Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (57 page)

‘My dear girl, how ill you are looking. You have been knocking yourself up for my sake, and I never noticed. Why don’t you get Miss Tubbs to make an outing with you — say tomorrow? You might go by an early train down to Herne Bay, or some place by the sea, get a good blow, and come back by the last train at night, for I can’t spare you for more than a day,’ he added pathetically.

As a matter of fact he was afraid that if she took any luggage with her it might serve as an excuse for carrying off the box which he so much desired to see. Edith showed evident signs of an inclination to rebel against this hygienic measure, saying that she was quite well, and that he was not sufficiently recovered for it to be safe for her to leave him. But Mr Ryves overruled her arguments.

‘My dear little wife,’ he said, ‘I
insist
— absolutely
insist
on your going. Just to-day I am well enough to do without you, and you must seize the opportunity of an outing while you can, otherwise you will be breaking down altogether, and I may have a relapse — one must expect it at my time of life — and then I shall not have any kind nurse. I don’t know what I
should
do without you. Now, dearest, go and arrange it with Miss Tubbs, just to oblige me.’

And so Edith drove over to Hampstead and interviewed Julia on the subject, and Julia had no particular objections. Work was very slack with her just then. It was the end of the holidays still, and what little work she had on the next day she could manage to postpone.

‘If you had asked me three weeks later it would have been different. I’ve got any number of concerts to play at — but a good sea blow would do me good. I’ve not been able to afford to go out of town for the holidays.’

But Edith answered, —

‘Now, Ju, dear, you know you’re telling a fib, and that you’ve only stopped in town to keep me company.’

Now Julia had an annoying habit of attempting to edge in a little bit of abuse of Mr Kasker-Ryves when she thought her friend was in an unusually good temper with her. Therefore she said, —

‘Now I should like to know what particular piece of devilry Mr Kasker-Ryves is up to that he wants you out of the way—’

But Edith interrupted her, almost white with anger.

‘Julia,’ she said, ‘once for all, and for the last time, I
will
not have you say another word against Mr Kasker-Ryves. I believe he is a really good man, and that I have been wronging him all along when I thought otherwise, and you make me perfectly miserable when you speak against him, so please don’t, dear.’

And Julia answered, —

‘Oh, very well, I won’t.’ But to herself she said, ‘Good Lord! what a frightful thing it must be to have a conscience like Edith’s — poor girl.’

On the morrow they set out on their trip, and I am bound to say that Edith enjoyed herself considerably in spite of all her troubles. In fact she was beginning to make light of them, and to think that, after all, Mr Kasker-Ryves was not such a frightful ruffian as she had thought him, for, to the best of her knowledge, he had always behaved in a most exemplary way, and almost treated her most affectionately. Edith’s vanity always expanded when she was at all at ease in her mind, and she was beginning to think that, after all, it was possible that Mr Kasker-Ryves was fond of her. Meanwhile he was enjoying himself, for having with considerable ease discovered the badly hidden box, it did not take him more than ten minutes to find a key that fitted the lock. Transporting the box into his own room, he placed it on the ground, beside an arm-chair, and proceeded to leisurely examine its contents. The first thing that struck his eye was the unfinished letter that Edith had begun.

A glance at the date and the opening words sufficed to make his eyes sparkle.

‘By Jove!’ he said, ‘this letter was commenced only the day before yesterday, and she has not had time to finish it. It begins “Dearest Clem,”’ and he proceeded to read the letter.

When he had got half-way through he stopped to think over it before turning over the leaf.

‘It is as I thought — she only married me for my money, to give it to this beggar when I die. Wonder what his name is — must wait until I read his letters. The little vixen doesn’t seem to have kept up a regular correspondence with him or she wouldn’t need to tell him all about her reasons for marrying me.’

The only human thing about Mr Kasker-Ryves, his vanity, was horribly macerated by this letter, for Edith did not even condescend to hate him, only seeming to pass him over as an aged invalid whose peccadilloes must be patiently borne with. The whole tone of the letter was one of piteous appeal to Clement, and Mr Kasker-Ryves’s hatred of his wife was increased out of all bounds. But words are powerless to express his self-abuse when, after reading through many letters signed only ‘Clement,’ he discovered Hollebone’s name.

He certainly had considerable ground for annoyance, for the letters showed him that his whole labours to tempt his wife had not only been futile on his part, but absolutely an idiotic abandonment of the right clue. He had ruined his health, and had drawn death nearer by years to himself, and all because he had with too great precipitation thrown away that clue. However, after a time the wrath of even a philosopher will burn itself out, and he forced himself to proceed with the examination of his wife’s treasures. Methodically he read through and digested all the letters Hollebone had written, and with diabolical intent copied out some verses that he had once written to her. At last he arrived at the letter that gave a descriptive account of the properties and effects of the poison.

‘H’m,’ said Mr Ryves, ‘I must venture to deprive my sweet wife of this love-token. A poison that is more sudden in its effects than prussic acid is not a thing for her to have in her possession. Suicide would be too easy for her. By Jove! this fellow is a fool to let a girl know such a lot about a poison like this. “Its effects to any ordinary doctor not possessing the secret would be absolutely indistinguishable from death by apoplexy — and you and I are the only people who know of its existence. Therefore, dearest, I have thought it safer to seal the bottle hermetically with my own private seal, because if it got into careless hands by accident it might do mischief.” What a fool a man in love is! and what a fool the girl is not to have polished me off with it ages ago. It would have been so easy to slip a little of it into my beef-tea, and no danger of a cord’s stretching her dainty white throat. But she would never do that. She might kill herself, though, and I want to have that pleasure. I must say this young man
is
a fool. I don’t wonder she fell in love with him. However, let’s just finish the examination of these things. Wonder who the violin’s by — h’m,
Stradivarius Cremouensis
— can’t be real. Must be a French imitation of last century — not a bad one by any means. It wouldn’t be at all a bad plan to break it irrevocably — and of course when she discovers her loss she will be in a terrible state of mind, and will, at the same time, not be able to make a fuss about it. And it will be such a delightfully wanton piece of destruction — it
must
make her hate me when she discovers it. Yes, I will — just for the fun of the thing,’ and placing the poor violin on the ground, he stamped it to atoms, observing, with a smile, ‘There goes about a thousand pounds,’ after which he gathered up the fragments, replaced them in the case, and having possessed himself of the poison, replaced the box in its hiding-place. ‘There’s no time to be lost,’ he said when this was done, and he rang the bell.

A servant appeared.

‘Let me have lunch at once and tell Jackson to get the carriage ready,’ he said, and the servant departed on his errand. Having finished his lunch, he set out to find his son, who happened to be in town at that moment. With his usual luck he managed to catch his son at his chambers, just as that young man was on the point of setting out for Yorkshire.

‘Hullo, dad!’ he said, as his venerable parent appeared, ‘what’s in the wind now?’

‘I won’t keep you a moment, Jemmy,’ his father said, ‘but I want to know where young Hollebone is living just now.’

The young man whistled.

‘What’s gone wrong about him?’ he asked.

Mr Ryves looked grave.

‘Well, my dear son, the fact is that I have found a letter from Edith to him — and I should like to know where he is, so that if he answers I may know the post-mark on his letter and intercept it.’

The young man smiled.

‘The incorruptible seems to have fallen after all,’ he said. ‘The fellows in the club were betting on her — and, by-the-bye, I happened to hear young Hollebone’s address, too, in connection with her. He is a doctor in some out-of-the-way hole that nobody has ever heard of — why, I don’t know, because he must be pretty well off. What on earth w
as
the name now?
Conf
ound it! I know I put it down in my note book at the time as a nice name for a place in a novel. The note book’s in one of my coats, but it’s packed up.’

‘Well, I wish you’d get it out again, dear boy. I should like to know as soon as possible.’

The young man looked at his watch.

‘I shall miss my train anyhow,’ he said, and he rang for his servant. ‘Look here, Jackson, I wish you’d unpack my portmanteau and get me out the frock coat I wore on Thursday morning.’

‘The portmanteau is already on the cab, sir,’ the man said.

‘Never mind, take it off again and get the coat. Tell the cabman he may have to wait an hour or so.’

When the man had departed, he turned to his father.

‘I say, dad,’ he said, ‘I thought you were above jealousy, and it certainly isn’t consistent with your theory of morals — or rather immorals, I should say.’

His father smiled.

‘Oh, well, Jemmy,’ he said, ‘one can’t always be consistent, that would be too much trouble; and, as I have told you, my aim in life is to get through it with as little trouble as possible. Besides which. Edith has been very good to me, and nursed me very carefully, and so I shouldn’t like her to be unhappy, as she is certain to be if she commits a sin — and she will only have to wait a little while now.’

The young man suddenly became serious.

‘Look here, dad,’ he said, with the tone of
voice
men adopt when approaching a sacred but embarrassing subject, ‘I wish you would tell me something about my mother — no one knows anything of her, and you never have approached the subject. I should like to know — before it is too late.’

Mr Ryves laughed (to hide a feeling of nervousness that possessed him and seemed growing), and plunged glibly into a lie.

‘Well, my dear son,’ he said, ‘I haven’t told you anything before for fear you might, not understanding my character, be shocked. It was at the time I was reforming myself, and it happened that one night — however, that will take too long to tell in detail, but in the long run it amounted to this: I picked her up out of the streets and sent her to school, and afterwards married her. She had been a clergyman’s daughter, and at her father’s death her mother had taken her up to London, and after a time had deserted her — and then — However, she lived very happily with me, and was a very good wife indeed; but she died after seven years, and left you a baby some thirty years ago. Since then I have been married twice — counting Edith, three times — and here comes Jackson.’

But the story was a carefully concocted romance.

Jackson handed the coat to his master, who, having felt in a pocket and withdrawn the note book, returned him the coat, with injunctions to pack it up again. The man left the room, and the young man opened the note book and began turning over the pages.

‘Ah! here it is,’ he said; ‘yes, that’s it. Dym — Dym something — yes, Dymchurch.’

Mr Kasker-Ryves’s eyebrows came down with a convulsive frown almost to his cheek bones, his hands thrust forward vaguely, as though staving off an imaginary horror, and an expression of fear overspread his face — a nameless dread that seemed to fill the beholder with equal terror, as though one were to see the reflection of hell on the face of a man gazing into the pit.

‘My — memory,’ he gasped, and sank into his chair a helpless mass. His son stared at him a moment in stupefied amazement, until, seeing his father did not move, he went to him and tried to rouse him.