A servant whom Carlyon addressed as Jem had received them. Elinor heard him say, with a strong Sussex accent, that the doctor was with Mr Eustace in the best bedroom, and that it was a hem set-out, surelye, but in no ways Master Nick’s fault, as everyone, whether present or not, would testify to the Crowner.
‘Nonsense! Where is Hitchin?’ Carlyon asked, stripping off his driving-gloves.
‘I’ll fetch him to your lordship,’ replied the tapster, waiting to help Carlyon to take off his long, many-caped coat. ‘He should ought to be in the coffee-room. Lamentable put-about, he is. Well, surely, I disremember when we had such a set-out at the Bull, and your lordship knows I’ve been with Mr Hitchin a dunnamany years.’
The landlord, a respectable, middle-aged man, whose ordinarily cheerful countenance was just now overlaid with gloom, came in at that moment. His brow lightened at sight of Carlyon, and he said: ‘I don’t know when I’ve been more glad to see your lordship. I’ve been thinking to myself it was a lucky chance I happened to see your lordship on the road to Highnoons, so it was, for poor Master Nick was in a rare taking, and small blame to him! But what I say, and will swear to anywhen, my lord, is that he never had no thought to go sticking my knife into Mr Eustace! And as for the start of it all, I’ll tell the Crowner to his head Master Nick was speaking comely as you please to Mr Eustace, until Mr Eustace went beyond what flesh and blood could stand, let alone a high-couraged young gentleman, which we all know Master Nick is!’
‘Is Mr Eustace alive?’ demanded Carlyon.
‘Oh, ay, me lord! He’s alive, but none so valiant, by what I hear from the doctor. Don’t you be afeared for Master Nick, my lord! I saw the whole, and there’s no Crowner going to shake me.’
‘The whole village will just about say as how it were Mr Eustace as done the thing!’ said the helpful Jem eagerly.
‘I’ll go up to Mr Eustace. Do you keep this fool, Jem, from ruining all, Hitchin! And bring coffee for the lady, and for Mr Presteign!’
He left the room, the landlord at his heels, and strode up the short corridor to the staircase. Hitchin said: ‘I see your lordship’s brought Parson along, but asking your pardon, it ain’t a parson Mr Eustace is in the mood to see, nor ever was. I misdoubt me Parson won’t like it, for he’s got no know, though a pleasant enough gentleman, and preaches a comfortable sermon, I’m sure. Howsoever, it’s as well to have everything shipshape and above-board, I dare say.’
‘Exactly so!’ Carlyon said.
Four
The room which Carlyon softly entered at the head of the staircase was a wainscoted apartment, hung with dimity curtains, and containing a four-poster bed, which stood out into the room. Under the patchwork quilt, and propped up by pillows, lay a young man, his head a little fallen to one side. One lock of his lank, dark hair was tumbled across his brow; his lips, which were almost bloodless, were slightly parted; and he was breathing short and fast. The light cast by a branch of candles on a nearby table showed that his countenance had assumed a ghastly pallor; he seemed to be sleeping.
A grizzled man, wearing the conventional frock-coat, but not the wig, of a doctor of medicine, was seated by the bedside, but he looked up when he heard the door open, and at once rose, and went to meet Carlyon. ‘I thought you would come, my lord,’ he said, in a lowered tone. ‘Upon my soul, this is a bad business – a very bad business!’
‘As you say. How is he?’
‘I can do nothing for him. The knife entered the stomach. He is sinking, and I do not expect him to outlive the night.’
‘Is he in possession of his faculties?’
The doctor smiled grimly. ‘Quite enough so to be casting about in his mind for some means of doing you an injury, my lord.’
Carlyon glanced towards the bed. ‘I hope he may not have hit upon the only way in which he can accomplish it.’
‘He has done so, but you need feel no alarm on that score.’
‘He has done so?’
‘Oh, yes! But no one but Hitchen and myself has heard what he has to say. When I found what he would be at I took care to send the nurse about her business. If this had to happen it is as well it has happened where he is too well known to have the power of working mischief.’
‘What are you talking of?’
The doctor looked at him under his brows. ‘No, it would not occur to you, I suppose, my lord. Mr Cheviot, however, knows well that he can best hurt you through your brothers. He has told me that Mr Nicholas set out to murder him, and at your instigation. He would like to think that he could bring Mr Nick to the scaffold.’
For a moment Carlyon did not speak; the light, flickering in a little draught, cast his features into relief against the wall; the doctor watched a muscle twitch beside his strong mouth. Then he said: ‘Let him think of it. I can trust Hitchin. I shall hope to give his thoughts another direction. Can he go through a ceremony of marriage?’
The doctor’s brows rose quickly. ‘So you are at that, are you?’ he muttered. ‘Yes, but whom will you find, my lord? It has been in my mind, but I see no way of accomplishing it. There is too little time left.’
‘I have brought a lady with me who is willing to marry him. She is below-stairs, with Presteign.’
The doctor stared at him, a look of appreciative amusement creeping into his eyes. ‘You have, eh? My lord, after all the years I have known you, ay, and after the scrapes I’ve seen you in, and the bones I’ve set for you, I wonder that you should still have the power to surprise me! But will he consent?’
‘Yes, for you could never bring him to believe that I do not covet his estate. He has suspected me ever since I first broached the matter to him of nourishing some evil design for which his marriage was to serve as a mask.’
He stopped, for Eustace Cheviot had stirred, and opened his eyes. The doctor stepped up to the bed, and felt his pulse.
‘Damn you, take your hands off me!’ Eustace whispered. ‘I know I am done for!’
Carlyon walked forward to the other side of the bed, and stood there, looking down at him. The clouded eyes regarded him stupidly for a moment, and seemed gradually to regain intelligence. An expression of malevolence crossed the sharp features; Eustace uttered in a faint voice: ‘I wish I had married to spite you, by God, I do! You thought you could gammon me, but I wasn’t as green as you thought, Carlyon!’
‘Were you not?’ Carlyon said evenly.
‘You had some precious scheme to throw dust in the eyes of the world. I don’t know the whole, but I fancy I was to be married so that it might appear that you had no designs upon Highnoons. And then you would have disposed of me, would you not? Ah, but I am more up to smoke than you thought for, my dear cousin, and I would have willed Highnoons away from you within an hour of leaving the church. You thought I had not sense enough to make my will speedily, but I had!’
‘You do yourself harm by talking so much, Mr Cheviot,’ interposed the doctor.
A spasm of pain twisted Cheviot’s face; his eyes closed for an instant, but opened again, and fixed themselves once more on Carlyon’s face. ‘Your precious Nick was too quick for you!’ he sneered.
‘Too quick for you as well, Eustace.’
Eustace moved his head restlessly on the pillow. ‘Yes, by God!’ he muttered. ‘You’ll have it all! Damn you, damn you!’
‘Yes, I shall have it all.’
‘Ay, but I’ll turn it to dust and ashes for you! You will have to see Nick stand his trial! He murdered me, do you hear? He meant to murder me!’
‘I may have to see him stand his trial, but his credit is better than yours, cousin, and the only witness to your quarrel is devoted to my interest. I shall see Nick acquitted.’
The calm certainty with which he spoke had its effect. The dying man gave a groan, and made a convulsive attempt to drag himself up on his elbow.
‘For God’s sake, my lord, take care w
hat you are about!’ the doctor muttered, restraining him.
‘But he will have to stand his trial!’ Eustace gasped. ‘Your pride won’t stomach that, whatever the event!’
‘No,’ Carlyon agreed. ‘Both my schemes and yours have miscarried. You would see your estate safe from my machinations; I would save Nicky from yours, if I could. Well, I do not value Highnoons above Nicky: I will let it go.’
Cheviot glared at him, his befogged brain only half comprehending what was said to him, clinging obstinately to its one idea. ‘How? How?’ he panted.
‘You may be married, here and now, and bequeath Highnoons to your wife.’
Cheviot frowned, as though trying to concentrate his wits. ‘How will that serve you?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘It will serve me.’
‘And you will not step into my shoes?’
‘I shall not step into your shoes.’
‘I’ll do it!’ Cheviot said, plucking at the sheet. ‘Yes, I’ll do it! I don’t care about Nick. I’ll die happy to think I’ve foiled you!’
Carlyon nodded, and walked to the door. The doctor followed him out on to the landing. ‘You will not do it, my lord!’
‘I shall do it. It is what he wishes.’
‘He does not understand above half of what you would be at! In all the years of my practice I never met a creature so wholly devoid of good! Well I know what patience you have used towards him, what forbearance! It seems to make him hate you the more. He is a vile fellow! But this – ! No, it will not do, my lord!’
‘It will do very well. He does not know why I do it, but it is what he wants, and since I have no purpose in my head but to escape an inheritance I do not desire, I shall not sleep the less sound for having in some sort deceived him.’
‘Ay, but will it answer, my lord?’ the doctor urged. ‘To marry him out of hand now might not prove of service to Mr Nicholas. It must seem –’
‘Oh, I am not thinking of Nicky!’ Carlyon said. ‘He stands in no danger. But it will be better for the lady if it is not generally known that she sees Cheviot for the first time this evening. I think that may be contrived.’
‘Good God!’ said the doctor weakly. ‘Is it so indeed? You go quite beyond me, my lord! How will you contrive it?’
‘Oh, a long-standing betrothal, perhaps – kept secret.’
‘Kept secret!’ exploded Greenlaw. ‘And why?’
Carlyon was half-way down the first flight of stairs, but he paused, and looked up, his rather rare smile softening his face. ‘My dear sir! For fear of my devilish stratagems, of course!’
‘Mr Edward!’ pronounced Greenlaw awfully. ‘That is, my Lord Carlyon!’
‘Yes?’
The doctor stared down at him with a fulminating eye. ‘Nothing!’ he said, and went back to his patient.
Carlyon was met at the foot of the stairs by the landlord, who came out of the coffee-room to intercept him. ‘My lord, the lady would not partake of any refreshment,’ he said. ‘And Parson took a fancy to a drop of Hollands, as is his custom.’
‘Very well. Have you a pen, ink, and some paper?’
The landlord admitted, with a puzzled frown, that he had these commodities. His brow cleared suddenly. ‘To be sure! Mr Eustace will be wishful to make his Will!’ he discovered. ‘But it queers me a trifle to know – well, my lord – the lady!’
‘The lady is betrothed to Mr Eustace.’
Hitchin’s eyes started at him. ‘Betrothed to Mr Eustace!’ he gasped. ‘And her so pleasant-spoken and genteel!’
‘And Mr Eustace,’ pursued Carlyon, ignoring this involuntary outburst, ‘is desirous of marrying her, so that she may be provided for after his death.’
The landlord appeared to have difficulty in controlling his voice. He succeeded in enunciating: ‘Yes, my lord!’ and tottered away to find the pen and paper. He found, after some search, a serviceable quill. He regarded it severely, and made it the recipient of a pithy confidence. ‘Mr Eustace, is it?’ he said scathingly. ‘Adone-do! Mr Eustace never took no such notion into his wicked head, and well you know it! Mr Eustace to be worrying himself over such things! Ay, just about, he would! Out of your head that came, my lord, don’t tell me!’
The quill, very naturally, returned no answer. Hitchin sniffed, and picked up the ink-pot. ‘And a hem good thing for you it will be to be shut of Mr Eustace!’ he said.
Carlyon, meanwhile, had entered the parlour. He found Miss Rochdale and the parson seated on either side of the fireplace. Miss Rochdale looked tired, and a little pale, and there was a rather scared look in the eyes which she raised to his. He smiled reassuringly at her, and said: ‘Now, if you will come upstairs with me, Miss Rochdale, if you please!’
She said nothing; Mr Presteign got up from his chair, and asked nervously: ‘My lord, am I to infer that Mr Cheviot is willing to have this ceremony performed?’
‘Very willing.’
‘Lord Carlyon!’ said Miss Rochdale faintly.
‘Yes, Miss Rochdale, in a little while. There is nothing to alarm you. Come!’
She rose, and laid her hand on his proffered arm. He patted it briefly, and led her to the door. She whispered: ‘Oh, pray do not – I am sure –’
‘No, just trust me!’ he said.
She could think of no reason why she should, but it did not seem possible to say so; she went with him up the stairs, and into the sick-room.
Eustace Cheviot’s eyes were open, his head turned towards the door. Miss Rochdale gazed at him almost fearfully, but he was not looking at her. His eyes remained riveted to his cousin’s face, searching it in suspicion and a kind of avid eagerness which gave him something of the look of a bird of prey. Miss Rochdale’s clutch tightened on Carlyon’s arm instinctively.
He did not seem to notice it, but led her forward. ‘Are you of the same mind as ever, Eustace?’ he asked, in his cool way.
‘Yes, I tell you!’
The doctor was looking curiously at Miss Rochdale. She felt the colour mount to her cheeks, and was glad to stand at the bed-head, out of the direct light of the candles. It did not occur to her until some time afterwards that neither then, nor at any time during the unreal ceremony did her bridegroom look at her. She felt stupid, as though she had been drugged, or hypnotized into acting without her own volition. She watched the doctor, the parson, Carlyon, seeing how they conferred together, but without comprehending what they said; observing their movements, but so divorced from them that she could never afterwards remember quite what had happened in that grim room hung with dimity curtains. All that imprinted itself on her memory was the pattern of the wallpaper, the gay lozenges of colour which made up the patchwork quilt covering the bed, and the way one lock of Cheviot’s hair clung dankly to his brow. When her hand was put into his, she started, and looked round wildly. The labouring voice from amongst the tumbled pillows was whispering after the parson words which he had to bend his head to catch.
‘Repeat after me . . .’
‘I, Elinor Mary . . .’ she said obediently.
There was a pause; the parson was looking flustered, raising anguished brows at Carlyon, standing on the other side of the bed. Carlyon moved, dragging the signet ring from his finger, and putting it into his cousin’s hand. But it was he who pushed the ring over Elinor’s knuckle, guiding Cheviot’s weak hand. She remained entirely passive, not moving until presently her arm was taken in a firm hold, and she was led to the table which stood against the wall, and required to sign her name. She did so, and was rather surprised to find that her hand did not shake. The paper was taken from her, and to the bed; she watched the doctor support Cheviot while he slowly traced his signature. Then Carlyon came back to her, and again took her arm, and led her to the door.
‘There, that is all,’ he said. ‘Go down to the parlour: I shall not be very long in coming to you.’
&nb
sp; He shut the door upon her, casting a frowning glance towards the bed. The doctor had measured out a cordial, and was holding it to Cheviot’s parted lips. He met Carlyon’s glance with a significant look. Mr Presteign said: ‘Indeed, I trust I have done right! I do trust I have! I am sure I have never –’
Cheviot’s eyes opened. ‘Right? Ay! The best day’s work of your life, parson!’ he uttered. ‘But I won’t die till I’ve made my Will! Paper – ink, you damned sawbones! Where’s my cousin? He’d cheat me if he could, but I’ll live long enough to spite him, see if I don’t!’
‘Mr Cheviot, Mr Cheviot, will you not make your peace with your Maker?’ implored Presteign.
Cheviot had fallen against his pillows, exhausted by his fit of passion, his eyelids dropping. The doctor stayed by him, his fingers counting the feeble pulse, his eyes watchful on the livid face. At the table Carlyon was writing steadily. Once he paused, and looked thoughtfully at Cheviot, as if considering. Then his quill resumed its scratching.
Cheviot roused again from his stupor. ‘My Will! Lights! I can’t see plain in this infernal darkness!’
‘Gently! You shall sign your Will in good time,’ Carlyon said, not raising his head.
Cheviot peered across the room at him. ‘You’re there, are you?’
‘Yes, I am here.’
‘I always hated you,’ Cheviot remarked conversationally.
‘Mr Cheviot, I most earnestly conjure you to put these thoughts out of your mind, and before it too late to –’
‘Leave him, man, for God’s sake!’ Greenlaw said, under his breath.
‘Yes, I always hated you,’ repeated Cheviot. ‘I don’t know why.’
Carlyon shook the sand from his paper, and rose with it in his hand, and came to bed. ‘Are you able to sign your Will, cousin?’ he asked.
‘Yes, yes!’ Cheviot whispered eagerly, trying to grasp the quill that was placed between his fingers.
‘You bequeath all the property of which you die possessed to your wife, Elinor Mary Cheviot: is that your wish?’