Part 10

Her master nodded, and, left to himself, sat down to think out a position which was as intolerable as it was dangerous. At a great risk he had escaped from the dominion of one woman only to fall, bound and helpless, into the hands of another. However vague and unconvincing the suspicions of Hannah might be, they would be sufficient. Evidence could be unearthed. Cold with fear one moment, and hot with fury the next, he sought in vain for some avenue of escape. It was his brain against that of a cunning, illiterate fool; a fool whose malicious stupidity only added to his danger. And she drank. With largely increased wages she would drink more and his very life might depend upon a hiccuped boast. It was clear that she was enjoying her supremacy; later on her vanity would urge her to display it before others. He might have to obey the crack of her whip before witnesses, and that would cut off all possibility of escape.

He sat with his head in his hands. There must be a way out and he must find it. Soon. He must find it before gossip began; before the changed position of master and servant lent colour to her story when that story became known. Shaking with fury, he thought of her lean, ugly throat and the joy of choking her life out with his fingers. He started suddenly, and took a quick breath. No, not fingers--a rope.

III

Bright and cheerful outside and with his friends, in the house he was quiet and submissive. Milly had gone, and, if the service was poorer and the rooms neglected, he gave no sign. If a bell remained unanswered he made no complaint, and to studied insolence turned the other cheek of politeness. When at this tribute to her power the woman smiled, he smiled in return. A smile which, for all its disarming softness, left her vaguely uneasy.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said once, with a menacing air.

“I hope not,” said Goddard in a slightly surprised voice.

“Some people might be, but I’m not,” she declared. “If anything happened to me----”

“Nothing could happen to such a careful woman as you are,” he said, smiling again. “You ought to live to ninety--with luck.”

It was clear to him that the situation was getting on his nerves. Unremembered but terrible dreams haunted his sleep. Dreams in which some great, inevitable disaster was always pressing upon him, although he could never discover what it was. Each morning he awoke unrefreshed to face another day of torment. He could not meet the woman’s eyes for fear of revealing the threat that was in his own.

Delay was dangerous and foolish. He had thought out every move in that contest of wits which was to remove the shadow of the rope from his own neck and place it about that of the woman. There was a little risk, but the stake was a big one. He had but to set the ball rolling and others would keep it on its course. It was time to act.

He came in a little jaded from his afternoon walk, and left his tea untouched. He ate but little dinner, and, sitting hunched up over the fire, told the woman that he had taken a slight chill. Her concern, he felt grimly, might have been greater if she had known the cause.

He was no better next day, and after lunch called in to consult his doctor. He left with a clean bill of health except for a slight digestive derangement, the remedy for which he took away with him in a bottle. For two days he swallowed one tablespoonful three times a day in water, without result, then he took to his bed.

“A day or two in bed won’t hurt you,” said the doctor. “Show me that tongue of yours again.”

“But what is the matter with me, Roberts?” inquired the patient.

The doctor pondered. “Nothing to trouble about--nerves a bit wrong--digestion a little bit impaired. You’ll be all right in a day or two.”

Goddard nodded. So far, so good; Roberts had not outlived his usefulness. He smiled grimly after the doctor had left at the surprise he was preparing for him. A little rough on Roberts and his professional reputation, perhaps, but these things could not be avoided.

He lay back and visualized the programme. A day or two longer, getting gradually worse, then a little sickness. After that a nervous, somewhat shamefaced patient hinting at things. His food had a queer taste--he felt worse after taking it; he knew it was ridiculous, still--there was some of his beef-tea he had put aside, perhaps the doctor would like to examine it? and the medicine? Secretions, too; perhaps he would like to see those?

Propped on his elbow, he stared fixedly at the wall. There would be a trace--a faint trace--of arsenic in the secretions. There would be more than a trace in the other things. An attempt to poison him would be clearly indicated, and--his wife’s symptoms had resembled his own--let Hannah get out of the web he was spinning if she could. As for the letter she had threatened him with, let her produce it; it could only recoil upon herself. Fifty letters could not save her from the doom he was preparing for her. It was her life or his, and he would show no mercy. For three days he doctored himself with sedulous care, watching himself anxiously the while. His nerve was going and he knew it. Before him was the strain of the discovery, the arrest, and the trial. The gruesome business of his wife’s death. A long business. He would wait no longer, and he would open the proceedings with dramatic suddenness.

It was between nine and ten o’clock at night when he rang his bell, and it was not until he had rung four times that he heard the heavy steps of Hannah mounting the stairs.

“What d’you want?” she demanded, standing in the doorway.

“I’m very ill,” he said, gasping. “Run for the doctor. Quick!”

The woman stared at him in genuine amazement. “What, at this time o’ night?” she exclaimed. “Not likely.”

“I’m dying!” said Goddard in a broken voice.

“Not you,” she said, roughly. “You’ll be better in the morning.”

“I’m dying,” he repeated. “Go--for--the--doctor.”

The woman hesitated. The rain beat in heavy squalls against the window, and the doctor’s house was a mile distant on the lonely road. She glanced at the figure on the bed.

“I should catch my death o’ cold,” she grumbled.

She stood sullenly regarding him. He certainly looked very ill, and his death would by no means benefit her. She listened, scowling, to the wind and the rain.

“All right,” she said at last, and went noisily from the room.

His face set in a mirthless smile, he heard her bustling about below. The front-door slammed violently and he was alone.

He waited for a few moments and then, getting out of bed, put on his dressing-gown and set about his preparations. With a steady hand he added a little white powder to the remains of his beef-tea and to the contents of his bottle of medicine. He stood listening a moment at some faint sound from below, and, having satisfied himself, lit a candle and made his way to Hannah’s room. For a space he stood irresolute, looking about him. Then he opened one of the drawers and, placing the broken packet of powder under a pile of clothing at the back, made his way back to bed.

He was disturbed to find that he was trembling with excitement and nervousness. He longed for tobacco, but that was impossible. To reassure himself he began to rehearse his conversation with the doctor, and again he thought over every possible complication. The scene with the woman would be terrible; he would have to be too ill to take any part in it. The less he said the better. Others would do all that was necessary.

He lay for a long time listening to the sound of the wind and the rain. Inside, the house seemed unusually quiet, and with an odd sensation he suddenly realised that it was the first time he had been alone in it since his wife’s death. He remembered that she would have to be disturbed. The thought was unwelcome. He did not want her to be disturbed. Let the dead sleep.

He sat up in bed and drew his watch from beneath the pillow. Hannah ought to have been back before; in any case she could not be long now. At any moment he might hear her key in the lock. He lay down again and reminded himself that things were shaping well. He had shaped them, and some of the satisfaction of the artist was his.

The silence was oppressive. The house seemed to be listening, waiting. He looked at his watch again and wondered, with a curse, what had happened to the woman. It was clear that the doctor must be out, but that was no reason for her delay. It was close on midnight, and the atmosphere of the house seemed in some strange fashion to be brooding and hostile.

In a lull in the wind he thought he heard footsteps outside, and his face cleared as he sat up listening for the sound of the key in the door below. In another moment the woman would be in the house and the fears engendered by a disordered fancy would have flown. The sound of the steps had ceased, but he could hear no sound of entrance. Until all hope had gone, he sat listening. He was certain he had heard footsteps. Whose?

Trembling and haggard he sat waiting, assailed by a crowd of murmuring fears. One whispered that he had failed and would have to pay the penalty of failing; that he had gambled with Death and lost.

By a strong effort he fought down these fancies and, closing his eyes, tried to compose himself to rest. It was evident now that the doctor was out and that Hannah was waiting to return with him in his car. He was frightening himself for nothing. At any moment he might hear the sound of their arrival.

He heard something else, and, sitting up, suddenly, tried to think what it was and what had caused it. It was a very faint sound--stealthy. Holding his breath, he waited for it to be repeated. He heard it again, the mere ghost of a sound--a whisper of a sound, but significant as most whispers are.

He wiped his brow with his sleeve and told himself firmly that it was nerves, and nothing but nerves; but, against his will, he still listened. He fancied now that the sound came from his wife’s room, the other side of the landing. It increased in loudness and became more insistent, but with his eyes fixed on the door of his room he still kept himself in hand, and tried to listen instead to the wind and the rain.

For a time he heard nothing but that. Then there came a scraping, scurrying noise from his wife’s room, and a sudden, terrific crash.

With a loud scream his nerve broke, and springing from the bed he sped downstairs and, flinging open the front-door, dashed into the night. The door, caught by the wind, slammed behind him.

With his hand holding the garden gate open, ready for further flight, he stood sobbing for breath. His bare feet were bruised and the rain was very cold, but he took no heed. Then he ran a little way along the road and stood for some time, hoping and listening.

He came back slowly. The wind was bitter and he was soaked to the skin. The garden was black and forbidding, and unspeakable horror might be lurking in the bushes. He went up the road again, trembling with cold. Then, in desperation, he passed through the terrors of the garden to the house, only to find the door closed. The porch gave a little protection from the icy rain, but none from the wind, and, shaking in every limb, he leaned in abject misery against the door. He pulled himself together after a time and stumbled round to the back-door. Locked! And all the lower windows were shuttered. He made his way back to the porch, and, crouching there in hopeless misery, waited for the woman to return.

IV

He had a dim memory when he awoke of somebody questioning him, and then of being half-pushed, half-carried upstairs to bed. There was something wrong with his head and his chest and he was trembling violently, and very cold. Somebody was speaking.

“You must have taken leave of your senses,” said the voice of Hannah. “I thought you were dead.”

He forced his eyes to open. “Doctor,” he muttered, “doctor.”

“Out on a bad case,” said Hannah. “I waited till I was tired of waiting, and then came along. Good thing for you I did. He’ll be round first thing this morning. He ought to be here now.”

She bustled about, tidying up the room, his leaden eyes following her as she collected the beef-tea and other things on a tray and carried them out.

“Nice thing I did yesterday,” she remarked, as she came back. “Left the missus’s bed-room window open. When I opened the door this morning I found that beautiful Chippendale glass of hers had blown off the table and smashed to pieces. Did you hear it?”

Goddard made no reply. In a confused fashion he was trying to think. Accident or not, the fall of the glass had served its purpose. Were there such things as accidents? Or was Life a puzzle--a puzzle into which every piece was made to fit? Fear and the wind ... no: conscience and the wind ... had saved the woman. He must get the powder back from her drawer ... before she discovered it and denounced him. The medicine ... he must remember not to take it....

He was very ill, seriously ill. He must have taken a chill owing to that panic flight into the garden. Why didn’t the doctor come? He had come ... at last ... he was doing something to his chest ... it was cold.

Again ... the doctor ... there was something he wanted to tell him.... Hannah and a powder ... what was it?

Later on he remembered, together with other things that he had hoped to forget. He lay watching an endless procession of memories, broken at times by a glance at the doctor, the nurse, and Hannah, who were all standing near the bed regarding him. They had been there a long time, and they were all very quiet. The last time he looked at Hannah was the first time for months that he had looked at her without loathing and hatred. Then he knew that he was dying.

Bed Cases

The night-watchman was ill at ease, and, all ordinary positions failing to give relief, adopted several entirely out of keeping with his age and figure. A voice from the next wharf which wanted to know whether he was going on to the stage, and, if so, whether he was going to wear tights, brought him at once to a more becoming position. His voice was broken with pain, but the masterly fashion in which he dealt with his tormentor’s ancestors and the future behaviour of his descendants left nothing to be desired. Uncouth noises, lacking in variety, were the only retort.

“It took me sudden yesterday morning, just arter brekfuss,” said the night-watchman. “The woman--if you can call ’er a woman--next door but one ’ad given my missis best part of a tin of salmon. I wondered at the time why she gave it away--now I know. I ate it all, except one mouthful wot my missis threw in the fireplace, and in less than a couple of hours arterwards I thought my last hour ’ad come.”

He clasped his hands at the waist-line and rocked to and fro. Faint moans and indignant grunts attested to his suffering.

“I’ve been taking things for it ever since and nothing seems to do it any good,” he resumed, in an interval. “Fust of all I tried a couple o’ pints to see wot that ’ud do; and the barman told me to go and die outside. He said wot I ought to ’ave ’ad was rum, so I ’ad a quartern. Arter that ’e _put_ me outside--me being too ill to stop ’im--and an old gentleman wot was passing took me into a chemist’s shop and stood treat. I don’t know wot it was the chemist gave me, but a’most direckly arterwards there was a little crowd round the door peeping in, and behaving theirselves as if I was a Punch and Judy show. Some of ’em follered me ’ome, and it was all my missis could do to stop ’em coming inside and helping ’er to put me to bed.”

He rose and, stifling a moan, took a few paces up and down the jetty.

“Seems to be passing off a bit for the time,” he said, resuming his seat. “It sort o’ comes and goes, but it comes longer than it goes. It’s funny ’ow soft and kind-’earted illness makes you. Three times yesterday arternoon I called my missis upstairs to tell ’er that I couldn’t pass away without letting ’er know I’d forgiven her everything. She on’y came the fust time, but that wasn’t my fault. I called ’er loud enough.

“It seems to me to be the same complaint that Ginger Dick had a year or two ago--on’y worse--and he made a great deal more fuss about it, being a free-spoken man and not minding much wot he said about things he didn’t like.

“It came on in a public-’ouse in the Commercial Road, and it was so sudden, and Ginger made such a funny noise, that Sam and Peter Russet thought at fust he ’ad swallered ’is pipe.

“‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses the landlord, leaning over the bar.

“‘He’s swallered ’is pipe,’ ses Sam.

“‘You’re--a--liar,’ ses Ginger, groaning.

“‘Wot is it, then?’ ses the landlord.

“Ginger shook his ’ead. ‘I don’t know,’ he ses in a weak voice. ‘I think it’s the beer.’

“‘Outside,’ ses the landlord. ‘D’ye ’ear me? _Outside._’

“Ginger went out with Sam propping ’im up on one side and Peter the other and the landlord shoving ’im behind. His groans was ’art-rending and the way he talked against beer made Sam and Peter blush for shame. They stood on the pavement for a little while and then they helped ’im on to a tram-car, and two minutes arterwards the conductor and five passengers helped ’im off agin.

“‘Wot’s to be done now?’ ses Sam.

“‘Shove ’im in a puddle and leave ’im,’ ses Peter, very savage.

“‘I can’t ’elp it--I feel as if I’d swallered fireworks,’ ses Ginger.

“‘Little touch o’ stummick-ache,’ ses Sam.

“‘And they keeps going off,’ ses Ginger. ‘Oh! Oh, my!’

“‘’Ave you got any pain?’ ses Peter. ‘That’ll do! That’ll do! Why can’t you give a civil answer to a civil question?’

“He walked on, leaving Ginger ’anging on to Sam and talking at the top of his voice. O’ course a crowd got round and told Sam wot to do, until Ginger left off being ill for a little while to attend to a chap as ’ad told Sam to stand ’im on his ’ead. If it ’adn’t ha’ been for a cab wot ’ad stopped to see wot the row was about Ginger would most likely ’ave been given some medicine.

“They walked along for some time with their ’eads down as though they expected to see a doctor sitting on the pavement waiting for them, and then Sam turned to Peter and asked ’im where they was going.

“‘There’s one in the Whitechapel Road,’ ses Peter.

“‘There must be one nearer than that,’ ses Sam. ‘Let’s go in somewhere and ask.’

“They ’appened to be passing the Turk’s Head as ’e spoke, and, not wanting everybody to know their business, they went into the private bar instead of the usual, and ’ad a couple o’ glasses o’ bitter.

“There was on’y one other chap there, a tall young man in a black tail-coat, a bowler ’at, and a collar and necktie. He ’ad a large nose and a pair of very sharp light eyes, and he sat there as if the place belonged to ’im, stroking ’is little sandy moustache and tapping ’is boots with a cane. Sam and Peter could see at once that he never went anywhere except in private bars, and for the fust minute or two they was talking a’most in whispers. They must ha’ talked a bit louder arter a bit, ’cos all of a sudden, the gentleman emptied ’is glass and spoke to ’em.

“‘What’s that you want?’ he ses. ‘A doctor?’

“‘Yes,’ ses Sam, and the gentleman sat there with a smile on ’is face while Peter and Sam described Ginger’s illness and repeated some of ’is remarks about it.

“‘Funny you should tell me,’ ses the gentleman. ‘Very funny.’

“Sam looked at ’im, and waited.

“‘Cos I’m a doctor myself,’ ses the gentleman. ‘Dr. Brown.’

“‘Wot a bit o’ luck!’ ses Peter. ‘We thought we’d got to walk no end of a way.’

“The doctor shook his ’ead.

“‘I’m afraid I’m no good to you,’ he ses.

“‘Why not?’ ses Sam, staring.

“‘Too expensive,’ ses the doctor. ‘You see, I’m a West-end man, and we’re not allowed to see a patient under a pound a visit.’

“He shook his ’ead and sat smiling at them sad-like and listening to Sam, wot was sitting perched up on a stool making a noise like bronchitis, with surprise.

“‘I on’y come this way for a stroll,’ he ses, ‘’cos I like to see ships and sailormen.’

“‘A--pound--a--visit?’ ses Peter. ‘D’ye ’ear that, Sam?’

“Sam looked at ’im, and arter a time he managed to nod.

“‘P’r’aps it does seem a lot,’ ses the doctor, ‘but it comes cheaper in the end to have a good man.’

“‘Not if the chap dies,’ ses Peter.

“‘My patients don’t die,’ ses the doctor. ‘It’s only cheap doctors wot loses their patients.’

“He took up ’is glass and then, finding as there was nothing in it, put it down agin. Sam gave a little cough, and arter waiting a moment asked whether ’e would do ’im the pleasure of having a drink with ’im.

“‘Well, I’ve ’ad enough really,’ ses the doctor. ‘Still, I don’t mind ’aving a glass of port with you.’

“Peter said he’d ’ave a port, too, afore Sam could stop ’im, and him and the doctor sat and drank Sam’s ’ealth, and Peter said ’ow well he was looking and wot a fine rosy colour he’d got. Then Sam told the doctor all about Ginger’s illness agin, and, in a off-hand sort o’ way, asked ’im wot Ginger could take for it.

“‘I couldn’t say without seeing ’im,’ ses the doctor; ‘it ain’t allowed.’

“‘’Ow much would it be to see ’im?’ ses Sam.

“‘He ain’t much to look at,’ ses Peter, looking at him ’opeful-like.

“The doctor laughed, and then shook his ’ead at ’imself. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he says, ‘but if you’ll keep it a dead secret and not let anybody know that I said--I mean, that I’m a doctor--I don’t mind seein’ ’im for ’arf a dollar a visit.’

“‘Ginger couldn’t say anything agin that,’ ses Peter.

“‘Couldn’t he?’ ses Sam. ‘’Owever, he’ll ’ave to put up with it. It’s your turn, Peter; mine’s a port.’

“‘I suppose I’d better ’ave the same,’ says the doctor. ‘I don’t believe in mixing. Tell ’im to give us the special this time. It’s better.’

“Peter told ’im, and the landlord ’ad to tell ’im three times ’ow much it was afore he understood. He seemed ’arf dazed, and the noise Sam made smacking ’is lips over his wine nearly drove ’im crazy. The doctor got up as soon as he ’ad finished ’is glass, and they all went out into the street; Sam and Peter wondering what Ginger would say when ’e saw the doctor and what ’e would do when he ’eard the price. They went upstairs very quiet, as the doctor said he didn’t want anybody to see ’im, and the fust thing they saw when they got into the room was Ginger laying face downwards on the bed with ’is arms and legs spread out, groaning.

“‘Wot ’ave you been all this time for?’ he ses, as soon as he ’eard them. ‘You’ve been gone long enough to find fifty doctors.’

“‘This is a good ’un, Ginger,’ ses Sam, very solemn. ‘One o’ the best.’

“‘Charges as much as twenty ordinary doctors,’ ses Peter.

“‘_Wot!_’ ses Ginger, turning over with surprise and temper.

“The doctor smiled and, arter fust putting the chair by the side of the bed and sitting down on it, put it back very careful and sat down on the bed instead.

“‘Let’s have a look at your tongue,’ he ses.

“Ginger put it out, and then put it in agin to tell Sam that when ’e wanted to ’ear his remarks about it he’d let ’im know.

“‘I’ve seen a worse tongue than that,’ ses the doctor. ‘Once.’

“‘Did ’e die?’ ses Ginger.

“‘Never mind,’ ses the doctor.

“‘But I do mind,’ ses Ginger, very sharp.

“‘No,’ ses the doctor; ‘I was called in at the last moment and, after sitting up with ’im all night, pulled ’im through.’

“‘I told you wot he was, Ginger,’ ses Peter Russet in a whisper that you could have ’eard downstairs.

“The doctor took ’old of Ginger’s wrist; and then Sam got into trouble agin for taking upon himself to tell ’im that Ginger ’ad got a natural dark skin. The doctor took out ’is watch and they all ’eld their breath while he counted Ginger’s pulse.