Chapter II

BARBARA MONKHOUSE COMES HOME

In the intervals of my business at Bury St. Edmunds I gave more than a
passing thought to the man who was lying sick in the house in the quiet
square at Kensington. It was not that I had any very deep feeling for
him as a friend, though I liked him well enough. But the idea had got
into my mind that he had perhaps been treated with something less than
ordinary solicitude; that his illness had been allowed to drift on when
possibly some effective measures might have been taken for his relief.
And as it had never occurred to me to make any suggestions on the matter
or to interest myself particularly in his condition, I was now inclined
to regard myself as a party to the neglect, if there had really been any
culpable failure of attention. I therefore awaited with some anxiety the
letter which Amos had promised to send.

It was not until the morning of my third day at Bury that it arrived;
and when I had opened and read it I found myself even less reassured
than I had expected.

“Dear Mayfield,” it ran. “The consultation took place this
afternoon and the result is, in my opinion, highly
unsatisfactory. Sir Robert is, at present, unable to say
definitely what is the matter with Harold. He states that he
finds the case extremely obscure and reserves his opinion until
the blood-films and other specimens which he took, have been
examined and reported on by an expert pathologist. But on one
point he is perfectly clear. He regards Harold’s condition as
extremely grave—even critical—and he advised me to send a
telegram to Barbara insisting on her immediate return home.
Which I have done; and only hope it may reach her in the course
of the day.

That is all I have to tell you and I think you will agree that
it is not an encouraging report. Medical science must be in a
very backward state if two qualified practitioners—one of them
an eminent physician—cannot between them muster enough
professional knowledge to say what is the matter with a
desperately sick man. However, I hope that we shall have a
diagnosis by the time you come back.

Yours sincerely,
Amos Monkhouse.”

I could not but agree, in the main, that my clerical friend’s rather
gloomy view was justified, though I thought that he was a trifle unfair
to the doctors, especially to Sir Robert. Probably a less scientific
practitioner, who would have given the condition some sort of name,
would have been more satisfying to the parson. Meanwhile, I allowed
myself to build on “the blood-films and other specimens” hopes of a
definite discovery which might point the way to some effective
treatment.

I despatched my business by the following evening and returned to London
by the night train, arriving at my chambers shortly before midnight.
With some eagerness I emptied the letter-cage in the hope of finding a
note from Amos or Barbara; but there was none, although there were one
or two letters from solicitors which required to be dealt with at once.
I read these through and considered their contents while I was
undressing, deciding to get up early and reply to them so that I might
have the forenoon free; and this resolution I carried out so effectively
that by ten o’clock in the morning I had breakfasted, answered and
posted the letters, and was on my way westward in an Inner Circle train.

It was but a few minutes’ walk from South Kensington Station to
Hilborough Square and I covered the short distance more quickly than
usual. Turning into the square, I walked along the pavement on the
garden side, according to my habit, until I was nearly opposite the
house. Then I turned to cross the road and as I did so, looked up at the
house. And at the first glance I stopped short and stared in dismay: for
the blinds were lowered in all the windows. For a couple of seconds I
stood and gazed at this ominous spectacle; then I hurried across the
road and, instinctively avoiding the knocker, gave a gentle pull at the
bell.

The door was opened by the housemaid, who looked at me somewhat
strangely but admitted me without a word and shut the door softly behind
me. I glanced at her set face and asked in a low voice:

“Why are all the blinds down, Mabel?”

“Didn’t you know, Sir?” she replied, almost in a whisper. “It’s the
master—Mr. Monkhouse. He passed away in the night. I found him dead
when I went in this morning to draw up the blinds and give him his early
tea.”

I gazed at the girl in consternation, and after a pause she continued:

“It gave me an awful turn, Sir, for I didn’t see, at first, what had
happened. He was lying just as he usually did, and looked as if he had
gone to sleep, reading. He had a book in his hand, resting on the
counterpane, and I could see that his candle-lamp had burned itself
right out. I put his tea on the bedside table and spoke to him, and when
he didn’t answer I spoke again a little louder. And then I noticed that
he was perfectly still and looked even paler and more yellow than usual
and I began to feel nervous about him. So I touched his hand; and it was
as cold as stone and as stiff as a wooden hand. Then I felt sure he must
be dead and I ran away and told Miss Norris.”

“Miss Norris!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, Sir. Mrs. Monkhouse only got home about an hour ago. She was
fearfully upset when she found she was too late. Miss Norris is with her
now, but I expect she’ll be awfully glad you’ve come. She was asking
where you were. Shall I tell her you are here?”

“If you please, Mabel,” I replied; and as the girl retired up the stairs
with a stealthy, funereal tread, I backed into the open doorway of the
dining room (avoiding the library, in case Wallingford should be there)
where I remained until Mabel returned with a message asking me to go up.

I think I have seldom felt more uncomfortable than I did as I walked
slowly and softly up the stairs. The worst had happened—at least, so I
thought—and we all stood condemned; but Barbara most of all. I tried to
prepare some comforting, condolent phrases, but could think of nothing
but the unexplainable, inexcusable fact that Barbara had of her own
choice and for her own purposes, gone away leaving a sick husband and
had come back to find him dead.

As I entered the pleasant little boudoir—now gloomy enough, with its
lowered blinds—the two women rose from the settee on which they had
been sitting together, and Barbara came forward to meet me, holding out
both her hands.

“Rupert!” she exclaimed, “how good of you! But it is like you to be here
just when we have need of you.” She took both my hands and continued,
looking rather wildly into my face: “Isn’t it an awful thing? Poor, poor
Harold! So patient and uncomplaining! And I so neglectful, so callous! I
shall never, never forgive myself. I have been a selfish, egotistical
brute.”

“We are all to blame,” I said, since I could not honestly dispute her
self-accusations; “and Dr. Dimsdale not the least. Harold has been the
victim of his own patience. Does Amos know?”

“Yes,” answered Madeline, “I sent him a telegram at half-past eight. I
should have sent you one, too, but I didn’t know that you had come
back.”

There followed a slightly awkward silence during which I reflected with
some discomfort on the impending arrival of the dead man’s brother,
which might occur at any moment. It promised to be a somewhat unpleasant
incident, for Amos alone had gauged the gravity of his brother’s
condition, and he was an outspoken man. I only hoped that he would not
be too outspoken.

The almost embarrassing silence was broken by Barbara, who asked in a
low voice: “Will you go and see him, Rupert?” and added: “You know the
way and I expect you would rather go alone.”

I said “yes” as I judged that she did not wish to come with me, and,
walking out of the room, took my way along the corridor to the
well-remembered door, at which I halted for a moment, with an
unreasonable impulse to knock, and then entered. A solemn dimness
pervaded the room, with its lowered blinds, and an unusual silence
seemed to brood over it. But everything was clearly visible in the
faint, diffused light—the furniture, the pictures on the walls, the
book-shelves and the ghostly shape upon the bed, half-revealed through
the sheet which had been laid over it.

Softly, I drew back the sheet, and the vague shape became a man; or
rather, as it seemed, a waxen effigy, with something in its aspect at
once strange and familiar. The features were those of Harold Monkhouse,
but yet the face was not quite the face that I had known. So it has
always seemed to me with the dead. They have their own distinctive
character which belongs to no living man—the physiognomy of death;
impassive, expressionless, immovable; fixed for ever, or at least, until
the changes of the tomb shall obliterate even its semblance of humanity.

I stepped back a pace and looked thoughtfully at the dead man who had
slipped so quietly out of the land of the living. There he lay,
stretched out in an easy, restful posture, just as I had often seen him;
the eyes half-closed and one long, thin arm lying on the counterpane,
the waxen hand lightly grasping the open volume; looking—save for the
stony immobility—as he might if he had fallen asleep over his book. It
was not surprising that the housemaid had been deceived, for the
surroundings all tended to support the illusion. The bedside table with
its pathetic little provisions for a sick man’s needs: the hooded
candle-lamp, drawn to the table-edge and turned to light the book; the
little decanter of brandy, the unused tumbler, the water-bottle, the
watch, still ticking in its upright case, the candle-box, two or three
spare volumes and the handbell for night use; all spoke of illness and
repose with never a hint of death.

There was nothing by which I could judge when he had died. I touched his
arm and found it rigid as an iron bar. So Mabel had found it some hours
earlier, whence I inferred that death had occurred not much past
midnight. But the doctors would be able to form a better opinion, if it
should seem necessary to form any opinion at all. More to the point than
the exact time of death was the exact cause. I recalled the blunt
question that Amos had put to Dr. Dimsdale and the almost indignant tone
in which the latter had put it aside. That was less than a week ago; and
now that question had to be answered in unequivocal terms. I found
myself wondering what the politic and plausible Dimsdale would put on
the death certificate and whether he would seek Sir Robert Detling’s
collaboration in the execution of that document.

I was about to replace the sheet when my ear caught the footsteps of
some one approaching on tip-toe along the corridor. The next moment the
door opened softly and Amos stole into the room. He passed me with a
silent greeting and drew near the bed, beside which he halted with his
hand laid on the dead hand and his eyes fixed gloomily on the
yellowish-white, impassive face. He spoke no word, nor did I presume to
disturb this solemn meeting and farewell, but silently slipped out into
the corridor where I waited for him to come out.

Two or three minutes passed, during which I heard him, once or twice,
moving softly about the room and judged that he was examining the
surroundings amidst which his brother had passed the last few weeks of
his life. Presently he came out, closing the door noiselessly behind
him, and joined me opposite the window. I looked a little nervously into
the stern, grief-stricken face, and as he did not speak, I said, lamely
enough:

“This is a grievous and terrible thing, Mr. Monkhouse.” He shook his
head gravely. “Grievous indeed; and the more so if one suspects, as I
do, that it need not have happened. However, he is gone and
recriminations will not bring him back.”

“No,” I agreed, profoundly relieved and a little surprised at his tone;
“whatever we may feel or think, reproaches and bitter words will bring
no remedy. Have you seen Barbara?”

“No; and I think I won’t—this morning. In a day or two, I hope I shall
be able to meet and speak to her as a Christian man should. To-day I am
not sure of myself. You will let me know what arrangements are made
about the funeral?”

I promised that I would, and walked with him to the head of the stairs,
and when I had watched him descend and heard the street door close, I
went back to Barbara’s little sitting-room.

I found her alone, and, when I entered she was standing before a
miniature that hung on the wall. She looked round as I entered and I saw
that she still looked rather dazed and strange. Her eyes were red, as if
she had been weeping but they were now tearless, and she seemed calmer
than when I had first seen her. I went to her side, and for a few
moments we stood silently regarding the smiling, girlish face that
looked out at us from the miniature. It was that of Barbara’s
step-sister, a very sweet, loveable girl, little more than a child, who
had died some four years previously, and who, I had sometimes thought,
was the only human creature for whom Barbara had felt a really deep
affection. The miniature had been painted from a photograph after her
death and a narrow plait of her gorgeous, red-gold hair had been carried
round inside the frame.

“Poor little Stella!” Barbara murmured. “I have been asking myself if I
neglected her, too. I often left her for days at a time.”

“You mustn’t be morbid, Barbara,” I said. “The poor child was very well
looked after and as happy as she could be made. And nobody could have
done any more for her. Rapid consumption is beyond the resources of
medical science at present.”

“Yes, unfortunately.” She was silent for a while. Then she said: “I
wonder if anything could have been done for Harold. Do you think it
possible that he might have been saved?”

“I know of no reason for thinking so, and now that he is gone I see no
use in raising the question.”

She drew closer to me and slipped her hand into mine.

“You will be with us as much as you can, Rupert, won’t you? We always
look to you in trouble or difficulty, and you have never failed us. Even
now you don’t condemn me, whatever you may think.”

“No, I blame myself for not being more alert, though it was really
Dimsdale who misled us all. Has Madeline gone to the school?”

“Yes. She had to give a lecture or demonstration, but I hope she will
manage to get a day or two off duty. I don’t want to be left alone with
poor Tony. It sounds unkind to say so, for no one could be more devoted
to me than he is. But he is so terribly high-strung. Just now, he is in
an almost hysterical state. I suppose you haven’t seen him this
morning?”

“No. I came straight up to you.” I had, in fact, kept out of his way,
for, to speak the truth, I did not much care for Anthony Wallingford. He
was of a type that I dislike rather intensely; nervous, high-strung,
emotional and in an incessant state of purposeless bustle. I did not
like his appearance, his manners or his dress. I resented the abject
fawning way in which he followed Barbara about, and I disapproved of his
position in this house; which was nominally that of secretary to
Barbara’s husband, but actually that of tame cat and generally useless
hanger-on. I think I was on the point of making some disparaging
comments on him, but at that moment there came a gentle tap at the door
and the subject of my thoughts entered.

I was rather sorry that Barbara was still holding my hand. Of course,
the circumstances were very exceptional, but I have an Englishman’s
dislike of emotional demonstrations in the presence of third parties.
Nevertheless, Wallingford’s behaviour filled me with amazed resentment.
He stopped short with a face black as thunder, and, after a brief,
insolent stare, muttered that he “was afraid he was intruding” and
walked out of the room, closing the door sharply after him.

Barbara flushed (and I daresay I did, too), but made no outward sign of
annoyance. “You see what I mean,” she said. “The poor fellow is quite
unstrung. He is an added anxiety instead of a help.”

“I see that plainly enough,” I replied, “but I don’t see why he is
unstrung, or why an unstrung man should behave like an ill-mannered
child. At any rate, he will have to pull himself together. There is a
good deal to be done and he will have to do some of it. I may assume, I
suppose, that it will be his duty to carry out the instructions of the
executors?”

“I suppose so. But you know more about such things than I do.”

“Then I had better go down and explain the position to him and set him
to work. Presently I must call on Mr. Brodribb, the other executor, and
let him know what has happened. But meanwhile there are certain things
which have to be done at once. You understand?”

“Yes, indeed. You mean arrangements for the funeral. How horrible it
sounds! I can’t realize it yet. It is all so shocking and so sudden and
unlooked-for. It seems like some dreadful dream.”

“Well, Barbara,” I said gently, “you shan’t be troubled more than is
unavoidable. I will see to all the domestic affairs and leave the legal
business to Brodribb. But I shall want Wallingford’s help, and I think I
had better go down and see him now.”

“Very well, Rupert,” she replied with a sigh. “I shall lean on you now
as I always have done in times of trouble and difficulty, and you must
try to imagine how grateful I am since I can find no words to tell you.”

She pressed my hand and released me, and I took my way down to the
library with a strong distaste for my mission.

That distaste was not lessened when I opened the door and was met by a
reek of cigarette smoke. Wallingford was sitting huddled up in an easy
chair, but as I entered, he sprang to his feet and stood facing me with
a sort of hostile apprehensiveness. The man was certainly unstrung; in
fact he was on wires. His pale, haggard face twitched, his hands
trembled visibly and his limbs were in constant, fidgety movement. But,
to me, there seemed to be no mystery about his condition. The deep
yellow stains on his fingers, the reek in the air and a pile of
cigarette-ends in an ash-bowl were enough to account for a good deal of
nervous derangement, even if there were nothing more—no drugs or drink.

I opened the business quietly, explaining what had to be done and what
help I should require from him. At first he showed a tendency to dispute
my authority and treat me as an outsider, but I soon made the position
and powers of an executor clear to him. When I had brought him to heel I
gave him a set of written instructions the following-out of which would
keep him fairly busy for the rest of the day; and having set the dismal
preparations going, I went forth from the house of mourning and took my
way to New Square, Lincoln’s Inn, where were the offices of Mr.
Brodribb, the family solicitor and my co-executor.