The Twickenham Peerage Part 45

'How can you be sure of it?'

'Because he's alive: I know that he's alive. Do you--do you think I'd be talking to you like this if I didn't know? I was afraid at first, but now I know that my James is alive. He keeps talking to me all the time.'

He looked puzzled; exchanging glances with Mr. FitzHoward.

'My dear lady, I beg that you will not be too sanguine. I admit that complications have arisen which I had not foreseen, but I am still convinced that my brother was your husband, and that he lies buried at Cressland. Don't raise any airy fabrics of hope, or the disappointment may be greater than you will be able to bear. Besides, if you are right, then your husband was not my brother, and you are no relation of mine--which is absurd.'

'Not so absurd as that I should be a relation of yours--the likes of me!'

'The likes of you! Do you know that the differences of which you are thinking are only on the surface? In an incredibly short time they'll disappear, and you'll be as great and as fine a lady as any of them all.'

'Never! I'll never be a lady; and as for a fine lady--not me!'

'Marchioness--'

'Don't call me that! It's not my name! It sounds as if you were laughing at me.'

'Sister--'

'I'm not your sister. I'm just Mrs. James Merrett of Little Olive Street.'

'Mrs. Merrett then: if you like I'll always call you Mrs. Merrett.'

'That's my name.'

'I wish to convey to you my personal a.s.surance that if you are the person I believe you to be, I shall welcome you and your children, and shall be proud to call myself your brother.'

'I'm sure--I'm sure--if I am your sister you shan't be any more ashamed of me than I can help.'

'I shall not be ashamed of you. Never be afraid of that. Only, if you will come with us to-morrow, don't allow yourself to be buoyed up by delusions. Be prepared to face the facts--as my sister should do.'

'It's no delusion that my James is alive. Whether he's your brother, or whether he isn't, I know that he's alive.'

As the day went on I grew more sure of it. When they had gone, and I was alone again with the children while they played, I sat there feeling that if it wasn't for my stupidity I could soon find out what James wanted. He wanted something; that I knew. What it was, I couldn't think. I couldn't hear his voice, as I had done before, but I knew that he was trying all the time to get something into my head, which, if I wasn't so silly, I should understand. I'd a sort of feeling that he wanted to tell me where he was; to get me to come to him; to get him out of trouble. That he was in trouble of some sort I was sure.

He used to talk to me about what he called 'telepathy.' I remember the word, because he wrote it down and made me learn it. It was one of those strange ideas he was always getting hold of. I always believed that, when he chose, he was a regular old-fas.h.i.+oned magician--like you read of in the Bible. Some of the things he did--and a great many more that he wanted to do--were against nature. When I hinted that that was what I felt, he'd look at me in that queer way of his, and say that magic was knowledge, and knowledge was magic; and that you'd only got to know everything to do everything. It was the same with this 'telepathy.' According to him you can make yourself understood by a person who's thousands of miles away--if you've only got the knack of it. He declared that when he was away from me, sometimes, if he was just in the right frame of mind, he could tell what I was doing and saying, and even thinking. There was something in what he said. When he'd been away for weeks together, when he came back he'd tell me what I'd been doing at a certain time on a certain day--even my very words!--but princ.i.p.ally at night when I was alone. When I was praying for him he always knew. Dozens of times has he shown me the words--written down on a sheet of paper, date and hour and all!--which I had used in my prayers, when I was asking G.o.d to tell me where he was, and send him home to me. It did make me feel so ashamed; because he had such a way about him when he was showing you a thing like that.

But while he could understand me I couldn't him, though over and over again I've known that there was something he wanted to say to me, and that he was trying to say it. And, as he told me to, I've put down on paper the time the feeling came over me. And when he returned he'd show me his piece of paper; sure enough, when he was trying to speak to me was the very time I felt he was.

'Persevere,' he'd say. 'You and I'll get into telepathic communication yet before we've done; and when we do we'll show this ancient and highly civilised nation a thing or two. There's more to be got out of Egyptian tombs than mummies.'

What he meant I couldn't say. He was always talking in a way that was beyond me altogether. But I knew that he had some scheme in his head.

Now the feeling I have been talking about was on me again; that he was trying to say something he wanted me to understand. It was that feeling made me so sure he wasn't dead; though what he wanted to say I couldn't imagine. I knew that it was only my silliness which prevented me from finding out, and that made me so mad. I might be doing the very thing he didn't want me to; and I wouldn't do anything he didn't want me to do for all the world. I would have given something to have just been sensible enough to understand, but if you're not sensible always you can't be now and then. Though I have heard tell of how even idiots have an occasional gleam of good, sound, sterling sense.

Idiot or no idiot--and I know I'm not far off even at the best of times--how I did wish that I could have had one gleam just then!

CHAPTER XX

THE OPENING OF THE COFFIN

Shall I ever forget the day which followed?--the greatest in all my life! I'll have to be very old first, and far gone in my dotage. When I woke up in the morning I couldn't think where I was. I hadn't slept out of Little Olive Street, since James took me there after we were married, I don't think half-a-dozen times. And never in such a room as I was in then; nor yet in one anywhere like it.

When it all came back to me somehow I felt happier than I'd done for I don't know how long. I'd had a good night's sleep; not a worry on my mind. I could have sung as I lay in bed; yes, and laughed. There were the children; Jimmy on one side, and Pollie on the other. They'd wanted to make up a separate bed for them, but I wouldn't hear of it; and when that grand lady, who it seemed was the housekeeper, put on airs, as if they were her children, I let her see--and I felt sure that, before very long, their father'd be beside me too.

I wasn't a bit afraid. With the night even the last shadow of a doubt had gone. Whatever or whoever was in that mausoleum place they talked about, and which we should soon be going to see, I knew it wasn't James there. There might be trouble in it for some one, but I was sure it wasn't for me.

We had breakfast with the family--oh dear! it was a meal. There was the young gentleman and Miss Desmond and the children and me. I was on pins and needles all the time lest the children should do something they didn't ought. They weren't used to eating in company; and everything was that grand I was in a muddle enough myself without having to think of them. The servants--the serving-men that is--they were the worst. The children couldn't eat their breakfast for staring at them. They asked all sorts of questions--about their white stockings, and their white hair and I don't know what. The young gentleman seemed to think it was a joke. But Miss Desmond could see I wasn't comfortable; so she sent the men out of the room, and then we had a little peace.

It was a lovely morning when we started to drive to the station, Miss Desmond, the young gentleman, and me; in a beautiful carriage, with such a pair of horses! I'd have liked to have stroked them, only I didn't dare. I hadn't touched a horse since I was at home at the farm.

There was a special whole carriage engaged for us in the train; and waiting for us on the platform was Sir Gregory Hanc.o.c.k, and Dr.

Clinton, and, of course, Mr. FitzHoward. He was the most important person of us all. I don't know if he was supposed to be managing everything, but he might just as well have been. He was dressed in black from head to foot, with a band of c.r.a.pe right up to the top of his hat, and another round his arm. He did make me so angry. Just as though any one was dead who had to do with him--or me either. As if I didn't know my James was alive. I was dressed as I always am. When he saw it he looked at me as if I'd done something improper. About some things he has no sense.

Just as the train was going to start up came Mr. Howarth, and, with him, Lady Violet. I don't believe either of them was expected. Lady Violet was pretty stiff. She just gave Miss Desmond an icy kiss on the cheek, the young gentleman the tips of her fingers, and towards me she gave a little movement with her head, as if she wished me to understand that she saw me, and that was all she intended to do. Mr.

Howarth seemed quite ill. He even walked like a sick man; coming along the platform with uncertain steps, as if he found it difficult to lift his feet.

We were a strange company, as the train bore us into the country out of the town. Mr. Howarth's face got on my nerves. That something was badly wrong with him one couldn't help seeing. I couldn't help looking his way every now and again, and every time I did my spirits sank a little lower. Lady Violet sat as straight as a broom handle; with pale face, shut lips, and gleaming eyes. Scarcely a word would she speak to any one. The way she treated the young gentleman--considering they were sweethearts, as Miss Desmond had told me--was queer. These two had a depressing effect on all of us. And when you put to that the fact that Mr. FitzHoward had taken it into his head all of a sudden to behave as if he were a mute at a funeral, and would do nothing except look straight along the tip of his nose, it will be seen that we weren't exactly lively. If it hadn't been for the two doctors I doubt if a dozen words would have been said. Somehow I felt that the whole affair amused Dr. Clinton; and he and Sir Gregory kept talking together in whispers nearly the whole of the way.

There were carriages to meet us at the station where we stopped--though I had begun to think that we never should get there; and presently we were bowling along through country lanes. After we had gone some way, perhaps three or four miles, we turned through some open gates into an avenue of trees. One thing I noticed, that they were all elms and silver beeches; and that they were planted in turns, so that when there was an elm on one side there was a beech upon the other.

It was a great old house we came to. We pa.s.sed under an arch into a courtyard, where there was a fountain in the middle. If all this indeed belonged to my James I couldn't help wondering more and more why he gave it all up; and, above all, how he ever came to marry the likes of me. There was a huge fire blazing in the hall, which cheered it up a bit. It wanted brightening, for it was so large, and the black oak walls made it seem more than a little grim and sombre.

'We'll first have some lunch,' explained the young gentleman to us, as we stood all together in the hall; 'and then afterwards we'll drive over to the mausoleum.'

It wasn't a festive luncheon. Only the doctors and Mr. FitzHoward ate anything. I'm sure the rest of us would have been just as well without it; particularly Mr. Howarth, for he did nothing else but drink. In spite of myself I kept getting more and more into the dumps. The air of the place and the air of the people, the feeling, too, that something unpleasant was at hand, began to fill me with a sense of worry. Mr. Howarth's face and manner, and the way he drank, made it worse. He must have had two or three bottles of wine to himself; if not more, tumbler after tumbler. What wine it was I couldn't say. The fact that n.o.body else drank anything at all made the fact of his drinking so much all the more conspicuous. We all sat peering at him out of the corners of our eyes, wondering what was going to happen.

By the time lunch was over, and we were getting ready to start, I was all of a fidget. I was still persuaded that there was no bad news in store for me, but I was equally sure that there was for some one. What Mr. Howarth feared I couldn't think. I remembered once reading an account of a man who was hanged; how, as he approached the gallows, his face seemed to get more and more set, and he moved more and more like a rickety machine. It all came back to me as I looked at Mr.

Howarth. I wished it wouldn't. In particular I did wish that he'd manage to put himself somewhere where I couldn't see him. The fear that was on him began to pa.s.s to me. Miss Desmond's face was like a sheet for whiteness. When she came close to me I saw that she was s.h.i.+vering, and that there were deep lines about the corners of her lips and eyes.

As a servant came to tell us all was ready, the young gentleman, noticing how strange she looked, came towards us with an anxious face.

He himself didn't look as well as he might have done. But he was resolute and stern rather than white with the terror of what was to come; as she was.

'Edith, I think that you had better stay behind; and you, too.'

This was to me. But I would have no truck with any such suggestion. I had no fear of what I was going to see; I knew it wouldn't be my James. It was because I had no fear that I was resolved to see. Their eyes I wouldn't trust; not Mr. FitzHoward's, nor Dr. Clinton's, nor any one's, except my own. If James was dead, and in that coffin, of which I'd heard so much, then for me there was an end of everything.

But I knew he wasn't, and, let them tell what tales they might, I'd require the evidence of my own eyes before I believed he was. It was right and proper that Miss Desmond should stay behind, for that she was in a piteous plight was plain; and this was a business in which her concern was as nothing compared to mine, but with me it was a different tale.

'I shall go. But you--' I turned to her; 'I think that you had better stay.'

'I can't! I can't!' she said. Then she dropped her voice. 'I daren't!'

The young gentleman's face grew darker.

'I shall have to forbid you. You are not well; there is no reason why you should come; rather there is why you shouldn't; and you must excuse my saying, Edith, that we want no scenes.'