"Was he ill?"
"Not that I"m aware of."
"It wasn"t in a hospital?"
"A hospital! Edith, what is it you are driving at?"
"Nor in any place of the kind?"
"Are you suggesting that I dragged him from a sick bed to die for our benefit? Because, if so, let me a.s.sure you that when I first saw him I had no notion that anything ailed him, or that he was any nearer death than I am."
"Well, Douglas, I won"t worry you now, because I know that you are already worried about something, the burden of which I hope that one day you"ll share with me."
So she went, leaving me in a condition of mental unrest to which I had never supposed I could have fallen a prey. I could not shake off that ridiculous feeling that I had for company the silent figure on the bed; the dead man who was not dead. The interview with Edith invested him with a new significance. Already she suspected that there was more in the matter than met the eye. Was I so poor an actor? Had I so wholly failed to profit by the great example which had been set me? If it was Edith now, when would it be Violet and Reggie? If either of them gained the faintest inkling of the actual state of affairs, what would become of my house of cards, and of me? How infinitely worse would my latter state be than my first! I had never, so far as I knew, done a dishonourable thing till then. Now, on a sudden, here I was, tilting against the laws both of G.o.d and man. If I had a fall, there would be an end of me.
The next day I was busied about a mult.i.tude of things. The story had already got about, thanks, I imagine, to the people at the hotel; as a consequence I was inundated with inquiries, to some of which I was compelled to give personal attention. For instance, Morris Acrodato--grown old, but still relentless--came, a.s.suring me that he had that unfortunate bill of Twickenham"s in his pocket, and wanting to know--if he did not take out a warrant to arrest the corpse, if his claim would be favourably considered by the succeeding peer. Over and over again both Reggie and I had begged Foster to pay him what he asked, and so silence him so far as he could be silenced; but with equal persistency he had retorted by requesting us to furnish him with Twickenham"s instructions to do as we desired. So after fifteen years Acrodato was still waiting for his money or his man. A portentous sum the amount which he demanded had become. Although I laughed at his notion of arresting a dead man--we are not in Sheridan"s days, when a corpse was seizable--I had no hesitation in giving him my personal a.s.surance that all should be done for him which equity called for. He rather pulled a face at my allusion to equity, that being hardly the point of view from which he wished his case to be regarded.
Try as I would, I could not get through the things which had to be done at anything like the rate which I desired, the result being that the afternoon was already well advanced before I was able to make my promised visit to Cortin"s Hotel.
I realised, with a sense of shock, that a hea.r.s.e stood before the door. What had happened? I looked at my watch. It was after six. The train which was to bear the coffin to Cressland was due to start in something like an hour. What an idiot I had been! Better have left everything else undone rather than run the risk of being too late.
Suppose the undertaker"s men were already in the room, and Mr.
Babbacombe--mistaking the cause of my non-arrival, and setting it down as intentional--had realised that their purpose was to prison him in that narrow box, and shut him off for ever from the light of day, what might not be taking place! I leaped from the cab and rushed up the steps. The landlord met me in the hall.
"The undertaker"s men have arrived, sir. They are closing the coffin now."
"Closing the coffin!"
I waited to hear no more. Never before had I mounted a flight of stairs as I did those then. I was up them in a hop, skip, and jump; not pausing to consider what I was to say or do when I reached the chamber of the supposit.i.tious dead, but only anxious to get there.
When I got there it was already too late. I saw it at a glance. Never shall I forget with what sensations!
Four men were in the room, all dressed in black. One had his hat on; the hats of the other three were together on a single chair. An oak coffin stood on a black velvet pall, which doubtless covered trestles.
Two men, one at either end, were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g on the lid. A third was prowling about the room. The fourth--the one with his hat on--was standing, with his hands in his pockets, surveying the proceedings.
They all glanced towards me as I entered, unmistakably taken by surprise. The fourth man, withdrawing his hands from his pockets, made haste to remove his hat. The prowler came hurrying towards the others.
"You"re--you"re not closing the coffin?"
"Yes, sir. By Mr. Tattenham"s instructions."
"But it"s not time."
"Excuse me, sir, but it is. The coffin has to be placed in the van before it"s attached to the train; and that means some time before it"s due to start. Did you wish, sir, to see him?"
I felt dazed; filled with a whirl of confused thoughts. The voice of the undertaker"s man sounded to me like a voice in a dream.
"See him. Is he"--I was about to add "in there?" Because it seemed incredible that even so consummate an artist as Mr. Montagu Babbacombe could consent to remain quiescent while being consigned to a living tomb. But the question in such a form might have seemed too suggestive; so I subst.i.tuted, "Is he all right?"
It seemed that the man somewhat mistook my drift.
"Perfectly, sir. Make a fine photograph, sir. Looks calm and peaceful; as well as he possibly could look. We can easily remove the lid; would you like to see him, sir?"
"See him? No. I--I don"t want to see him."
"In that case, since the lid is closed, we"ll be starting, sir, if you don"t mind."
I do not know what I said. Something, I suppose; because shouldering the coffin there and then, they started. They carried it from the room and bore it from my sight. I remained behind, picturing the man inside fighting for freedom. I wondered when the struggle would begin. What was that? I thought I heard a voice calling to me from the stairs without; a voice I seemed to know. I went to the door and listened.
Not a sound. Across the hall below pa.s.sed the four men in black, bearing the living man shut up in the box upon their shoulders.
Was he already tapping at the inner sh.e.l.l? Would they hear him if he were? The sh.e.l.l was presumably a substantial one; the wood of the outer coffin thick. He would be shrouded in his winding-clothes; his movements would be c.u.mbered. He would quite possibly be unable to rap with sufficient force to make them hear him. He might call; or try to.
In that stifling atmosphere would he be able to use his voice?
At any rate it seemed plain that nothing took place inside that polished tomb to attract their attention. The bearers pa.s.sed through the swing doors, out into the street. I waited. No doubt the coffin was being placed inside the hea.r.s.e. Was Mr. Babbacombe aware of it?
Presently one of the undertaker"s men returned to fetch the four hats which had been left behind in the room. He went down the stairs with two in either hand. Another interval. Presumably the hea.r.s.e had started.
What was that noise--like the scratching of fingernails against wood?
Whose voice called me? Did it come from the bed? I spun round like a teetotum.
It was merely a delusion. It must have been. The bed was unoccupied.
Its emptiness affected me more than anything which had gone before. It exercised on me so singular a fascination that I continued to stare at it as if unable to take my eyes away.
What was that noise--like the scratching of a man"s nails against wood? The hea.r.s.e must have long since got out of the street. If it had a fast pair of horses it was probably already half-way to the station.
It could not come from the bed.
When--I do not know how long afterwards--I went down the stairs, feeling as if a century had elapsed since I went up them, the landlord stopped me to express a hope that everything had been done to my satisfaction.
BOOK II.--THE LOST HUSBAND
THE STORY IS CONTINUED BY MRS. JAMES MERRETT
CHAPTER XI
AN ENCOUNTER IN PICCADILLY
I couldn"t make it out. Nor could Mr. FitzHoward.
"Well," said Mr. FitzHoward to me, "your governor certainly is a caution"--which I was far from denying it--"but this beats anything; it does that."
And tilting his hat on to the back of his head, he looked at the ceiling, as if in the hope of seeing James up there. But nothing of the kind.