Part 11 (1/2)
Mrs. Anthony and Betty had been over to the cemetery all morning, and they did not appear at luncheon. Miss Trevor, looking as implacable as a Medusa-head, a comparison inevitably invited by the snaky black ringlets depending on either cheek (an ante-bellum monstrosity which she seemed to affect out of sheer perversity), presided at the table, and most of the conversation was carried on in monosyllables. The poor girl did look wretchedly careworn, and I had the uneasy consciousness of being in part a confidant of her unhappiness through my involuntary espionage in the affair of the whispering gallery. But there was nothing that I could say or do to relieve the tension of the situation. How much did she know concerning the mystery of Francis Graeme's death? To what extent was she an accessory to the crime, if crime it could be proved? When she handed me my tea it was quite in the grand Lucrezia Borgia manner, and it was as certain as anything could be that she and I must remain antagonists until the end of time. But I could make allowances. Eunice Trevor had played the part of poor relation all her life, and the bread of dependence is both a dry and a bitter morsel in the mouth. Not that Betty Graeme would ever have said or done anything to emphasize the obligation under which her cousin's daily existence was pa.s.sed; on the contrary, I knew that she treated Eunice with unvarying kindness and consideration. But when one is living on the broken meats of charity it is destructive to be always nibbling, between meals, at one's own heart.
Warriner went off to Calverton, and I had a horse saddled in order to ride over the farm and so get a general idea of my inheritance. And indeed it was a glorious one; insensibly a new and stimulating ichor entered into my veins; this was my own country, the chosen home of my forebears: this gracious and beautiful land was part of myself; deep down in its generous bosom went the essential roots of my being, and I thrilled with the consciousness of a new life, a life far more satisfying and abundant than I had ever known before; I was Hildebrand of the ”Hundred.”
Late in the afternoon I returned, and ran upstairs to freshen my appearance before joining the ladies for a cup of tea on the library terrace. As I pa.s.sed the sick room I heard the sounds of a violent altercation, and I recognized the voices as belonging to Eunice Trevor and John Thaneford; how indecent for them to be quarrelling in the presence of a man actually moribund! I had no taste for more eavesdropping, but the door was partially ajar, and I could not help overhearing one significant sentence. Eunice Trevor was speaking.
”As for Betty Graeme, there is no chance there for recouping your fortunes. How do I know? I am a woman myself.”
I went on quickly and reached my room. But my blood was hot within me.
That surly, brutal boor!
All the time I was changing my clothes I could hear the discussion proceeding, although the words themselves were inaudible. Then came the clumping of heavy boots on the staircase. I looked out of my window, which commanded a view of the carriage sweep, and saw John Thaneford's disreputable old dog-cart waiting before the front door. Presently Thaneford himself appeared, carrying a couple of handbags; he threw the luggage in the cart, mounted, and drove away.
On my own way down I had to go by the room occupied by the elder Thaneford. Quite involuntarily I glanced through the half-opened door; a curious feeling possessed me that the sick man was being dealt with unfairly, that he needed the protection which a guest has a right to expect from his host.
Fielding Thaneford lay, immense and quiescent, in the old-fas.h.i.+oned, canopied bed. He was not asleep, for his eyes were open and rolling restlessly, while the infantile pink and white of his complexion had darkened to a dull crimson; it was plain that he was uneasy, suffering even. And then I realized the source of his discomfort.
Eunice Trevor sat in a highbacked chair at the foot of the bedstead, gazing intently at the helpless man. I used to think that the metaphorical, ”If looks could kill!” was mere rhetoric, but now I knew that there may be a deadliness in pure hatred which needs neither spoken word nor overt act for its vehicle of expression. The Medusa-head again, an incarnation of implacable malignity; no wonder that Fielding Thaneford's big, babyish cheeks were beaded with sweat and that his breath came and went in short gasps. One thought involuntarily of the mediaeval sorceress sticking her lethal pins into the waxen image of her victim. Only that in this instance the counterfeit presentment was not necessary; the man himself lay bound hand and foot, delivered to the tormentors as they that go down quick into h.e.l.l. Unable to move or speak he must remain in his physical straitjacket while this tigerish woman was doing him to death, at her leisure, with the invisible knife-thrusts of a great and consuming hatred It was unbearable, and I entered the room with the merest apology for a knock; instantly the eyes of the basilisk were veiled.
”I was looking for Mr. Thaneford's nurse,” I began awkwardly.
”Miss Davenport is off duty from two until five o'clock,” answered Miss Trevor with entire composure. ”I told Betty that I would take the relief on alternate days. Here is Miss Davenport now.”
I turned to greet the pleasant-faced, capable looking young woman who entered, and Miss Trevor glided away without another word. I made the usual inquiries about the patient's condition. ”Not quite so well, perhaps,” I suggested.
”He does seem a little flushed and restless,” answered the nurse, producing her clinical thermometer. ”I don't understand it, for he was decidedly better this morning.”
”Possibly some outside disturbing influence,” I ventured. ”Mr. John Thaneford was with his father late this afternoon, and I suspect there was some sort of family jar.”
”That big, black man!” said Miss Davenport indignantly. ”I can't abide him!” She looked around sharply. ”Where is he?”
”I believe he has returned to 'Thane Court.'”
”Well, I shan't let him in the room again if he can't behave himself.
See that!” and she showed me the thermometer, which registered a two-degree rise over normal. ”Shameful I call it! and I won't have any interference with my patient, no matter who it is.”
”I'll back you up there. And perhaps we had better make some other arrangements for the afternoon relief. Miss Trevor has been very obliging, but I'm not sure that she has the proper--well, call it the necessary temperament.”
”I know it 'ud give me the creeps to have that slinky, black shadow hovering over me,” returned the downright-minded Miss Davenport. ”I think I'll put a stop-order on her from this time on.”
”I dare say Miss Graeme and I can share the duty between us; at least until it is possible to get hold of another nurse. I'll speak to my cousin and let you know later.”
Miss Davenport nodded and turned to her patient. ”Cheerio! old son,” she said with the breezy cameraderie born of her two years' experience as an army nurse. ”After this we'll keep the w.i.l.l.i.e.s brushed off, and you'll soon be hitting on all six again. Remember now what your Aunt Flo tells you.”
It was impossible to say how much or how little the sick man understood of all that had pa.s.sed. But as I left the room I murmured a parting word that was intended to be sympathetic and rea.s.suring. I may have been mistaken, but it seemed as though a flash of intense grat.i.tude momentarily softened the stony, blue-china stare of those inscrutable eyes.
After Mrs. Anthony had gone to dress for dinner I talked the matter over with Betty.
”I think you must be mistaken about poor Eunice,” she said perplexedly.
”But just now I know she is pretty much on edge, and if Miss Davenport doesn't want her that settles it. So if you will help me, Cousin Hugh, I dare say we can manage.”