CHAPTER IX
THE SLIDING PANEL
The silence remained unbroken for some seconds. Then he asked-
"Well, what do you think of her now?"
"I think she's pretty, as I said. You may think her beautiful. I daresay plenty of men would; that sort of thing's a question of taste. I tell you what I do think beautiful-that's these diamonds. The sapphires and the pearls are all very well, but the diamonds are the stones for me."
"You would think that. You're the sort of woman who'd admire a gaudy frame, and have no eyes for the picture that was in it. If you like I'll tell you who she is and all about her. It may seem like sacrilege to talk of her to you, but I think I'll tell you all the same."
"Tell away. I suppose it's the old, old story: she met some one she fancied more than you. Men always do think that sort of thing is wonderful. But I don't mind listening."
"Yes, there was some one she liked better than me. That was the trouble."
"It generally is, while it lasts; then it turns out to be a blessing. But, of course, you've never had the chance."
"As you say, I've never had the chance. Her name-I won't tell you her name-though why shouldn't I? Her name is Margaret Wallace."
"Scotch, is she?"
"Her father was Scotch, her mother English. He was my dearest friend. When he died-"
"He left his only daughter, then a mere child, and that was all."
"That was all, and as you say she was a mere child. You seem to have had some experiences of your own."
"One or two. I'm more than seven."
"So I should imagine."
"You took her to your own home, found her in food and washing, and pocket-money now and then. As she grew older her wondrous beauty and her many virtues-especially the first lot-warmed your withered heart. When she attained to womanhood you breathed to her the secret of your passion, which she had spotted about eighteen years before; but as she didn't happen to be taking any, of course the band began to play. Isn't that the sort of story you were going to tell, only I daresay you wouldn't have told it in quite that way?"
"I certainly shouldn't have told it in quite that way."
"You had expended on her two hundred and forty-nine pounds nineteen and sixpence ha'penny, besides any amount of fuss, so her ingratitude stung you to the marrow. Still you might have borne with her; you might not even have altered the will which you had made in her favour, and which you kept shaking in her face; only when she took up with another chap she seemed to be coming it a bit too thick. You cried in your anger, 'I'll make you smart for this, my beauty!' So you started to make her smart; but it seems to me that you've done most of the smarting up to now. Was it her cruelty which made you the pretty sight you are?"
"Not altogether."
"Not altogether! You don't mean to say that when you wanted her to be your wife you were anything like what you are now? A nice kind of love yours must have been!"
"I appear to have acquired a really delightful wife."
"If you weren't a dead log it might be that you'd find out how true that was. Any man with a touch of spice in him would give the eyes out of his head for a wife like me, and there have been plenty who were ready to do it."
"As you yourself observed, these things are a question of taste. So you think she was justified in treating me as she did?"
"Justified for not wanting to marry a thing like you! You ought to have been drowned for hinting at it."
"I am myself beginning to think that your point of view may not be wholly incorrect, and that, therefore, it was fortunate that I did not die on the night we were married."
"I don't."
"You wouldn't-you have, of course, your own point of view. From mine it is fortunate that I have been spared to enable me to make another will."
"How are you going to make a will, when you can't move so much as a finger?"
"I can have one drawn up according to my instructions. You will find that I'm capable of signing it. Would you have any objection?"
"It would depend on what there was in it."
"I see. May I ask if you are under the impression that if I die without a will-even supposing our marriage is valid-"
"It's valid enough, don't you be afraid."
"I'm not afraid; you, I fancy, have the cause to fear. But I say, supposing our marriage is a marriage-as to which I say nothing either one way or the other-if I die intestate do you imagine that you will necessarily come into possession of all I have?"
"Have you any relatives?"
"Not one in the whole wide world."
"Then you bet I shall."
"You may bet you won't."
"Who's got more right to what you leave behind than your lawful wife?"
"It depends. Under no circumstances would you inherit more than half of my personal property, and a third of my real estate; the rest would go to the Crown."
"Half's something! Look here, Dr. Twelves told me that if I married you I should have twenty thousand pounds. Have you got as much?"
There was an interval before an answer came. Possibly the man in the bed was considering what answer he should make to such a very leading question.
"I cannot tell you exactly what I have got, but I may safely venture to assert this much: If all I possess-land, houses, shares and so on-were to be turned into cash to-morrow, I should find myself with at least two hundred thousand pounds."
"Two hundred thousand pounds! Go on!"
"This is a curious world, and Fortune is a curious jade; she bestows her gifts with feminine irresponsibility. She gives one health and strength and youth-and empty pockets-just when he could get enjoyment out of full ones. To another, crippled limbs, physical helplessness, premature old age-and pockets brimming over-just when money is of as little use to him as pictures to the blind. I have been denied most things except fortune. Sounds ironical, doesn't it? As with Midas, everything I have touched has turned to gold-in my case a thing wholly worthless. I never made a bad money speculation in my life. I doubt if I ever made an investment which did not pay me ten per cent. Some of my investments have paid me forty and fifty per cent, for years, and are worth ten times what I gave for them. I wasn't worth twenty thousand pounds when I began life; now, to adopt your phraseology, I'll bet I'm worth more than a quarter of a million."
"And yet you live in a place like this, without a horse in the stable, and the garden like a wilderness!"
"Why shouldn't I? Where would you have me live? In a castle? with an array of servants who would take my money and from whom I should have to hide. A well-bred servant wouldn't be able to endure the sight of such an object as I am. All I need is a bed to lie on, some one to put food between my lips, money to pay for it. Since here I have those things, here I have all I need. Besides, you should bear in mind that, as nothing is being spent, there will be all the more to leave behind."
She was silent; her face turned towards the open window, the miniature in its jewelled case still in her hand. His words had fired her imagination. A quarter of a million! – this man worth a quarter of a million! – and he supposed himself to be her husband! Not long ago she had told herself that a certain and clear five pounds a week earned by singing and dancing at the minor music halls would be her idea of fortune. She had married that deceitful humbug, Gregory Lamb, because she believed that he might possibly have as much as a thousand a year. What was a thousand a year compared to a quarter of a million! If he died without a will half of it would be hers, or was it a third? Why shouldn't she have more than that? If he had no relatives to make a fuss, why shouldn't she have it all?
Even as she asked herself the question an answer came to her dimly, yet with sufficient clearness to start her trembling. It was born of an idea which would have disposed most women to do more than tremble. Her breath came faster; her eyes brightened; something like a smile wrinkled her lips; the vista presented to her imagination, which would have appalled most persons, titillated her.
After a while she asked, without turning her head-
"If you were to make a will, what would you put in it?"
"I'll show you."
"When?"
"Now. There's a secret hiding-place in this room. If you tried do you think that you could find it?"
"I'd find it fast enough."
"Then find it."
"What sort of place is it?"
"That's asking for assistance. I'll give you this much. It's in the wall, concealed by a panel of wood. Now I've given you the scent, follow it to a finish-if you can."
"In a room like this there might be fifty hiding-places."
"There might."
"It would take days to examine it thoroughly; however long it might take me I'd find it. I'd strip the walls of everything before I'd give it up."
"I don't think you need go so far as that just yet. Look round; you've hawk's eyes; I've given you a hint; can't you make a likely guess, like the sharp-witted child who is playing hide-and-seek?"
Isabel's glances were travelling round the room searchingly, resting here and there, allowing nothing to escape them. When they had traversed the whole apartment from floor to ceiling in one direction they returned in another.
"You are not tricking me? There really is a secret hiding-place?"
"There really is."
"And you say it's behind a panel in the wall?"
"That's it."
Her eyes in their return journey had reached the great wooden fireplace. Although she did not know it, it was a fine specimen of old carving. What she did notice were the rounded posts which served as pillars. There were four, two longer and two shorter, each supporting a shelf on which there were ornaments. She wondered if the posts would turn. Probably something recurred to her mind which she had read about a movable post, though she could not have said just what it was or where she had read it. She had a notion that she would try if the posts in the fireplace turned, when she was stopped by a remark which came from the man in the bed.
"You're looking in the wrong place; so as I don't want your search to occupy you days, I'll tell you where it is." Even as he spoke it struck her-rather as a vague suspicion than anything else-that he did not want her to pay too much attention to the fireplace. She waited for him to continue, which he did at once. "You see the bracket in the corner on my left. Go to it. Take down the vase which stands upon it, then lift the bracket out of its socket." She did as he told her. "You see the boss just at the top of the socket. That releases the catch. Press it, then slide upwards that part of the panel which is immediately at your right."
Again she followed his directions. A portion of the woodwork, three or four inches wide, and about a foot in length, yielding to her touch, disclosed an open space behind.
"There's an envelope in it, a blue envelope; take it out."
There was an envelope, apparently nothing else. On the front was an inscription, whose crabbed characters had apparently been written by a feminine hand. "This envelope contains Cuthbert Grahame's will, and is not to be opened till after his death." The two flaps at the back were secured by big red seals.
"Never mind what it says. I'm Cuthbert Grahame, and I tell you to open the envelope, although I don't happen to be dead. Take out the paper which you'll find inside. Read it; you can read it aloud if you like."
She read it aloud. The handwriting was identical with the cramped caligraphy on the envelope.
"'I give and bequeath all the property of which I die possessed, both in real and personal estate, to Margaret Wallace, absolutely, for her sole use and benefit. – CUTHBERT GRAHAME. Witnesses, NANNIE FORESHAW, DAVID TWELVES, M.D., Edin.'"
With the exception of a date at the top that was all the paper contained.
"That is the will you broke by marrying me, or, if you prefer it, which I broke by marrying you. There isn't much to be said for the phraseology-it wasn't drafted in a lawyer's office. Nannie wrote it down to my dictation-at that table over by the window there. She doesn't write a very excellent fist, but it'll serve. That's as sound a will as if it had been drawn by a council of lawyers, and, to the lay mind, a good deal plainer than they'd have made it."
"Do you mean to say that what's on this paper is enough to put Margaret Wallace into undisputed possession of a quarter of a million of money?"
"It would have been if I hadn't married you; my marriage has made it so much waste-paper. You may tear it up, or keep it if you please; it makes no difference. I intend to make another will."
"What are you going to put in it?"
"Exactly what's in that, only the date will be different. It's the date in that which renders it nugatory."
"Aren't you going to leave me anything?"
"Why should I?"
"Dr. Twelves told me that if I married you I should have twenty thousand pounds."
"I'm not responsible for what Dr. Twelves may assert."
"You are-in a way, and you know it. Because he only brought me up so that you might die in peace, and, I expect, at your own express command."
Mr. Grahame was silent, possibly considering her words.
"A cheque for a hundred pounds would amply repay you for what you've done-or I might make it a hundred guineas."
"A hundred guineas! Listen to me-you're my husband."
"You've observed that on some previous occasion."
"And I'm your wife."
"That also has already become ancient history."
"I want you to understand just the way in which I see it. I'm the mistress of this house, and no one sets foot in it-or in your room-without my express sanction and approval."
"Won't any one? We shall see."
"We shall see! I'll write you just the will you want, as Nannie did, if you'll let me add a sentence leaving me-say, five thousand pounds. It ought to be more-twenty thousand was what Dr. Twelves promised-and you can make it as much more as you like, but I'll do it if you make it that." As, when she stopped, he was silent, she again went on: "If you don't let me add such a sentence you shall make no will at all-as sure as I'm alive I swear you shan't. I'll have my bed brought in here to stop you doing it at night-you may trust me to take care you don't do it by day. As your wife I've my rights, and you're a helpless man. I mean to take advantage of my rights-to the fullest possible extent! – and of your helplessness. You ought to know by now that in such a matter I'm the sort of woman that keeps her word."
"I have a sort of notion that you might do your best in that direction-from what I've seen-and heard-of you."
"You can bet on it!"
"Let me follow you clearly. Am I to understand that you will draw up yourself a will identical in all respects with the one you have in your hand, if I allow you to add an additional clause by which you are to benefit to the extent of five thousand pounds?"
"That's what you're to understand-just that."
"And that you'll assist me to sign it in the presence of two witnesses?"
"I'll assist you all I can."
"I'll think it over. Five thousand pounds is a deal of money for what you've done, and for the sort of woman you are; but-I'll think it over. When would you do it?"
"If you say the word I'll do it right now."
There was a considerable pause, then he repeated his former observation: -
"I'll think it over." After a pause he added: "Put back that miniature underneath my pillow-this time gently, if you please. Close the panel; replace the bracket and the vase. You may take the will with you if you like, so that you may get it well into your head. I'm tired-I've talked enough. I want to be still-and think."
CHAPTER X
THE GIRL AT THE DOOR
When Isabel left Cuthbert Grahame's room her brain was in a tumult. She had so much of which to think that she found it hard to think at all. The discovery that his wealth was so altogether beyond anything of which she had dreamed as possible; the unearthing of his will-from such a hiding-place; the facts she had learned of Margaret Wallace, and which she had herself embroidered-these things were in themselves enough to occupy her mind to its full capacity for some time to come. Yet they were far from being all she had to think about. The miniature, in its jewelled setting-especially the jeweled setting! – was likely to be a subject of covetous contemplation until-well, until something had happened to it, or to her. Then there were the pillars in the fireplace. Something-she could not have told what-had filled her with the conviction that the recess behind the sliding panel was not the only hiding-place the room contained. She was possessed by a desire to examine those four rounded posts-to examine them closely-to ascertain whether in their construction there was anything peculiar.
But beyond and above all these sufficient causes for mental agitation there was still another, one far greater-the will she might have to draft, which she felt certain she would be asked to draft. The idea which she had at the back of her head, which had prompted her suggestion, was of such a character that it almost frightened her. Like Cuthbert Grahame, she wanted time and opportunity for thought. She had it in contemplation to risk everything upon the hazard of a single throw-everything, in the widest sense of that comprehensive word. To put her notion into execution needed courage of a diabolical kind. Failure involved utter and eternal ruin. Success, on the other hand, would bring in its train all the pleasures of which she had scarcely dared to dream.
On her return from her walk, having learned that Gregory Lamb had not put in the appearance she had feared, she had sent the two maids on an errand. They were raw, country wenches, ignorant, slow-witted. It seemed hardly likely that, under any circumstances, she would find them dangerous, yet she was strongly of opinion that it was advisable, if, as was possible, the deserted Gregory did call, that she should be the person to receive him. Nannie was still confined to her room, so that Isabel had but to be rid of the underlings to have practically the whole house at her mercy.
It has been said that small things make great generals, since it is the eye for trivial details which wins big battles. The little act of foresight which prompted Isabel Lamb to clear the premises of that pair of Scotch wenches not impossibly changed the whole course of her life-not because what she had foreseen happened; what actually occurred she had not even looked for.
The dining-room had a large bay window which commanded the path leading to the front door. As she stood there, with her brain in a state of almost chaotic confusion, something caught her eye-a figure on the carriage drive. It was still at some distance; it disappeared nearly as soon as she saw it. She kept her glance fixed on its vanishing point. As for some moments nothing was visible, she was beginning to suppose that she must have been mistaken, when she saw it again. It was still to a great extent hidden by the trees and brushwood, but it certainly was there. Isabel instinctively drew back, although in any case she must have been entirely invisible. Instantly her brain became clear. The perception of approaching danger, which had on her the effect of bracing her up, restored to her at once the full use of her faculties.
"Is it Gregory?" she asked herself.
If it had been he would have had a warm reception. But it was not, as was immediately made clear. The figure was that of a woman-reaching a point where the ground was clearer, she could be plainly seen. She was walking very fast, with long, even strides.
"Who is it?" the woman at the window asked herself. "It can't be one of the girls-they won't be back for a couple of hours or more. I know them! Besides, they don't move like that. Nothing feminine's been near the place since I've been in it. So far as I know, there's nothing feminine hereabouts to come. As for callers, we don't have them. What's likely to attract a woman to a house like this? Why, I do believe it's a lady-that dress was never made in this parish. And-she's young! Where on earth have I seen her before? I have seen her, but where? My stars! – the miniature! It's Margaret Wallace! – come to see the man she jilted! Here's a nice to-do!"
The approaching figure had come clear of the carriage drive, and was now in full sight. As Isabel had acknowledged to herself, it was unmistakably that of a lady. The dress might be proof itself to another woman's keen perception, but there was other evidence as well. The way in which the stranger bore herself-her carriage, the easy grace which marked her movements, at least suggested breeding. As the face became visible all doubt was at an end. This was certainly a lady who, as it seemed, was coming to call.
Was the purport of her presence here merely to pay a passing call? Did she simply wish to make a few inquiries, and then return from whence she came? Would she be content with a few more or less civil words being spoken to her at the partly open door, or would she insist on entering and being allowed to visit Cuthbert Grahame in his room? In that case Isabel's domination would be at an end. The chances were that those two had but to exchange half-a-dozen words, and the castle which she had already in imagination builded would resolve itself into an edifice even less substantial than a house of cards. The wild scheme of which she had conceived the embryo would never move from that condition. The situation out of which she had determined to wrest a great opportunity would be there and then at an end if Margaret Wallace won her way past that front door.
But would she win it? The fates were on Isabel's side. Nannie upstairs helpless in her bed; Cuthbert Grahame still more helpless in his; the two girls out-Margaret Wallace would have to reckon with her. Isabel overrated herself if, in such a contest as was likely to ensue, she did not prove the better of the pair.
A sudden thought occurring to her she hurried into the hall. By some fortunate chance the front door was closed, so that she remained unseen by the approaching visitor. She remembered that she had closed it when she herself had come in; as a rule it stood wide open. If it had been then it would have been impossible for her to perform the part she proposed to play. As soon as she reached it she turned the key-only just in time. Within thirty seconds the handle was tried by some one on the other side.
"That settles it," observed Isabel to herself. "I didn't look at the face in the miniature so closely as all that, it was the setting which occupied me. I might have mistaken the likeness, and it mightn't have been Margaret Wallace after all. But the style in which she turned that handle gives her away. She's come in and out of this house too often not to be aware that, even if the door does happen to be shut, you've only got to turn the handle to come in. When she found that it wouldn't open, I'll bet that she had a bit of a shock. Holloa! it seems that she can't believe it now. I daresay it's the first time in all her life that she's found that door closed against her."
Something of the kind did seem possible. The person on the other side was giving the handle various twists and turns, as if unable to credit that the door was actually locked. It was only after continued efforts that the fact was realised. There was an interval, as if the person without was considering the position.
"Now what'll she do?" wondered Isabel. "Go round to the back, and see if she can't get in that way? She won't think it a possible thing that both doors can be locked. The odds are that she's come in one way as often as the other. She won't come in that way this time, and so I'll show her."
On stealthy feet Isabel, stealing to the back of the house, both locked and bolted the door which gave ingress to the house on that side. As she was ramming the top bolt home a bell clanged through the house followed by the rat-tat-tat of a knocker.
"So she's concluded not to give herself the trouble of trying the back door, at least for the present. Now what'll I do? One thing's sure, I'm not going to be in any haste to answer either her ringing or her knocking. Possibly if no one does answer she'll be tricked into thinking the house is empty." The bell and knocker were audible again.
"She's pretty impatient; she doesn't give a person over-much time to answer, even if one wanted to. What a row that bell does make-sounds as if it were rusty. I daresay it isn't rung more than once a year. It'll startle those two upstairs-it's a time since they heard it. There she is again. She'll hurt that bell if she isn't careful. I'd like to hurt her-if she doesn't watch out I will before she's finished. That's right, my dear, give another pull at it! Pretty rough on Grahame. If he only knew who was ringing what wouldn't he give to get at her-especially if he understood that this is the only chance he'll ever have; and to have to lie there like a log, and let it slip between his fingers! As for Nannie-that old woman's got the nose of a bloodhound-I shouldn't be surprised if she smells who's at the door. If she does I shouldn't wonder if, broken leg or no broken leg, she tumbles out of bed and tries to get down somehow to open it. She hadn't better. She'll break it again if she does-if I have to help her do it! No one's going to interfere with that door but me! I'm not going to have her hammering and clanging till those two girls come back, that won't suit my book at all. And as she looks like doing it the sooner I get rid of her the better."
The upper panels of the front door were of coloured glass, the panes, which were of different hues, shapes and sizes, being set in leaden frames. While it was possible for whoever was within to obtain a vague impression of some one without, it was impossible for whoever was without to see anything of the person within. It was of this fact that the quick-witted Isabel proposed to take advantage. Among the various accomplishments which fitted her, in her opinion, to shine in the halls was that of mimicry. Drawing close up to the glass panels she exclaimed, in tones which were intended to represent the broken-legged Nannie's-
"Who's that as wants to break the bell of a decent body's house?"
That the assumption was not entirely unsuccessful was shown by the response which came instantly from the other side of the door.
"Is that you, Nannie? You silly old thing! Where have you been? What have you been doing? And why have you locked this door? – open it at once!"
"And to whom will I open it, please?"
There came a peal of girlish laughter as a prelude to this reply.
"Nannie, you are an old stupid! Do you mean to say that you don't recognise my voice as well as I do yours? Why, I'm Meg come back to see you again! – open the door at once, you goose!"
"I'll no open the door this day."
"Nannie!"
"Margaret Wallace, I tell you I'll no open the door for you this day, so back you go from where you came."
"Nannie! how can you speak to me like that! How dare you!"
"I'm but obeying Mr. Cuthbert's orders, and it's not fear of you that'll stay me from doing that."
"Do you mean to tell me that Cuthbert Grahame forbade you to let me into the house?"
"He did a great deal more. He said that if you ever came near it he'd bring half-a-dozen dogs to set them at you. So take yourself off, and be quick about it."
"But, Nannie, I don't understand."
"None of your lies! It's plain enough! So be off to where you're wanted-if it's anywhere."
"But, Nannie, what have I done that you should speak to me like this? You always used to take my part."
"It's no part of yours I'll ever take again. Are you going?"
"I only want to talk to you. If you'll only open the door I promise you I won't try to get in if you don't want me to."
"I can have all the talk I want with you as we are. Will you be off?"
"Won't you let me have one look at you, Nannie, and give you just one kiss?"
"I'll have none of your kisses, and I never want to look at you again till you're lying in your coffin."
"Nannie! there's something about the way you talk which I don't understand. It's not you to speak to me like this. I insist upon your opening the door. I don't believe Cuthbert Grahame ever told you not to-I know him too well to think that's possible. I shall keep on ringing and knocking till you do open, and so I tell you."
"Then you'll keep on some time, I promise you that. I know what Mr. Cuthbert's orders are better than you. If I was to empty his gun at you I'd only do what he'd wish me to."
"Nannie! But, Nannie, I've come all the way from London. It's a very long way, and costs a deal of money, and nowadays I haven't much money, as you know. You're not going to send me back like this."
"Is it the fare back to London that you're wanting? If it's to beg you've come, I'll give you the fare out of my own pocket, so that Mr. Cuthbert may be rid of you in peace."
This time in the girlish voice there was a ring of unmistakable indignation.
"Nannie! you're a wicked old woman! I believe that you've some wicked scheme in your head of which Cuthbert Grahame knows nothing. You sound as if you were capable of anything. If you don't let me in this moment I'll get in without your help."
"How are you going to do that, pray?"
"Do you think I can't? I'll soon show you! If you think I'm still a foolish girl to be tyrannised over by you, you're very much mistaken. I won't believe that Cuthbert Grahame doesn't wish to see me till he tells me so with his own lips."