Part 38 (1/2)

'Your husband's life was a strange one. One day I'll tell you as much of it as you care to know. But its strangeness did not alter the fact that he was the Marquis of Twickenham; and, indeed, now that I have seen you, I am beginning to understand that at least the latter part of it was not so strange as I imagined.'

'You--you say my James is--the Marquis of Twickenham?'

'He was.'

'Was? Where is he?'

'My dear, he's dead. Your boy is the Marquis now.'

'Dead?--dead?--dead? My James--dead?'

'He died on the day following that on which you saw him last.'

'Died? He died? And--you knew it?'

'I did not know that you were his wife; or, indeed, that he had a wife at all, until just now.'

'And--he knew it?'

'Mr. Howarth knew that the late Marquis was dead; whether he knew that he was your husband is another matter. My dear, you must judge him leniently. When you know the whole strange story you will think better of us all than you may be disposed to do at present.'

'You say--my James is dead? Then--he killed him?'

'Hus.h.!.+ You mustn't utter such wild words; you mustn't think such dreadful thoughts. Your husband died in his bed--in my presence, and in the presence of other persons, among whom were two doctors.'

'He killed him!' She laid her hand upon my shoulder. I shook it off.

'Don't touch me!--don't dare! He killed him!'

'My dear child, if, as you will have it, there was any killing, the hand which slew him was the Lord's. Although you don't seem to have been aware of the fact, your husband's heart was always weak. What had been expected for years took place at last; his heart collapsed, and there was an end.'

'You, who've been in my house all the morning pretending you knew nothing, when all the time you knew that my James was dead--you now want to make out that you knew him better than I did! You may be a sly fine lady, but you're a fool. What you say's lies--lies--all lies! But it's not you I want to speak to--you're nothing. It's him! Get out of my way, and let me pa.s.s.'

She got out of my way, or I'd have knocked her down. I could have done it. And I went to Mr. Howarth.

'You killed him; and, as I stand here, in the presence of your G.o.d and mine, I swear that you shall hang for it, unless you kill me too. He called to me last night. How often, in the night, does he call to you?--out of the box into which you put him? As I live, I believe his voice is always in your ears--calling, calling, calling.'

Although he was a big man and I'm a little woman, I could have taken him and killed him, then and there, with my two hands, and he could have done nothing to have stayed me. For his heart was as b.u.t.ter, and his soul was white with fear.

CHAPTER XVI

MR. FITZHOWARD OPENS THE DOOR

They went; and my curse went with them. I would listen to nothing they had to say; neither he nor she. For while she tried to whisper soft words into my ears, and quiet me, and make me think the things she wished that I should think, I knew that, the whole time, at the bottom of her heart, she was all for him. I threw open the door, and I told him to go, if he did not wish me to shriek out 'Murder!' in the street. He did not need a second telling. He was glad, at any price, to take himself away. His face was like an old man's--his knees shook as he pa.s.sed me. I had it in my mind to strike him as he slunk out into the street. My word for it he'd have s.h.i.+vered if I had! But I held my hand. Not in such fas.h.i.+on would I strike the man who'd killed my James. When I did strike it should be once for all. From nothing living should he ever feel another blow.

When he'd gone I packed her after him. She begged and prayed that I'd be calm; that I'd hear what she called reason; that I'd do this, that, and the other thing. But not I! not I! I'd see the back of her; and that was all I would see. And I saw it. She went out as white as he had been, with her heart as heavy. It was only her pride kept her from crying.

I didn't cry. I couldn't. When they had gone, and I was alone with the children, I felt as if I was going mad; but I couldn't cry. It was only when I began to understand that the children were afraid of me that I tried to keep a tight hold of the few senses I had left. I sat down at the table and tried to think. There were the children, as far off in the corner as they could get--holding each other by the hand.

They wouldn't come near me--their mother, because they were frightened; too frightened even for tears.

What was I to do to calm their fear? I couldn't imagine. I wasn't the same woman I had been. I knew that I was altogether different; that I had changed in the twinkling of an eye. Still, I didn't want my children to be afraid of me; not Pollie and Jimmy. I tried to think of words with which to speak to them. But they wouldn't come. I sat there like a thing turned stupid, knowing that they were growing more and more afraid of me.