The Moving Finger Part 12

He stood on the threshold of the door leading to the billiard-room.

"Come," he said, "I am indeed between life and death, for I have one foot in one room and one in the other. Come, you others, and seek safety too."

The women also rose. There was a rush for the door, a swish of draperies, a little sob from Lois, who was terrified. Saton remained standing alone. He had not moved. His eyes were fixed upon the figure of the judge, who also lingered. They two were left in the centre of the hall.

"Come, Guerdon," Rochester cried. "You and I will take the lot on."

Guerdon did not move. He motioned to Saton slightly.

"Young man," he said, "we have met before. I said so when you first came in. My memory is improving."

Saton leaned forward.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Some water, quick, and brandy," Rochester cried.]

"Be careful, judge," he said.

"Be careful be d--d!" the judge answered. "Rochester, come here. G.o.d in Heaven!"

His left hand went suddenly to his throat. He almost tore away the collar and primly arranged tie. Rochester was by his side in a second, and saved him from falling. His face was white to the lips. A shriek from the women rang through the hall, and came echoing back again from the black rafters.

"Some water quick, and brandy," Rochester cried, tearing open the shirt from the man he was supporting. "Send for a doctor, someone.

Penarvon, you see to that. Let them take the motor. Keep those d--d women quiet!"

The judge opened his eyes.

"I remember him," he faltered.

"Drink some of this, old fellow," Rochester said. "You'll be better in a moment."

The judge's eyes were closed again. He had suddenly become a dead weight on Rochester's arm. Vandermere, who had done amateur doctoring at the war, brought a pillow for his head. They cut off more of his clothes. They tried by every means to keep a flicker of life in him until the doctor came. Only Rochester knew it was useless. He had seen the shadow of death pa.s.s across the gray, stricken face.

CHAPTER IX

A SENTIMENTAL TALK

Lois opened the gate and stole into the lane with the air of a guilty child. She gave a little gasp as she came face to face with Saton, and picking up her skirts, seemed for a moment about to fly. He stood quite still--his face was sad--almost reproachful. She dropped her skirt and came slowly, doubtfully towards him.

"I have come," she said. "I was forced to come. Oh, Mr. Saton! How could you?"

His features were wan. There were lines under his dark eyes. He was looking thin and nervous. His voice, too, had lost some of its pleasant qualities.

"My dear young lady," he said, "my dear Lois, what do you mean? You don't suppose--you can't--that it was through me in any way that--that thing happened?"

"Oh, I don't know!" she faltered, with white lips. "It was all so horrible. You pointed to him, and your eyes when you looked at him seemed to shine as though they were on fire. I saw him shrink away, and the color leave his cheeks. It was horrible!"

"But, Lois," he protested, "you cannot imagine that by looking at a man I could help to kill him? I can't explain what happened. As yet there are things in the world which no one can explain. This is one of them. I know a little more than most people. It is partly temperament, perhaps--partly study, but it is surely true that I can sometimes feel things coming. From the first moment I looked into Guerdon's face at dinner-time, I knew what was going to happen. Out there in the hall I felt it. Once before in South America, I saw a man shoot himself. I tell you that I was certain of what he was going to do before I knew that he had even a revolver in his pocket. It comes to me, the knowledge of these things. I cannot be blamed for it. Some day I shall write the first text-book that has ever been written of a new science.

I shall evolve the first few rudimentary laws, and after that the thing will go easily. Every generation will add to them. But, Lois, because I am the first, because I have seen a little further into the world than others, you are not going to look at me as though I were a murderer!"

She drew a little breath, a breath of relief. Her hand fell upon his arm.

"No!" she said. "I have been foolish. It is absurd to imagine that you could have brought that about by just wishing for it."

"Why, even, should I have wished for it?" he asked. "Lord Guerdon was a stranger to me. As an acquaintance I found him pleasant enough. I had no grudge against him."

She drew him a little way on down the lane.

"I must only stay for a few minutes," she said. "If we walk down here we shall meet n.o.body. Do you know what Mr. Rochester has suggested?"

"No!" Saton answered. "What?"

"He says that Lord Guerdon had always been uneasily conscious of having seen you somewhere before. He says that at the very moment when he was stricken down, he seemed to remember!"

"That does not seem to me to be important," Saton remarked.

"Can't you understand?" she continued. "Mr. Rochester seems to think that Lord Guerdon had seen you somewhere under disgraceful circ.u.mstances. There! I've got it out now," she added, with a wan little smile. "That is why he feels sure that somehow or other you did your best to help him toward death."

"And the others?" Saton asked.

"Oh, it hasn't been talked about!" she answered. "Everyone has left the house, you know. I only knew this through Mary."

Saton smiled scornfully.

"My dear girl," he said, "I know for a fact that Lord Guerdon was suffering from acute heart disease. He went about always with a letter in his pocket giving directions as to what should become of him if he were to die suddenly."

"Is that really true?" she asked. "Oh, I am glad! Lord Penarvon said so, but no one else seemed sure."

"There is no need, even for an inquest," Saton continued. "I went to see the doctor this morning, and he told me so. I am very, very sorry," he went on, taking her hand in his, "that such a thing should happen to spoil the memory of these few days. They have been wonderful days, Lois."

She drew her hand quietly away.

"Yes!" she admitted. "They have been wonderful in many ways."

"For you," he continued, walking a little more slowly, and with his hands clasped behind him, "they have been, perhaps, just a tiny little leaf out of the book of your life. To me I fancy they have been something different. You see I have been a wanderer all my days. I have had no home, and I have had few friends. All the time I have had to fight, and there seems to have been no time for the gentler things, for the things that really make for happiness. Perhaps," he continued, reflectively, "that is why I find it sometimes a little difficult to talk to you. You are so young and fresh and wonderful. Your feet are scarcely yet upon the threshold of the life whose scars I am bearing."

"I am not so very young," Lois said, "nor are you so very old."

"And yet," he answered, looking into her face, "there is a great gulf between us, a gulf, perhaps, of more than years. Miss Lois, I am not going to ask you too much, but I would like to ask you one thing. Have these days meant just a little to you also?"

She raised her eyes and looked him frankly in the face. They were honest brown eyes, a little clouded just now with some reflection of the vague trouble which was stirring in her heart.

"I will answer you frankly," she said, "Yes, they have meant something to me! And yet, listen. I am going to say something unkind. There is something--I don't know what it is--between us, which troubles me. Oh, I know that you are much cleverer than other men, and I would not have you different! Yet there is something else. Would you be very angry, I wonder, if I told the truth?"

"No!" he a.s.sured her. "Go on, please."