They watched the scarcely breathing, motionless figure on the bed for the best part of an hour, and could mark no change that told of death, nor any sign that told of life. Then Granny Marrable said:--"What was that?" And Gwen answered, as she really thought:--"It was the clock."
For she took it for the warning on the stroke of midnight. But old Phoebe said, with a strangely unfaltering voice:--"No--it is the change!" and the sob that broke the silence was not hers, but Ruth's.
Old Mrs. Picture had just lived to complete her eighty-first year.
There came a sound of wheels in the road without. Not the doctor, surely, at this time of night! No--for the wheels were not those of his gig. Ruth, going out to the front-door, was met by a broad provincial accent--her son-in-law's. Gwen heard it fall to a whisper before the news of Death; then earnest conversation in an undertone. Gwen was aware that old Phoebe rose from her knees at the bedside, and went to listen through the door. Then she heard her say with a quiet self-restraint that seemed marvellous:--"Tell him--tell John that I will come.... Come back here and speak to me." She thought she caught the words as Ruth returned:--"I must not leave her alone." And she knew they referred to herself.
Then it came home to her that possibly her own youth and her difference of antecedents might somehow encumber arrangements that she knew would have to be carried out. They would be easiest in her absence. At her own suggestion she went away to lie down in the bedroom she had occupied.
Granny Marrable followed her. She had something to say.
"Dear Lady, I have to go. God bless you for all your goodness to my darling sister and to me! You gave her back to me...." That stopped her.
"Oh, Granny, Granny, we have lost her--we have lost her!" She could feel that old Phoebe's tears were running down the hand she had taken to kiss, and she drew it away to fold the old woman fairly in her arms, and kiss the face whose likeness to old Mrs. Picture's she could almost identify by touch. "We have lost her," she repeated, "and you might have had her for so long!"
Said Granny Marrable:--"I shall follow Maisie soon, if the Lord's will is. She might have died, my lady, but for you, unknown to me in London.
And who would have told me where they had laid her?"
"Where are you going?"
"I am going to my granddaughter--Ruth's daughter. It is her fancy to have me rather than another. There might be harm to her did I stop away.
Why should I delay here, when all is over?"
Why indeed? Still, Gwen could not but reverence and love the old lady for her unflinching fortitude and resolute sense of duty. She saw her driven away through the cold night, and went back to her room, leaving Ruth and Elizabeth the neighbour to make an end in the chamber of Death.
Sleep came, and waking came too soon, in a cold, dark Christmas morning.
Oppression and pain for something not known at once came first, like a black cloud; then consciousness of what was in the heart of the cloud.
She wrapped herself in a warm dressing-gown, and went out through the silent house. It was still early, and it might be Ruth was still sleeping. Once asleep, why not remain so, when waking could only bring cold and darkness, and the memory of yesterday? Besides, it was not unlikely Ruth had watched half through the night. Gwen opened the door of the death-chamber with noiseless caution, and felt as soon as she saw that the daylight was still excluded, that it was empty of any living occupant. Dread was in her curiosity to see the thing beneath the white sheet on the bed--but see it she must!
The great bulldog, the only creature moving, came shambling along the passage to greet her, and--so she rendered his subdued dog-sounds that came short of speech--concerned that something was amiss he was excluded from knowing. She said a word to comfort him, but kept him outside the room, to wait for her return.
What had been till so lately old Mrs. Picture, whom she had chanced upon in Sapps Court, and found so strange a truth about, lay under that face-cloth on the bed. She moved the window-curtain for a stronger light, and uncovered the marble stillness of the face. The kerchief tied beneath the chin ran counter to her preconceptions, but no doubt it was all right. Ruth would know.
She did not look long. An odd sense of something that was not sacrilege, but akin to it, associated itself with this gazing on the empty tenement. Even so one shrinks from the emptiness of what was his home once, and will never know another dweller, but be carted off to the nearest dry-rubbish shoot. She laid the sheet back in its place, and went into the front-room.
Suddenly the dog growled and barked, then went smelling along the door into the front-garden. There was someone outside. She was conscious of a man on the gravel, through the window. A stranger, or he would enter without leave, or at least find the bell to ring. She glanced at the clock. It was half-past eight already, though it had seemed so early.
How about the dog, if she opened the door? His repute was great for ferocity towards doubtful characters, but he was credited with discrimination. Was this invariable? She preferred to take down his chain from its hook by the window, and to use it to hold him by.
"What is it? Who are you?" She had opened the door without reserve, feeling sure that the dog would be excited by a gap. As it was he growled intolerantly, and had to be reproved.
"You'll excuse me--I was inquiring.... Is your dog safe? I ain't fond of dogs, and they ain't fond of me." He was a man with a side-lurch, and an ungracious manner.
"The dog is safe--unless I let him go." Gwen was not sorry to have a strong ally in a leash, at will. "You were inquiring--you said?"
"Concerning of an old lady by the name of Prichard. The address given was Strides Cottage, and I see this little domicile here goes by that name. Next we come to the old lady of the name of Prichard. Can you do her, or anything near about?"
"Yes--Mrs. Prichard is here, but you can't see her now. What do you want with Mrs. Prichard? Who are you?"
The man kept looking uneasily up and down the road. "I'm a bad hand at talking, mostly. Standing about don't suit me--not for conversation. If you was to happen to have such a thing as a chair inside, and you was to make the offer, I might see about telling you what I want of old Goody Prichard."
Gwen looked at him and recognised him. She would have done so at once had his clothes been the same as when she saw him before, in the doorway at Sapps Court. He was that man, of course! Only with this difference, that while on that occasion his get-up was nearest that of a horse-keeper, his present one was a carter's. He might have been taken for one, if you had not seen his face. Gwen said to him:--"You can pass the dog. Don't do anything to irritate him." He entered and sat down.
"Where have you got the old woman?" said he.
"First tell me what you want with her."
"To introduce myself to her. I wrote her a letter nigh a fortnight since. What did I say to her in that letter? Told her I was looking forward to _re_-newing her acquaintance. You tell the old lady that, from me. You might go so far as to say it's Ralph, back again." An idea seemed to intensify his gaze of admiration, or rather avidity, narrowing it to her face. "This ain't my first sight of _you_, allowance made for toggery."
Gwen merely lifted her eyebrows. But seeing his offensive eyes waiting, she conceded:--"Possibly not," and remained silent.
He chose to interpret this as invitation to continue, although it was barely permission. "I set eyes on you first, as I was coming out of a door. You were coming in at that door. You looked at me to recollect me, for I saw you take notice. Ah!--you've no call to blaze at me on that account. You may just as well come down off of the high ropes."
For Gwen's face had shown what she thought of him, as he sat there, half wincing before her, half defiant. She was not in the habit of concealing her thoughts. "I see you are a reptile," said she explicitly. And then, not noticing his snigger of satisfaction at having, as it were, _drawn_ her:--"What were you doing at Mr. Wardle's?"
"Ah--what was I a-doing at Moses Wardle's? I suppose you know what _he_ was? Or maybe you don't?"
"What was he?"
The convict's ugly grin, going to the twisted side of his face, made it monstrous. "Mayhap you don't know what they call a _scrapper_?" said he.
"I don't. What did he scrap?" She felt that Uncle Mo did it honourably, whatever it was.
"He was one of the crack heavyweights, in my time."
"I know what that means. I should recommend you not to show yourself at his house, unless...."
The man sniggered again. "Don't you lie awake about me," said he. "Old Mo had seen his fighting-days when I had the honour of meeting him five-and-twenty years ago at The Tun, which is out of your line, I take it. Besides, my best friend's in my pocket, ready at a pinch. Shall I show him to you?" He showed a knife with a black horn handle. "I don't open him, not to alarm a lady. So you've no call for hysterics."
"I am not afraid of you or your knife, if that is what you mean."
Indeed, absolute fearlessness was one of Gwen's characteristics. "What did you go to Mr. Wardle's for?"
"On a visit to my wife."
Gwen started. "Who is your wife?" said she. Susan Burr flashed into her mind first. But then, how about "Aunt Maria" on the envelope, and her readiness to act as this man's agent?
"Polly Daverill's my wife--my lawful wife! That's more than my father could say of my mother."
"I know that you are lying, but I do not care why. Do you want to see your mother?"
"If sootable and convenient. No great hurry!"
"She is in bed. I will get her ready for you to see her. Do not go near the dog. They say he has killed a man."
"A man'll kill _him_ if he gives occasion. Make him fast, for his own sake. There's money there--he's a tike o' some value. Maybe forty pound.
You tie him up!" Gwen hooked his chain round the table-leg, starting him on a series of growls--low thunder in short lengths. He had been very quiet.