answered. "We must take our risks."
He picked up his hat.
"Number 317, was it not?" he repeated thoughtfully, "an unlucky number for you, I fear! ... By the bye, Mademoiselle is in the neighborhood."
"What of it?" I asked.
He looked at me long and curiously. Then he sighed and lit still another of my finest Havanas as he prepared to depart.
"You will be better off," he said, "without that legacy!"
CHAPTER XVI
I TAKE UP MY LEGACY
Towards dawn I lit another lamp in my study and chanced to catch a glimpse of my face in a small mirror which stood upon my writing-table.
Almost involuntarily I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to find another man there. It was a moment"s madness, but as a matter of fact I did not recognize myself. It seemed to me that the change in the man upstairs, who had pa.s.sed from the world of living things with breath in his body and life in his brain to the cold negation of death, was a change no greater than had come to me. For I was pa.s.sing, as I knew very well, from behind the fences of my somewhat narrow but well-contained life into the great world of tragical happenings, where life and death are but small things, and one"s self but a p.a.w.n in the great game. This, because I believed, because I had accepted the trust of the man who, a few hours ago, had closed his eyes with his hand in mine, and the faint welcoming smile upon his lips of a brave but weary man, who finds nothing terrible in death.
There was something almost fearful in a change so absolute and vital as that which had come over my life. I realized this as I allowed myself a few moments" rest, and threw myself upon the sofa. The old outlook, the old ideas had been torn up by the root. The things which had seemed to be of life itself only a few hours ago seemed now to have lapsed into the insignificance of trifles. I thought of myself and my old life with the tolerance of one who watches a child at play. Sport and all its kindred delights--the whole glorification of the physical life--I viewed as a Stock Exchange man might view the gambling for marbles of his youth. It was incredible that I had ever even fancied myself content. My brain was still in a whirl, but it seemed to me that I was already conscious of new powers. My thoughts travelled more quickly, I felt a greater alertness of brain, a swifter rush of ideas. But it seemed to me, also, that something had gone, that never again would I find my way lie through the rose gardens of life.
I must have dozed for a time upon the sofa, and was awakened by a soft tapping upon the low, old-fashioned windows, which opened upon the terrace. I sprang up, and, for a moment, it seemed to me that I must be dreaming. It was Adele who stood there, all in white, with sunlight around her.... I gasped for a moment, and then recovered myself. It was Adele sure enough, in a white linen riding habit, and morning had come while I slept. But I knew then that one link at least remained with the old life.
She tapped upon the window-pane a little imperiously, and I threw open the sash. Her eyes were fixed upon my face. I think that she, too, saw the change. With the opening of the window came a rush of sweet fresh air. She stepped into the room.
"Don"t look at me as though I were something unreal!" she exclaimed. "I told them that I was fond of early morning rides, and I saw your light burning here from the park. Tell me--is he worse?"
I was suddenly calm. I realized that this was the beginning.
"He is dead," I answered. "He died about midnight."
There was a momentary horror in her face, for which I was grateful--I scarcely knew why.
"Dead," she repeated softly, "so soon!"
She looked around the room and back at me.
"Turn out the lamps," she said. "This light is ghastly."
There was little more color in her face than mine. Even the sunlight seemed cold and cheerless. She came a little nearer to me.
"He was conscious--at the end?"
"Yes!" I answered.
Her breath seemed to be coming a little faster. Her eyes were full of eager questioning.
"You were with him?"
"Yes!"
Again there was a pause. I was steadfastly silent.
"Don"t keep me in suspense," she muttered. "He told you?"
"Yes!" I answered, "he told me--certain things."
She drew a long breath of relief. I could see that she was trembling all over. She sank into a chair.
"I felt that he would," she declared. "I knew that he could not carry his secret to the grave. Is the door locked?"
"Yes!" I answered. "The door is locked."
She was still pale, but her eyes were burning.
"Go on!" she said; "don"t lose a moment. I am waiting."
"For what?" I asked calmly.
"To hear everything," she answered quickly.
"I have nothing to tell you," I said.
She stamped her foot with the petulance of a spoilt child.
"Oh! how dense you are!" she exclaimed. "Repeat to me exactly what he said to you--now, before you forget a single word!"
"I cannot do that," I said.
She leaned a little forward in her chair. Even then she did not understand.