CHAPTER XVIII
About an hour before this Arthur Holliday left the Restaurant des Ambassadeurs and, with a slight frown on his face, got into his car and drove rapidly to La Californie. When he reached the Villa Firenze all was in darkness. He left his car in a turning out of the main road, then quietly slipped into the garden and walked across the grass around to the paved terrace at the side of the salon. As he set foot on the flat stones the doors opened softly and Thérèse Clifford put out her hands and drew him inside.
"Ah, I thought you would never come!" she sighed a little fretfully, standing for a moment with her whole body against his.
His arms held her in a perfunctory embrace, while his eyes glanced restlessly about. The big room was lit by only a single lamp, which shed a pool of rose-coloured light over the satin-covered chaise-longue and a tiny table, upon which was a pile of illustrated journals.
"Damned silly getting me here like this," he remarked, turning and drawing the thick curtains carefully over the doors behind him. "I don't half like it."
"There is no risk, none whatever. Everyone is in bed except the night-nurse, and up in that room one can't hear anything."
"Still, if anyone did find me here, there'd be a devil of a mess. Roger'll be coming home, too; I saw him having dinner with that nurse girl."
She made a slight grimace.
"Oh, they will be hours yet. Listen! I sent you that message because I simply had to see you. You were dining with that creature to-night, and I could not have closed my eyes till I had made sure you had done nothing stupid. Tell me, Arthur darling—what has she been saying to you?"
She clutched him tightly with both hands, probing into his shallow eyes as if to tear the truth from them.
"Oh, the usual thing; she's getting more and more fed up. She suspects now that I'm playing with her. She says she must make arrangements, send cables and so on, and she's got to have a straight answer—yes or no—at once."
"Yes, and then what?"
Her hold on his shoulders tightened avidly.
"She's booked sailings for herself and the girl for the 8th, and she wants to book one for me, too. Otherwise she says it's all off."
"Ah! What did you tell her?"
"I promised I'd go."
She drew in her breath sharply.
"You promised to go—on the 8th!"
"There was nothing else to do. I can't throw away an opportunity like that. I've told you so all along. Of course I could always change my mind at the last minute … if anything happened."
His wandering gaze came back to her, and for a long moment they looked at each other in silence. Then Thérèse bit her lip and turned away.
"What did Sartorius say when you talked to him yesterday?"
"Oh, nothing whatever. He won't express an opinion beyond the fact that the old boy's age and general condition are against him. There's not much in that. I wouldn't mind betting even money that he'll pull through this and go on for another ten or fifteen years."
She shook her head slowly, looking away from him.
"No … I do not think he will do that. Somehow I have a feeling …
I am almost sure this time … he will not live."
"Why?" he demanded quickly.
"Fleurestine. You know what I told you."
"Rot! Besides, she only said he would be ill; she didn't pretend to see the outcome."
Again she shook her head.
"What I told you was not quite true. She told me he would not recover; she saw me dressed in black …"
"Good God! Why didn't you say so before?"
She gave him a shrewd glance.
"But, Arthur, you don't believe in these things."
"Well, I don't know. I don't say I disbelieve in them exactly. I—you might have said something before, you know," he explained in an injured tone.
"But, my dear, I couldn't! It seemed so—so cold-blooded, so calculating. I couldn't let you think of me as calculating, could I? You might not care for me so much."
He scarcely heard her. A change had come over him, he was apparently filled with a nervous elation, moving jerkily around the room, snapping his fingers, whistling softly under his breath, picking up small objects and examining them unseeingly, then setting them down again. Thérèse watched him narrowly, suspicion deepening in her eyes. At last she spoke.
"Arthur, come to me."
He approached her mechanically, engrossed in his own thoughts.
"No, closer. I want to look at you."
He met her gaze without interest, looking through her at some vision beyond.
"Arthur, all you are thinking about is the money. The thought of that makes you happy. Is not that so?"
He gave a forced laugh.
"Good God, what makes you think that? If you do think it."
"It's the way you look. You are not thinking of me one little bit.
Arthur, if for one moment I thought you no longer cared for me…"
"What on earth are you taking about?" he retorted with a touch of irritation. "Why are you for ever harping on that theme? Naturally I care for you."
"Ah, but you torment me so! If I could only be sure, only for one little minute! How do I know it is me you want, and not what you will get with me?"
She spoke with a certain fierceness. He looked at her silently, then with a shrug of his shoulders turned away, moving towards the door.
"Where are you going?" she demanded quickly.
"What difference does it make to you where I go? Since that's the opinion you have of me, South America isn't a bad idea. The sooner the better."
"No, no, Arthur, come back; you don't understand…"
"Oh, I understand all right. You don't trust me; after a year and a half that's all you think of me. It doesn't matter, it's better not to see me again."
His hand was on the knob.
"Don't say such a stupid thing, Arthur! Come here."
"Why should I come? You don't want me really."
"Arthur, you know I want you—always."
Without replying, he opened the door and stepped outside. He was really going, his foot sounded on the flags. With a smothered cry she reached his side, clutched at him, half sobbing, drawing him back with all her strength. He resisted stonily.
"Don't make a scene, Thérèse, someone will hear you."
"Then come back. If you don't, I don't mind what happens, or who hears!"
Sulkily he took a step inside the door, then raised his head, listening. A car had come into the drive, was crunching around the gravel to the garage on the far side of the house.
"S'sh—it's Roger. Close the door quietly."
With a quick movement, Thérèse switched off the lamp.
"Damned silly, that," he whispered. "Why did you do that?"
"No, it is best. Wait—they will soon go upstairs."
They stood silent, listening. After a few moments they heard the front door close, then footsteps mounting the stairs, after which no sound whatever. Five minutes went by, while Thérèse pressed tightly against the unresponsive young man, clinging to his hand. At the end of that time he drew away from her.
"Now I'll slip out."
"No, not yet. I sha'n't let you!"
She sank down on the chaise-longue in the darkness, trying to draw him with her.
"I shall not stay, I promise you."
His voice was cold and indifferent. For all that she drew him to her, by main force, and pressed her mouth to his, her perfumed arms about his stubborn neck.
"If you do love me, Arthur, make me know that you do! Show me it is myself that you care for, show me, show me! You can if you want to."
After a brief struggle she felt his muscles relax.
"Ah … Tu m'aimes encore! Tu m'aimes encore!"
"Sh-sh—let me go, Thérèse …"
"No, no …"
A moment later, in the gloom, Thérèse's wide chiffon sleeve caught on something.
"Be careful—what is that?"
The little table toppled over with a crash. At almost the same instant, it seemed, the door to the dining-room was flung open and dazzling light poured down upon them from the central chandelier. In the doorway Roger stood regarding them.
It was one of those moments when there is simply nothing to say.
Explanations would only aggravate a situation already impossible.
Utterly confused, Holliday automatically straightened his tie, while
Thérèse, seated, smoothed her tumbled hair and stared at the intruder
with horror-stricken eyes. For several seconds no one spoke.
Roger, indeed, felt powerless to make any comment. After the first shock of discovery he was dumb from sheer fury. Indignant beyond words at what seemed to him a rank insult to his father, the emotion he felt struck to the very root of his being. For the moment he saw red. At last he addressed Holliday.
"Get out!" he commanded, and pointed to the door.
The young man had by now recovered a slight degree of his usual poise.
His eyebrows lifted with a touch of arrogance.
"Steady on. What right have you got to order me out of this house?"
"Never you mind what right I've got," Roger blazed at him, but keeping his voice low. "You get out, or I'll throw you out. You've heard me."
Holliday looked at Thérèse, who, pale and shaken, nodded slightly.
"Go," she murmured; "you can do no good by staying."
He made a faint show of standing his ground, then with a contemptuous shrug went out through the garden doors.
Roger took three strides after him and closed the doors, bolting them quietly. When he turned he saw a change in his stepmother. Her eyes regarded him with a Medusa-like stare; a spot of dull red smouldered in each cheek. Her lips seemed suddenly thin, were working slightly. He knew that her anger was even greater than his own, though she might express it in a different way.
"And now perhaps you will explain what you mean by coming into my salon and ordering my friends to leave my house?"
Her tone burnt like vitriol. All the suppressed hatred of six years had compressed itself into that single sentence. He paused, eyeing her curiously, and choosing his words with a certain care, trying not to let his anger run away with him.
"See here, Thérèse," he said at last, "I don't intend to discuss the matter of my right to do anything in this house. I am simply going to tell you something. It makes no difference to me what lovers you have, it is not my affair, so long as you conduct your liaisons with discretion. But while my father is ill and I am here to protect his interests, I shall make it my business to see that this sort of thing doesn't happen under his roof."
"Ah, indeed!" she exclaimed with a touch of bitter contempt.
"You know as well as I that anyone might have come in that door just now—my aunt, the nurse, one of the servants. You may not care yourself, but you've got to have respect for my father."
Her breath came hard, the spots of red throbbed like wounds, while all the time her eyes remained glued to his face with a stare of fascination. He thought she seemed torn between rage and a reluctant fear.
"Now listen to me: I shall not say it again. From now on Arthur Holliday is not to come inside this place until my father is well again. Is that quite clear?"
An odd mutinous gleam came into her eyes.
"Must I remind you that I am at liberty to do as I like in my own house?" she said monotonously.
"I don't think I have made myself clear, Thérèse. I am not arguing; I am telling you that Holliday must keep away."
He was anxious to go. The scene and her scent nauseated him.
"And suppose I do not choose to do as you say? What then?"
"I'm sorry you asked that, but of course I'll answer it. If I catch Holliday here again, I shall quite simply tell my father all that I know about you and him. You may be sure he will divorce you."
She made no sign beyond a little intake of her breath and a dilation of her nostrils.
"That is a threat, is it not?"
"Of course it's a threat. It is the only way one is able to deal with a woman like you," he retorted, too irate to soften his words.
"I see."
Her composure was greater than his. He had expected her to fly at him with abuse. Something in her manner egged him on to say more:
"You may pull the wool over my father's eyes, but you have never deceived me. You have been waiting for years for him to die, hoping every illness would finish him, so that you could spend his money. Well, he's not dead yet. Suppose, after all, you found he had altered his will? It's not too late for that; he could get a solicitor here in an hour, and he would do it, too, if he knew what had gone on here to-night. Oh, don't misunderstand me, I don't want him to know, for his own peace of mind. As long as you behave yourself decently inside his house you are safe from me. But this sort of thing has got to stop. That's all."
As he turned to go he glanced at her again. She was almost unrecognisable. Her eyes had narrowed to slits, her cheekbones showed an unexpected prominence under their patches of red. One hand fumbled and twisted the heavy pearls at her throat; he could hear her laboured breathing. How she was going to hate him now! The thought suddenly came to him that if there had been a revolver or a knife handy she would have tried to use it on him. Well, he had the upper hand of her; that was all that mattered. She could hate him as much as she chose….
He left her standing there, staring after him fixedly. Once outside, he had to admit he had taken a pretty strong line. Of course, in a way it was not his business to issue ultimatums of this sort. Yet he would have done the same again. The thought that his aunt or Esther Rowe might easily have come upon the scene he had just interrupted filled him with rage. Of course, from now on it was going to be still more difficult to remain under the same roof with Thérèse; it would require a skin thicker than his to endure it. Still, it would not be for long.
When he reached his room he discovered with a reaction of amusement that he still held the bottle of Evian water upright in the crook of his arm. There it had been throughout the foregoing passage at arms. He laughed, and his anger began to recede. Still, he could not sleep, and it was three o'clock when he put out his light. As he did so he listened to a faint sound outside.
It was Thérèse, who, only after this long time, was coming upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER XIX
Of the foregoing incident Esther remained in total ignorance. Accordingly, when next morning she heard Lady Clifford's maid, Aline, say that her mistress had had a bad night and was indisposed in consequence, it meant nothing special to her. She had come to regard the beautiful Frenchwoman as spoiled and self-indulgent, prone, like many others of her type, to exaggerate trifling ailments—though she concluded that the explanation of this tendency lay in the boredom of the woman's daily life. If she had been indulging in a round of gaiety she would have proved equal to enormous exertion, but there is a vast difference between dancing all night and lying awake in bed. Esther knew that fact well.
At about twelve o'clock the doctor sent Esther with a message to Lady Clifford. It seemed Sir Charles had been asking for her. The voice that called out "Entrez!" in reply to Esther's knock sounded sharp and strained.
Lady Clifford was sitting before her rather elaborate dressing-table, partly dressed, wrapped in a peignoir of heavy white crêpe. The face she turned upon Esther was pale and shadowed about the eyes, the lips tightly compressed. She really did look ill.
"As soon as you are dressed, Lady Clifford, would you mind going in to Sir Charles? He has been asking for you. I believe he must have something rather special to say to you."
"Ah?"
A quick look of both apprehension and suspicion sprang into the grey eyes. What was she afraid of, wondered Esther?
"The doctor thinks he's not up to much conversation, so perhaps you'll make it as brief as possible," added Esther tactfully.
"Yes, yes; I understand!" Lady Clifford replied, nodding impatiently.
"I will come at once."
She hastily dabbed some rouge on her cheeks, powdered her face and neck with her heavily scented powder, and followed Esther across the boudoir and into the other bedroom.
There Esther left her and, returning to the boudoir, sat down before the blazing log-fire with a magazine, less to read than to review with lazy enjoyment the whole of last night. She saw and felt it all again, the lights, the dresses, the music, the little table with its shaded lamp that shut the two of them into an enchanted circle, Roger's arm about her as they danced, the drive home in the dark. Why had it all been so thrilling? She had no doubt as to the answer, indeed her certainty on this point made her pull herself up sharply, resolving to restrain her errant fancy, not to allow herself to take too much for granted.
Suddenly across the fabric of her thoughts the old man's voice reached her in a faint, indistinguishable drone. She had not the slightest interest in what he wished to say to Lady Clifford, nor in the effect it would have upon the latter. All at once she heard the Frenchwoman shriek out with a piercing sharpness.
"No, no, it's impossible! You can't do it! You sha'n't!"
The words, half supplication, half angry protest, seemed wrung from their owner out of sheer anguish. A low monotone made reply, but it was interrupted by a fresh burst.
"But it is ridiculous, stupid! I am not a child, it's not in the least necessary. I don't have to be watched. Ah! c'est insupportable!"
Esther rose uncertainly, wondering if she ought to intervene. While she hesitated, a still wilder tirade decided her. She opened the door just in time to behold a startling spectacle. Lady Clifford was that instant seizing hold of her husband by his emaciated shoulders and shaking him furiously, crying in a strangled voice:
"Pas lui, pas lui! Vieux monstre que tu es!"
"Stop! Lady Clifford, what on earth are you doing?"
Wholly aghast, Esther forgot everything except that her patient was being bodily attacked—there was no other word for what was happening. Running forward, she grasped the wife forcibly by the arm and pulled her back from the bed, then, thoroughly frightened, bent over the old man, who had sunk back limp and panting. In her ear she heard the Frenchwoman's choked breathing, but she did not trouble to look at her.
"Are you all right, Sir Charles?" she asked as calmly as she could.
She was amazed to see a queer little flicker of humour in the sunken eyes.
"Oh, quite, quite," he gasped in a spent tone. "Don't trouble about me: but just get Lady Clifford away, will you?"
Turning, Esther beheld a look of baleful resentment in the black-fringed eyes. She remarked the stubby white hand with its carmine nails slowly rubbing a spot on the opposite arm, where she had grasped it a moment ago.
"You! You!" breathed the Frenchwoman in a suppressed voice. "What business have you to interfere in matters that do not concern you?"
"But I'm afraid this does concern me, Lady Clifford, very much indeed," replied Esther, as lightly as she could. "Do forgive me if I caught hold of you rather roughly. I am sure you didn't realise what you were doing. It—it was really dangerous for him, you know."
"Dangerous!" repeated the other with withering contempt. "For him! T'ck!—leave us, please. There is something I must say to him. I will not forget myself, I promise you!"
"No, Lady Clifford, really, not to-day. It wouldn't be wise. We must get him quiet."
Sir Charles interposed in a whisper:
"It's quite settled, my dear, I've nothing further to say. You will see that I am right."
She burst out hysterically, trying to get past Esther to the bed:
"No, no, you do not understand; you are doing a terrible thing!
Charles darling, if you love me…"
She broke off abruptly, staring at the hall door.
Following her gaze, Esther saw that Roger had just entered and was looking gravely from one to the other of the three. It seemed likely that he had heard the disturbance and was come to investigate.
"There he is now!" cried Thérèse, pointing at her stepson. "Tell him you will make some other arrangement, that you have changed your mind; you will, you must!"
Esther noticed that Roger displayed no astonishment whatever, merely glancing expectantly at his father. The old man's lips twisted into a grim smile as he remarked dryly:
"You behave as if you were quite certain I was going to die, my dear."
A swift change came over her face. Pushing Esther aside, she threw herself on her knees beside the bed, grasping her husband's bony hand and pressing it against her cheek emotionally.
"Ah, why do you say such things. You are too cruel; you want to make me suffer!"
"There, there, don't make a song about it. Of course I don't want to make you suffer. Now go. I want to rest."
Still clinging to his hand, she began to weep, convulsively, without restraint. Esther, greatly embarrassed, made two attempts to lift her up, but she resisted. At last Roger bent over the huddled figure and touched her on the shoulder.
"See here, Thérèse," he whispered, so low that the rather deaf old man did not catch his words, "I don't like this arrangement any more than you do, but if we oppose him now it can only do harm. Leave him to me, and when he's well enough I'll tackle him again."
The weeping ceased, she stiffened to attention, her face still hidden. Then slowly she raised her head, her cheeks streaked with tears. Little rivulets of black coursed from her lashes. For several seconds her gaze swept his countenance, her expression strangely hostile, yet enigmatic. Watching her, Esther could not possibly guess what was going on behind that mask.
"Very well," Lady Clifford murmured at last in a detached voice, all passion gone. "You may be right."
She got up, smoothed her hair automatically, drew her peignoir close about her, and walked out of the room like a woman in a dream. Esther gazed after her, astonished but relieved. She had feared she would have to remove her by force. Now that the extraordinary episode was over she was quite unnerved, her heart beat fast, her hands trembled.
Roger eyed her sympathetically.
"Don't look so upset, Esther," he whispered reassuringly. "You must tell me presently what happened, though I have a pretty good idea."
They both glanced at the old man. His eyes were closed now, he was breathing more quietly.
"He seems all right," murmured Esther doubtfully. "I'm still a little frightened; it—it was terrifying."
He took her arm and drew her well out of earshot towards the window.
"Don't worry too much," he told her. "I shouldn't wonder if the poor old boy is more used to bursts of temperament than you are, you know!"
She smiled at him gratefully, feeling comforted. It was not till later that she realised he had a moment ago called her "Esther." It had seemed perfectly natural.
Soon after lunch she made an excuse to take her patient's temperature, for she was not yet sure he had suffered no bad effects. However, the thermometer registered no change. Sir Charles may have noticed the relief on her face, for he remarked hesitatingly, choosing his words:
"You mustn't take my wife's excitability too much to heart, nurse. It is true she goes up in the air sometimes, but she always comes down again. She's rather like a spoiled child, but that may be partly my fault."
"Of course—you mustn't think I don't understand," she assured him quickly, thinking what a generous explanation he had given for an unpardonable offence. The instance she had witnessed of Lady Clifford's "temperament" was unique in her experience, and she hoped it would remain so. Not readily would she forget those sharp accents of rage and—was it fear? She had thought at the time it was fear; she could not be certain.
It did not surprise her that Lady Clifford should fail to appear at déjeuner, but she was unprepared for the new development announced by Aline, the maid, who came into the dining-room at the close of the meal and somewhat portentously informed the doctor that her ladyship was "trés souffrante" and wished to see him at once.
"Souffrante, Aline?" repeated Miss Clifford. "Is it a headache?"
Aline replied that it was both backache and headache. She was a steely-faced woman of middle age with gimlet eyes and dank black hair in a ragged fringe. As she spoke she eyed the company at the table with a sort of malicious triumph.
"Oh——!" exclaimed Miss Clifford, slightly dismayed. "I don't quite like the sound of that—do you, doctor?"
Without answering her, Sartorius finished his coffee and rose.
"Moi je crois," volunteered Aline with enjoyment, "que Madame a un peu de fièvre."
"Oh, I hope not!" The old lady glanced quickly at Roger and then at
Esther, who both remained impassive.
"It may be nothing at all," Esther said soothingly, just as she had done on a former occasion. "I shouldn't get upset."
However, within a quarter of an hour, the doctor summoned Esther to Lady Clifford's bedroom. Lady Clifford certainly showed preliminary symptoms of typhoid, he informed her, so that it would be as well to administer the necessary doses of anti-toxin. Taking the thing in time like this was a good chance of warding it off.
"Naturally we won't mention this to Sir Charles," he added. "We'll let him think she's merely suffering from a cold."
The Frenchwoman was lying limp and still in the middle of her low, gilded bed, gazing with unseeing eyes at the rose canopy above. Her hair was pushed back ruthlessly, revealing an unsuspected height of forehead, which somewhat altered her appearance. She was very pale, a pallor with a tinge of yellow in it. She received the injection mechanically, paying scant attention to either the doctor or Esther. She gave a slight nod when the former advised her to remain in bed for a day or so, her manner suggesting the complete exhaustion which follows violent hysteria, but Esther thought the exhaustion was only physical. It seemed to her that Lady Clifford's brain was active, that she was thinking deeply.
As soon as she was free, Esther put on her hat and coat and joined Roger in the car outside. Once alone with him she somewhat reluctantly let him draw out of her exactly what had occurred that morning.
"I can't in the least understand what it was she was so furious about," she ended.
After a short silence Roger said:
"I can. In fact, I was perfectly sure she was going to kick up a hell of a row. Forgive the language! I warned my father she would."
He stopped, deliberating with a frown on his face, as though wondering how much to disclose. At last he went on with sudden resolution:
"There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you. I feel as if I'd known you quite long enough, somehow…. You see, my father recently decided to appoint me trustee of all his property. It happens to give me a good deal of power over Thérèse when he dies, or rather not so much power, in actual fact, as knowledge of her movements. She knows it to be a pure formality. I should never interfere with her, but—she hates the idea. That's all."
"Oh!" exclaimed Esther, somewhat blankly.
"You see," he went on with a shrug, "indeed, it's possible you've noticed it, she doesn't find me very sympathetic. She'd hate to have any dealings with me."
"But as much as that? If you'd seen how furious she was——"
"I can imagine it. Yes, quite as much as that. I'm afraid I'm a very sharp thorn in her flesh."
"But you wouldn't try to—to——"
"To restrain her? Lord, no! The position's as detestable to me as to her. I don't want to be compelled to know what she does with her money. However, I'm hoping to have another go at the old man when he's in a more reasonable frame of mind. He's as stubborn as a donkey now."
She nodded with a rueful laugh and said:
"I'm afraid your stepmother is going to hate me most awfully from now on. Still, I couldn't stand by and allow her to go for the poor old man like that. Why, she was like a tigress!"
She stopped, looking as though afraid she had committed an indiscretion.
"Oh, don't apologise; facts are facts. I'm only sorry you had to come up against this unpleasant one. You were absolutely in the right, so you have nothing to worry about."
"I shall be uncomfortable, though. It puts me in an awkward position."
"Never mind. It looks now as if she's made up her mind to be laid up for a bit, so you won't have to see her."
She looked at him curiously.
"What do you mean—made up her mind?"
"Well, isn't that what a hysterical woman usually does when she wants to get sympathy and put other people in the wrong? It's an old trick. What do you think?"
"I don't know," she answered slowly. "Anyhow, the doctor is taking it seriously. He's given her an injection of anti-toxin for typhoid."
"And why not? He must earn his money. Besides, it won't do her any harm."
She smiled doubtfully.
"She really does look ill," she said.
"And so would you if you'd been in a couple of rages like hers within twelve hours," he retorted quickly, then, as though he had committed himself, changed the current of thought suddenly. "What a conscientious child you are, Esther," he said, smiling at her; "you won't let me abuse anyone, will you? I say, will you let me call you by your first name? It seems so——"
He had been regarding her with a closer attention than any driver should give to his companion. The result was a violent swerve to the far side of the road, barely missing a lamp-post.
"Good God! What's the fool about?"
Esther screamed, starting to her feet. They had only just avoided cutting short the life of an ill-starred pedestrian who was in the act of crossing diagonally to a small cafe. The wayfarer stood in the middle of the road, hurling imprecations in the choicest argot at Roger, while a waiter in a dirty apron and two seedy guests on the sidewalk joined him ardently. Ignoring the abuse with lofty scorn, Roger was proceeding on his way when Esther clutched his arm.
"Stop please, stop! I want to speak to that man. He's a friend of mine!"
She laughed as, completely astonished, Roger obeyed her command and brought the car to a halt.
CHAPTER XX
The man in the road, a short, thickset brigand by the look of him, rushed up to the car, hat in hand, his face beaming.
"C'est bien, mademoiselle! Ah, mademoiselle, que je suis ravi de vous voir!"
"Jacques!—it's Jacques, Roger, the doctor's servant."
On hearing this, Roger expressed his regret at having so nearly ended the other's career. The little man's animosity had quite vanished, his black eyes shone with kindly affection which included his late enemy.
"Ah, ça n'est rien, monsieur, ç'était ma faute, je vous assure! And how goes everything with you, mademoiselle?"
"Quite all right, thank you, Jacques. And you?"
"Ah, what you call so-so—comme çi, comme ça. Now I look after
Captain Holliday; he stay at the house, but I think not for long. The
Captain he sleep nearly all day; I not have to cook much for him. But
I learn to make cocktails," he added, with a twinkle.
"I suppose you'll be glad to get the doctor back?"
The little man looked dubious.
"Yes, but I tell you, mademoiselle, I not feel so sure the doctor means to come back soon, perhaps not for a long time."
"Why, what makes you think that?"
"Ah——" He hesitated, digging the thick toe of his boot in between the cobble stones and gazing at it thoughtfully. "Mademoiselle, the doctor say to me the other day, when the Captain go, I can take a long what-you-call holiday. I can go to my people in Cognac a month, two months, maybe more. He say he not sure what he will do; perhaps he go away from Cannes."
"You mean he might give up his practice?" asked Esther, astonished.
Jacques shrugged expressively.
"I know nothing. He always say he hope one day to stop work again, I cannot tell you. And then he speak yesterday to the Captain and say he think he will—how do you say?—sous-louer the house."
"Sub-let the house! Then he does mean to go away. How extraordinary!"
"To you, mademoiselle, not to me. I know the doctor for a long time. Il fait toujours des bêtises!"
"Well—I'm glad to have seen you, Jacques. Good-bye and good luck."
She leaned out of the car and shook his hand warmly, an attention which delighted Jacques's soul beyond measure.
"Au revoir, mademoiselle! Au revoir, monsieur! Bonne santé!"
When they had gone on again Roger remarked:
"Your Sartorius is a queer card. No one, to look at him, would think he could be so temperamental."
"Yet he's first and foremost a scientist. I believe he would almost starve in order to pursue his work in the laboratory."
The thought in her mind was that the Cliffords must indeed be paying the doctor well if he could afford to drop his practice in this casual fashion. A few weeks was one thing, a matter of months was another. In spite of what Jacques had always told her, she felt there must be some mistake about it. Perhaps it merely meant the doctor was thinking of moving to another part of Cannes; she had more or less wondered why he had chosen the Route de Grasse.
As for Lady Clifford, whether her symptoms were prompted by hysteria or not, she kept her bed for two days, frequently visited by the doctor. On the afternoon of the third she emerged from her room, still pale and wan, but otherwise quite herself. The anti-toxin had done its work, the typhoid was routed. As she went about passive and subdued, with pensive eyes and a pathetic droop to her mouth, it was hard to believe in her insane outburst of only a few days ago. One would not have believed it possible that she could work herself up into such a rage over a trifling matter. Indeed, to Esther at least, the cause of Lady Clifford's fury seemed so inadequate that more than once she found herself turning it over in her mind with a growing sense of bewilderment.
Both the old lady and Dr. Sartorius remained in ignorance of the regrettable happening. Since the patient, miraculous though it appeared, suffered no bad effects from the shock, Esther had deemed it the wise course to say nothing about it. After all, it was not the easiest thing in the world to tell tales on your patient's own wife, and to do so could only increase the latter's dislike. Better let well alone.
Two days more went by uneventfully. About three o'clock on the second afternoon, Esther put on her coat and hat and set out for a walk. Roger had not been home for lunch, but to her surprise she found him in the hall, wearing an old tweed overcoat, and engaged with a somewhat angry air in ramming tobacco down into the bowl of a pipe. It was the first time she had seen him smoke a pipe. It gave him a different sort of look.
"Hello! Going for a walk?"
"Yes, I need exercise."
"So do I. I'll come with you if I may. I was just going to start out alone."
"Wouldn't you rather go alone?"
He looked at her, scorning to reply, then jammed the pipe in his mouth and reached for his hat and a stick. His chin was particularly aggressive, his blue eyes smouldered ominously. She forebore to question him, and they left the house and walked briskly along the road for two hundred yards before either attempted to break the silence. At last, with his pipe-stem between his teeth, he spoke.
"I wish," he said in a hard voice, "that people would not tell lies simply for the sake of lying. A good, thumping lie in the right place is a thing I thoroughly uphold. But pointless untruths irritate me beyond measure."
She stole a look at him.
"Perhaps," she ventured, "the person who has incurred your displeasure believes in the saying of Pudd'nhead Wilson—'Truth is the most valuable thing we have. Let us economise it!'"
His face relaxed for a moment, then stiffened again.
"No, but hang it, Esther, I'm damned annoyed."
"That's quite apparent."
He strode on again in angry silence, then, with a sudden laugh, became more communicative.
"It's nothing much. I might as well tell you. By the way, I suppose as a nurse you are quite in the habit of having people confide in you, aren't you? Though I hope you realise I don't bare my soul to you because of your official position. It's more because you happen to have lashes that turn back in a certain way."
"Many thanks!"
"Well, then, it's about my stepmother—Thérèse. Gad, how that woman does rub me the wrong way!—A little while ago I came back from the courts, earlier than usual; it began to rain. I went up to my room to change, and, what do you think? She was there."
"Lady Clifford in your room? Why?"
"You may well ask. She has never been near it before, to my knowledge; there's no reason why she should, especially as she's not particularly fond of me."
"What was she doing there?"
"I'm blessed if I know. When I threw open the door she was in the middle of the room, I should say on the way out. She looked startled, naturally. Then she smiled and said she hoped I didn't mind, that she had slipped in, thinking I was still away, to get a book out of my bookcase."
"So that was it, was it?"
"Wait till I tell you. I said, certainly, go ahead and help herself, and she kneeled down in front of the bookshelves and took out a book. I should have thought no more about it—only I happened to see the book."
"What was it?"
"You'd never guess. It was L'Abbé Constantin."
"L'Abbé Constantin!"
"Yes. Can you see Thérèse reading a thing like that, a sweet little sentimental tale they give young girls in an elementary French course?'
"Oh, so you think that was an excuse?"
"What do you think? I know it was. The point is, why should she have to invent an excuse for being in my room? No doubt she had a perfectly good reason for being there, why not say so? I daresay she likes to see herself in my mirror; it's in rather a good light. Something of that sort. What exasperates me is that she should think it worth a lie. Now I shall go on bothering my head as to why she really was there. I shall be wondering whether she came to read my letters, or something absurd like that."
He laughed lightly, his good nature restored.
"I suppose," said Esther slowly, "that there are people whose minds work in devious ways, who'd rather not give their reasons for doing things."
"You may be right. It doesn't matter a hoot what she does. Oh, by the way—did you happen to see these items in the Paris Daily Mail? They may interest you."
From the depths of a side pocket he fished up a folded newspaper, which he handed to her.
"Read these," he said, pointing to a couple of bits in the social column, juxtaposed.
Following his finger, Esther read aloud:
"Arrivals at Claridge's include Señora Toda and her daughter, Señorita Inez Toda, who, after spending the winter in the Riviera, are now returning to their home in Argentina."
"Captain Arthur Holliday, well known in Paris and in Cannes, is staying at Claridge's before sailing from Marseilles for South America, where he has important interests."
Esther lapsed into the vernacular of her adopted country.
"Well, what do you know about that?" she exclaimed, turning wide eyes on her companion. "So he is going, after all."
"So it appears. His Spanish friends have him in tow. I wish them joy."
Esther was silent, wondering if the thought in her mind had also occurred to Roger, namely that Holliday had at last given up hope that Sir Charles would die. She wondered, too, how the news would affect Lady Clifford. Perhaps, indeed, the latter had known days ago of his departure, in which case her violent emotional burst, as well as her illness, became more comprehensible.
They made a big circuit, and an hour and a half later turned homeward, approaching the house from a different direction. While still a little distance away they caught sight of a small Aberdeen terrier in the act of disappearing around the corner of a leafy avenue. The dog, red collar and all, had a familiar appearance.
"Can that be—why, yes, it is Tony!" cried Esther, recognising Lady
Clifford's pet. "He must have slipped out. Here, Tony, Tony!"
The Aberdeen turned and bent upon her an inquiring eye, smiled coyly, dog fashion, wagged his brief tail, then, instead of coming closer, wheeled about and dashed off down the avenue.
"That's not like him," Roger said. "He's always such an obedient dog.
Tony, here, Tony!"
Tony, however, had a mind of his own. Paying no heed to Roger's whistle, he ran without stopping until he joined, far in the distance, two figures who were walking slowly in the opposite direction.
"He's evidently with someone," Roger remarked. "A man and a woman.
Can your long-sighted eyes see who they are?"
In the growing dusk it was not easy to tell, but there was something familiar in the big, heavy frame of the man.
"It looks like the doctor," Esther said, hesitating. "And I believe the woman is Lady Clifford."
As she spoke the pair separated, the woman went on, the dog following, and the man turned and came back along the avenue. It was the doctor, there was no doubt about it now.
"I have scarcely ever seen Thérèse out walking before. I wonder what has come over her?" Roger said as they quickened their pace again. "What are you in such a hurry for? Don't you want the doctor to see you?"
"It isn't that; I only feel I'd like to be home first," Esther excused herself, not quite sure of her own reasons for trying to escape Sartorius's notice.
"Rubbish. You don't want him to see you with me. Now own up, my dear.
Isn't that true?"
"No, it isn't a bit true. That's too absurd!"
"Well, true or not, why should we mind? We are not the conspirators,"
Roger retorted lightly.
Somehow the word "conspirators," jokingly uttered, gave her a queer, uncomfortable feeling. There had been something about those two sauntering figures, so close together, that had emphasised the dim, instinctive notion she had had before of something between the pair. Yet what was there strange in Lady Clifford's taking a short stroll with her private physician?
"More of my nonsense!" was Esther's mental comment as she put the matter determinedly out of mind.
It was much later in the afternoon, nearly six o'clock, when Lady Clifford returned in the Rolls. Esther heard her come upstairs and go to her room, but she did not see her, being busy making Sir Charles ready for the night. When it came time to take the old man's temperature she discovered her watch had stopped for want of winding. She went into the boudoir to look at the clock on the mantelpiece there, throwing open the door, feeling sure the room was empty.
The next instant she heard herself murmuring "I beg your pardon!" as she retreated hastily, utterly flabbergasted by what she had seen.
Standing bolt upright on the hearthrug was Roger, his arms awkwardly embracing Lady Clifford, who leaned against him, her golden head pressed close to his shoulder, her eyes gazing up at him with every evidence of clinging affection.
What in heaven's name did it mean?
CHAPTER XXI
One of the habits of men most annoying to the opposite sex is their reluctance to give explanations.
When one is eager to know the reasons why they did or failed to do a thing, instead of satisfying one's curiosity they go quietly away and say nothing. Women in the same position itch to justify, to excuse, to exonerate. Men keep silent and let one think what one pleases—a form of moral cowardice which remains at once their weakness and their strength.
Why Roger should not immediately hasten to explain the attitude in which he had been discovered with Lady Clifford puzzled Esther and filled her with chagrin. Only a few hours before he had spoken of his stepmother with open dislike, yet here he was with his arms about her, her head against his breast. Perhaps, indeed, it was difficult to explain, yet he might at least try to do so. The evening passed and he said no word.
At dinner Lady Clifford appeared a radiant vision in pale green georgette, a little transparent coat veiling the whiteness of her skin, her lustrous pearls heavy upon her white neck. She had an air of sweetness and frankness. Esther had never seen her so charming. She talked to Roger, asked his advice on various matters, and made herself so agreeable that her sister-in-law noticed it and was pleased. Yet, although an atmosphere of harmony prevailed, Roger did not look at ease. When his eye rested on Esther he withdrew it quickly, and with an air frankly shamefaced. What had happened? Had he experienced a change of heart, and was he feeling apologetic about it? If that was so, he need not, Esther reflected proudly. It was nothing to her. She applied herself to her dinner and refrained from paying the slightest attention to him.
When coffee was brought into the drawing-room, Roger drank his hastily and withdrew. A few minutes later she heard a car start outside and knew that he had taken himself off. In spite of herself she felt hurt. It was a trifling thing to mind about, yet she did mind, and it was with a sense of blankness that she resigned herself to playing piquet with Miss Clifford.
On the chaise-longue in the circle of light from a rose-shaded lamp, Lady Clifford smoked tranquilly, her silver-shod feet in front of her, a fashion magazine spread on her lap. She seemed at peace with the world.
"What a relief, Thérèse, to think Charles is going on so well," the old lady remarked at the finish of a hand. "In a day or so he will have passed the crisis. I feel so much easier in my mind."
"Ah, yes," Lady Clifford replied, looking up. "From now on I should think we have nothing to fear."
Just then the doctor entered from the hall, setting his empty coffee cup on a table.
"You are wrong when you speak of a 'crisis' in typhoid, Miss Clifford," he informed her. "The correct term is 'lysis,' which is quite a different thing from a crisis."
"Oh, well, you know what I mean, anyhow. I've always called it a crisis, all my life, but it shows how ignorant one is. At any rate, in a few days we may consider him out of danger, mayn't we?"
Sartorius shook his head with slight disparagement.
"I certainly trust so, Miss Clifford, but, frankly, no one can be sure.
If everything continues to go smoothly——"
"But why shouldn't it, doctor?" Lady Clifford asked quickly.
He shrugged his heavy shoulders in a weary fashion.
"My dear lady, I only want to warn you against over-optimism. One mustn't allow oneself to forget Sir Charles's age and the fact that he has been in bad health for some time. Weakened as he is now, any shock, however slight might do irreparable harm. However, there is no reason for alarm."
Miss Clifford sighed deeply, shuffling the cards over and over.
"I was thinking we were safe out of the woods," she said sadly. "Now you've depressed me again."
"There is no need," the doctor assured her, patting her shoulder with the deliberate kindliness he reserved for her. "Barring accidents, we may hope for good things."
When he uttered the word "accidents" it seemed to Esther that his eyes rested coldly upon her, quite as though she herself might through some piece of carelessness endanger Sir Charles's chance of recovery. Why on earth did he take that suspicious attitude? It had struck her often the past few days that he was over-critical in regard to her, always ready to find fault. Yet she knew that Sir Charles liked her and that as far as she could tell, she had never failed in her duty. She was glad when the doctor withdrew from the room; she felt she could breathe again.
"Don't let him upset you," she could not help saying to the old lady: "I am sure he only wants to be over-conscientious, and—though perhaps I shouldn't venture to say so—it strikes me Sir Charles has really quite a lot of fighting power. Why, if he wasn't any worse the other day——"
The words slipped out before she knew it. She broke off, her face scarlet. Not for words would she have referred to the incident, least of all in Lady Clifford's hearing.
"Why, what happened the other day?" inquired Miss Clifford, placidly dealing.
"Didn't I tell you? I upset a basin of water, almost over him. Wasn't it stupid?"
It was the first thing that came into her mind. She felt the
Frenchwoman's eyes upon her full of shrewd understanding.
"Oh! Was that all? That couldn't have been very serious."
"I assure you the doctor thought it was."
Lady Clifford lit a fresh cigarette and fitted it into her long holder, then she spoke.
"I think, Dido, Charles is certainly less feeble than we feared. These past few days I have felt quite sure he is going to get well. Roger thinks so, too."
The final sentence was not lost on Esther, who chid herself indignantly for being annoyed. Wasn't it better that there should be peace in the house instead of an armed neutrality?
At that moment one of those trifling things occurred which lately seemed constantly coming across her path. A movement of Lady Clifford's arm swept her cigarette-case to the floor and it fell with a clatter close to the card-table. Stooping down, Esther picked it up and crossed to restore it to its owner.
"Merci, mille fois," Thérèse murmured mechanically, putting out her hand. She did not look up or she would have seen the sudden dilation of Esther's eyes as she caught sight of the fashion drawings on the two pages open in front of her.
The sketches showed in every detail, and with the greatest possible degree of chic and coquetterie, the latest mode in widow's garb.
What a curious paradox! It was absurdly unimportant, yet how odd it seemed that Lady Clifford, while speaking with calm confidence of her husband's recovery, should at the same time be regarding with interest the newest ideas in mourning!
"Your play, my dear. Why, what is the matter? Were you bothered about something?"
"No, not in the least, Miss Clifford. I'm rather tired to-night, that's all. Perhaps it's the weather."
She was not sorry to say good-night and withdraw to the solitude of her bedroom. The sense of vague trouble which had so often haunted her since she had entered this house was strong upon her now. It had been an uncomfortable evening; Roger's enigmatic behaviour still disturbed her peace of mind. Now, for an insufficient reason, she felt uneasy about her patient. She could not go to bed without having a look at him, merely to set her fears at rest.
The night-nurse was sitting in an easy chair behind the screen, reading a Tauchnitz edition of a novel by Florence Barclay. She came forward with her elaborately cautious step, smiling with all her false teeth to the fore.
"How is he to-night? Going on as usual?" Esther whispered.
"Oh, quate, quate! Look at him—as peaceful as a baby, poor old thing. I hardly think we need to worry. I hear she's down to-night. How's she looking?"
"Quite herself. I don't believe there was much the matter with her really."
"No, they took it in time. Ah, she is a lovely thing and no mistake. Aline's been showing me some of her undies; simply a dream they are—I never saw anything like them."
Reassured, Esther proceeded to her own room. Try as she would, she could not dismiss from her mind that matter of Roger and Lady Clifford. It stuck like a burr. Constantly before her mental vision was spread the picture of those two, clasped in an embrace which looked at the very least affectionate. She realised now that probably she had done the wrong thing by bolting out of the room; it would have been wiser to go in as if there were nothing unusual. Only she was so startled she had not time to think. What was the meaning of this sudden reconciliation? An idea came to her. Suppose Roger had all the time been secretly fond of his stepmother—too fond? So often hatred was an inverted form of love. Could it be true, that he subconsciously loved her and despised himself for so doing?
What a hateful thought! There was something particularly humiliating and unpleasant about it, yet now that it had come she could not get rid of it. She seized a brush and attacked her hair angrily, brushing hard to exercise her annoyance.
A knock sounded at the door, a man's voice called softly:
"Have you gone to bed yet?"
With her curls all wild, she dropped the brush and opened the door. Outside was Roger, in his old tweed coat, raindrops standing out on its hairy surface.
"I want to talk to you," he said simply.