The Twickenham Peerage

He took me into a room in which were the two ladies who had been the day before at Mr. Howarth's-Miss Desmond and the young one. Miss Desmond came hurrying towards us.

'So you've brought them, have you? You clever man!' She put her hands upon my shoulder, and kissed me-before I could stop her. 'My dear Mary, welcome home.'

'Begging your pardon, miss, but this isn't my home, or ever will be.'

Somehow the very thought of such a thing made me shiver again. She laughed.

'Isn't it? We shall see.' She knelt down to talk to Jimmy. She kissed him too. 'Well, my Lord Marquis, and what do you think of your new house? You haven't seen much of it, but you shall see it all before you are much older. We think it's rather a nice house; and we hope you'll think so too.' Jimmy said never a word. 'What! – you won't speak! – not even to me! Never mind; I dare say you'll let me know you have a tongue when we've made friends.' Getting up, she turned to the young lady-who had been standing on one side, eyeing me and the children in a way I was conscious of and didn't like. 'Mary, this is Violet Howarth.'

The young lady put out her hand, keeping herself as stiff and cold as if she were a kind of iceberg.

'How do you do? Is it true that you're the widow of the late Marquis of Twickenham?'

I paid no attention to her hand whatever.

'About that I know nothing. I am Mrs. Merrett.'

I let her see I could be as stiff as she was-in spite of all that I was feeling. Miss Desmond slipped her arm through mine.

'That's right, Mary; you're a faithful creature-stick to the name which you know best. Leonard must have had some redeeming qualities, or he would never have been able to win the love of a good woman and keep it. There must be something in a man if he can do that. Come, you three, let's go and see what we can find upstairs.'

She was leading us out of the room-I seemed to have lost all power of resisting anything or any one-when the door opened and Mr. Howarth entered. His face when he saw us was a picture.

'Reggie, what-what insensate folly's this?'

'My dear Douglas, it's no folly at all. There'll come a time, and that before very long, when you'll realise that it's the truest wisdom. Let me introduce you to the Marquis of Twickenham, and to his mother, my sister, the Marchioness.'

'Don't-don't talk such d- nonsense. You don't know what an ass you're making of yourself.' He strode across the room, avoiding us as much as he possibly could-as if we wanted him to come near! He turned on Miss Desmond with a sort of snarl. 'Is it you who have instigated him to make such a crass exhibition of this masterpiece of imbecility?'

'I told him the truth, Douglas. Whereupon he concluded that, from every point of view, honesty would be the better policy. It surprises and pains me to learn you don't.'

'Honesty! honesty! honesty!' He put his hands up to his head, so that I thought he was going to tear his hair, like those people in the Bible. But he didn't. 'Good Lord! You're only fit for a lunatic asylum, all the lot of you!'

'There are worse places than lunatic asylums, Douglas.'

'But there's none more suitable. You haven't the faintest notion of what it is you're doing. I tell you you're doing irreparable mischief, in complete unconsciousness of the career of stark, staring madness on which you've started.'

Silence followed his burst of temper. I don't fancy the young gentleman was best pleased, either by his words or his manner. When he spoke there was something in his voice which I hadn't heard in it before.

CHAPTER XVIII
MR. HOWARTH AGAINST THE WORLD

'Suppose, Douglas, you enlighten our ignorance. We are acting in accordance with our lights. If we are moving in darkness, surely the fault is rather yours than ours.'

Somehow I felt that, in his turn, Mr. Howarth didn't like the young gentleman's tone. It was quite a time before he spoke again. It seemed as if he was trying to get the better of his temper.

'Reggie, can I speak to you in private?'

'Certainly. But-aren't we in private here?'

'This isn't the sort of privacy I mean.'

The young gentleman seemed to hesitate.

'What is it you wish to say to me?'

'When we're alone I'll tell you.'

'I'll see you alone directly. But before I do so there are one or two things which I should like you to explain, in the presence of this lady.'

'As, for instance?'

'How the late Marquis of Twickenham came to die from heart disease.'

The answer came from the door. There, sure enough, with a gentleman at his side, was Mr. FitzHoward. Never had I seen him when he'd seemed more at his ease. I hadn't thought that it was in him. I know that I'd felt a coward ever since I'd put my foot across the doorstep. He came right forward into the room, without waiting for any one to invite him, as bold and confident as you please. As for Mr. Howarth's black looks-and he gave him some, and somehow there they seemed more hard to meet than they'd been in my home-they never frightened him one little bit.

'That is one thing which we should like you to explain, Mr. Howarth, if you don't mind; – how did the late Marquis of Twickenham come to die of heart disease?'

I believe there'd have been trouble if Mr. Howarth had had Mr. FitzHoward alone in a room with him. If ever I saw a man look like meaning mischief, it was him then. He seemed to draw his body together like a cat does before it jumps. And his hands quivered, as if they itched to beat him. But the fact that he wasn't alone made all the difference, though I fancy he only remembered it just in time. He glanced about him with a kind of start, and drew a long breath. When he spoke there was passion in his voice, which he couldn't disguise.

'What-what's the meaning of this-gentleman's presence here?'

Mr. FitzHoward's manner was as unlike his as it very well could have been. As I've said, I never saw him when he was more himself.

'It means that I want a little explanation, Mr. Howarth-that's all. Quite a simple little point. There's a gentleman here whom I should like to introduce to the ladies and gentlemen present; – Dr. Clinton, M.D. My lord, this is Dr. Philip Clinton-of whom you may have heard.'

The young gentleman held out his hand, which the other took.

'Have I the pleasure of speaking to the Dr. Clinton who is the great authority on the functions of the heart?'

'I am Dr. Clinton, and I have made the heart my special study.'

I liked him, as I had done the young gentleman, directly he opened his mouth. He had a quiet, pleasant way of speaking. He wasn't over young, nor yet he wasn't over old; but he had as nice a face as I could care to meet, with hair on it; brown, comfortable-looking eyes; and about the corners of his mouth what you felt to be a friendly smile.

'Dr. Clinton,' said Mr. FitzHoward, and he waved the hat which he held in his hand as if he owned the house, 'might I ask you what was the character of the late Marquis of Twickenham's heart?'

Dr. Clinton shook his head.

'I'm afraid that I'm hardly in a position to answer that question in the form in which you put it.'

'Then we'll put it in another way. I will ask you what was the character-of course, I mean the physical character-of the heart of the late Mr. Montagu Babbacombe?'

'Sound. But since you have been so good as to enlighten me as to the reasons which may make my presence here of service, perhaps you will allow me to make a brief statement in my own way.'

'Certainly, Doctor. That is what we desire-in your own way.'

'I examined Mr. Montagu Babbacombe on three occasions, each time in association with certain colleagues whose names I will mention if desired. The examination was very thorough. And as a result we unanimously agreed that he was emphatically what the insurance people call a "good life." He showed no traces of organic weakness; and as for the heart, in a medical sense, I never met a better one. I may add that I met him on the morning of the day on which, I learn to my surprise, it is stated that he died. I was driving along Stamford Street when he came out of the York Hotel. I stopped and spoke to him-asking him how he felt after his thirty days' sleep. His own words were that he was as "fit as a fiddle and game for anything"; and he looked it. Under anything like normal circumstances it was practically impossible that he could have died on the afternoon of that day of heart disease.'

'In what way,' asked Mr. Howarth, 'is this of interest to us? The connection which certain persons seem desirous of establishing between Mr. Montagu Babbacombe and the late Marquis is one of the purest presumption.'

Mr. FitzHoward handed a photograph which he took out of his pocket to Dr. Clinton.

'Doctor, do you know the original of that?'

'I do; it is Mr. Montagu Babbacombe; he gave me a similar one. A capital likeness it is.'

'My lord, do you know the original of that?'

Mr. FitzHoward handed on the likeness to the young gentleman.

'I do. It's the portrait of my brother.'

'Thank you. You see, Mr. Howarth, the connection between them is not so shadowy as it seems you'd like us to think; it's recognised by every one but you. And we're still waiting for you to explain how the Marquis of Twickenham came to die of heart disease.'

Mr. Howarth looked at Mr. FitzHoward as if he'd have liked to have torn him in pieces. I'm confident that if it hadn't been for all of us being there, there'd have been violence used.

'I'm not a medical man, you-clever fellow.'

'It seems as if you know how to manufacture heart disease to order, anyhow.'

'What the-!'

He moved forward so that I thought he was going to strike him; only at the last moment he stopped short and changed his mind. The young gentleman laid his hand on Mr. FitzHoward's shoulder.

'Come, sir; let us not deal in innuendo, if you please. Here comes some one who may be able to give you the information you require.' An old gentleman came into the room. He wore gold spectacles. With the fingers and thumb of one hand he lifted them in their place on his nose as he advanced. 'Sir Gregory, this is very kind of you. Your arrival is most opportune. A rather curious point has arisen with regard to my brother's death. We require your aid for its solution. I believe that you certified that the cause of his death was heart disease.'

'Certainly; the immediate cause. Heart disease of long standing. Your brother always had a weak heart, my lord.'

'Then in that case Mr. Montagu Babbacombe wasn't the Marquis of Twickenham.'

This was Dr. Clinton. When he spoke, the old gentleman looked at him and knew him.

'Is that you, Clinton? I didn't catch what it was you said.'

Mr. FitzHoward put himself forward before Dr. Clinton had a chance of answering. He handed the old gentleman the photograph.

'May I ask, sir, if you know who is the original of that?'

'Certainly; very well. It's the late Marquis-as I used to know him.'

'That's a portrait of Mr. Montagu Babbacombe, as he appeared on the morning of the day on which the late Marquis is stated to have died.'

'Of whom?'

'Of Mr. Montagu Babbacombe.'

'Mr. Montagu Babbacombe? Then in that case-but I don't understand.' He turned to the young gentleman. 'Surely this is a portrait of your lordship's brother?'

'Undoubtedly.'

Dr. Clinton spoke.

'The point, Sir Gregory, is this. The idea is that Montagu Babbacombe was only another name for the Marquis of Twickenham; but before that can be admitted there's a difficulty to be got over. I knew Montagu Babbacombe, and I'm ready to testify that he never had anything the matter with his heart in the whole of his life, and that on the morning of the day on which the Marquis died he was in excellent health.'

'Then your Babbacombe wasn't my Marquis. The Marquis of Twickenham inherited a weak heart from his father; and as for being in excellent health on the morning of his death, he'd been dying for months.'

The young gentleman appealed to Mr. Howarth.

'Douglas, I really do believe that the solution of the puzzle is in your hands. Did Leonard masquerade as Montagu Babbacombe?'

'My dear Reggie, I don't propose to furnish any information.'

'But that's an impossible position, one for which I can't conceive your justification. Can't you answer Yes or No?'

'Your brother's dead. That's enough for me. It ought to be enough for you.'

'But don't you see the difficulties which must inevitably arise if you refuse to answer?'

'I confess I don't.'

'Then you must be more short-sighted than I supposed. If my brother called himself Babbacombe, then this lady is his wife; and here's her son. Everything is theirs, and I have nothing.'

'I assure you that this lady is not your brother's wife, and that the young gentleman is no relation of yours.'

'Then do you say that Leonard wasn't Babbacombe?'

'I don't see how it matters if he was or wasn't.'

'Not if this lady was his wife?' Mr. Howarth shrugged his shoulders. 'The attitude of your mind is altogether beyond my comprehension. I thought I knew you; but it seems I don't. During the last few days you have been a different man.'

'Don't talk such nonsense.'

'You have-and you know it. I've felt that there was something at the back, and now I begin to have a glimmer of an idea of what it is. You have persistently refused to tell me what were the circumstances under which you first saw Leonard. I'm sorry to say that I'm beginning to believe that it was because, for reasons of your own, you wished to conceal your knowledge of the fact that he was Babbacombe.'

'Reggie, if you take my serious advice, you will restrain yourself from making any further remarks until we are alone. You are not behaving wisely.'

'Wisely? Thank you; there's a sort of wisdom which I would rather be without. Let me tell you this. I do not intend to allow this doubt to confront me a moment longer than I can help. There is one step which I can take towards its solution, and that step I'll take at once. I'll have the coffin opened, and I'll see who is inside.'

'What?'

'I say I'll have the coffin opened and see who is inside.'

'You-you'll do nothing of the kind.'

Dr. Clinton asked a question.

'Can you do that at once? Won't the legal forms which you have to go through before you can obtain permission involve considerable delay?'

'I'll do it first and obtain permission afterwards. The coffin is on a shelf in our mausoleum at Cressland. I only have to remove the lid and put it back again. The whole thing needn't occupy half an hour.'

'Reggie, you-you shan't do it.'

'I shall; and will.'

'I say you shall not. Come, don't-don't let us quarrel. This sort of thing in public isn't-isn't edifying. And-all about nothing. When you have heard what I have to say to you in private, you will see the matter in a different light.'

'Say what you have to say to me here.'

'I will not. You must wait till we're alone. Wait, I say-wait!'

'Very good. I will. I'll have the coffin opened to-morrow, and wait till afterwards to hear what it is you have to say.'

'Reggie! You won't! I know you won't. You won't be such a fool.'

'What are you afraid of?'

'Afraid? I'm afraid of nothing. Of what should I be afraid?'

'Then why should you object?'

'Because-it's a dreadful thing to think of, after he's been dead so long.'

'Is that the only reason?'

'What other reason should I have?'

I went and held the young gentleman by his arm with both my hands.

'Open the coffin!'

'I intend to.'

'My husband is not inside.'

'How do you know?'

'If he were inside, why should I hear him calling?'

'Calling? What do you mean?'

'I keep hearing him calling to me all the time.'

Mr. Howarth flung himself at me, seeming half beside himself with rage.

'It's a lie! You don't!'

'I do. You hear him too.'

I never saw a man behave so wildly. He seemed to have all at once gone mad.

'I don't! I don't! How can you tell if I do or do not? The idea's nonsense. It's a figment of the brain. I'm-I'm run down, and I fancy things-that's all. Besides, how could he call so that I could hear him-all the way-from Cressland? He must be dead-long since! long since! You're a fool, woman, to suppose he isn't dead-a fool! a fool!' He seemed to suddenly realise how he was talking, and to see our startled faces. 'Why are you all looking at me like that? What's the matter? There's nothing wrong. Reggie, I've not-been very well-lately. You're quite right, I'm a different man. All this-has been too much for me. I want-I want-Who's that calling?'

'It's James.'

'James? It's Babbacombe! It's Babbacombe! What's the use of his calling? They've fastened him down. They did it before I came. What shall I do? What shall I do?'

He stood there before us all, sobbing like a child. The old gentleman they spoke of as Sir Gregory went up to him.

'Come, my dear sir, you must control yourself. The excitement has been too much for you. If you're not careful, you'll be ill.'

But I heard Dr. Clinton whisper to the young gentleman who'd brought us there-

'If I were you, I'd see what's inside that coffin.'

'I intend to.'

Suddenly Pollie and Jimmy, overtaken by sudden alarm, came running to me. And they began to cry.

'Where's Daddy?' wailed Jimmy. 'Oh, mother, where is Daddy?'

'Hush!' I said. I drew them quite close to me. 'You'll see him before very long.'

CHAPTER XIX
IN TELEPATHIC COMMUNICATION

The rest of the events of that day do seem so jumbled together. I can hardly remember all that happened. Miss Desmond took the children and me into a room upstairs that big you could have put almost the whole of our house in Little Olive Street inside of it. There was a bed in it and all sorts of things, but the idea of my sleeping in it was too ridiculous. But it seemed that I was going to. There were two servants to wait on us, both grander than me, and one that dignified I didn't dare to look her in the face. When they went out for something, I begged and prayed Miss Desmond not to let them come back again, for they did make me that uncomfortable that I didn't know what I was doing. She smiled, in that quiet way she had, and when the one who spoke and looked as if she was a perfect lady-and I'm sure she was much more of a lady than ever I shall be-came back again, Miss Desmond got rid of her with some excuse or other, and glad enough I was.

Presently she took us into another room which, according to her, was called the school-room, and which she said the children would use as a nursery; though it was more like a room in a palace. There were heaps and heaps of things for them to play with-the likes of some of them I never did see; they must have cost a fortune, that they must-and it wasn't long before they were as happy as a king. For with little children, bless them! trouble's like water on a duck's back; they're crying broken-hearted one minute, and laughing as if they'd burst themselves the next.

Miss Desmond was that nice! She was a lady, she was. She had a way about her which seemed to take you right out of yourself; and made you feel at peace. But with all her gentle, pleasant manner I could see that she herself was just weighed down with trouble. I suspected that there was something between that Mr. Howarth and her; and that the way he had been carrying on was wearing her to a shadow. And when I knew she liked him, as any one could see she did, I thought better of him myself; for if a woman like her held him dear he couldn't be altogether bad. I hadn't been talking to her many minutes before I began to put this and that together, and to see how the whole matter stood. A queer business it all was. No wonder she'd had her troubles like the rest of us. Somehow the knowledge that that was so made my own trouble less.

I had no notion of what was going on downstairs. I didn't care much either. But I could see she was worried. Mr. Howarth's sister never came near us. She didn't like that; though I was glad enough. I could understand how, if my James was the Marquis, I should be in her way, through her wanting to marry the young gentleman who was the Marquis now, and so be the Marchioness. Considering that I was nothing and nobody, and had sprung up all in a moment, as it were, it wasn't strange she didn't like me, and perhaps never would. So on all accounts I felt it was just as well she kept away. At the same time, with Miss Desmond it was different. She'd done nothing to upset Miss Howarth, or Lady Violet as it seemed she was, and I could see she was afraid of a coldness growing up between them. So I begged that she wouldn't stop with me, for I should be perfectly right alone; and, after a while, she went.

She hadn't been gone very long, and off I'd started to think again-or rather to try to think, for, somehow, my thoughts wouldn't come; I felt all dazed-when in came the young gentleman with Mr. FitzHoward.

'I've come to tell you,' he said, 'that I've made arrangements to go down to Cressland to-morrow morning. Dr. Clinton and Mr. FitzHoward have been good enough to promise that they will come too, so-as they will be present on your behalf-it will be quite unnecessary for you to accompany us.'

'Do you mean that-you're going to have the coffin opened?' He bowed. 'Then I'll come-of course, I'll come. I could not stay away.'

He tried to persuade me to change my mind and say I wouldn't go.

'It is not a pleasant spectacle which we expect to see. You must forgive my reminding you that your husband has been buried a fortnight.'

'My husband? My husband's not in that coffin. I'm sure of it.'

'How can you be sure of it?'

'Because he's alive: I know that he's alive. Do you-do you think I'd be talking to you like this if I didn't know? I was afraid at first, but now I know that my James is alive. He keeps talking to me all the time.'

He looked puzzled; exchanging glances with Mr. FitzHoward.

'My dear lady, I beg that you will not be too sanguine. I admit that complications have arisen which I had not foreseen, but I am still convinced that my brother was your husband, and that he lies buried at Cressland. Don't raise any airy fabrics of hope, or the disappointment may be greater than you will be able to bear. Besides, if you are right, then your husband was not my brother, and you are no relation of mine-which is absurd.'

'Not so absurd as that I should be a relation of yours-the likes of me!'

'The likes of you! Do you know that the differences of which you are thinking are only on the surface? In an incredibly short time they'll disappear, and you'll be as great and as fine a lady as any of them all.'

'Never! I'll never be a lady; and as for a fine lady-not me!'

'Marchioness-'

'Don't call me that! It's not my name! It sounds as if you were laughing at me.'

'Sister-'

'I'm not your sister. I'm just Mrs. James Merrett of Little Olive Street.'

'Mrs. Merrett then: if you like I'll always call you Mrs. Merrett.'

'That's my name.'

'I wish to convey to you my personal assurance that if you are the person I believe you to be, I shall welcome you and your children, and shall be proud to call myself your brother.'

'I'm sure-I'm sure-if I am your sister you shan't be any more ashamed of me than I can help.'

'I shall not be ashamed of you. Never be afraid of that. Only, if you will come with us to-morrow, don't allow yourself to be buoyed up by delusions. Be prepared to face the facts-as my sister should do.'

'It's no delusion that my James is alive. Whether he's your brother, or whether he isn't, I know that he's alive.'

As the day went on I grew more sure of it. When they had gone, and I was alone again with the children while they played, I sat there feeling that if it wasn't for my stupidity I could soon find out what James wanted. He wanted something; that I knew. What it was, I couldn't think. I couldn't hear his voice, as I had done before, but I knew that he was trying all the time to get something into my head, which, if I wasn't so silly, I should understand. I'd a sort of feeling that he wanted to tell me where he was; to get me to come to him; to get him out of trouble. That he was in trouble of some sort I was sure.

He used to talk to me about what he called 'telepathy.' I remember the word, because he wrote it down and made me learn it. It was one of those strange ideas he was always getting hold of. I always believed that, when he chose, he was a regular old-fashioned magician-like you read of in the Bible. Some of the things he did-and a great many more that he wanted to do-were against nature. When I hinted that that was what I felt, he'd look at me in that queer way of his, and say that magic was knowledge, and knowledge was magic; and that you'd only got to know everything to do everything. It was the same with this 'telepathy.' According to him you can make yourself understood by a person who's thousands of miles away-if you've only got the knack of it. He declared that when he was away from me, sometimes, if he was just in the right frame of mind, he could tell what I was doing and saying, and even thinking. There was something in what he said. When he'd been away for weeks together, when he came back he'd tell me what I'd been doing at a certain time on a certain day-even my very words! – but principally at night when I was alone. When I was praying for him he always knew. Dozens of times has he shown me the words-written down on a sheet of paper, date and hour and all! – which I had used in my prayers, when I was asking God to tell me where he was, and send him home to me. It did make me feel so ashamed; because he had such a way about him when he was showing you a thing like that.

But while he could understand me I couldn't him, though over and over again I've known that there was something he wanted to say to me, and that he was trying to say it. And, as he told me to, I've put down on paper the time the feeling came over me. And when he returned he'd show me his piece of paper; sure enough, when he was trying to speak to me was the very time I felt he was.

'Persevere,' he'd say. 'You and I'll get into telepathic communication yet before we've done; and when we do we'll show this ancient and highly civilised nation a thing or two. There's more to be got out of Egyptian tombs than mummies.'

What he meant I couldn't say. He was always talking in a way that was beyond me altogether. But I knew that he had some scheme in his head.

Now the feeling I have been talking about was on me again; that he was trying to say something he wanted me to understand. It was that feeling made me so sure he wasn't dead; though what he wanted to say I couldn't imagine. I knew that it was only my silliness which prevented me from finding out, and that made me so mad. I might be doing the very thing he didn't want me to; and I wouldn't do anything he didn't want me to do for all the world. I would have given something to have just been sensible enough to understand, but if you're not sensible always you can't be now and then. Though I have heard tell of how even idiots have an occasional gleam of good, sound, sterling sense.

Idiot or no idiot-and I know I'm not far off even at the best of times-how I did wish that I could have had one gleam just then!