A Duel

"Nannie, do you know that a dreadful man's been begging, and trying to force his way into the house. If I hadn't turned the key just in time I don't know what would have happened." She did not, but the happenings would have run on different lines to those which she suggested. "As it was he broke the front-door window, and I had to pour a couple of buckets of water over him before he'd go."

"A man been begging, and trying to force his way into the house! Such a thing's never happened in all the days I've known the place."

"I daresay I expect it was some one who's heard that you were confined to your bed, and thought that I might be easily tackled. He's found out his mistake."

"Where's them two girls?"

"I've sent them on an errand. Perhaps he knew that too, and that made him bolder."

"I thought I heard a voice I knew."

"That must have been mine."

"Yours! I haven't heard a sound of you. Who was it screeching?"

"That was me. I was imitating your voice, Nannie. You see I thought it might frighten him more than mine-and it did."

"My voice! Do you mean to tell me that that rasping, creaking screech was meant to be an imitation of my voice? I'd like to know whoever heard me talk in that way."

"Why, Nannie, I'm hearing you talk that way now. Don't you know your own musical accents when you hear them? – and me giving you a taste of them to your face!"

Laughingly, Isabel treated Nannie to another imitation of her curious nasal utterance then and there, and was out of the room before the old lady had recovered sufficiently from her astonishment to pronounce a candid criticism of the impertinent performance.

From Nannie Isabel descended to the master of the house, to be greeted by some very similar inquiries.

"What's been the meaning of all this uproar?" Isabel repeated the lie she had told Nannie. "That was no man's voice I heard. It was a woman's, and I could have sworn one I knew."

"I expect the voice you thought you knew was Nannie. I was favouring the ruffian with as close an imitation of her genial tongue as I could manage."

"That's not what I mean. I heard you imitating Nannie. Will you swear it was a man at the door?"

"Of course I'll swear it. Whatever do you mean?"

"What was he like?"

She seemed to consider.

"He was rather tall and very broad, with a big red beard. He had a cloth cap on the back of his head; his coat over his arm; and he carried a huge stick-about as undesirable-looking a person to encounter on a lonely road as you could very well imagine. I should know him anywhere if I saw him again. Do you recognise him from my description?"

"I do not. I heard nothing of any man speaking, the voice I heard was a woman's."

"Of course it was; I tell you that that was me imitating Nannie. Don't you understand?"

"It was neither your voice nor Nannie's. It was one I have heard too often, and know too well, ever to mistake for another. I could have sworn it was hers; I could have sworn I heard her pronounce my name. I was not dreaming-I could not have been. That I should lie here, chained and helpless, and she almost within touch of me! Why didn't Nannie go down to the door?"

"Nannie? – she's as helpless as you are."

"Where are those two servants?"

"I sent them out on an errand long ago."

"So that you've had me at your mercy, and if it was her, you've had her also. That God should permit it! If you are lying to me-and I believe you can lie like truth! – may you soon be consigned to hell fire, to rot there to all eternity."

"If the worst comes to the worst, that's a trip on which I hope to follow you."

"Swear to me by all that you hold sacred-if there's anything! – that it wasn't Margaret Wallace at the door."

"Margaret Wallace! – are you stark mad?"

"I believe you're tricking me! I believe I heard her voice! I believe I heard her pronounce my name!"

"If I had thought that you could have got such an idea into your head as that, I'd have thrown the door wide open, and invited that murderous ruffian to walk upstairs to you. Then you would have seen how much he was like Margaret Wallace-that is, if she's anything like the picture which you showed me. You've been talking and thinking so much about Margaret Wallace that you've got her on the brain. Do you think that if it had been her I wouldn't have brought her right up to you? You're very much mistaken if you do. I'm no saint, any more than you are, but I'd no more rob a woman of her happiness than you would-perhaps not so much. You did try to rob her, and you got me to be your accomplice-blindfold, as it were. If I'd known what you've told me this afternoon I'd have seen you-and old Twelves! – the other side of Jordan before I'd let you make a tool of me. Now that I do know, I won't rest quiet till you've put her back into the position in which she was before. Here's that will I spoke to you about. It's the same as the one which was spoilt, except that it leaves me five thousand pounds. Five thousand pounds will be of no consequence to her, while it will make all the difference in the world to me. After the way in which you've treated me I ought to have something, and that's the something I mean to have."

Taking out the will which left everything to Margaret Wallace except the £5,000, she held it out in front of Cuthbert Grahame. He read it through.

"That seems all right. Will you help me sign it?"

"Of course I'll help you sign it-now if you choose, though I've dated it to-morrow, because I thought that would give you a chance to think things over. I tell you that I shan't rest till that girl's back into her own again." For some moments he was silent, then he said-

"Perhaps I was mistaken."

"Mistaken about what?"

"Perhaps it wasn't her voice I heard."

"Man, I tell you you were dreaming."

"Perhaps I was. If you'd driven her from the door you'd hardly bring me a will like that directly after. Even if you'd let her in, you might have guessed that she wouldn't have wanted to rob you of your five thousand."

"Of course she wouldn't, any more than I wanted to rob her. We women are not so bad as that, whatever you men may think."

"Put the will under my pillow-gently-with her miniature. As you say, I'll think things over. Maybe I'll sign it to-morrow."

CHAPTER XII

SIGNING THE WILL

Cuthbert Grahame did sign his last will and testament on the morrow, though hardly in the fashion he intended. The way in which he was tricked was this.

Before the woman who called herself his wife went down to her breakfast she paid him a morning call. He had had a more restful night than usual, so that he was in an exceptional good-humour. The sight of her seemed almost to give him pleasure. She was all smiles and sweetness, which were real enough, since she hoped to be shortly in possession of a boundless stock of happiness. He began on the subject directly he saw her.

"I'll sign that will of yours."

"That's right; so you shall. But won't you wait till after breakfast, then we can have up Jane and Martha to be witnesses."

Jane and Martha were the two serving-maids whose absence yesterday had been so opportune.

"I'll wait. You'll have to have me propped up a little higher; I shan't be able to sign like this."

"I'll see to that; I'll do everything I can." And she did. She communed with herself as she ate a substantial meal. "Propped up? I'll see he's propped up high enough, I promise him-the higher the better. He can't be propped up high enough for me. It seems a dangerous game to try to change one paper for the other right under his very nose, but I fancy I know how it can be done-and with complete impunity. If he could move so much as a finger it might be difficult, but propped up as he'll be he'll be wholly at the mercy of my two hands. I think they're skilful enough for the job they've got to do." Spreading out the second sheet of paper on the breakfast-table in front of her, she studied it carefully, with every appearance of complacency. "Such a little difference and yet so much-only the substitution of one word for another, and all the world is changed. I think 'whom I have acknowledged to be my wife in the presence of Dr. Twelves and Nannie Foreshaw' is a positive stroke of genius. It commits me to nothing, and establishes my position, because while he admits his desire to claim me for his wife, there is no reference to any wish on my part to have him for a husband. The only trouble will be to prevent his noticing the difference in the appearance of the two papers, which, however neatly I've done it, is the necessary consequence of inserting those few words. But I think I know how to manage that."

She did; she credited herself with no capacity which she did not possess. In every respect she proved herself to be fully equal to all the requirements of the occasion.

She returned to Cuthbert Grahame's bedroom so soon as she had finished breakfast, the personification of brisk, hearty good-humour.

"Now are you ready? Shall we get to business? Is the will still underneath your pillow? Shall I get it out?" She took from its resting-place the paper which he supposed himself to be about to sign. With the aid of some pillows she raised him to a more upright position. Then she spread the paper out in front of him. "You see, there's the will. Is that just as you want it to be?"

He read it through.

"That's all right."

"Then I'll call up Martha and Jane to act as witnesses, and then you'll be able to sign it in their presence." She called up the two girls, who came up rubbing their hands on their aprons. She said to him, "Hadn't you better explain to them what it is you want them to do?"

He explained.

"I'm going to make a new will. Mrs. Grahame," – he paused; one almost suspected him of a desire to give the name satiric emphasis-"has been drawing up a will at my dictation. I'm going to sign it. I want you to act as witnesses of my signature. Stand close to the bed so that you can see what I am doing. My dear" – this was to Isabel; again there was the hint of an ironical intention-"if you will bring me the will which you have been so good as to draft for me I won't keep these young women a moment longer than I can help."

She brought him the will-or, rather, a will. It was spread out on a slope, and covered with a sheet of blotting-paper on which she kept her fingers to prevent it slipping. Only the last four lines were visible-"it is my wish shall be paid to her, free of legacy duty, within seven days of my being buried". What went before was hidden; the familiar conclusion seemed to be all that he cared to see. Leaning over him, raising his right arm, as gingerly as if it had been a piece of delicate porcelain, she placed his dreadful, helpless fingers somehow about a pen. He spoke to the two girls.

"As you know, I can do nothing by myself, so Mrs. Grahame, at my request, is going to guide my hand so as to enable me to sign my will. You understand, it is I who am signing it, not she."

It was a strange signature-"Cuthbert Grahame," in big, sprawling letters; some of them unattached to each other, all slanting in different directions. The owner of the name, however, seemed to view the result with undiluted satisfaction.

"That's my signature-clear enough for any one to read. Now I want you two girls to attach your names as witnesses to the fact that I have signed my will in your presence."

Isabel removed the slope to the writing-table against the wall. Then each of the girls wrote her name in turn. When they had done so they left the room. So soon as they had gone Cuthbert Grahame spoke to Isabel.

"Now let me have a look at that will of mine in its finished condition. Thank goodness it is done. It's a weight off my mind-a relief for which I have to thank you."

Isabel stood at the writing-table, looking down, with a smile on her face, at the paper he had signed.

"Do you say that you want to see your will now that it's all signed, sealed and finished?"

"Yes; didn't you hear what I said? Then I want you to put it under my pillow. I'll show it Twelves when he comes. He'll laugh when he sees it."

"I expect he will laugh. Is Dr. Twelves coming to-day?"

"He said something about it. If not, then he'll be here to-morrow. It will keep till then."

"Oh yes; it will keep till then."

"What are you waiting for? Why don't you bring the will? Don't I tell you I want to read it again?"

She went to the bed, the sheet of paper extended between her two hands.

"Here's your will, Mr. Grahame; by all means read it again."

He read it, once, twice, then again. Then he tried to speak. It seemed that his voice failed him. It was not pleasant to notice the stammer which seemed to mark his struggles for breath.

"What-what folly's this? That's not the will I signed."

Her eyes were dancing with laughter. There was a merry ring in her voice, as if she was in the enjoyment of an excellent joke.

"Oh yes, it is."

"It's not the one you drafted."

"Oh yes, it is."

"It isn't the one you showed me just now."

"Isn't it? Are you quite, quite sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! It's a trick! – a fraud! This is not my will!"

"But, dear Mr. Grahame-I noticed how you called me your dear! – it is your will. Here's your signature, attested by two witnesses. After all, there's only a slight difference between the one you saw and this."

"A slight difference, you-you-!"

In his efforts to find an expletive to fit the occasion, his struggles for breath became greater. She went gaily on.

"The only difference is that I get everything instead of Margaret Wallace, and that instead of my five thousand pounds she gets five farthings. Surely the trifling substitution of a few words won't matter to you in the least, Mr. Grahame."

It seemed that it mattered a good deal. After a tremendous effort he regained some portion of his voice, enough to enable him to burst into a string of expletives.

"You-you-! You-! It's a fraud! a-fraud! It's a swindle! Don't you flatter yourself that it will stand! Don't you think I'll let it stand! Wait till Twelves comes, then I'll show you!"

"Wait till Dr. Twelves comes? Suppose he never comes?"

"What do you mean? What are you doing with that pillow?"

"Suppose Dr. Twelves never comes, what is to prevent this will from standing?"

"What are you doing with that pillow, you-!"

"I'm going to stop your saying such dreadful things. It pains me to have to listen to such language."

She snatched away one pillow from beneath his head, and then a second. She had propped him in such a way that when he was deprived of their support his head fell back, and there recurred the scene of the previous afternoon. He began to choke; his unwieldy frame was shaken by convulsive efforts to breathe; stertorous gasps proceeded from the region of his chest. He presented a dreadful spectacle.

The sight did not seem to in any way affect the woman who was standing by his bed, with the pillows still in her hand. She pressed the bolster farther up his back so that his head declined at an acute angle; applying her palm to the point of his chin she forced it lower still. Then she said-

"I'll place the will as you wished me, Mr. Grahame, under your pillow".

She placed it there, under the single pillow which remained; then she left the room.

CHAPTER XIII

THE ENCOUNTER IN THE WOOD

Isabel crossed to her own room, put on her hat, smiling at herself in the looking-glass as she arranged it to her satisfaction, then went downstairs, and out of the house without a word to any one. It was perhaps because she was conscious that Martha was peeping at her through the stillroom window that she began to whistle. She was still whistling one of the latest possible melodies when, entering the drive, she turned off among the trees and struck into the woods. Whistling was one of her accomplishments: she whistled very well. The sound of her clear pipe travelled far and wide. No one to hear her, or, for the matter of that, to look at her either, would have supposed that she had a care upon her mind. She bore herself like some lighthearted, happy girl, who, with unstained conscience, looks the whole world in the face, thinking what a delightful place it was for a pretty girl to be in.

As a matter of fact it was the bright side of the picture which presented itself to her-the bright side only. In imagination she saw herself, as she would herself have phrased it, with "tons of money" and "heaps of friends"; the bright particular star of a radiant circle. Everywhere she was greeted with outstretched hands, glad faces and pæans of welcome. Her frocks were the most numerous and the "sweetest," her carriages and horses were the finest, everything she had was of the very best, and she had everything the heart-her heart! – could desire.

With that union of the practical with the imaginative which was not the least prominent of her characteristics she there and then began to inquire of herself what exactly in her new position she should do. To begin with, there was the delicate question of what she should call herself. Should she be Mrs. Lamb or Mrs. Grahame? Should she revert to her maiden patronymic, or should she start life again, with a fresh name altogether, one more in consonance with her new position? These were points she felt which would depend largely upon circumstances; she might not have so much freedom in the matter as she might desire. Then there was the question of domicile. Where should she reside? One thing was certain, she would not stay where she was-nothing would induce her. If she had her own way she would never come near the place again-never! As for living in his house! – in the middle of her brilliant imaginings the mere thought of such a thing seemed to make her blood run cold.

On the instant her mood was changed. She stood still, amid the trees and bushes. With clenched fists, a new expression in her eyes, she looked behind her, first over one shoulder, then the other, then to the right and to the left, as if in search of something she had no desire to see. A sudden, strange reluctance seemed to clog her limbs. She listened: there was only the cawing of some distant rooks and the whisper of the breeze among the pines. With a laugh at her stupidity, breaking through the something which constrained her, she went striding on.

But she had not gone far when a very genuine sound brought her to a halt. In itself a commonplace, there it was the most unusual of noises: it was the sound of footsteps, of some one tramping through the forest. In all the time she had known the place she had never heard a step except her own. Could it be Margaret Wallace, still lingering about the haunts she probably knew well and loved? It would be disconcerting if it were. If they met-but that was hardly a woman's step. Could it be the doctor? What was he doing in the forest on foot? Besides, she had noticed what little pattering steps he took; this person was striding.

The walker was hidden from her by a clump of bracken which rose to a height of some six or seven feet. He was moving in her direction. Should she retreat? It could probably be done, and before he caught a glimpse of her. Should she advance and meet him? or should she wait until he came to her? While she hesitated, the decision was taken out of her hands. The walker, threading his way among the bracken, reached a point where the stalks were shorter. All at once she found herself confronted by-Gregory Lamb.

She stared at him with as much amazement as he stared at her, and her amazement was unbounded. Possibly he was the last person with whom she would have associated the advancing footsteps; no thought of him had crossed her mind. Not improbably, since she at least had cause to suspect that he might be in the neighbourhood, his surprise was even greater than hers. He stood looking at her in bewildered silence, as if unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. When he did speak the observation which he made was characteristic.

"Well, I'm hanged!"

Her retort was equally in character.

"I wish you were!"

"I daresay; but I rather fancy that when it does come to hanging, where you and I are concerned, it will be a case of the lady first. Where the deuce have you been all this time? and what on earth are you doing here?"

"What business is that of yours? Do you know you're trespassing?"

"What business is it of mine? and do I know I'm trespassing? Well, that's pretty good, considering you're my wife, and the way you've behaved. Do you happen to know that the police are scouring the country for you, and that they're only lying low because they think you're dead, or something?"

"It's a lie! You're a natural born liar; you tell nothing but lies."

"Don't you think you've a little gift of you're own in that direction? I do! It was bad enough to sneak off from me like that; but to steal the old girl's money was playing it too low down!"

"What are you talking about? What do you mean?"

"You know very well what I'm talking about! Do you think that I don't know-and that everybody doesn't know-that you broke into Mrs. Macconichie's cupboard and stole her savings? A pretty mess I got into because you were a thief! You don't happen to know, I suppose, that they locked me up for what you'd done, and that they only let me go when I proved that that sort of thing wasn't quite in my line."

"Serve you right!"

"What served me right? – locking me up, or letting me go?"

"Anything would serve you right, you brute!"

"Brute, am I? All right, my lady! if that's the way you're going to talk to me I'll soon let the police know whereabouts you are, and then they'll serve you right. A good taste of prison would do you good, you dirty thief!"

"Don't shout like that!"

"Then don't you call me names. I'm not a thief whatever else I am."

"I'm not so sure of that. What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean, what am I doing here?"

"I thought you'd gone back to London long ago."

"Then you're wrong, because I haven't; and what's more, I'm not likely to go. I've been having a real bad time, that's what I've been having."

"Haven't those rich friends of yours sent that remittance you were always gassing about?"

"No, they haven't." After a pause, he added, sullenly, "My old mother's allowing me a pound a week, and I'm living on that. So now you know."

"Honest?"

"It's the gospel truth. So you'll be able to judge for yourself how likely I am to be able to get back to London on that, especially as she won't let me have a penny in advance."

"A nice sort you are! – after the lies you told me about the tons of money you'd got yourself, and the other tons your friends had got! – a pound a week!"

"Anyhow I'm not a thief."

"And I shouldn't have been a thief if I hadn't listened to your lies; and very well you know it. I've had enough of you; take yourself off!"

"Take myself off?"

"Yes, take yourself off, before I tell some one to take you."

"Well! you've got a face! If I do go I'll put the police on to you, and then you'll sing a different song."

"You dare!"

"Dare!" he laughed, not pleasantly. "What is there to dare? I'd think as little of putting the police on to you as I would of putting a dog on to a cat. They'd soon show you your place, you thief!"

There was an interval of silence, during which she looked at him over the intervening bracken. If looks could kill he would have dropped dead where he stood.

"Well, are you going to take yourself off, or am I to tell them to take you?"

"Who's them? – tell away! I think that when I tell them you're my wife, and that the police have been looking for you for quite a while, they-whoever they may be! – won't be so keen to interfere with me as you perhaps fancy. There's another thing: you seem to be forgetting that you're my wife. When I do go you'll go with me."

"Will I? We'll see."

"We will see; or, if you prefer it, it shall be the other way about, I'll go with you."

"Will you?"

"It'll have to be one or the other, you may take it from me. Well, are you going to call those friends of yours? Are you coming with me, or am I to go with you? Which is it to be? I'm in no hurry; take your time. I'll have a pipe while you're thinking it over."

He filled a pipe which he took from his pocket, while she glared at him.