FullReads

Mark came in to breakfast after this lady and I had for some time been seated there. He shook hands with me in silence, kissed my companion, opened his letters and newspapers and pretended to drink his coffee. But I took these movements for mechanical and was little surprised when he suddenly pushed away everything that was before him and, with his head in his hands and his elbows on the table, sat staring strangely at the cloth.

“What’s the matter, caro fratello mio?” Miss Ambient quavered, peeping from behind the urn.

He answered nothing, but got up with a certain violence and strode to the window. We rose to our feet, his relative and I, by a common impulse, exchanging a glance of some alarm; and he continued to stare into the garden. “In heaven’s name what has got possession of Beatrice?” he cried at last, turning round on us a ravaged face. He looked from one of us to the other–the appeal was addressed to us alike.

Miss Ambient gave a shrug. “My poor Mark, Beatrice is always– Beatrice!”

“She has locked herself up with the boy–bolted and barred the door. She refuses to let me come near him!” he went on.

“She refused to let Mackintosh see him an hour ago!” Miss Ambient promptly returned.

“Refused to let Mackintosh see him? By heaven I’ll smash in the door!” And Mark brought his fist down upon the sideboard, which he had now approached, so that all the breakfast-service rang.

I begged Miss Ambient to go up and try to have speech of her sister- in-law, and I drew Mark out into the garden. “You’re exceedingly nervous, and Mrs. Ambient’s probably right,” I there undertook to plead. “Women know; women should be supreme in such a situation. Trust a mother–a devoted mother, my dear friend!” With such words as these I tried to soothe and comfort him, and, marvellous to relate, I succeeded, with the help of many cigarettes, in making him walk about the garden and talk, or suffer me at least to do so, for near an hour. When about that time had elapsed his sister reappeared, reaching us rapidly and with a convulsed face while she held her hand to her heart.

“Go for the Doctor, Mark–go for the Doctor this moment!”

“Is he dying? Has she killed him?” my poor friend cried, flinging away his cigarette.

“I don’t know what she has done! But she’s frightened, and now she wants the Doctor.”

“He told me he’d be hanged if he came back!” I felt myself obliged to mention.

“Precisely–therefore Mark himself must go for him, and not a messenger. You must see him and tell him it’s to save your child. The trap has been ordered–it’s ready.”

“To save him? I’ll save him, please God!” Ambient cried, bounding with his great strides across the lawn.

As soon as he had gone I felt I ought to have volunteered in his place, and I said as much to Miss Ambient; but she checked me by grasping my arm while we heard the wheels of the dog-cart rattle away from the gate. “He’s off–he’s off–and now I can think! To get him away–while I think–while I think!”

“While you think of what, Miss Ambient?”

“Of the unspeakable thing that has happened under this roof!”

Her manner was habitually that of such a prophetess of ill that I at first allowed for some great extravagance. But I looked at her hard, and the next thing felt myself turn white. “Dolcino IS dying then– he’s dead?”

“It’s too late to save him. His mother has let him die! I tell you that because you’re sympathetic, because you’ve imagination,” Miss Ambient was good enough to add, interrupting my expression of horror. “That’s why you had the idea of making her read Mark’s new book!”

“What has that to do with it? I don’t understand you. Your accusation’s monstrous.”