Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (58 page)

‘My God!’ he said, ‘it must be apoplexy. He was too weak to come out.’ Rushing to the door, he called “Jackson, take the cab and rush for the nearest doctor, bring him here at once, and then go for Sir James Ditchett, and bring him in the cab with you — hurry, now. My father is suddenly taken ill and must see him.’

Now, as a nineteenth century author is bound to know everything, from the management of the stops of an organ to the slaying of a pig, there is little wonder that young Mr Ryves, in his capacity of author, had an intimate acquaintance with the remedies best on an emergency for a slight attack of apoplexy, so that by the time Jackson returned with the doctor Mr Kasker-Ryves was restored to consciousness. Whilst consciousness was returning he uttered some words that to his son were incomprehensible. They ran thus, in a low half-whisper, —

‘Oh, for God’s sake close your eyes. It will kill me. But the bet is against Fate. I w
on’t
die, I will kill her. You mustn’t side with Fate against me — and if you look at me like that you will kill me, and Fate will win. You always said that you loved me, and that even though I had wronged you you could not wish me ill — and now you are killing me with that look of longing forgiveness — if you would only seem to hate me, or scorn me, or — anything would be better than that.’ His voice rose. ‘But it is against Fate, and I will withstand it, and live in spite of you all. Fate thought to frighten me by selecting
that
place of all others, but I am not afraid. I’ll fret the girl to death in next to no time — Why, hullo, Jemmy, I must have fainted. I feel very weak still — give me a little brandy.’

Now, brandy is the worst thing in the world in such cases, and Jemmy refused it, giving his father water instead.

He put his lips to the glass, but noticing the difference at once, pushed it from him.

‘Why don’t you give me brandy? Look here, Jemmy, tell me at once, was it apoplexy?’

His son made no answer, and at that moment the servant knocked.

‘The doctor is below,’ he said. ‘Shall I show him up?’

But Mr Kasker-Ryves answered angrily,—’No, I’ll see no cursed doctors. They’ll want to hinder me in my plans, and if I am thwarted now it will kill me. Send him away at once, Jemmy — I won’t see him, nor Sir James either. I
will
not, and when I say that I mean it.’

And so, sorely against his will, Jemmy had to go down and explain matters as best he could to the doctor. On his return he found Mr Kasker-Ryves calm and peaceful once more.

‘Now, look here, Jemmy,’ he said, ‘if you will let me alone now I shall be all right. I know how to treat apoplexy as well as any doctor, and it’s no use calling one in. But if you will do me a service, you can. Edith is gone down for the day to Herne Bay with Miss Tubbs. You might go down there on the chance of finding them, and hurry her back here. I must have her to put me to bed, and I should like to go to bed early tonight. She didn’t intend returning before the last train left, and she won’t be home till eleven; but if you can manage to hurry her she might be here by seven. In the meanwhile I will stop here until I feel somewhat restored, and then I will drive home quietly, and rest until Edith comes.’

To this plan the young man offered no objection, and immediately drove off on his errand, leaving his father in a state of most supreme calm, concocting a grand scheme for the torture of Edith. Having matured it in its smallest details, he set about getting it into working order. He knew, however, far too much the nature of his late disorder to underrate its importance, and therefore, when he had rested sufficiently, he returned home, and sending for the great physician, gave him a full account of his seizure.

The great physician looked grave.

‘You must keep yourself very carefully from worry of any sort. I will give you a prescription, and call this evening when Mrs Ryves has returned.’

But Mr Ryves frowned.

‘Now, look here, Sir James,’ he said, ‘I know very well that I have had a slight touch of apoplexy, and it is no use your informing my wife of it in private. Moreover, I am determined to leave town at once and go to the seaside, the day after to-morrow, in fact.’

The great physician shrugged his shoulders.

‘If you are determined, I cannot help it, but as your physician I forbid it. It will probably kill you right off.’

‘Yes, yes, Sir James, I know all about that, but go I will, and I should be very much obliged if you could so far depart from professional etiquette as to set on paper a few hints to the local physician how to act in my case.’

The great physician demurred, objected, and after a serious struggle gave in. In some cases it is best to humour patients, especially if they are millionaires. On the departure of the great physician he sent for his body-servant, a man in whom he could put implicit trust.

‘Paton,’ he said, ‘I want you to set off for Dymchurch, in Suffolk, at once. You have just time to catch the last train. I have been recommended to go there at once by Sir James Ditchett, and I am anxious to follow his advice. You must find out what houses are to let furnished, either with or without attendance, and take the largest — if possible, with accommodation for Mrs Ryves and myself, yourself, a cook, and Parker. Lodgings would do, but I should prefer a whole house. You must have it taken by tomorrow; the price, of course, doesn’t matter. Oh, and by-the-bye, if you can manage it, don’t mention my name in the matter. You may of course give me as a reference, but I don’t want the whole country to know I am there. I am really not well enough to be bothered with a large number of visitors. Take it in your own name.’

The man said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and without expecting fuller orders, set off at once. And Mr Ryves relapsed once more into calmness, and occupied his mind in polishing up and perfecting his scheme.

In the meanwhile his son had, after considerable trouble, succeeded in discovering the two ladies of whom he was in pursuit at an hotel, where they were enjoying some afternoon tea.

Edith was terribly perturbed at the news that he had to tell, and passed the time that ensued between then and their reaching home in a state of feverish anxiety, and employed herself in asking the young man most minute and searching questions as to her husband’s state, much to the annoyance of that youth, who would fain have availed himself of the opportunity of creating a feast of reason and a flow of soul between himself and Julia, for his passion had by no means diminished by time, though Julia was as collected and contemptuous as ever. However, at last the journey came to an end, and Edith took leave of Julia, who promised to come over next morning and see how Mr Ryves was progressing.

Edith, on arriving home, was full of selfreproach for having left her husband for even so short a time. But Mr Kasker-Ryves silenced her on the subject.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘it wouldn’t have made the least difference if you had stopped at home — that sort of thing comes whatever one may do.’

‘But if I had been at home,’ Edith said, ‘I should not have let you go out. The exertion of moving has brought it on.’

‘Well, well, my dear,’ he answered, ‘have your own way, but say no more about it, and put me to bed. Oh, by-the-bye, Sir James says I must not stop in London any longer than is necessary, so I have sent Paton down to Hailesworth to see if he can get a house in some retired part of the village where I shall not be bothered with visitors all day long.’

‘But will it be wise to travel so soon?’ Edith objected, and he answered, —

‘Oh, yes, dearest. Paton will arrange about the travelling. He has ordered a saloon carriage, or an invalid’s compartment, or something, and all we have to do is to sit in it. By-the-bye, you can tell Parker to pack your boxes and her own. We’ll take an assistant cook and one of the servants, whichever you like.’ —

‘When are we going?’ she asked.

‘Oh, the day after to-morrow, if that is not too soon for you.’

And Edith agreed, for she knew it was useless to attempt to oppose him.

On the next day Julia came over to see how Mr Kasker-Ryves was, but, as it was still rather early, he was not yet arisen, therefore Edith saw her alone for a minute.

When Julia heard they were going away she very naturally asked where they were going, but Edith answered, —

‘I really don’t know. Mr Kasker-Ryves hasn’t settled yet, but somewhere in Suffolk, near Hailesworth.’

It was all Julia could do to suppress an ejaculation of astonishment.

‘By-the-bye,’ she asked, ‘did you write to Mr Hollebone after all?

Edith blushed.

‘No, I didn’t, Julia,’ she said. ‘I began but it didn’t seem right — and so I left it unfinished.’

‘What did you do with it?’ Julia asked.

‘I — well, I didn’t like to burn it, and so I locked it up in a box.’

‘Well, of all the — However, it’s no use talking. If I had a conscience like yours I’d drown myself right off — it would save trouble in the end.’

‘It didn’t seem right, Julia,’ Edith said, ‘after Mr Ryves has always been so kind to me.’

‘Oh, it isn’t that I mean,’ Julia answered, ‘but just this. Next time you marry a vain, jealous old man, don’t leave unfinished love letters in boxes. Don’t you know love laughs at locksmiths?’

‘Oh, Julia, you are a tease,’ Edith said angrily. ‘I must run off now to Mr Ryves. Good-bye, dear. I sha’n’t see you again for I don’t know how long.’

The parting over, Edith went back to help her husband get up, and Julia returned home.

‘I wish I knew what on earth to do. I’m afraid that old devil will be carrying her off to Dymchurch, just for the fun of the thing. If I were only certain I’d write to the young man and warn him. As it is I’d better let him alone, perhaps. It may do him a little good to see her once or twice, or else he may be giving her up, and that would be too bad.

I’ll run down there at anyrate in a week or so and see how things are going on. If they are there, Edith will want a little advice, or goodness knows what may happen; and if they aren’t, I can try and keep the young man from falling off.’

In the meanwhile Edith was helping her husband to get up. The day went smoothly round, for Mr Ryves was nerving himself for the ordeal — there was more under the surface than he chose to acknowledge to himself, otherwise the whole thing would have been excessively easy. There was, however, a slight difficulty that he had not foreseen, namely, to keep the name of their destination from his wife, and in the end he thought it best to invent a name for the place. By skilfully sending Edith out of the room to fetch something the very moment Paton returned he managed to prevent her hearing what his servant said, for fear the servant should mention the name.

Paton had, with very little difficulty, secured a decently furnished house, and had arranged everything, so that there would be no trouble whatever in getting to Dymchurch. At Blythborough a carriage would be awaiting them at the station, and would carry them safely to their destination, ‘Conyers,’ as Mr Kasker-Ryves called it when speaking to his wife.

As a rule Mr Kasker-Ryves objected to lying, not on principle, but because it did not look well to be found out; but on this occasion he had a double object in telling the lie.

Firstly, to conceal their destination at first from his wife, and secondly, so that when she did find out the real name of the place she should know that he had brought her there of set purpose, and not out of blissful ignorance — and he knew very well how she would hate him when she made that discovery. Moreover, to strengthen his situation in that direction, he had laid one or two slight pitfalls — the first of which had been the breaking of the Stradivarius, and the second the copying of some poetry that Hollebone had written her in one of his letters. The plan connected with the verses was delicately conceived to fit into the one of the broken fiddle, in this way: he ordered Paton to buy half-a-dozen or so of the various illustrated papers and magazines, for reading in the train, and armed with one of these he waited until the train was making as little noise as possible to say to his wife, —

‘I must say, dear, a great deal of the poetry of to-day is precious poor stuff. Just listen to this awful rubbish in the
Universal Review
, which really ought to do better. It appears to me to be a poor imitation of Herrick or Dr Donne, or someone of that period. Really we ought to produce something more worthy of the nineteenth century. Just listen.’