by me. I want to talk to you. Your first name is—”
“Leroy,” he answered. “But you are weak; you must not talk much.”
“Only a little,” she replied, smiling; “it does me good. Leroy was your mother’s name—yes? It is not a Calvinton name. I wonder where your father met her. Perhaps in France when he came to look for me. But he did not find me—no, indeed—I was well hidden then—but he found your mother. You are young enough to be my son. Will you be a friend to me for your father’s sake?”
She spoke gently, in a tone of infinite kindness and tender grace, with pauses in which a hundred unspoken recollections and appeals were suggested. The young man was deeply moved. He took her hand in his firm clasp.
“Gladly,” he said, “and for your sake too. But now I want you to rest.”
“Oh,” she answered, “I am resting now. But let me talk a little more. It will not harm me. I have been through so much! Twice married—a great fortune to spend—all that the big world can give. But now I am very tired of the whirl. There is only one thing I want—to stay here in Calvinton. I rebelled against it once; but it draws me back. There is a strange magic in the place. Haven’t you felt it? How do you explain it?”
“Yes,” he said, “I have felt it surely, but I can’t explain it, unless it is a kind of ancient peace that makes you wish to be at home here even while you rebel.”
She nodded her head and smiled softly.
“That is it,” she said, hesitating for a moment. “But my husband—you see he is a very strong man, and he loves the world, the whirling life—he took a dislike to this place at once. No wonder, with the house in such a state! But I have plenty of money—it will be easy to restore the house. Only, sometimes I think he cares more for the money than—but no matter what I think. He wishes to go on at once—to-morrow, if we can. I hate the thought of it. Is it possible for me to stay? Can you help me?”
“Dear lady,” he answered, lifting her hand to his lips, “set your mind at rest. I have already told him that it is impossible for you to go for many days. You can arrange to move to the inn to-morrow, and stay there while you direct the putting of your house in order.”
A sound in the hallway announced the return of the Baron and Gaspard with the hot-water bottles and the cognac. The doctor made his patient as comfortable as possible for the night, prepared a sleeping-draught, and gave directions for the use of the tablets in an emergency.
“Good night,” he said, bending over her. “I will see you in the morning. You may count upon me.”
“I do,” she said, with her eyes resting on his; “thank you for all. I shall expect you—au revoir.”
As they went down the stairs he said to the Baron, “Remember, absolute repose is necessary. With that you are safe enough for to-night. But you may possibly need more of the nitrite of amyl. My vial is empty. I will write the prescription, if you will allow me.”
“In the dining-room,” said the Baron, taking up the lamp and throwing open the door of the back room on the right. The floor had been hastily swept and the rubbish shoved into the fireplace. The heavy chairs stood along the wall. But two of them were drawn up at the head of the long mahogany table, and dishes and table utensils from a travelling-basket were lying there, as if a late supper had been served.
“You see,” said the Baron, drawling, “our banquet-hall! Madame and I have dined in this splendour to-night. Is it possible that you write here?”
His secret irritation, his insolence, his contempt spoke clearly enough in his tone. The remark was almost like an intentional insult. For a second Carmichael hesitated. “No,” he thought, “why should I quarrel with him? He is only sullen. He can do no harm.”
He pulled a chair to the foot of the table, took out his tablet and his fountain-pen, and wrote the prescription. Tearing off the leaf, he folded it crosswise and left it on the table.
In the hall, as he put on his coat he remembered the paper.
“My prescription,” he said, “I must take it to the druggist to-night.”
“Permit me,” said the Baron, “the room is dark. I will take the paper, and procure the drug as I return from escorting the doctor to his residence.”
He went into the dark room, groped about for a moment, and returned, closing the door behind him.
“Come, Monsieur,” he said, “your work at the Chateau Gordon is finished for this night. I shall leave you with yourself—at home, as you say—in a few moments. Gaspard—Gaspard, fermez la porte a cle!”
The strong nasal voice echoed through the house, and the servant ran lightly down the stairs. His master muttered a few sentences to him, holding up his right hand as he did so, with the five fingers extended, as if to impress something on the man’s mind.
“Pardon,” he said, turning to Carmichael, “that I speak always French, after the rebuke. But this time it is of necessity. I repeat the instruction for the pilules. One at each hour until eight o’clock—five, not more—it is correct? Come, then, our equipage is always harnessed, always ready, how convenient!”
The two men did not speak as the car rolled through the brumous night. A rising wind was sifting the fog. The moon had set. The loosened leaves came whirling, fluttering, sinking through the darkness like a flight of huge dying moths. Now and then they brushed the faces of the travellers with limp, moist wings.
The red night-lamp in the drug-store was still burning. Carmichael called the other’s attention to it.
“You have the prescription?”
“Without doubt!” he answered. “After I have escorted you, I shall procure the drug.”
The doctor’s front door was lit up as he had left it. The light streamed out rather brightly and illumined the Baron’s sullen black eyes and smiling lips as he leaned from the car, lifting his cap.
“A thousand thanks, my dear doctor, you have been excessively kind; yes, truly of an excessive goodness for us. It is a great pleasure—how do you tell it in English?—it is a great pleasure to have met you. Adieu.”
“Till to-morrow morning!” said Carmichael, cheerfully, waving his hand.
The Baron stared at him curiously, and lifted his cap again.
“Adieu!” droned the insistent voice, and the great car slid into the dark.
IV
The next morning was of crystal. It was after nine when Carmichael drove his electric-phaeton down the leaf-littered street, where the country wagons and the decrepit hacks were already meandering placidly, and out along the highroad, between the still green fields. It seemed to him as if the experience of the past night were “such stuff as dreams are made of.” Yet the impression of what he had seen and heard in that firelit chamber—of the eyes, the voice, the hand of that strangely lovely lady—of her vision of sudden death, her essentially lonely struggle with it, her touching words to him when she came back to life—all this was so vivid and unforgettable that he drove straight to Castle Gordon.
The great house was shut up like a tomb: every door and window was closed, except where half of one of the shutters had broken loose and hung by a single hinge. He drove around to the back. It was the same there. A cobweb was spun across the lower corner of the door and tiny drops of moisture jewelled it. Perhaps it had been made in the early morning. If so, no one had come out of the door since night.
Carmichael knocked, and knocked again. No answer. He called. No reply. Then he drove around to the portico with the tall white pillars and tried the front door. It was locked. He peered through the half-open window into the drawing-room. The glass was crusted with dirt and the room was dark. He was trying to make out the outlines of the huddled furniture when he heard a step behind him. It was the old farmer from the nearest cottage on the road.
“Mornin’,