"I have not been able to get a look at him," Carlton said. "He keeps very much to himself. But even if I had seen him I might not know him; there are such things as disguises. I do not really believe this man is Bagshot.
He probably is not. But I learned a few days ago, from my informants in London, that Bagshot is not to be seen in his usual haunts, and that he is rumored to have left the city."
"Days ago! Why didn't you tell me?"
Carlton shrugged. "You would not believe my reasons," he said enigmatically. "I am telling you now only because I am going away and you will have to watch out for yourself."
"But it is so vague," Marianne said obstinately. "I cannot imagine that he would have the audacity to come here, even in disguise. You are starting at shadows, Mr. Carlton… and the sun is shining."
"If you take that attitude I will be forced to tell you another fact I had meant to keep from you, because of its distressing nature. I have found Maggie."
Marianne clapped her hands with joy. "You have found her! Oh, how cruel of you not to…" Carlton's grim look gave her a hint of the truth. She caught her breath. "She is dead. Oh, good heavens, is that it?"
"Not dead, no; but she was badly beaten and left for dead. Precisely when the attack happened is uncertain; but she finally managed to reach the man she had mentioned to you, old Harry. A scavenger and ragpicker by trade. He took her in and did his best for her, but when my people found her she was delirious and sinking fast. She is now receiving the finest care," he added quickly, seeing Marianne's stricken face. "Her prospects are good, Marianne, indeed they are. Such women are tough. They must be, to survive the lives they are forced to lead."
Marianne covered her face with her hands. "I cannot bear it," she sobbed. "It was on my account, I know it was; it is all my fault."
Carlton took a quick, impulsive step toward her, his hands extended; but caught himself before he actually touched her. When Marianne took her hands from her face he was standing several feet away, his pocket handkerchief held out. She took it, sniffling, and Carlton said composedly, "You are leaping to unwarranted conclusions. We do not know that it was Bagshot who instigated the attack; in that section of London there are men who would murder for a few coins. I assure you, Maggie is in good hands. You had better think of yourself. Will you give me that promise now?"
Marianne nodded submissively. She mopped her wet forehead with the handkerchief.
"Good. Let us go in now. I will return as soon as I possibly can. Take sensible precautions, but don't let your fears get the better of you."
Marianne might not have been able to follow this excellent advice; but the rest of the day was so busy, it left her little time for moping. In spite of the remonstrances of Dr. Gruffstone, the Duchess decided she had been in bed long enough. Marianne found her up and dressed and declaring her intention of returning to her duties.
Precisely what those duties were Marianne could not make out at first, though she was kept fully occupied in assisting them. The Duchess spent hours at her desk writing and sorting through papers. She also instigated what appeared to be a limited and belated kind of fall housecleaning; the maids were required to turn out her wardrobes and her dresser drawers, and under her crisp orders the various garments were sorted into piles, some of which were returned to their places, while others were packed into boxes and carried away.
Not until this last activity was in progress did Marianne guess at a possible explanation; and she felt a chill of foreboding. The Duchess seemed composed, even happy; she hummed quietly to herself as she wrote letters and lists. But Marianne thought the delicate white hands had a new transparency, and the face an unearthly look of peace.
Late that afternoon Marianne returned to the boudoir after looking in the library for a book the Duchess had requested – a book of sermons. This in itself meant nothing; the Duchess often read devotional works, both spiritualist and conventional. But when Marianne entered the dainty sitting room she found her friend reclining on a chaise longue sorting through the contents of a velvet case. She held up one piece of jewelry after another; the lamplight shone upon the sullen blood-red of garnets, the limpid glow of moonstone and opal, the variegated blues of aquamarines, sapphires, and Persian turquoise.
"Do sit down, my dear," the Duchess said, indicating a nearby chair. "How tired you must be, after running my errands all day long. And on such a fine day, too, when you must have longed to be out."
"I had a nice brisk run this morning," Marianne replied. "Besides, after all you have done for me, I am only too happy to be able to help, even in such small ways." The Duchess held up a gold chain hung with dangling multicolored gems, and Marianne exclaimed involuntarily, "Oh, how pretty!"
"It is only an inexpensive trinket; the stones are citrines and amethysts and other semiprecious gems. Like most of the pieces in this case, it is a personal memento of mine. The valuable family jewels are in the bank in London. Do you really like it? Take it, then."
She handed it to the girl, whose hand moved automatically to receive it, and continued to sort through the other ornaments, inquiring calmly, "What else would you care to have? These garnets are pretty, but perhaps they are too somber for a young girl. Ah, this is what I was searching for."
The jewel was a ring shaped like two small golden hands, the fingers curved around a central aquamarine. To Marianne its deep-blue color and sparkling clarity were prettier than many of the more valuable stones.
"Just the color of your eyes," the Duchess said with a smile. "No" – for Marianne, confused and apprehensive, tried to hand it back – "I want you to have that now. And any of the others that appeal to you."
The stress on the word "now" had been unmistakable. Marianne's eyes filled with tears.
"Please don't speak as if…" She could not finish the sentence.
"Now your eyes are as bright as the stone," the Duchess said, with a little laugh.
"My dear child, don't be distressed; I am not being morbid. I am merely facing a fact I have refused to face before. We are all immortal; but none of us remains on this plane forever. The ring is not valuable, but I know you will cherish it as a memento. And who knows? I may see you wear it for many years yet."
"God grant that it may be so," Marianne exclaimed.
"Now there is one more little task you can perform for me, and then we will take a well-deserved rest. I want a list of all these trinkets. Suppose I give you the description and you write it down for me."
Marianne's fingers were willing; but her heart was heavy as she made out the list in her very best handwriting. There was no longer any doubt about the Duchess's state of mind. She had accepted the imminence of death and was disposing of her worldly possessions.
And why, Marianne wondered, should the idea of receiving a few of these treasures repel her? She had complacently accepted expensive clothes and pretty ornaments, and the attentions of servants; she had enjoyed borrowed luxuries as if they were her own. Ah, but that was the point – she had never really thought of these things as hers by right. They were only lent to her, and in her heart she had known that one day they would vanish, as fairy gold turns to dust when the spell is wound up. Besides, she was no longer the careless, selfish child who had arrived in London. Since then she had experienced the most profound human emotions – terror and love, gratitude and pity. She had grown up – and she almost wished she could have remained a child forever.
Finally the list was finished and the Duchess dismissed her.
"Put on your prettiest dress," she instructed. "Then you may come back and sit with me while I dress. I am dining downstairs tonight. I wish to enjoy the company of my dear friends as much as possible."
Marianne managed to get outside the door before she broke down. Leaning against the wall she wept silently, wiping her eyes with her fingers. She knew she should not be distressed; the spectacle of a Christian preparing tranquilly for the long-awaited meeting with her Saviour and God ought to have been edifying. Marianne b
elieved in the immortality of the soul. Why, then, should she feel so sad?
Lost in her illogical but overwhelming grief, she did not hear the soft footsteps approaching till they were almost upon her.
Turning, with a choked gasp, she saw Victor standing a little distance away. The lamps in the hall had not yet been lighted and the air was shadowy with twilight; she could not make out his features. But when he spoke his voice left no doubt as to his state of mind.
"So you spoke to the old besom after all, and I've lost me position. I'll be getting no references, after what you said; what the devil will become of me now?"
Marianne knew the Duchess had seen Victor that day, but he had been only one of a number of servants and dependents who had come and gone on various errands. Until now she had not known why he had been sent for.
"I said nothing," she protested.
"Indeed! I'll not be taking your word for that."
"I don't care whether you believe me or not. Your drunkenness and incompetence have led to your dismissal, and it serves you right! Now let me pass."
He came so close that she could see his face, set in an ugly sneer. She had never felt any real fear of this contemptible creature and she was not afraid now; but she was glad to see a light approach, for she was not anxious for any further unpleasantness.
"The maids are coming to light the lamps," she said. "You had better take yourself off before you get into more trouble."
With a muttered Celtic curse Victor pushed past her and walked away. Marianne went into her room. The meeting had annoyed but not alarmed her; she was unable to regard Victor's veiled threats with any stronger emotion than contempt. Furthermore, the solemn knowledge that had come upon her left no room in her heart for transitory fears. All her thoughts were now bent on the great Mystery – and on what she could do to prevent its happening. She considered some such action as Carlton had suggested, though she could not believe he had been serious about the idea of fabricating a message from David Holmes. Thank heaven Carlton would be back before the fateful day. Perhaps together they could invent some scheme.
With Annie's reluctant assistance she made an elaborate toilette. Since the most recent manifestations the maid had reverted to her original wide-eyed terror of Marianne, and the latter had given up trying to soothe her. After dressing she looked into the mirror only long enough to make sure she had been able to manufacture a cheerful expression. Then she went next door.
The Duchess was seated at her dressing table while Rose tried to arrange her hair. The poor woman's hands trembled so much they had lost their usual skill, and her face was swollen with weeping. So, Marianne thought sympathetically, she too understands the meaning of what has happened today.
"There you are," the Duchess exclaimed, catching sight of Marianne's reflection. "Just in time, too. Rose is pulling the hairs out of my head, she is so clumsy tonight. Would you replace her?"
"With pleasure," Marianne replied. "Rose, you look unwell. Why don't you go and rest?"
This kindly offer was received with a look of unconcealed hatred. Putting her apron to her eyes, Rose stumbled out of the room.
"Ridiculous woman," the Duchess said, as Marianne began to brush her white locks.
"She is jealous of me, I think. And she has had a bad shock, you know."
"So have you. It is amazing how shocked people are when the things they have always believed to be true actually happen. Rose knows her Bible, she is devout; but when she sees evidence of the survival of the spirit she loses her wits. Ah, that feels splendid. How gentle your touch is."
They went downstairs together to find the others waiting. Even Lady Violet was present, dressed in her usual gray, a lace veil covering her pretty hair and shadowing her face. The evening was not a success, despite the doctor's spasmodic attempts at cheerful conversation; in between his comments his face would sag like that of a sad old bloodhound.
After dinner, at the Duchess's request, Marianne went to the piano. The music soothed her, and it seemed to comfort the Duchess, who listened with a dreamy smile. Lady Annabelle did not stay long. Remarking that music always made Horace the cat start to howl, she departed, carrying the said animal, who did indeed give Marianne a pained stare in passing.
The night and the next day were a repetition of the nights and days that had gone before – quiet sleep, hours of sorting and making lists. By midafternoon the Duchess had finished her self-appointed tasks and declared she intended to rest awhile.
"My dear Marianne, run out and enjoy the sunshine," she said. "We will not have many more such days before winter comes; make the most of them. Only, if you ride, do take one of the grooms so you don't risk getting lost. That selfish Roger and his mysterious business! I am really vexed with him for being away just now."
Marianne was sorely tempted to follow the suggestion. She went to the rose parlor which overlooked the garden, and stood at the window looking wistfully out. All the roses were brown and withered now, and most of the trees were bare. The clear light and wide blue skies drew her, but she had promised Carlton not to go out; and, although she was sure his fears were groundless, she would not violate her word. Feeling very sorry for herself, she went to the music room and practiced for an hour on some of the pieces she most disliked.
Upon leaving the room she was surprised and annoyed to see Victor standing by the stairs, apparently intent on the design of a handsome Ming vase that stood on a table there. She would rather not have seen him, but she had no intention of going out of her way to avoid him, so she advanced resolutely toward the stairs. Victor looked up.
"Ah, Miss Ransom. You don't ride today?"
"No."
"But the weather is tres beau, n'est pas? What a pity to stay indoors."
Marianne did not reply. She ascended the stairs without looking back. She sensed that he continued to stand there watching her, and she had an equally strong impression that if she had turned she would have found that his obsequious smile had changed into an expression more indicative of his real feelings.
She was sufficiently upset by the encounter and by Victor's belated attempt to ingratiate himself to ask the Duchess how much longer the tutor would be with them.
"Only until I can find a replacement," was the reply. "I have written to friends in Edinburgh asking for recommendations and with luck I shall begin interviewing applicants this week. Why do you ask? The man has not bothered you, I hope?"
The serenity of her tone showed how far this possibility was from her mind. Marianne saw no reason to disabuse her. "I was only wondering," she said; and so the subject passed.
Another uneasy evening followed. The party broke up early. As Marianne was leaving, the doctor asked for a private word with her.
"I am sorry to keep you from your rest," he said formally, closing the parlor door. "I assure you I will not keep you long."
"Indeed, you need not apologize. I have been so anxious to talk to you! Only, I did not want to intrude."
The doctor smiled sadly. "You understand what is happening, don't you? You are fond of her too, I daresay."
"I love her," Marianne said simply. "It breaks my heart to see her accepting – nay, embracing…"
"Death. Strange, how hard it is for us to pronounce the word. Or perhaps not so strange, since we fear the actuality so much. I am afraid that in my own grief I have been selfish. I ought to have talked with you earlier. The position is difficult for you."
"Is there nothing we can do? Mr. Carlton suggested -"
The doctor's eyes flashed. "Carlton! Where is he, when I need him? He went off without so much as a word or a by-your-leave; most heartless and inconsiderate of him! Any suggestion of his would be absolute balderdash… But now you had better go to bed. You are very tired, I see."
Marianne put her hand to her head. "I do feel dizzy."
"Small wonder. Your nerves are under a great strain. We will talk again – tomorrow, perhaps. It will comfort both of us, I think."
He patted
her hand. So natural was the gesture that Marianne could not even remember when he had taken her hand in his.
"Sleep well," he said softly. "Sleep well and soundly."
Marianne was so tired she had to drag herself upstairs. She got ready for bed without bothering to summon Annie, tucking her hair helter-skelter under her nightcap and kicking her slippers carelessly into the corner. As she reached for the candle, to snuff it, the light caught the gem on her finger and set it into a blue blaze. The ring fit her perfectly. She decided she would never take it off. It would always be a reminder of the dear friend who had given it to her.
Perhaps it was the thought of one kind elderly lady that recalled Mrs. Jay to her mind, with such vividness that she actually turned, half expecting to see the familiar, black-gowned form sitting in the armchair by the fire. The chair was, of course, empty. Marianne rubbed her eyes. She was becoming fanciful. Small wonder, as the doctor might have said.
She was about to get into bed when she remembered she had not locked the door. Foolish it might be, but she was determined to neglect no precaution, though she was now so weary she could barely force her limbs to walk to the door and back. She left one candle burning. Scarcely had her nightcap touched the pillow than she was asleep.
Deep in the grasp of nightmare, Marianne moaned and turned, flinging her arm free of the bedclothes. It was the same dream that had haunted her before: the eerie dream landscape, dim with fog, the jeering, hating faces. But this time Mrs. Jay did not scream curses at her. Marianne seemed to see her leaning against a column of rough dark stone whose top faded into the lowering mist. Her face was so thin and drawn the girl scarcely recognized it, and she wrung her gnarled hands. Her lips parted; but instead of the well-known, incisive tones Marianne heard a hollow, distant wailing, in which only a few words were audible. "Danger… care… beware…"
The mist curdled and lifted and Marianne saw that the support against which her old friend leaned was not a column but a cross, and that the tormented figure it bore was a living man, twisted in agony, the dark blood streaming from His pierced hands and feet.
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