 | XVIII. The thief in the night |  |
18. XVIII.
When Beaudesfords appeared in the drawing-room
some two hours later, his face was as pale
as Catherine's. He had been using camphor-water
freely, and he shook an atmosphere of it
around himself from his handkerchief as he lifted
the curtain of the inner room.
“I should think you were a whole hospital-ward!”
cried Caroline.
“Are you ill, Beaudesfords?” asked Mamma
Stanhope.
“Not exactly. A little.”
“You ate nothing, I noticed,” she began, with
her stately sort of bustle. “You” —
“I have been down in the typhus-district. It
is the reason I was away from home last night.”
“Oh, Beaudesfords!” cried Rose. “And those
strangers were” —
“My lawyers. I sent for them as soon as I
discovered the malignant character of the disease
where I had been.”
“How absurdly you talk! As if” —
“I have been making my will, little Rose in
Bloom. I sent for them — the lawyers — in case
of accident. Since dinner the accident became
a certainty” —
“What on earth do you mean, Beaudesfords?
A certainty?” cried Caroline.
“To me! Perhaps not to another. On the
whole, I don't know that a man can have a more
enjoyable occupation than that of making his
will. He disproves the old adage that you can't
have your cake and eat it too; for he gives away
every thing, and keeps it notwithstanding.”
“But, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Stanhope imperatively,
“I can't listen to any such badinage.
Lawyers and wills and typhuses! Those wretched
people down there in the Great Wood have
preyed upon your feelings, and wrought you into
a nervous headache that you would persuade
yourself, as all men do, must be incurable.
You will drink this strong tea and be better.”
“Thank you, Mamma Stanhope. You are as
good as a doctor. Nevertheless, I shall have
Ruthven, and I shall take my own old rooms
again, — the St. Veronica suite, you know, — so
that if I have brought home the confounded infection,
Catherine may be safe.”
“Oh, Beaudesfords!” cried Catherine. And
then she stopped, for it came over her in a burning
rush from head to foot where it was possible
he might have read those last three words. “Oh,
Beaudesfords!” she cried again. But she dared
say no more; for, in spite of his pleasantry, his
eye was as glittering as an eagle's. But if he
were ill, and she were to be shut out in this way,
— she stood up suddenly, and as suddenly sat
down again, believing that she was growing
wild.
“By the way, Gaston,” said Beaudesfords
then, “I have left you the St. Veronica.”
Gaston answered nothing.
“The St. Veronica and half my fortune, old
boy. It is not your fault if you survive me. The
other half I leave, as the will says, to my dear
and honored wife.”
Gaston and Catherine alone understood the
sarcasm of tone and speech, knowing its every
word was studied.
Then Beaudesfords set down his teacup, and
arose.
“If you will send for Ruthven, Mamma Stanhope,”
little Rose, — I think you would be sorry if
any thing happened to me. That is the polite
euphemism, is it not? Don't follow me, friends.
I am to be left alone. Frye sleeps in the room
beyond, — and sleeps soundly too, — the door is
closed, and I ring if I need him. I want no attendance,
please. Be sure that I am obeyed.”
“But, Beaudesfords — I believe you are delirious
already!” exclaimed Caroline. “What
sort of directions for a man threatened with a
fever! Why, when I am sick, I want everybody!”
“Be sure that I am obeyed,” replied Beaudesfords,
in his gentlest, firmest tone. “Make as
merry as you may, till I return to make merry
with you. Good-night.” He lifted the silken
curtains, and they fell behind him heavily, swinging
and subsiding in their long folds; and as
Catherine watched them, it flashed upon her,
with swift portent and premonition, that over
Beaudesfords' bright head they were never to
part again.
| XVIII. The thief in the night | |