“Eunice Weldon,” she said, shaking her head sadly, “you’re a bold woman! Because the best man in the world was too good, too silly, or too frightened, to kiss you, you are working up a grievance. In the first place, Eunice Weldon, you shouldn’t have proposed to a man. It was unladylike and certain to lead to your feeling cheap. You should have been content to wait for the beautiful carpet under your feet and the mansion over your head, and should have despised the bare boards of an attic overlooking the railway. I don’t suppose they are bare boards, Eunice,” she mused. “They are certain to be very nicely covered and there will be all sorts of mementos of Jim’s campaigns hanging on the walls or tucked away in odd little cupboards. And I’m sure, when the trains are not rattling past, that the view from the window is beautiful, and, anyway, I shouldn’t have time to look out of the window. There would be Jim’s shirts to mend, Jim’s socks to darn, and—Eunice Weldon, get up!” she said hurriedly as she slipped out of bed.
Going along the corridor Digby Groat heard the sound of her fresh young voice singing in the bathroom, and he smiled.
The ripe beauty of the girl had come on him with a rush. She was no longer desirable, she was necessary. He had intended to make her his plaything, he was as determined now that she should be his decoration. He laughed aloud at the little conceit! A decoration! Something that would enhance him in the eyes of his fellows. Even marriage would be a small price to pay for the possession of that jewel.
Jackson saw him smiling as he came down the stairs.
“Another box of chocolates has arrived, sir,” he said in a low voice, as though he were imparting a shameful secret.
“Throw them in the ashpit, or give them to my mother,” said Digby carelessly, and Jackson stared at him.
“Aren’t you—” he began.
“Don’t ask so many questions, Jackson.” Digby turned his glittering eyes upon his servant and there was an ugly look in his face. “You are getting just a little too interested in things, my friend. And whilst we are on this matter, let me say, Jackson, that when you speak to Miss Weldon I want you to take that damned grin off your face and talk as a servant to a lady; do you understand that?”
“I’m no servant,” said the man sullenly.
“That is the part you are playing now, so play it,” said Digby, “and don’t sulk with me, or—”
His hand went up to a rack hanging on the wall, where reposed a collection of hunting-crops, and his fingers closed over the nearest.
The man started back.
“I didn’t mean anything,” he whined, his face livid. “I’ve tried to be respectful—”
“Get my letters,” said Digby curtly, “and bring them into the dining-room.”
Eunice came into the room at that moment.
“Good morning. Miss Weldon,” said Digby, pulling out her chair from the table. “Did you have a nice dinner?”
“Oh, splendid,” she said, and then changed the conversation.
She was dreading the possibility of his turning the conversation to the previous night, and was glad when the meal was finished.
Digby’s attitude, however, was most correct. He spoke of general topics, and did not touch upon her outing, and when she went to Mrs. Groat’s room to play at work, for it was only playing, the real work had been done, he did not, as she feared he might, follow her.
Digby waited until the doctor called, and waylaying him in the passage learnt that his mother had completely recovered, and though a recurrence of the stroke was possible, it was not immediately likely. He had a few words to say to her that morning.
Old Mrs. Groat sat by the window in a wheeled chair, a huddled, unlovely figure, her dark gloomy eyes surveyed without interest the stately square with its green leafy centrepiece. The change of seasons had for her no other significance than a change of clothing. The wild heart which once leapt to the call of spring, beat feebly in a body in which passion had burnt itself to bitter ashes. And yet the gnarled hands, crossing and re-crossing each other on her lap, had once touched and blessed as they had touched and blasted.
Once or twice her mind went to this new girl, Eunice Weldon. There was no ray of pity in her thought. If Digby wanted the girl, he would take her, and her fate interested old Jane Groat no more than the fate of the fly that buzzed upon the window, and whom a flick of her handkerchief presently swept from existence. There was more reason why the girl should go if… she frowned. The scar on the wrist was much bigger than a sixpence. It was probably a coincidence.
She hoped that Digby would concentrate on his new quest and leave her alone. She was mortally afraid of him, fearing in her own heart the length to which he would go to have his will. She knew that her life would be snuffed out, like the flame of a candle, if it were expedient for Digby to remove her. When she had recovered consciousness and found herself in charge of a nurse, her first thought had been of wonder that Digby had allowed her to revive. He knew nothing of the will, she thought, and a twisted smile broke upon the lined face. There was a surprise in store for him. She would not be there to see it, that was the pity. But she could gloat in anticipation over his chagrin and his impotent rage.
The handle of the door turned and there followed a whispered conversation. Presently the door closed again.
“How are you this morning, mother?” said the pleasant voice of Digby, and she blinked round at him in a flutter of agitation.
“Very well, my boy, very well,” she said tremulously. “Won’t you sit down?” She glanced nervously about for the nurse, but the woman had gone. “Will you tell the nurse I want her, my boy?” she began.
“The nurse can wait,” said her dutiful son coolly. “There are one or two things I want to talk to you about before she returns. But principally I want to know why you executed a will in favour of Estremeda and left me with a beggarly twenty thousand pounds to face the world?”
She nearly collapsed with the shock.
“A will, my boy?” She whined the words. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“The will which you made and put into that secret drawer of your cabinet,” he said patiently, “and don’t tell me that I’m dreaming, or that you did it for a joke, or that it was an act of mental aberration on your part. Tell me the truth!”
“It was a will I made years ago, my dear,” she quavered. “When I thought twenty thousand pounds was all the money I possessed.”
“You’re a liar,” said Digby without heat. “And a stupid old liar. You made that will to spite me, you old devil!”
She was staring at him in horror.
Digby was most dangerous when he talked in that cool, even tone of his.
“I have destroyed the precious document,” said Digby Groat in the same conversational voice, “and when you see Miss Weldon, who witnessed its destruction, I would be glad if you would tell her that the will she saw consumed was one which you made when you were not quite right in your head.”
Mrs. Groat was incapable of speech. Her chin trembled convulsively and her only thought was how she could attract the attention of the nurse.
“Put my chair back against the bed, Digby,” she said faintly. “The light is too strong.”
He hesitated, but did as she asked, then seeing her hand close upon the bell-push which hung by the side of the bed, he laughed.
“You need not be afraid, mother,” he said contemptuously, “I did not intend taking any other action than I have already taken. Remember that your infernal nurse will not be here all the time, and do as I ask you. I will send Miss Weldon up to you in a few minutes on the excuse of taking instructions from you and answering some letters which came for you this morning. Do you understand?”