Chetwynd Calverley. Ainsworth William Harrison
more they were in the old room upstairs
The blinds were drawn down, the candles on the chimney-piece lighted, the claret and glasses set on the table, Chetwynd was seated in an easy-chair, and old Norris had taken a place opposite him.
“Now, Norris,” said Chetwynd, “I should like to ask you a few questions. In the first place, what is the matter with my father? Till I came here this evening I have never heard he was unwell. What is his complaint? What does Doctor Spencer say about him?”
“Doctor Spencer says it’s a complete ‘break up,’” replied the butler; “but I don’t think he understands the case at all. Your father used to be a remarkably stout man for his years, as I needn’t tell you, sir. I never recollect him having a day’s illness till his marriage; and, indeed, he was as well as ever for three months, when he caught a cold, and then a very sudden change occurred, and I thought all would soon he over with him – but he rallied.”
“Did he quite recover from his cold?”
“No, sir, he was much weakened, and didn’t regain his strength. He looked to me as if gradually wasting away.”
“Why, so he was, I suppose, Norris. There is nothing but what is perfectly natural in all this; yet you seem suspicious.”
“I hope he has been fairly treated, sir.”
“Why should you think otherwise?”
“Because he has symptoms that I don’t exactly like, sir.”
Then lowering his voice, as if afraid to speak the words aloud, he added, “It looks to me almost like a case of slow poisoning!”
Chetwynd seemed horror-stricken at the idea.
“You must be mistaken, Norris,” he said. “It cannot he. Whatever opinion I may entertain of the person it is evident you suspect, I am certain she is incapable of such a monstrous crime. Have you mentioned your suspicions to Doctor Spencer, or any one else?”
“I told Doctor Spencer I thought it a very strange illness, but he said there was nothing unusual in it – it was simply the result of a bad cold. ‘It was quite impossible,’ he said, ‘that Mr. Calverley could be more carefully attended to than by his wife. She had really kept him alive.’ I don’t know what he would have said if I had ventured to breathe a word against her.”
“Did you warn my father? It was your duty to do so, if you really believed he was being poisoned.”
“My immediate discharge would have been the consequence,” said Norris. “And how could I prove what I asserted? Doctor Spencer thought me a stupid old fool; my master would have thought me crazy; Mrs. Calverley would have thought a lunatic asylum fitter for me than Ouselcroft; and Miss Mildred would have been of the same opinion. So I held my tongue, and let things go on. Had you been at home, sir, I should have consulted you, and you could have taken such steps as you deemed proper. But it is now too late to save him.”
“If this were true it would be dreadful,” exclaimed Chetwynd. “But I cannot believe it. It must have been found out. Doctor Spencer, who is a very clever, shrewd man, has been in constant attendance on my father, and must have been struck by any unusual symptoms in his illness, but he appears to have been quite satisfied that everything was going on properly. To make an accusation of this sort, with nothing to support it, would have been culpable in the highest degree, and I am glad you kept quiet.”
“Still, I can hardly reconcile my conduct to myself, sir,” said Norris; “but I fear I should have done no good.”
“No; you would have done great mischief. I am quite certain you are utterly mistaken.”
Norris did not seem to think so, but he made no further remark.
After a brief silence he got up, and said:
“I must now go up to my master’s room, and see whether he wants anything. Perhaps I may find an opportunity of speaking to him.”
VIII. DEATH OF MR. CALVERLEY
Left alone, Chetwynd revolved what the butler had told him; and on considering the matter, he came to the conclusion he had previously arrived at – that there was nothing whatever to justify the old man’s suspicions.
“I cannot imagine how he has got such a notion into his head,” he thought; “but, according to his own account, he has not a shadow of proof to support the charge. Besides, setting all else aside, there is no motive for such a crime. She could not wish to get rid of my father. Perhaps she might desire to come into the property, but, even if she were bad enough to do it, she would never run such a frightful risk. No, no, the supposition is absurd and monstrous!”
At this moment the very person of whom he was thinking came in, and closed the door.
In her hand she had a small lamp, but she set it down.
She looked very pale, but her manner was perfectly composed, though there was a slight quivering of the lip.
Chetwynd arose, and regarded her in astonishment.
“You need not be alarmed at my appearance,” she said. “I have no unfriendly intentions towards you. I heard you were still here, and came to speak to you. I am anxious to prevent further unpleasantness. You are acting very foolishly. Why should you quarrel with me? Whatever you may think, I mean you well.”
By this time Chetwynd had recovered from his surprise, and, regarding her sternly, said:
“I have no desire to hold any conversation with you, madam; but my conduct requires explanation. I was about to depart, but have been induced to remain for various reasons. I have learnt matters that have determined me to see my father again.”
The latter words were pronounced with great significance, but did not seem to produce any impression upon Mrs. Calverley.
“I do not wish to prevent you from seeing him, Chetwynd, if you will promise to behave quietly,” she replied.
“I cannot let him go out of the world in the belief that you have acted properly to him,” said Chetwynd, fiercely.
“Then you shall not see him! Nothing you could allege against me would produce the slightest effect upon him, but you shall not disturb his latest moments.”
“You dare not leave me alone with him – ”
“No,” she replied, in a severe tone, “because you cannot control yourself. In my opinion, you ought to ask your father’s pardon for your manifold acts of disobedience, and if you do so in a proper spirit I am certain you will obtain it.”
“You venture to give the advice,” he said. “But have you yourself obtained pardon from my father?”
“Pardon for what?” she cried.
“For any crime you may have committed,” he replied. “It is not for me to search your heart!”
“I disdain to answer such an infamous charge!” she rejoined, contemptuously.
“Have you not shortened his days?”
“What mean you by that dark insinuation?” she cried.
“My meaning is intelligible enough,” he rejoined. “But I will make it plainer, if you will.”
A singular change come over her countenance.
But she instantly recovered, and threw a scornful glance at Chetwynd.
“What have you done to him?” he demanded.
“Striven to make his latter days happy,” she replied, “and I believe I have succeeded. At any rate, he seemed happy.”
“That was before his illness,” observed Chetwynd.
“Since his illness I have nursed him with so much care that those best able to judge think I preserved his life. I saved him from all pain and annoyance, and his confidence in me was such that he has left all to my management.”
“I know it, madam; and you have been in haste to assume the power, but it may be wrested from your