The Tigress Part 62

"Madmen don't do heroic deeds, do they, Gerald?"

"No, Nina," he declared. "They certainly do not. They do brutal deeds, rather."

"He was eccentric, like the earl. That was all."

"He was nothing more. You may be sure he was nothing more." And he was all the while forcing himself to believe it--for her sake.

When he was gone Nina shut herself up in what Kneedrock had chosen to call his "office." In her tense state the chatter of those in the little drawing-room was well-nigh unbearable.

The duke especially tortured her nerves to snapping. The tears of the d.u.c.h.ess were contagious. And, despite the occasion, Lady Bellingdown and her lord were constantly bickering.

The mangled arm of poor Nibbetts had been amputated, of course. That was imperative. And the shock of the operation, following the shock of the accident, and coupled with an extraordinary loss of blood, had proved too much for a const.i.tution already depleted.

From the first the surgeons and doctors had given them little hope. He had barely one chance in a hundred, they said; and recovery would be little short of a miracle. Since early morning he had been sinking despite every effort to rally his forces.

It was possible that before death came there would be a faint flare of energy, perhaps a brief moment of consciousness; but the chances favored a continuous coma.

"Even if the earl should come now," mused Nina, "I fear he will be too late. But it was my duty to send; and I've done it."

She moved restlessly about the little room. She sat on one chair and then on another. She stood for a time peering out between the drawn curtains. She picked up books, turned the pages, read lines, without understanding.

After a little she paused beside a writing-table that occupied a corner and began handling the moveable things that rested upon it--a small, framed calendar, certain dates on which she found ringed with black ink and others with red; a clock, which had stopped at twenty-two minutes to four, a box of postage stamps, pens, quills, a silver knife.

Thrust into a corner of the green blotting-pad was a sealed and stamped letter, ready for the post. Absently, without motive, she extracted it and glanced at the superscription.

The hand was his, Nibbetts's, and the fact startled and chilled her. In all probability he would never write again. And then something else caught her consciousness: "_Dundee, Scotland_." And at the same instant: "_Miss Agnes Scripps_."

Scripps! The name he had used to hide behind when he came to Umballa.

The name which--she had always felt sure, though she never knew--he had gone by in Tahiti and the other islands of the South Pacific where he had spent his exile.

What did it mean? Who? What? A score of questions, scores of conjectures, a.s.sumptions, suppositions a.s.sailed her like an army.

For the moment she was absorbed, lost in a maze of the possible and the impossible; from which a knocking, thrice repeated, upon the room door caught her back with a start. It was a nurse, who said:

"Lord Kneedrock is conscious."

She went, at once glad and full of dread, to find all the rest there before her.

"He has recognized each of us," whispered the duke. "But he hasn't spoken."

The d.u.c.h.ess, with her handkerchief pressed to her face, was vainly trying to suppress her sobs. Lord Bellingdown was clasping the sufferer's remaining hand and murmuring: "Good old Nibbetts!"

("You might have thought the poor chap was a dog," said Lady Bellingdown when she related it to Lord Waltheof in the privacy of her own home the next day.)

Nina drew near on the other side of the bed. There was very little light in the room, but Kneedrock seemed to note her presence instantly. His head didn't move--he was too weak for that--but his eyes turned to her.

And she read the look in them. They beckoned. He wished to say something.

She leaned toward him, and his pale lips moved. There wasn't a sound though, not the faintest. Then Nina sat down softly on the side of the bed and bent her head until her ear felt his breath.

And on the breath came words--one word to each exhalation--faint, but quite audible:

"_Don't--reproach--yourself.--I--wish--I'd--been--kinder._"

Before it was finished her control was quite gone, and her salt tears were dropping, raining, from her face onto his.

Some one led her away. It may have been the duke, or Bellingdown, or one of the doctors. She never knew. Whoever it was took her to a lounge in the drawing-room, where she lay prostrate for a long time. When at length she sat up it was to find Gerald Andrews beside her.

"He is gone?" she asked.

"He is gone," he answered simply.

Late that afternoon a telegram was brought to her. It was from his father, and it read:

At the bottom of every man's soul there is a n.o.ble spark that may make a hero of him; but the spark cannot burn brightly all the time. When the critical moment arrives it flares up and illumines great deeds.

Some one said afterward that it was a quotation from Tolstoy, which may be true. But Nina wasn't interested in its authors.h.i.+p.

What gave her ground for thought was that it had been addressed to "Lady Kneedrock."

So the earl knew.

CHAPTER x.x.x

A Letter and a Legacy

On a January morning two months later, when all London was under a blanket of snow, a card was brought to Mrs. Darling--Mr. Widdicombe's card.

"I am not at home," she said petulantly. And when the maid had gone she added to herself: "He is the rudest man I know, and I refuse to see rude men."

But the maid was back before she was able to recompose herself.

"The gentleman says, ma'am, that he saw you at the window, and it's most important."

"Tell him that I shall take care not to let him see me at the window again, or any place else. I am engaged and cannot receive him."

But the maid, returning for a second time, presented a second card, bearing a scribbled line, which Nina was about to cast into the blazing grate when a single word of the penciling caught her eye and interest.

The word was "Scripps."

"I must see you," he had written, "regarding Miss Agnes Scripps."

Had it not been for the puzzle of that addressed envelope so strangely discovered at so tragic a moment, yet forgotten in the stress of following events, it is a question whether even the scribbled line would have served its purpose.

As it was, however, Mrs. Darling reversed her decision at once, and the solicitor of the parchment cheeks was promptly admitted.