Читать книгу Who Killed Caldwell? - Carolyn Wells - Страница 7

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The tap was light and a little hesitating, and Archer had half a mind to ignore it and not answer it at all.

But in a moment it was repeated, a little more imperative and a bit louder. So he opened the door and saw the nurse, her crisp white uniform shining in the dim hall light.

“What is it?” he said, and, before he could prevent her, she slid past him into the room, pushed the door shut and stood against it.

“What do you want? Have you something to tell me?” for he was almost certain her presence meant ill news from her patient’s bedside.

She looked round the room with interest.

“What a delightful room,” she said, and smiled at him in friendly fashion. “I want to look at you, I didn’t half see you, downstairs. You’re very splendid!”

“Have you an errand, Miss Mason? A message from my father?”

“Why, yes, I have. I didn’t think you’d be an ogre!”

He looked at her. She was fair-haired and blue-eyed, about twenty-seven or -eight, he guessed. She could be called pretty by those who cared for her, if any, but her face was hard, as a nurse’s face so often grows to be.

She had no appeal for Archer, nor did he look for any.

He spoke more sharply, as he said:

“What is your message, then? Will you give it me?”

“Yes, of course. And don’t be so high and mighty, I feel sure we are going to be friends.” Her smile, this time, meant to be ingratiating, exasperated him, and he grasped the door knob, saying, “I will ask my father what it’s all about.”

But again she slipped past him, crossed the hall and opened the opposite door, saying, brightly:

“Here he is, Mr. Caldwell; I have brought him, as you asked.”

“Hello, Archer; sit down, will you, and talk a few minutes. Or are you too tired?”

“I’ve never known what it is to be tired, and I could talk all night. But don’t let me tire you.”

“Mason will see to that. Go in the other room, Mason, and don’t listen at the keyhole. You’re a good nurse, but as full of curiosity as a cat! Run along now, and don’t come back till I ring.”

With an engaging smile at Archer the nurse went into the back room, which was separated from the bedroom by a bath and dressing room.

“Are you sure, Father, you feel strong enough to sit up and talk tonight? Tomorrow is another day, you know.”

“For you, Archer, yes. For me—maybe and maybe not. You know, I may live for years, and I may go off any minute.”

“Yes, I know angina is like that; we can only hope the attacks will prove mild and harmless. Your doctor is skilled? A specialist, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes; he’s one of the tops. Now, look here, boy, first of all, how are you fixed for ready money?”

“Enough for running expenses, for a while; if I don’t run too fast or too far. And a few thousands saved up, from my somewhat checkered career. I’ve had my ups and downs, being a soldier of fortune, now and then, but of late years I’ve had money enough.”

“Good. I have a man of business who comes once or twice a week. He’ll give you whatever you want. Don’t hesitate to ask him. You have no—er—you left no debts behind you?”

“Lord, no! I’ve never been in debt in my life, though I have been penniless.”

“For the last time, thank God! Now, although this isn’t England, I do make a distinction between my oldest son and my others. Tomorrow I shall make a new will, and you will, of course, inherit more than Vincent or Bruce.”

“Now, Father, why do you do that? It will make the others annoyed or at least dissatisfied—”

“Don’t try to advise me, boy! I never take kindly to advice.”

“But I want you to know that I am not grasping, I do not care for the seniority, I’d rather share and share alike.”

“Either you’re pretending or you’re a fool!”

The two men looked at one another.

“I am not either,” said Archer, quietly, and his gaze did not falter.

The black eyes of the man in the bed stared at him steadily a few seconds, and then he said:

“No, you are not, and I beg your pardon.”

Their hands met for a moment, and then Archer said, again:

“But I should be glad if you made Vincent’s share equal to mine. I am not advising, but calling your attention to the point that he will suffer greatly from disappointment, otherwise. As you know, he has looked forward to a distribution of your property, that must in any case be changed somewhat because of my advent. Don’t let the change be too great. It seems a strange thing to be talking thus about what will happen after you are gone, but—you set the key yourself.”

“Oh, yes, that’s all right. I’m everlastingly making wills, you know. Griffith says he could paper a room with my discarded wills. But now, with you here, it’s different, and I think tomorrow I shall make what will be really my last will. You mean to stay home, I hope. You’ve no intention of running away again, have you?”

“No, indeed. I say, Father, do you think Vincent doubts my identity?”

“Why, he can’t, really; and there’s no sense in his pretending to do so. It seems to me, he is like a man who has been jilted; his pride is hurt, and his vanity is disturbed. Vincent hasn’t your sterling qualities, my boy; and I say this in all sincerity and kindness. If his mother had lived Vincent would have been a far better man. I am no good as a preceptor or guide. You have made yourself, by having only your own conscience for a teacher, and I truly believe you are a better and finer man than you would have been had you stayed at home—that is, without your mother. She was a wonderful woman, I see some of her fine traits in Marcia.”

“Marcia is very capable, and most tactful. Bruce seems to be a manly chap.”

“Yes; now we’ll talk about their characters some other time. I want to go on about my will. I shall leave you this house and the country house in Fairfield County, and all my oil property and holdings.”

“Oh, stop! You can’t have anything left for the others!”

“Indeed I have! I am what is called a rich man, even in New York.”

“Well, truly, don’t talk any more about it to me, or I shall be unable to keep from offering advice, which you hate.”

“And which I never take.”

“Tell me, do you suffer with this trouble of yours?”

“Not much between the attacks. But during and directly after a spell, it’s like hell broke loose!”

“Don’t you think I’d better call Miss Mason now? You must be exhausted. You like her?”

“She’s better than the one we fired last; that’s all I can say. I hope she hears that, she’s always listening. But she does her work well enough, and she’s cheerful around the room.”

“We haven’t mentioned Lorraine. Does she seem like your own child after all the years?”

“No, indeed. She’s a dear girl, but I never can quite make her out. You have a try at it.”

“At what?”

“At making her out. She’s a sort of changeling, I think. I mean, she’s dear and sweet some days and then some days she’s as queer as Dick’s hatband.”

“Maybe she’s in love.”

“Maybe. She hasn’t confided in me.”

“Do you think she’ll marry either of your sons?”

“Not unless it’s you. Vince and Bruce are not inclined.”

“Don’t plan wedding bells for me. I never shall ask a gentle lovely woman to tie up to a worldworn, weatherbeaten chap like me. I want a business that shall occupy my time and my mind, and some day we’ll talk that over. Now I’m going to leave you. Shall I ring for your handmaiden?”

“Yes, and be down to breakfast at eight, or I’ll be disappointed. I don’t believe your life has accustomed you to breakfast in bed.”

“That, among other things. But I’ll be with you. Good night.”

He made his escape as the door opened to admit Miss Mason, for he was disinclined toward her friendliness.

The nurse went to the bedside and felt her patient’s pulse.

“You talked a little too long, but who could help it, with such an interesting companion! He is a grand man, Mr. Caldwell. And he is your oldest son?”

“Yes, and he is a fine fellow.”

“So he is, so he is. Now, take this spoonful, please—come, come, now, you must take it, or I shall tell the doctor not to let you have any callers in your room!”

The ruse worked all right, and Caldwell hastily swallowed the medicine.

Eva Mason was not a registered nurse, though she had had some training. But she was capable and reliable and willing to follow the doctor’s orders implicitly. And her tact and good humor kept her from resenting the sharp speeches of her patient. She was twenty-four, though she looked older, and she had an overweening secret ambition, the hope of which cheered her long night vigils and gave her imaginary escape.—

In case of the always feared attack of angina, she was to call Stark, the valet, who slept in a back room on the same floor, and he would come at once. He was a wise and skillful nurse, as well as a competent valet.

Miss Mason had called him one night, but it was an unnecessary call, and she knew it, and as soon as he arrived he knew that she knew it, and he gave her such a dressing-down that she never attempted it again.

The girl was attracted by almost any man, but she soon learned that she could make no conquests in the Caldwell household.

In the room back of Caldwell’s bedroom was another room, which was also his own. Here he wrote letters, received his lawyer or other agents, and sometimes sat there alone, to read.

A large table held current periodicals and new books, and well-filled bookshelves cased his favorite volumes.

In this room, Miss Mason spent her nights, which were not unhappy.

There was a couch, where she might rest, if she chose, but she oftener sat in a big easy chair and dreamed her visions.

She made regular visits to her patient, listened to his breathing and obeyed any orders the doctor had left her.

At dawn, she bathed and put on her street dress, and at seven-thirty, Stark took over, and she went down to her breakfast, and away.

“O.K.?” asked the valet, as he came in the morning after Archer’s arrival.

“Yes, all right. Keep him quiet today. He’s excited over his son’s coming home.”

Promptly at eight they were all at the breakfast table.

Irving Caldwell beamed with happiness.

“Well, well,” he said, “this is a great day for me! All my children gathered round me! Archer, my boy, you are indeed welcome home.”

“And glad to be here! No country in the world can produce pancakes like these!”

“I suppose you have eaten breakfasts in many lands,” Bruce still wore the look of wondering adoration that he had showed the night before.

“Yes, if they could be called that. They have run the gamut from grilled peacock down to a few half-ripe nuts and a plantain leaf.”

“Were you poor?” asked Lorraine, her eyes full of pity.

“Yes, and lost in the jungle, with no companion but a gun.”

“You had your ups and downs, then?” and Vincent’s tone was a little supercilious.

“Oh, I did have those, yes, of course.”

“Why of course? When you were affluent, why did you become poor? Gambling?”

“No, highway robbery, bandits, desperadoes, cutthroats. One gives up easily to those gentlemen.”

Bruce drew a long sigh.

“Whenever are you going to tell us stories about it?” he said, so plaintively that they all laughed.

“Perhaps you and I can have a session some time today. We’ll go into a huddle, just the two of us, and I will a few tales unfold, that will make—do you know your Shakespeare, kid?”

“Not very well, but doesn’t that go on, ‘harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood—’”

“You’ll do! Good boy! I’ll find something for you in my duffle chest, if it ever gets here.”

“Where from? Where did you come here from directly, Archer?”

“From India, Vince,” and just then Caldwell rose and they all followed, and breakfast was over.