'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 n.o.body, 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.'