CHAPTER XXII
"Oh! Is anything the matter?"
She noticed that he looked embarrassed.
"No, nothing. Come outside for a few minutes; downstairs is best, where we won't disturb anybody. The whole house seems to have turned in, and it's only ten-thirty."
They descended to the floor below and sat on the broad stairs in semi-darkness. Esther waited, curious to know what he was going to say. He lit a cigarette and seemed reluctant to begin.
"I've been driving in the rain for a couple of hours," he volunteered at last. "I've got a beastly head for some reason or other. I thought the air might do it good."
There was a long, awkward pause, then finally he turned and eyed her with the same shamefaced expression she had noticed at dinner.
"Well," he said abruptly, "what do you think of me?"
She returned his gaze with transparent innocence.
"Think of you?" she repeated. "Nothing. Why?"
He drew a deep breath.
"Come now, Esther, you know you've been wondering about what you saw this afternoon. It wouldn't be human not to. What conclusion did you come to in regard to my stepmother and me?"
"Oh," she replied indifferently, "I don't know. What do you want me to think?"
"Poker face! There's nothing to be got out of you, is there?" he said, smiling. "I see I'll have to tell you—and yet I feel such a beast to say anything about it. Besides, there's a bit I can't tell; it wouldn't be decent."
Esther interposed quickly:
"There's no reason why you should say anything. Please don't, if you'd rather not."
"But I'd like to; I couldn't let you get wrong ideas."
He halted again, frowning at the lighted end of his cigarette.
"Oh, well, it was like this. About a week ago I had a sort of a brush-up with Thérèse. She was very angry and so was I, and I laid down the law to her a bit. Since then we've scarcely spoken…. I don't believe I had said a word to her until I found her in my room, early this afternoon. Well, this evening I was on my way to dress, and when I passed the sitting-room she was in the doorway. She asked me to come inside, said she wanted to explain something to me."
"Oh! So that was it?"
"She was extraordinarily nice, appealing, and all that. She admitted it was a stupid lie about coming to get a book, that she had tapped on the door and thought she heard me say 'Come in.' Then when she was inside she found out she was mistaken, and was about to go out again, when I appeared, and frightened the life out of her by the suspicious look on my face, so she just said the first thing that came into her head. She made me feel rather a brute. She said, 'You know you always terrify me, Roger, you are so hard, so intolerant. You always think the worst of me.' I have to admit that's true. I may not have given her a chance."
She waited for him to go on. He continued to frown, not looking at her, plainly troubled in his mind.
"I can't tell you all she said, but she told me something about the scene we'd had that put rather a different light on matters. She told me how sorry she was, and I think she meant it. She was quite upset. Do you know, Esther, I felt rather ashamed of myself for—for not having tried to make a friend of her. It makes me out a frightful prig. Looking at things from her point of view, I'm sure it hasn't always been easy."
"No, of course not."
"You see that, don't you, Esther? I mean a young woman married to an old man—I daresay she didn't realise what it was going to be like."
He leaned his head on his hands for a moment, his forehead furrowed. He gave the impression of arguing with himself. Then he looked up suddenly.
"She said to me, 'I don't expect sympathy from you, Roger, but you are a man of the world; you can't go on for ever so completely misjudging me. You had the wrong idea about me six years ago'…"
He broke off, evidently regretting his last words, but Esther made no comment, and he went quickly on:
"I didn't know what to say. I was damned uncomfortable. The odd part about it is, Esther, that inside me I don't like her much better than I did before, only she made me see how unfairly I've behaved. I feel I owe it to her to try and be nicer. Can you understand?"
"Of course I can. Why shouldn't you feel like that? She's your father's wife."
"Yes, she's my father's wife…. Well, the finish of it was she put her hands on my shoulders, very simply, like a child, and asked if we could be friends. What could I say? And then she put her cheek against me, and—and I put my arms around her; she seemed to expect it, and I didn't know what else to do. And then you came in. Gad, shall I ever forget your eyes!"
Esther laughed in relief, her companion joined her, and for several seconds they were a prey to helpless merriment. The whole affair was so different now; Roger's explanation had taken all the sting out of it. She could understand his guilty look; he had been the battle-ground for one of those fights between reason and prejudice, his sense of justice Striving to overcome a deeply rooted aversion.
"S'sh! We mustn't make a noise! Good-night—I'm off to bed."
He caught hold of her hands, detaining her.
"See here, you don't think me a hopeless fool, do you?"
"Certainly not; why should I?"
"And you don't think now that I was making love to her or anything like that, do you?"
"Well, I'm not quite sure! If you keep protesting——"
She broke off with a teasing smile, looking down on him from the step above.
"Esther, you——"
Chalmers entered the hall with a measured step, on his way to bolt the front door. Esther took advantage of the interruption to tear herself away.
"Good-night," she called softly over her shoulder, and vanished up the stairs.
Roger gazed after her with eyes that shone. Then he put his hand to his head and frowned again.
"Bring me a whisky and soda, will you, Chalmers?" he said. "I'll see if that will do this beastly head any good."
The headache had not gone next morning, though it had subsided into a duller sensation. His aunt at breakfast noticed that he had no appetite, merely trifling with his grapefruit and tasting his coffee. At once she inquired the reason, remarking at the same time that he had not his usual healthy colour.
"Oh, it's nothing, Dido. I do feel a bit rotten."
"Does your head pain you?"
"A bit: I shall be all right presently."
He was annoyed to see apprehension cloud the old lady's eyes.
"My dear, don't begin bothering about me. Can't a person have a little ordinary headache without——"
"I know, Roger, darling, only with your father and then Thérèse…
Don't you think you'd better see the doctor?"
"I see altogether too much of the doctor, thank you; wherever I go I seem to run into him. He's a depressing brute."
"Don't be childish, Roger, that's only a manner."
"Well, it's a damned bad manner, and I'll look after my own headache if it's just the same to you. It's not the first I've had. Got any aspirin?"
"I've got something much better than aspirin—a new French preparation.
If you'll come upstairs I'll get it for you."
A little later, having managed to finish his coffee, he joined his aunt in the boudoir, where he found her ineffectually trying to get a stopper out of a bottle.
"It's a glass stopper, and absolutely refuses to budge. Why will they make bottles that one can't open?"
"Give it to me. I'll put it under the hot tap."
"I've done that; it's no use."
"Then let's see what a lighted match will do."
He struck a match and held it under the neck of the bottle until a ring of smoke appeared on the glass.
"Now, here goes."
He gave the stopper a sharp twist, there was a cracking sound, a cry from Miss Clifford, and a pungent odour filled the room as the contents of the bottle gushed over the carpet. The neck was broken away, and the jagged glass had cut a deep, ugly gash across the base of Roger's thumb. Blood welled up freely from the wound.
"Oh; how dreadful! I'm so distressed! What shall we do?"
The old lady gazed about distractedly, while her nephew regarded the pool of blood forming in his hand.
"Get my handkerchief out of my trousers pocket, will you?"
"Here, take mine. Don't stir—I'll call Miss Rowe; she'll know what to do. That beastly bottle; it's all my fault!"
In her flurry she entered her brother's bedroom without knocking, calling out:
"Miss Rowe, can you come quickly? My nephew has had a horrid accident here."
"Accident?"
"Yes; will you give us a hand?"
Esther was leaning over the bed on the opposite side from the doctor, who had that moment administered an injection to the patient. She straightened up and stared in alarm at Miss Clifford, holding in her hand the hypodermic needle she had just taken mechanically from the doctor.
"Certainly, I'll come at once."
She hastened after the older woman, leaving the doctor to draw up the cover over the old man.
"Nurse!"
There was a note of slight annoyance in the doctor's voice as he viewed her abrupt departure.
"I won't be a second, doctor…. Oh, what has he done to his hand?"
She was already beside Roger. He was endeavouring to staunch the flow of blood with his aunt's handkerchief, which was already sopping.
"My dear girl, it's merely a cut. If you can get me a towel or something——"
"Let me look."
Gently she examined the deep and jagged wound.
"Ugh! What a horrid affair! It must be seen to properly. Will you hold your hand over this newspaper while I fetch some water and bandages?"
For an instant she stuck her head into the bedroom door, to say reassuringly to her patient:
"It's only a cut, Sir Charles, nothing serious."
Then she dashed off in search of her little first-aid box, returning a moment later with it and a basin of water. Miss Clifford cleared the table for her paraphernalia.
"What a comfort you are. Miss Rowe! Do you think it will want stitching up?"
"Oh, no! But he must keep it bandaged. It's in such an awkward place, the right hand, too."
"Good-bye to tennis, also golf, for the rest of my stay," was Roger's rueful comment. "What rotten luck!"
Esther worked skilfully and quickly: soon the injured hand was swathed in a neat and snowy bandage that smelled of iodine. She was aware that Roger's eyes not only followed the movements of her fingers, but dwelt as well on her cheek, her mouth, the downward sweep of her lashes. It was a pleasant moment, fraught with potentialities.
"Can I be of any assistance?"
The question came in a somewhat laboured manner from the door behind. Over her shoulder Esther saw the doctor, his bald head lowered, his small eyes regarding them in a sort of dull, tentative way.
"No, thanks, doctor, I've just finished…. You didn't want me for anything, did you?"
It struck her he had something on his mind.
"Not at the moment."
He came into the room slowly, his eyes roving about as if in search of something, now dwelling on the table, now on the mantelpiece, now on the Louis XV commode. Then in the same preoccupied manner he went out again.
"What an odd man!" Miss Clifford remarked with a smile. "You'd have thought it natural to ask how Roger came to cut his hand, wouldn't you?"
But Esther knew how little the insignificant detail of life interested Sartorius; his indifference no longer struck her as strange. Firmly she tied the last knot about Roger's wrist.
"You'll have to keep that on and try not to get it wet," she cautioned him.
"And how do you suggest I'm going to take a bath?"
"You'll have to manage with a shower, or else get Chalmers to rub you down like a horse," she told him gaily.
As she began putting away her rolls of gauze a thoughtful look came over her face.
"You know, I wonder if the doctor did want something? I shouldn't like to offend him."
"See here," said Roger decidedly, "you waste a good deal too much energy bothering about that man's opinion. Tell him to go to hell."
"And where should I be?" she laughed spontaneously.
"Catching the first train out of Cannes, I suppose."
"No, I'm dashed if you would! Not if I had any say."
She looked up, thrilled by his warmth, and saw his laughing eyes grow serious as they dwelt on her. In that instant she had a certain knowledge that only his aunt's presence in the room prevented his kissing her.
There was a mist before her eyes and her breath came quickly as she went about her tasks. She recalled the odour of Roger's tweed clothing mingled with the indescribable masculine scent of his skin, and the memory caused her a thrill of joyous excitement. She began to believe that he did care for her. Oh, if only he really cared, if it wasn't the light sort of thing a man so easily feels and so readily forgets!
When she returned to the bedroom she noticed the doctor, with his back turned to her, standing by the window and rummaging through his black leather bag. At once she got a feeling of something wrong. The very lines of his figure suggested tension. Was he disturbed about something? If so, she couldn't imagine what it was. He said nothing, but presently followed her into the bathroom when she went there to replace the enamelled basin she had used for Roger's hand.
"Oh, Miss Rowe!" he said, speaking casually enough, yet with a sub-current of something indefinable which made her turn and look at him.
"Yes, doctor?"
He had the hypodermic case open in his hand.
"What have you done with that needle I was using just now?"
She wrinkled her brow for a moment.
"The needle?" she repeated, and gazed at him blankly.
CHAPTER XXIII
It took her a moment to collect her thoughts.
"Oh, the needle! Did I have it?"
"Certainly. I handed it to you as I usually do."
She rubbed her forehead in the effort to recall.
"Did you?" she murmured in perplexity. "I don't remember."
"But I remember. I want to replace it. What have you done with it?"
Her memory was a complete void; the business of Roger's thumb had routed everything else.
"Are you quite sure——" she faltered.
"Sure!" he repeated sharply, and with a gesture of annoyance. "I tell you you had it in your hand when you bolted out of the room. There is no question about it."
"Then I must have laid it down somewhere. I'll look for it in just a moment."
She was washing the basin at the bath.
"You'll look now."
She glanced quickly at him, amazed at his peremptory manner. Never before had any doctor spoken to her in that fashion. Besides, how could he be angry over such a trifle?
"Certainly, doctor."
She spoke calmly, hiding her wounded dignity, and without more ado hastened back to the boudoir, now empty. Where could she have put the wretched thing? It was true she had had it in her hand, she recollected that much now, but nothing more. She made a thorough search, disagreeably aware that the doctor kept coming to the doorway and watching her.
"There's no sign of it here, doctor. I'll look in my bedroom. I went there to get my first-aid."
"Do so."
She would rather not have done so when addressed in that manner. The blood rushed to her cheeks, but she stifled her resentment and continued to search in every likely and unlikely place. It couldn't be lost, that was impossible. Yet in ten minutes she returned empty-handed.
"I'm so sorry, doctor. I've looked everywhere. It's simply disappeared."
"Disappeared!"
There was no describing the sudden look of rage with which he turned on her. His face grew a mottled red, his clenched fist made an abortive gesture as though he would have liked to strike her.
"Disappeared!" he reiterated. "Have you the face to stand there and confess to such a piece of flagrant carelessness?"
She bit her lip.
"I suppose it was careless of me, doctor, but I didn't think——"
"That's the whole trouble; you never think—except about frivolity, men, anything but your work! There is no excuse for your conduct—none."
The attack was so unwarranted that, although she felt her face burn with indignation, she was able to regard him with sudden calm detachment, noting curiously his twitching mouth, his laboured breathing. He seemed in a few minutes to have become quite a different person. She had never seen him violently angry before.
"I was only going to say that although I was no doubt to blame, I certainly had no idea that you could possibly consider the matter so important."
He seemed suddenly to rein himself in for a second or two, during which he glared at her fixedly. Then he burst out again with scathing venom, the more concentrated because he kept his voice low.
"You didn't consider it important! That's what you mean to say. Let me tell you that any nurse worth her salt does not rush off and leave her patient as you did just now in that cavalier fashion. It was your duty to ask my permission, to find out if I was ready for you to go. Your behaviour was undisciplined, un——"
"Oh, I see. Then it was my running off to help Mr. Clifford that was wrong, not losing the needle?"
She tried to keep sarcasm from her voice, realising that it was the first time in her career she had ever given anything approaching a "back answer," yet unable to resist making some retort. She saw an odd gleam come into the doctor's deepset eyes, an expression she did not understand. For the moment the cold scientist was non-existent.
"Find that needle," he commanded, his whole huge frame tense with suppressed fury. "It is the principle that matters. I have no use for careless people."
Then, as though maddened by the passivity of her regard, he lashed out at her once more, blindly cutting her with abuse that stung, even though it was entirely undeserved. A certain crude coarseness crept into his phrases, perhaps something long repressed had found vent. The cold, inert mass of him had turned into a volcano of vituperation.
Shaken and outraged, she felt that a few words more, and she would be compelled to say, "Very well, if that's what you think of me I'd better go at once and let you get another nurse." The sentence trembled on her lips, but she did not speak it. In her heart she knew why. The truth was she did not want to go. She was interested in her case; these people had been kind to her, and then—perhaps it was the real reason—there was Roger….
When at last the man paused for breath, she bowed her head slightly.
"I can only say again that I am sorry," she replied, and left the room.
Trembling with anger, she went straight to her room and stood by the window, clutching the curtain and staring out unseeingly. Ten minutes passed before she was able to subdue her pounding heart, which seemed with every beat to choke her. For a time she was quite incapable of seeing anything clearly, so bewildered was she and shaken by indignation.
At last she tried to arraign her chaotic thoughts and reason the affair out. Was the mislaying of a hypodermic needle such a heinous offence? Impossible! There was no sense in it. Was it then that the doctor had a sort of fixation on the subject of precision, that she had unknowingly offended him in a vulnerable spot? That explanation was more likely, yet not quite satisfying. Something else occurred to her. Perhaps he had been made angry by another person, and had tented his rage on her. That sort of thing was easy to understand. Or else—and now she felt she had hit upon something at last!—he might have some reason of his own for wishing to be rid of her, and had taken this method of driving her to give notice. She could not conceive in what way she could have caused him so to dislike her, but he was a strange man, there was no knowing what his prejudices were like. Perhaps, indeed, he was acting for Lady Clifford, who might easily have reason to wish her away…. Yes, that was distinctly possible.
The very thought aroused all her fighting instinct. She squared her jaw firmly, determined to stand her ground.
"No," she said positively to herself, "I'm not going to leave this case unless they put me out. Sir Charles is my patient as much as his, and I'm jolly well going to look after him."
She knew how hard it was going to be to face Sartorius after the recent scene—she would even find it unpleasant to sit opposite him at table. Still, there was no help for it; she must simply cultivate a thick skin and not let anyone suspect there was anything amiss. At any rate, her conscience was clear. So thinking, she set her cap straight before the mirror, and, with eyes brighter than usual and head held high, went back to her duties.
To her relief her late assailant made brief work of his lunch that day and left the dining-room before the end of the meal.
"So unlike him," was Miss Clifford's mild comment. "He usually has such a good appetite. But no one seems hungry to-day. Roger, my dear, you are not eating at all. Is your head still bad?"
Her nephew eyed his crêpes Suzettes with disfavour.
"Yes, it's rather tiresome. Can't think what causes it. I've had it since last night."
Esther shot him a speculative glance. Up till now she had been too deeply absorbed in her own thoughts to observe how heavy-eyed he was, listless and unlike his usual self. He caught her eyes and laughed in protest.
"Don't you begin on me. I refuse to be doctored. The last attempt to cure my headache resulted in this——" and he held up his injured hand.
"Then I'd better not suggest an aspirin for fear you'd go and break your leg?"
"No, don't. It's a gorgeous day, though, simply a crime to stay indoors. Will you chance left-handed driving and come for a spin?"
"I will not," she refused decidedly. "The man who drives me will want two hands."
"Ah—formidable, as these French say. Then you don't trust me?"
"No, I don't. That's a very nasty cut you've got; it will be every bit of ten days before you can take a car out. You must give the thing a chance to heal properly."
She finished her lunch in a more agreeable frame of mind than she had begun it, then, excusing herself, went up to settle her patient for his afternoon nap. Something restless and fretful in Sir Charles's manner caught her attention for a moment, but when she had sat with him a little he quieted down so that she was sure when she left him he was about to doze off. She was glad not to encounter the doctor, although the flame of her anger had died down, leaving only the cold ashes of resentment.
She could not explain why it was that after a short brisk walk through the streets of La Californie she should suddenly feel impelled to return to the house. It seemed as though she were being literally drawn back to her patient. She had never had such a thing happen before. She raced home and ran upstairs, slipping quietly into the darkened bedroom. She hoped to find the old man asleep, but his feeble voice greeted her at once.
"Is that you, nurse?"
"Yes, Sir Charles. Haven't you had your nap?"
"No—no. I feel uncomfortable. Queer…"
She drew aside the curtains and went to the bed.
"Do you?" she asked soothingly. "How's that, I wonder? Let's have a look at you."
A dingy crimson flush underlay his dried skin, his head turned restlessly from side to side. At once she suspected that his temperature was up again.
"I'm devilish hot; burning up … fever … I thought I'd finished with it."
"So you have; you're getting on famously."
She gave no sign of the sudden fear that darted through her. Why should his temperature go up like that? She did not like the look in his eyes.
"Well, let's see what you've been up to," she cajoled him gently and, having made the bed more comfortable, reached for the thermometer.
As she suspected, the mercury rose high into the danger zone. When she examined the little tube, her heart stood still in sickening alarm. What had brought about this change for the worse in such a short space of time? She racked her brain, but could not account for it. She glanced searchingly at the old man, who had abandoned interest in his condition, and lay absolutely still, save for the faint movements of his bony fingers upon the coverlet.
She was too disturbed even to shrink from the duty of informing Sartorius; there was no room in her mind now for personal animus. She found the doctor in his own room, a medical journal on his knee and an untidy ash-tray beside him, together with a cup of strong Indian tea.
He received her information stolidly, only his small eyes quickened to attention as, without comment, he rose and followed her.
The ill man submitted almost without noticing to the doctor's examination. There was not the slightest doubt that he had taken a serious turn for the worse. Presently, when the doctor had completed his investigation, he summoned Esther to the other end of the room with a brusque movement of the head.
"Have you any idea of what may have caused this?" asked in a low voice.
"Not the slightest, doctor: I simply can't imagine!"
"Then I can."
She looked up at him, puzzled. What did he mean?
"You know what I said to you this morning," he continued deliberately, but looking away from her, "on the subject of your unprofessional behaviour. Perhaps this will be a proof to you of how serious the matter was."
She could not believe she had heard aright.
"What on earth do you mean?"
"I mean that in shouting out the word 'accident' as you did and then dashing out of the room, you may easily have caused Sir Charles a shock which in his condition was sufficient to bring on this relapse. From your manner he may have thought some really grave catastrophe had overtaken his son. It is quite possible that you are directly responsible for his state now."
She stared at him, speechless. How could he wilfully distort facts in this barefaced way? It seemed a revelation of some incredible pettiness of character hitherto unsuspected in him. When she found her voice she spoke evenly, with perfect self-control.
"I think, doctor, you will have a hard job of it trying to pin this on me," she replied, and left him.
She knew that his eyes followed her, and that during the rest of the afternoon he glanced at her often, as if he did not know how to construe her momentary defiance, but she was indifferent to what he thought. She knew that at this late date he would not risk a change of nurses, and that was enough for her. Her only concern was for her patient.
Before evening everyone was aware that Sir Charles, whom they had believed to be out of danger, had suffered a severe relapse. Depression lay like a pall on the household. Lady Clifford fidgeted about from one room to another aimlessly. Roger smoked endless cigarettes.
"Do you think the doctor could have foreseen this?" Miss Clifford inquired of Esther about night-fall. "You remember how he warned us last night against being too hopeful."
"He couldn't possibly have guessed it! No one could. The whole thing has come out of the blue. I can't think how to account for it. If he had been given anything to eat, solid food, or—but no, that is simply out of the question."
The more Esther thought of it the more utterly she was mystified. The affair was inexplicable. She scorned to consider for a moment the doctor's absurd attempt to accuse her, having seen the old man weather a storm infinitely worse.
When, tired and dispirited, she went to her room that night, she fancied, on opening the door, that a faint odour of tobacco greeted her—the doctor's strong Algerian tobacco.
"That wretched man is getting on my nerves," she murmured under her breath. "I couldn't possibly smell cigarette smoke here, the door has been closed all day."
A moment later she stood still in front of the dressing-table, her eyes running over its contents. Was everything as she had left it? The maid never touched anything after she did the room in the morning, yet somehow the various boxes and bottles, trays, and so on, had an altered appearance. Her quick eye roamed around. On the table was her first-aid case, where she had put it down that morning. She opened it and looked inside. She could not absolutely swear things were different and yet… She turned and surveyed the whole room, then one by one pulled open the drawers in the commode. Here and there she felt sure some object had been touched and disarranged. If she had not been an orderly person she might not have noticed. Last she opened her shopping bag. She found the metal cover of her lip-stick off, and a streak of red on the lining of the bag. Then she felt certain: there was nothing missing, yet she was convinced that someone had been ransacking her belongings pretty thoroughly. One of the maids, perhaps, out of idle curiosity. It didn't interest her much.
"What on earth does it matter?" She sighed indifferently, and then she remembered the tobacco smoke. Could it possibly have been…
She remained motionless for a full minute, her brow knitted in puzzled thought. Then, with a shake of the head, she slowly undressed.
CHAPTER XXIV
Within twenty-four hours Sir Charles was in a condition bordering on coma. Arrangements were hurriedly made for a consultation of physicians to be held the following day, it being Lady Clifford's wish that no stone should be left unturned in the effort to save her husband. However, everyone realised that the consultation would be a mere formality: there was scarcely any possibility of stemming the tide. Yet Thérèse's zeal was not without its effect on both her sister-in-law and her stepson.
"No one can say she hasn't done her best for the poor old boy," Roger confided in subdued tones to Esther. "He's had every chance. I suppose there's no hope whatever?"
Reluctantly she shook her head.
"It would be wrong for me to tell you there was. You know what happens at this stage of typhoid——" And she went on to describe the condition now prevailing.
"It's the suddenness I can't get over," Roger said for the fourth time.
"Nor I."
In fact, she felt still dazed. Her eyes dwelt with compassion on Roger's face until she saw him pass his hand heavily over his forehead with a suggestion of pain. Then she spoke impulsively:
"Roger—do you mind? I'd like to take your temperature."
"Mine? What for?"
"Don't be cross, I really think I'd better."
"Oh, all right, go ahead."
A moment later, when she was in the act of counting his pulse and while the thermometer was sticking out of his mouth, Lady Clifford entered, followed by her sister-in-law, the latter looking tired and much older. Both women looked on with interest and concern.
"Miss Rowe—you don't think——?"
"It is up a little," Esther admitted, holding the thermometer to the light. "Just a hundred. I thought so last night. It isn't much, of course."
"So did I. You see, Roger! You wouldn't believe me."
"Well, what if it is? It's nothing worth mentioning."
Miss Clifford glanced helplessly at the others, and Thérèse gave a pathetic shrug. She looked fragile and wan, all life gone out of her.
"My dear," she said gently to Roger, going up to him and putting her hand on his shoulder, "I had the same symptoms that you have—the same that poor Charles had. This is a dreadful epidemic; no one is safe. But look at me—I escaped it, I am perfectly well. Why? Because I took the anti-toxin."
"Of course, Roger," his aunt urged eagerly. "You must let the doctor see you at once; you mustn't waste a minute!"
"You think I ought to have typhoid anti-toxin, do you?"
Thérèse shrugged her shoulders again very slightly before replying, "I think so, naturally. But I should leave it to the doctor. He'll advise you."
Roger turned to Esther.
"What do you think about it, Miss Rowe?" he asked. "Would you have it if you were I?"
"The anti-toxin? Oh—that is something you must decide."
Why on earth did she make such an inane reply? She saw Lady Clifford smile a little and raise her eyebrows, as if amused by what she considered a stupid conversation. The old lady merely looked troubled.
"Well," remarked Roger, rising, "you women may think what you like, but there's one thing I never have been able to stand the thought of, and that is having a needle stuck into me."
"My dear, that's simply childish," his aunt chid him mildly. "It's only a tiny prick."
"Yes and it's just that tiny prick that is worse for me than going over the top ever was. You'll think me no end of a fool, but I mean it."
He left the room to avoid argument. Miss Clifford turned to Esther for sympathy.
"Miss Rowe, did you ever know anyone so stupid?"
"Yes, Miss Clifford. He's not the first man I've met who felt like that."
"You don't mean it! What cowards men are! I wonder what we ought to do? Of course I'll manage to persuade him."
"Of course you will," Lady Clifford assured her. "When such a small, small thing can prevent a bad illness, one must try to find a way of removing a silly prejudice."
"Oh, leave him to me, I'll talk him round."
"Only, don't let him wait too long—stupid boy! It might be too late to do any good. Persuade him to let the doctor examine him now."
"I will. I'll go after him this minute. He mustn't be allowed to trifle with his health in this way," and the elder woman left the room, glad of the relief of action.
As Esther rose to go back into the bedroom. Lady Clifford inquired wearily:
"Is there any change, nurse?"
"I'm afraid not, Lady Clifford. He's barely conscious, that's all."
The Frenchwoman sighed slightly as she turned away.
"It only there were something one could do," she murmured. "If one didn't feel so helpless!"
The afternoon dragged by, the invalid drifting surely towards the other world in spite of all the efforts made to anchor him to this one. Esther stayed close beside the bed, even though there was little she could do, mildly saddened because of sympathy for at least two members of the old man's family who would mourn his loss. The "case," now so nearly finished, appeared, as she reviewed it, quite an ordinary one, all the tiny things that had struck her as odd or arresting seemed trivial in retrospect, unworthy of the attention she had bestowed on them. No doubt everything had grown out of the rather peculiar personality of Sartorius from whom she would soon be dissociated—without regret. She would certainly not continue to work for him, even if he wanted her, and of course he would not want her. No, if nothing prevented her, she would probably spend a few free weeks in Cannes, then take passage back to America.
If nothing prevented: would Roger try to stop her going? Or had his feeling for her not risen above the plane of mild flirtation? He had said nothing, there was nothing for her to go on beyond the look in his eyes. She was ashamed to confess to herself how much she hoped that he really cared. Thank goodness she had not committed herself in any way; that was one good thing.
That evening there was a dreadful feeling of low ebb about everything. In addition to Sir Charles, who was steadily sinking, there was now Roger to worry about. He had apparently allowed the doctor to examine him, but continued to hold firm against the anti-toxin, out of sheer obstinacy, it seemed. His aunt could not understand his stubbornness, and began to be filled with anxiety, particularly as he had gone off to bed with the headache unabated and a temperature still upon him.
"As if one didn't have enough to make one unhappy," the old lady sighed to Esther. "Now if Roger is going to be ill, it will be too utterly dreadful!"
Esther comforted her as well as she could, but she herself felt a load of apprehension upon her. Of course Roger was a young, vigorous man, there was no special reason to fear for him, and yet until two days ago they had felt such confidence in Sir Charles's recovery. What if the same sudden thing should happen again? It was perhaps stupid to entertain such fancies, but she was shaken, unnerved.
Ten o'clock found her alone in the drawing-room, tired, but not ready for bed, so restless she was unable to pin her attention to a book. How could she occupy her mind for a little? She looked vaguely about, and was about to pick up some cards for a game of patience when her eye fell on a large portfolio of colour-prints, reproductions of the work of modern Russian painters. The cover, reminiscent of the Chauve-Souris, attracted her, she recalled having noticed it upstairs in the boudoir several days ago. She had meant then to look at the book, but it had disappeared and she had forgotten it till now. She lifted it to her lap and opened it—or rather, to be exact, it fell open, by reason of some obstruction wedged in the crutch. A pencil, perhaps….
It was the hypodermic needle!
Dumbfounded, she stared at it. How on earth did it get there? Then all at once the whole thing flashed on her. The book had lain open on the table in the boudoir; she had put the needle down upon it when she first began to minister to Roger. His aunt had cleared the table to make room for the basin of water and bandages, closed the book hastily, no doubt, and pushed it aside. Then at some time later one of the servants had removed it, with others in the same pile, to this room. She had not seen the book when she had searched for the needle, else she would have recalled the whole thing, and this suggested that the book had been taken away within the next half-hour or so. Of course! How plain it all was now!
Well, there was nothing to do but to restore it to the doctor and finish up that unfortunate episode. She would do so at once…. And yet—why reopen the matter? She had taken her scolding, why should she give him the satisfaction of… Stay! Was it possible, after all her theorising, that what the doctor had been so disturbed about was this actual needle itself? She had rejected that explanation as wholly absurd, but now that she held the concrete object in her hand, she began to wonder. Certainly he had made strong efforts to recover it, had even joined in the search. For that matter—why, what about that smell of tobacco in her room? What about her conviction that someone had gone through her things? Suppose, incredible as it seemed, the doctor had really been there while she was out of the house, turning everything over in the hope of finding his lost property? Odd that she had never thought of that possibility until now.
She turned the little instrument over, looking at it thoughtfully. If what she had been thinking was really true, why was it that he wanted this particular needle back? what was there about it? … All at once it came upon her like a thunderbolt that it was soon after the last injection, only a few hours, that she had noticed the change in Sir Charles. Iron and arsenic, that could have no bad effect—on the contrary, it put strength into one. With an idea forming in her mind, she furtively raised the needle to the light and examined it closely. A trace of palish liquid remained. Was it the exact hue of the familiar mixture? She could almost think it was slightly different in colour, but it was impossible to be sure. Fixedly she regarded it, recalling meantime the mottled red of the doctor's face, his unreasoning fury. If he had been only a little less enraged!
There was a tightness in her chest. The suspicion, monstrous, unthinkable, seemed likely to burst her head asunder. She heard within her two voices arguing. The first said, "What utter nonsense! Such things don't happen, at least, not to you, not in this atmosphere of safety." The second retorted promptly, "Why should it be nonsense? Such things do happen, why not to you?"
Chalmers entered softly, removed the coffee things and placed whisky and soda, although there was no one to want it. His quiet step, the ticking of the buhl clock, the very roses on the Aubusson carpet gave her gross suspicions the lie. And yet…
Now, to think clearly, she mustn't let the thing run away with her. What was it she had often heard? That the motive was everything. That was it, one must look for a motive. In this instance, was there a motive? She knew there was. Or at least it might be construed into one. But, after all, was she sure even of this? The young man Holliday had departed on his way to South America, Lady Clifford had let him go. Didn't that rather knock the bottom out of this dreadful idea? For a moment she felt contused, then came a revulsion. Of course, the whole thing was perfectly ridiculous; how could she ever have thought it for a moment? In this day and time, in this house! She was filled with unutterable relief, ready to laugh hysterically at her own mad notion.
A heavy step in the doorway, and she realised that the doctor was on the point of entering. Now was the opportunity to give him back his needle, get it over quickly. Her hand closed over it; the next instant Sartorius came and stood just inside the room.
"The consultation, nurse, is arranged for three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. I thought you might like to know."
"Yes, doctor. Thank you."
Why he should take the trouble to inform her she had no idea. It wasn't exactly like him. Moreover, he continued to stand in the doorway, looking at her, as if there were something on his mind. She was screwing up her courage to tell him of her find when he spoke again, as an afterthought, in a casual manner.
"By the way, I suppose you've never come across that needle you mislaid?"
Now was the moment. She opened her lips to speak, then heard herself saying quietly:
"No, doctor, isn't it odd? I can only think it must have got thrown into the fire."
CHAPTER XXV
There was little sleep for her that night. The most serious problem she had ever had to face presented itself, demanding a speedy solution. What course ought she to pursue? Hours passed and she had not found the answer.
Here was the difficulty: if she confided her dreadful suspicion to some member of the family and it was proved to be correct, then a criminal investigation would follow and her own position would be unassailable. But if, on the other hand, it were found to be false—and it seemed far more likely that this should be the case—then her career as a nurse would be absolutely, irrevocably dished. To bring an unfounded accusation against the doctor one worked for was an unpardonable offence. No physician would think of employing her again. She might have the purest motives for her action, they would not help her one particle. Henceforward she would be branded as flighty, irrational, not to be depended upon. Her living would be taken away, but something even worse might happen. She stood the chance of landing herself in a libel action, she might indeed be accused of having the intent to blackmail. She knew one case of the kind—the woman in question had been utterly disgraced.
No, only too obviously she could not afford the risk of sharing her secret doubts, or at least not yet. It was not as if by any possible knowledge or means she could save the old man, who was now doomed, beyond the shadow of a doubt. His symptoms were already those of the last, fatal stage of the disease. It was too late to hope for any change, had been too late for at least two days. No, whatever she did could only be in the interests of justice, unless…
Suddenly she thought of Roget. For the past few days he had shown definite signs of typhoid, mild, it is true, but unmistakable. She recalled the fact that the father, too, had suffered from a light form of the disease in the beginning. Roger's case was extraordinarily similar, allowing for his being a younger, more vigorous man. Of course, she reflected, veering round, typhoid was rampant in and about Cannes; it was not strange that two members of a household should succumb—no, more than two in this case, for first of all there had been the housemaid, then, later, Lady Clifford, only she had staved it off. There might well be someone in the house who was an unconscious carrier of germs, like the famous "Typhoid Mary," in America, some years ago. No, it might all be perfectly natural, and yet … there remained the poisonous doubt in her mind. It was just possible there was something wrong. What in heaven's name ought she to do?
It was not till early morning that she reached a decision. There was a thing she could and would do, to-morrow, without waste of time. Having made up her mind upon this point, she drifted off into a light and troubled sleep, so unlike sleep indeed that she could hardly believe she had lost consciousness when sounds in the hall roused her. She slid out of bed and into her dressing-gown. It was four o'clock. She knew by instinct what had happened.
Lights were on in the hall; she met the night-nurse coming softly out of Sir Charles's bedroom. It was true, the old man had breathed his last about a quarter of an hour ago.
"Sooner than I expected even. I gave him another twenty-four hours. No need to wake anyone, let them sleep, I say. But as you're already up, you may care to lend a hand."
Esther nodded and the woman hurried away. A door opened quietly and Roger appeared, heavy-eyed, flushed, his dark-blue dressing-gown wrapped around him. She turned to him with eyes of compassion.
"Is it——?" he asked.
"Yes, a little while ago," she told him gently.
He came and stood beside her without speaking. Almost instinctively his hand closed over hers and held it fast. She felt the dry heat of his skin, the hard throbbing of a pulse.
A sudden panic seized her; the very name of Typhoid had become a shapeless dread, a horror creeping unseen, singling out its victims, playing with them as a cat does with a mouse, letting them go, then springing… She wanted to cry out, to warn the man beside her of approaching danger.
Warn him? Of what? What was she able to say, what dared she say? She took a firmer grip on herself. She must remember there was about one chance in a hundred of there being anything in her mad idea; she must say nothing till she knew for certain. There could be no immediate peril, unless, of course…. The needle again! Those injections, of anti-toxin they kept talking about … if only she knew, could be sure! Fresh terror assailed her, she felt herself caught in a trap….
What was this Roger was saying?
"Esther, I wasn't joking when I said I couldn't bear to have things jabbed into me. I'm not bothered a hang about myself, but I can't have poor Dido worried unnecessarily, at this time and all. Tell me—since she keeps on about that anti-toxin stuff—would you have it, or wouldn't you?"
Why did he ask her that? Her tongue felt dry, she hesitated a long moment before replying.
"I wouldn't be forced into anything," she said as naturally as she could. "As you've already got the symptoms considerably developed, it wouldn't be absolutely infallible, anyhow."
"That settles it. I won't have it at all."
She felt she ought to say something more, but was not sure how to set about it.
"Still, Roger, you are ill, you know, and you certainly ought to be in bed. There's no good that can come of walking about with a temperature."
"Well, once this is over"—she knew he meant the funeral—"if I don't feel any better, I'll take your advice. Only, somehow, I don't awfully like the idea of…"—he did not finish, but instead looked about him with a slight gesture of distaste.
"Why do you stay here?" she whispered quickly. "Why not go to a nursing-home."
His eyes met hers in a flash of sympathetic understanding.
"Would you come and see me there?" he asked seriously.
"Of course. I'd even nurse you, if you wanted me to," she answered simply.
"If you really mean that," he returned, frowning earnestly down at her,
"I've half a mind to do it."
They moved apart as the night-nurse returned up the stairs. Esther felt slightly easier in her mind about him now. There was another thing, though. As he turned to go, she noticed that the bandage was off his right hand, and that the wound was open and bleeding again.
"That won't do," she chid him gently. "I must attend to it again before you get it infected. You really are stubborn, you know! Leave it till breakfast-time, though. Go back to bed and rest; you need it."
The day, begun so early, seemed interminable, yet there were so many things to see to that it was afternoon before she found an opportunity of carrying out her secret intention.
At last, about four o'clock, she set out in a taxi-cab to execute a number of small commissions for Miss Clifford, at whose desire she was to remain on in the house till after the funeral. The other nurse had already gone. Her errands finished, she stopped the taxi at a small chemist's shop which she had noticed before, not the one usually patronised by the Cliffords, but a smaller one about a mile away. It was neat and old-fashioned in appearance, with a row of majolica jars in the window. She went in briskly, resolved to show no nervousness and to state her request with perfect sang-froid. At any cost she must avoid the suspicion of anything out of the ordinary.
"What can I do for you, mademoiselle?"
She was relieved to find the assistant spoke English, it made it easier to explain what she wanted done. The man was a blond, pink-skinned Frenchman with half his face hidden by a curly fair beard. He eyed her indifferently while she undid the tissue-paper wrappings of her little parcel and displayed the hypodermic needle.
"I wonder if you could get this analysed for me?" she said, looking straight into his eyes with great frankness of manner. "You see there is a tiny drop of the stuff left. The doctor I am working with has reason to believe the mixture may not be quite the same he is accustomed to using."
She had prepared her speech carefully, but now she trembled within for fear it had not sounded plausible. However, the blond young man took the instrument and turned it about, examining it casually enough.
"Ah, yes, I understand. We do not ourselves make these analyses, mademoiselle, but we can of course have it done for you."
"How long will it take?"
He shrugged his shoulders expressively.
"That I cannot tell you, but I will try to get it for you soon as possible. What is your address?"
She told him, being careful to give her own name, not the doctor's. Then she thought that it might not be wise to have the report sent to the house at all. One never knew.
"If you can give me some idea of when it will be done, I will call for it myself."
"Shall we say, then, five o'clock to-morrow afternoon, mademoiselle?
Although, of course, I cannot promise."
With a sigh of relief to have this particular ordeal safely over, she walked out of the shop door—and straight into the arms of Captain Holliday! She pulled herself up abruptly, almost speechless with astonishment.
"Why—you!" was all she could ejaculate.
The sudden encounter with him, when she had confidently believed him miles away, took the wind out of her sails, upsetting her calculations completely. She continued to stare at him so stupidly that she could see he was beginning to wonder what was the matter. His car, travel-stained and looking as though it had seen hard service, stood close to the curb. He had been in the act of entering a tobacconist's next door to the chemist's shop.
"I'm not quite a ghost," he informed her with a short laugh, "although
I admit I feel rather like one."
He paused uncertainly, rubbing his hand over a day's growth of beard.
"But I—we—thought you'd gone to South America," she blurted out, then was sorry she had said it. "That is, we saw it in the Paris paper."
"Not yet; my boat sails in a few days. As a matter of fact"—here he shifted his gaze and glanced about in every direction except at her—"I felt I ought to come back here for the funeral, even though it made a bit of a rush. Old friend of the family and all that."
"Funeral!"
She could not keep her amazement out of her voice.
"But I don't understand. How did you find out…."
She broke off, colouring up to the edge of her nurse's veil. To tell the truth, she could not see how, since Sir Charles only died at four o'clock this morning, Holliday had received the news in time to be here in Cannes now, by car, too, all the way from Paris. It seemed incredible; if he had flown he couldn't have done it.
He shot her a shrewd glance, surmising her reason for being astonished.
"How did I find out Sir Charles was dead? I didn't, at least, not till a little while ago when I arrived in Cannes and rang up the house. But I knew he wasn't expected to live more than a day or two. You see, I've been in communication with—Chalmers more or less during the past few days. I asked him to keep me posted in case the old man got worse or anything. Yesterday he telephoned me that there was absolutely no hope. I hopped into the car and burnt up the road a bit."
He cast an approving glance at his somewhat battered Fiat.
"Fourteen hours from door to door," he remarked with satisfaction. "I didn't believe she could do it. By the way, I hear the funeral is arranged for the day after to-morrow. Is that right?"
"I believe so."
"I needn't have broken my neck to get here, after all. Still, there may be something I can do for the family, as I hear Clifford is on the sick list…. Is Sartorius still at the house?"
She replied that he was and, bidding a hasty good-bye, got into her waiting taxi. Once alone, the thoughts stirred up by the young man's unexpected appearance on the scene buzzed turbulently inside her brain. She could not get over the surprise of seeing him, nor could she help remarking how remarkably jovial and carefree he appeared, in spite of his lowered voice and studious air of reverence when speaking of the dead man. Moreover, there seemed to her something almost indecent in the haste with which he had arrived on the spot. It had less the appearance of solicitude for the sorrowing relatives than the eagerness of a vulture swooping down upon a good square meal it had long been hoping for. Had Chalmers really telephoned him? Somehow she could not believe it, apart from Holliday's very slight hesitation before pronouncing the butler's name. Whoever it was who gave the information must have been quite confident of Sir Charles's death, had indeed timed it with extraordinary accuracy—or so it seemed to her somewhat stimulated imagination.
Another disturbing idea now occurred to her. Would Holliday by any chance mention to the doctor that he had run into her coming out of a chemist's shop? It did not seem at all likely, and, of course, if her suspicions were wrong and she was doing the doctor a gross injustice, then the information would mean nothing at all. Still, if she was not mistaken…
"Oh, I must be mistaken!" she exclaimed vehemently in the seclusion of her taxi. "It is utterly absurd! I have made up the whole story out of whole cloth. In all that household no one but me has a thought of anything wrong. How ashamed I should be if they knew!"
Still, when on arriving at the house Chalmers opened the door for her, she could not resist saying to him:
"Chalmers, I ran into Captain Holliday in the town—such a surprise. He's hurried back to be here for Sir Charles's funeral. He says you telephoned him yesterday that Sir Charles was sinking very fast."
There was no mistaking the blank look on the old butler's face.
"Me telephone the Captain, miss? Oh, you must have misunderstood him!
I never even knew where he was stopping in Paris, miss."
So it was Lady Clifford herself who had done it! She felt sure on that point. Not that it meant anything in itself. Yet all the rest of that day and the next as well Esther found herself watching faces covertly, most of all the doctor's. In the midst of all the subdued but busy preparations for the funeral—undertakers coming and going, messengers with flowers and telegrams, strangers arriving on this errand and that—she was acutely aware of the heavy, silent man who, without doing anything in particular, gave her the almost morbid impression of dominating the scene. As an actual fact he almost effaced himself, but to her excited fancy he was omnipresent, overpowering. She thought of him now not so much as a python as in the form of a huge bloated spider in the middle of an invisible web, spinning, watching, closing in. She was ready to believe he was always watching her, spying on her movements, reading her secret thoughts. There were moments when she had a wild desire to scream aloud, so tense had her nerves become with the strain put upon them.
Then common sense came to the rescue, she realised the calm normality of the household life about her and, with an effort, was able to pull herself together. She had not long to wait, she told herself, before knowing the truth. Until then, she must remain perfectly cool.
At five o'clock in the afternoon she managed to slip out of the house and hasten to the chemist's shop, where a disappointment awaited her.
"I am extremely sorry, mademoiselle," the blond assistant made apology, "but the report has not yet come in. I am afraid now we shall not get it before to-morrow."