CHAPTER XIV

IN CUTHBERT GRAHAME'S ROOM

On Isabel's return to the house she was greeted on the threshold by Martha, the Martha Blair whose connection with Gregory Lamb's present place of residence seemed destined to have a considerable bearing on Isabel's future life, and, at least, to settle the debated question of what her future name and title were to be. Martha's whole attitude was significant of some great happening. Her hands were raised; it seemed that if possible her hair would have been raised too; her eyebrows were elevated to quite a perceptible degree. Her eyes and mouth were wide open; agitation, of a not unpleasant kind, streamed from every pore of her. Behind was Jane, every whit as interested as her companion; but as she happened to be both the younger and the smaller her opportunities for display were less pronounced. Outside stood Dr. Twelves' dogcart; the horse, untended and untethered, apparently content to stand still as long as any one desired.

Martha broke into speech before Isabel had a chance to plant her foot upon the doorstep.

"Oh, Mrs. Grahame, the master! Mr. Cuthbert, ma'am!"

"Mr. Cuthbert, ma'am!" echoed Jane from the rear.

"Mr. Cuthbert? Well, what's the matter with Mr. Cuthbert? Let me come in, don't stand there blocking up the way! Do you hear, what's the matter with Mr. Cuthbert?"

"He's dead, ma'am--he's dead."

The words broke from both the girls in chorus.

"Dead? What do you mean? What nonsense are you talking? He was well enough when I went out. I've never seen him better."

"He's had an accident, ma'am, and it's killed him."

"Accident? How could he have an accident? Is Dr. Twelves in the house? Where is he?"

"The doctor is in Mr. Cuthbert's room. He's been there this half-hour and more."

She went upstairs to Mr. Cuthbert's room. Her pulse did not quicken; inwardly as well as outwardly she remained calm; she was a woman whose self-control was above the average; yet she was reluctant to enter that room. It was with an effort she induced herself to grip the handle; when she had done so she had to force herself to give it the necessary twist. Even then she lingered on the threshold.

"Who's there?" came the doctor's voice, in accents of inquiry. She showed herself.

"What's happened? What's the matter?"

The doctor was standing at the head of the bed. He had something in either hand. Instead of replying to her inquiries he looked at her from beneath his overhanging brows, as if he had been her accuser.

"Why do you look at me like that? Do you hear me ask you what has happened? Have you all lost your senses? Why don't you answer?" He waved his hand towards the bed. Her gaze followed his gesture, with an effort. She knew what she would see; she did not want to see it. Instantly her glance returned to the doctor.

"Is he--is he dead?"

"Quite dead."

"But I don't understand. When I left him he seemed brighter and better than I have ever seen him before."

"He's been killed."

"Killed! What do you mean, he's been killed?"

"Come here, I'll show you." She went a little closer, unwillingly. "Come this side of the bed." She did as he bade her, with leaden feet. "You see, the pillows have fallen; he's been choked."

"But how can they have fallen? They were all right when I left him. Has any one been in since?"

"Are you sure they were all right when you left him?"

"Perfectly sure. I tell you I have never seen him in better health or in brighter spirits."

"He could not have pushed them from under him himself."

"He might have done it in a fit."

"Perhaps; but it would have had to be a singular sort of a fit. You say you are sure they were in their usual position when you left him?"

"Why do you ask me that again? Why do you look at me like that, and speak in such a tone? Are you suggesting that I have had a hand in his death?"

"I am suggesting nothing."

"It seems to me that you are suggesting a good deal, which you dare not say right out. At least your manner is peculiar--but that it generally is. If you have anything to say, say it--like a man!--at once! Don't hint it, like a sneak. I hate your underhanded ways."

"I found this under his pillow--his one remaining pillow."

"It's his will. He made it this morning."

"So I am told by the two servants. I perceive it is in your writing. Did he dictate to you this document?"

"He did. I wrote it from his dictation, word for word as he told me. I wrote it yesterday afternoon. He read it through, and kept it under his pillow all night. He signed it this morning."

"It seems odd that, after completing such a will as this, he should have immediately died--in such a manner. If he could come to life again I wonder what he'd say."

"Give me that will, if you please, Dr. Twelves."

"Hadn't I better hand it to his lawyer for safe keeping?"

"His lawyer? His lawyer is now my lawyer; I will give all necessary instructions. The will will be in safe keeping with me. Give it me at once." He gave it her. "What have you in your other hand? Some more property of mine?"

"It is the miniature of the woman he loved best in the world. Don't you think it might go with him, in his coffin, to the grave?"

"Give it me. I will give all necessary instructions, as I have already told you. Your interference is not desired, nor will it be tolerated. To be quite frank with you, Dr. Twelves--it is always my desire to be frank and open--I have endured too much from you already; I will endure nothing more. The less I see, or hear, of you in the future the better I shall be pleased, since you are, in all respects, the most objectionable person I ever met. Don't you venture to intrude yourself again; if medical attendance is required it will be obtained elsewhere. I am now the mistress of this house--since there is no master, its mistress in the most literal sense. Everything is mine--everything. Be so good as to bear that in mind."

He looked at her, and smiled.

"I am not likely to forget that--ever."

She did not know which she liked least--his tone, his look, or his smile.