'Your husband's life was a strange one. One day I'll tell you as much of it as you care to know. But its strangeness did not alter the fact that he was the Marquis of Twickenham; and, indeed, now that I have seen you, I am beginning to understand that at least the latter part of it was not so strange as I imagined.'

'You--you say my James is--the Marquis of Twickenham?'

'He was.'

'Was? Where is he?'

'My dear, he's dead. Your boy is the Marquis now.'

'Dead?--dead?--dead? My James--dead?'

'He died on the day following that on which you saw him last.'

'Died? He died? And--you knew it?'

'I did not know that you were his wife; or, indeed, that he had a wife at all, until just now.'

'And--he knew it?'

'Mr. Howarth knew that the late Marquis was dead; whether he knew that he was your husband is another matter. My dear, you must judge him leniently. When you know the whole strange story you will think better of us all than you may be disposed to do at present.'

'You say--my James is dead? Then--he killed him?'

'Hush! You mustn't utter such wild words; you mustn't think such dreadful thoughts. Your husband died in his bed--in my presence, and in the presence of other persons, among whom were two doctors.'

'He killed him!' She laid her hand upon my shoulder. I shook it off.

'Don't touch me!--don't dare! He killed him!'

'My dear child, if, as you will have it, there was any killing, the hand which slew him was the Lord's. Although you don't seem to have been aware of the fact, your husband's heart was always weak. What had been expected for years took place at last; his heart collapsed, and there was an end.'

'You, who've been in my house all the morning pretending you knew nothing, when all the time you knew that my James was dead--you now want to make out that you knew him better than I did! You may be a sly fine lady, but you're a fool. What you say's lies--lies--all lies! But it's not you I want to speak to--you're nothing. It's him! Get out of my way, and let me pa.s.s.'

She got out of my way, or I'd have knocked her down. I could have done it. And I went to Mr. Howarth.

'You killed him; and, as I stand here, in the presence of your G.o.d and mine, I swear that you shall hang for it, unless you kill me too. He called to me last night. How often, in the night, does he call to you?--out of the box into which you put him? As I live, I believe his voice is always in your ears--calling, calling, calling.'

Although he was a big man and I'm a little woman, I could have taken him and killed him, then and there, with my two hands, and he could have done nothing to have stayed me. For his heart was as b.u.t.ter, and his soul was white with fear.

CHAPTER XVI

MR. FITZHOWARD OPENS THE DOOR

They went; and my curse went with them. I would listen to nothing they had to say; neither he nor she. For while she tried to whisper soft words into my ears, and quiet me, and make me think the things she wished that I should think, I knew that, the whole time, at the bottom of her heart, she was all for him. I threw open the door, and I told him to go, if he did not wish me to shriek out 'Murder!' in the street. He did not need a second telling. He was glad, at any price, to take himself away. His face was like an old man's--his knees shook as he pa.s.sed me. I had it in my mind to strike him as he slunk out into the street. My word for it he'd have shivered if I had! But I held my hand. Not in such fashion would I strike the man who'd killed my James. When I did strike it should be once for all. From nothing living should he ever feel another blow.

When he'd gone I packed her after him. She begged and prayed that I'd be calm; that I'd hear what she called reason; that I'd do this, that, and the other thing. But not I! not I! I'd see the back of her; and that was all I would see. And I saw it. She went out as white as he had been, with her heart as heavy. It was only her pride kept her from crying.

I didn't cry. I couldn't. When they had gone, and I was alone with the children, I felt as if I was going mad; but I couldn't cry. It was only when I began to understand that the children were afraid of me that I tried to keep a tight hold of the few senses I had left. I sat down at the table and tried to think. There were the children, as far off in the corner as they could get--holding each other by the hand.

They wouldn't come near me--their mother, because they were frightened; too frightened even for tears.

What was I to do to calm their fear? I couldn't imagine. I wasn't the same woman I had been. I knew that I was altogether different; that I had changed in the twinkling of an eye. Still, I didn't want my children to be afraid of me; not Pollie and Jimmy. I tried to think of words with which to speak to them. But they wouldn't come. I sat there like a thing turned stupid, knowing that they were growing more and more afraid of me.

It was a strange thing which roused me at least a little; it was the smell of burning. I couldn't think what it was, or where it came from.

Then I remembered. It was the rice which I had put into the oven to soak. The milk had caught; it wanted stirring. I got up, and I went to stir it. It was burnt badly; the rice was all stuck to the bottom; the pudding was spoilt. We should never be able to eat it for dinner.

The thought of dinner made me look at the clock. It was dinner time.

No wonder the pudding was spoilt. It had been in the oven all that time without being once stirred. What was I to do? There was nothing cooked. The children must be hungry. Something made me look round.

There they were, standing at the door. They were evidently still afraid, for they still were hand in hand, half in the room, half out.

I found my voice and words. Yet, somehow, it didn't sound as if it was me who was speaking.

'If you children are hungry, you'll have to have a piece of bread and b.u.t.ter or jam. Dinner isn't ready; and the fire's gone down.'

They said nothing, but looked at each other, as if they wondered if it was I who spoke to them, and what it was I said. I had some difficulty in keeping myself from being cross. It seemed stupid of them to be standing there as if they couldn't make out who or what I was. It was only my thinking that it might make them more afraid that kept me from starting to scold. I went to the cupboard, and cut some bread and jam, and sat them down at the table, and set them to make their dinner off that. It was funny how they seemed to take it all as a matter of course, and ate their bread and jam as if that was the sort of dinner they were used to every day. They followed me with their eyes wherever I went, and never said a word.

It was funny, too, how calm I felt. All the rage had gone clean out of me. While they ate I made up the fire, and did odd jobs about the room. Doing something seemed to clear my head. As it got clearer, I grew quieter. That seemed funny too. Something in me seemed to be dead. I felt more like a machine than a human being, and moved about, feeling as if I had been wound up and had to go.

After a while there came a knock at the door. I had just got out a pile of mending, and was sitting down to do the children's socks.

Jimmy and Pollie were quieter than I had ever known them. I was conscious of their quietude in a curious, uninterested sort of way.

They were playing at some game in a corner, talking to each other in whispers. They'd neither of them spoken to me since I'd been left alone. When I went to see who was at the door, I found it was Mr.

FitzHoward. I showed him into the sitting-room, and sat down to my mending again without a word. I dare say he thought my manner was strange, for he took up his favourite position in front of the fire, and, for a moment or two, was as silent as I was. At last he spoke.

'Well--and how are things?'

'James is dead.'

I had startled him back into silence. I don't know how long it was before he spoke again. It seemed to me an age.

'Mrs. Merrett! What do you mean?'

'James is dead.'

'Dead! How--how do you know?'

By degrees, in reply to the questions which he put, I told him all that there was to tell. He stood staring at me, biting his finger-nails, as if he found it difficult to turn it into sense.

'Then am I to understand that Montagu Babbacombe is--or was--the Marquis of Twickenham?'

'They say so.'

'But the Twickenham peerage is one of the richest in England?'

'Maybe.'

'Then if he was the Marquis, you, as his wife, are the Marchioness.'

'I dare say.'