The Lone Hand (Pain)/Chapter 2
II.— Mr. Nathan Gould.
It was something of a surprise.
If on my arrival in London I had found waiting on the platform at Charing Cross one girl of the same height as myself, the same colour of hair, the same type of face, and the same style of clothes, I might have thought it merely a coincidence. But here were fifteen girls, all—so far as I could see—exactly similar. They were not in groups, but scattered about the platform under the clock. They never spoke to one another, but it struck me that they looked at one another curiously and with something like veiled hostility. I saw the same expression on their faces, whenever one of them happened to pass me. I could not imagine what it meant, and I wanted to find out. I sent a porter to the cloak-room with my belongings, and stood against the bookstall waiting events. It was then two minutes to one.
At one o'clock precisely a man of about thirty-five, in a light overcoat, with a folded newspaper in his hand, walked rapidly into the station and stood still, looking about him. His personal appearance was not in his favour. He wore too much jewellery, and the expression on his face was one of furtive spite. One of the girls who were waiting walked close past him very slowly. He looked at her intently, but made no sign, and she then passed out of the station. A second girl did the same thing, except that she lingered at a little distance from him. A third was just approaching, when he came rapidly forward to me and raised his hat.
“I think,” he said in a slightly foreign accent, “I am right in presuming that you are here in response to my advertisement in this morning's Mail.”
“No,” I said, “I have seen no advertisement. I don't know you, and don't understand why you should speak to me.”
“I hope,” he said, “you will give me an opportunity of explaining. It can do you no harm, and may be very profitable to you. It is a matter of life and death, or I would not trouble you. I assure you that I mean no disrespect whatever.”
By his tone and manner it was perfectly evident that he was not talking to me merely because I was a pretty girl. He was the kind of man whom anyone would distrust at sight, but of whom no one could have been afraid. I was not in the least afraid. I shrugged my shoulders.
“This is wildly unusual,” I said, “and I don't like it. You may begin your explanations. If at any moment I think them at all unsatisfactory I shall send you away. Begin by showing me the advertisement”
He handed me the paper in his hand with the advertisement marked, and I read as follows: “If the lady of eighteen, with dark hair and blue eyes, pale complexion, good-looking, height five-foot-seven, will be on the platform of Charing Cross, under the clock, at one p.m. precisely this morning, the man in the light overcoat, with the folded newspaper, will meet her there, and liberally reward her services.“
“Well?” I said.
“The advertisement was not addressed to any particular lady. I merely wanted to find one who would bear a close resemblance to my half-sister, who died about a month ago. My mother is seriously ill, and the death of my half-sister, to whom she was devoted, has been kept from her. If she knew of that death there is no doubt that she would succumb at once. She has been told that my half-sister is away in the country, but she has begun to suspect, and we have had to promise to produce her. You are exactly like her, you have the same tone of voice, you spoke to me exactly as she would have spoken if a stranger had addressed her. The impersonation will be a very easy one; you will have to be in the same room with my mother for a few moments, and will have little to say. The room will not be brightly lit, and the doctor would not permit any but the briefest interview. You will be prolonging her life for a few days, at the best I fear it cannot be for more than that, and you will remove a load of terrible suffering from her mind. For this I am ready to pay you five pounds now and one pound for every day that you remain at my house. My name is Gould—Mr. Nathan Gould. Here is my card.”
The card bore an address in Wilbraham-square, Bloomsbury. I thought the matter over for a few seconds. One can do a great deal of thinking in a few seconds. “Mr. Gould,” I said, “if I believed your story entirely I would do what you want for nothing. I neither believe it nor disbelieve it entirely. I have the impression that you are keeping something back.”
“Not intentionally. I explained myself as quickly and briefly as possible, but I am ready to answer any questions.”
“Possibly I am not in a position to ask the questions which would be material.” At this I thought he winced slightly. “I consider that I take a great risk, and I do not take a great risk unless the consideration is proportionately great. If you will pay me fifty pounds in cash and five pounds for every day that I remain in your house I will come. I have only just arrived in London, have no friends here, and was on the point of going to an hotel. If you accept my terms I can come at once. If not, there is no more to be said.”
He did not seem much surprised. “Is that your last word?” he said.
“It is.”
“Very well. You shall have my cheque for fifty pounds as soon as we reach my house, and the rest of the money will be paid you day by day.”
“That will not do,” I said. “We will drive now to your bank, and you will draw fifty pounds in notes or gold. We shall then go on to my bank, where I shall deposit the money. After that I am at your service.”
“You are a business-like woman,” he said. “It is queer to be distrusted when one is really perfectly honest, but it shall be as you wish. If you will come with me I will call a cab.“
“You will call two,” I said. “A four-wheeler for myself and my luggage, and a hansom for yourself.”
My programme was punctually carried out. As it happened, we both banked in Lombard-street, and it was not long before that part of the business was concluded, and we had arrived at the house in Wilbraham-square. It was a good Georgian house, and looked well kept. Gould paid the cabmen and introduced his latch-key.
“No,” I said, “ring. I prefer it.” I wanted particularly to see who would answer the door. An extremely commonplace and honest-looking parlourmaid answered it. When she saw me she staggered back, aghast
“That's all right, Annie,” said Mr. Gould reassuringly. “The resemblance is striking, isn't it?”
“Yes, sir,” said the maid. “It took me very much by surprise.”
“All right upstairs?” asked Gould.
“I believe so. The doctor is just leaving.“
By this time the man had brought my luggage into the hall. At the same moment a grey-headed old gentleman came down the stairs, slipping a stethoscope into his side-pocket. He also seemed startled at seeing me.
I trusted that old gentleman, and I trusted the maid who had opened the door, but I did not trust Mr. Nathan Gould a bit. At this moment his air was far more that of a man who has recently pulled off a clever financial coup than of a son who has succeeded in saving a mother to whom he is devoted from a great sorrow. Gould went forward to the doctor at once.
“How is she?” he asked eagerly.
“No change,” said the doctor. He looked across at me. “Really,” he said, “the resemblance is astounding.”
Gould brought him up to me. “This is our doctor,” he said. “Dr. Wentworth.” Gould hesitated. I had not given him my name.
“I am Miss Tower,” I said.
The doctor bowed. “May I ask,” I said, “if you have been attending Mrs. Gould for some time?”
“Certainly,” he said; “for the last five years.”
“I should like very much to speak with you alone for a few minutes. Have you the time, and would you be so very kind as to do this for me?”
The doctor looked inquiringly at Gould. Gould was furious. He knew, of course, that I was about to ask for his character. But he restrained himself. “Miss Tower,” he said, with a touch of bitterness, “has already made it quite clear to me that she must have her own way. I believe there is no one in the drawing-room.” The doctor held open the door for me.
“I will give you as many minutes as you want, with pleasure,” he said.
I gave him my story as briefly as I could, and told him all that had passed between Mr. Gould and myself. “I am going to be quite frank,” I went on. “I do not trust the man in the least. I do not believe he has one atom of love or respect for his mother.”
“He has not,” said the doctor.
“Why, then, does he want this impersonation?”
“What he has told you is true. Mrs. Gould is very ill. There are various complications, but it is the heart which we have to fear principally. It is impossible to cure her, but I confidently believe that by coming here you will prolong her life and make her last days much happier. As to Mr. Gould's motives, I have perhaps no right to speak. He has not confided in me. I will only give you the facts. Mrs. Gould is one of two sisters, of equal fortune, and bitterly jealous of one another. The elder sister died in her seventy-fourth year. She did not wish Mrs. Gould to have any advantage over her, and left her money to accumulate until Mrs. Gould's seventy-third birthday, when Mrs. Gould comes into it. She was a cranky old woman, and did not like the idea of her sister having any more money than she had. Mrs. Gould is a wealthy woman now, and on her seventy-third birthday, which will be in a few days' time, will be twice as wealthy. If she does not live till her seventy-third birthday the whole of her sister's money goes to the London Hospital. Do you see?”
“Yes,” I said, “I see. She has doubtlessly left her money to her son, and in the event of her surviving until her seventy-third birthday he will profit.”
“Precisely. Her entire estate is left equally between Mr. Gould and his half-sister, and in the event of the death of either the whole goes to the survivor. That is the situation in a nutshell.”
“Then what have I to fear?”
“Nothing at all, until after that seventy-third birthday.”
“I see,” I said meditatively. I could imagine that after that date Mr. Gould's filial affection might undergo some remarkable changes.
The doctor gave me some useful information about the half-sister and explained to me exactly what I was to do when I was admitted to his patient's room. He also gave me his address. “You may find that useful in a week's time,” he said.
My luggage had already been taken up and the maid showed me the way to my room. On the stairs we met Mr. Gould. “It is all right,” he said in a low voice; “I have just come from my mother's room. She is overjoyed. You will see her this evening.” He paused and added, “And have you heard the worst of me? “
“Not yet,” I said “That will come.“
Then he guessed how much I knew, and hated me almost as much as I hated him.
The maid who was unpacking for me asked me if I would lunch downstairs with Mr. Gould or if I preferred to lunch in my own room. It is always well to get to know one's enemy, and I did not hesitate. A few minutes later I was sitting down to lunch alone with a man whom two hours before I had never seen in my life, and of whom I now knew very little, and nothing which was not dead against him.
He was really very clever. He hardly spoke of his mother at all, he was quiet in his manner, and showed himself most attentive to my personal comfort I was not to consider myself a prisoner at all. I could have the brougham that afternoon and go anywhere I liked. If it was convenient to me to be back at six o'clock, that would be the best time for me to see his mother. But if not some other arrangement might be made. Did I like the room that had been given me? If not it could be changed. There was another little room just opposite to it in the same passage, which was being got ready to serve as a private sitting-room for me.
I thanked him and said I was net going out. Turning the conversation away from myself, I made him talk to me about his half-sister. He talked about her in the most easy and matter-of-fact way. I do not suppose he ever cared for her or for anybody except himself. All the same, the information that I got as to minute points of her personal appearance and her manner of speaking was very useful.
At six o'clock I was quite ready. Mr. Gould now seemed a little nervous and excited. He kept on giving me fragments of stupid advice and telling me things that he had told me before. The interview was to be a very short one, and the doctor and the nurse were both in the dimly lit room when I entered it, though they stood at some distance from the bed. On the bed lay the dying woman—a handsome old Jewess, with whity-yellow skin of one even tint, colourless lips, and blaring eyes. I went straight up to the bed and took her claw of a hand and bent over her and kissed her. She spoke in a very low voice, and I just caught the words, “Thought I'd lost you.”
“No,” I said, “I'm here, and I will not leave you again until you get better.”
Her eyes closed and opened again and fixed themselves on me. “Pray for me,” she said.
Still holding her hand I dropped down on my knees by her bedside. My thoughts flew frantically in unlikely directions. I remembered my own mother sitting before the fire and saying with helpless solemnity that it was the beginning of the end. I was not quite sure where I had put my watch-key, and puzzled about it. I recalled vividly a fat old woman who had travelled up in the same compartment with me, and I wondered where she had gone. And all the time I was holding the old woman's hand and trying to pray, and hearing the clock on the mantelpiece tick, as it seemed to me, constantly quicker and quicker.
Presently the doctor touched me on the shoulder. I opened my eyes and saw that the old woman had fallen asleep. I released her hand gently, and slipped out of the room. When I got outside I was shaking like a leaf, and there was Mr. Gould full of eager questions. I answered him as well as I could. He was delighted.
“Now,” I said, “let me go to my own rooms for the rest of the day.”
He looked at me curiously. “Why,” he said, “you seem upset. I suppose you are not as used to it as we are. You ought to have a brandy and soda. Let me get it for you.”
I refused that, went off to my own room, lay down on the bed, and began to cry. I had not the faintest idea what I was crying about. It was all so strange and horrible. But soon I eat up and bullied myself. I could see that there might be much to do which would want all my sense and none of my emotion. I dined in my own room, and with my dinner there was brought to me a letter from Mr. Gould, thanking me for my kindness, and enclosing a five-pound note.
The next two days passed quietly enough. I now saw the old woman two or three times a day. The third day was the day before the birthday. In the afternoon Mrs. Gould, who had been getting much better, became rapidly worse, fainted, and was unconscious for quite a long time. Gould made a fool of himself. He whipped the doctor off into the dining-room, and talked so loudly that I could hear in the drawing-room. “Look here, doctor,” he said, “you must keep her alive for another nine hours. You can do it if you like, you know. Use more stimulants. You want to flog that heart. Keep it going somehow. Were you trying oxygen?”
“Mr. Gould,” said the doctor, “you know that your mother refuses to see any other doctor, and that any attempt to force one upon her would certainly be fatal. Otherwise I should have thrown up this case before. As it is, I am not going to enter into any consultation with yourself or any other ignorant and unqualified person. And it would help me to keep my temper, and would therefore facilitate my work, if I had no interviews with you of any kind. Send your inquiries through the servant.”
The doctor came out and shut the door. He looked into the drawing-room for a moment. “Miss Tower,” he said, “if Mrs. Gould lives until after twelve to-night, look out.”
“I had meant to,” I said.
Then he went up to his patient.
At twelve that night Mrs. Gould was alive and sleeping peacefully. As soon as Mr. Gould had heard this glad news he went up to bed. That night, for the first time, I had not received my fee. At breakfast next morning he was distinctly disrespectful in his manner. “Look here,” he said, “the best of friends must part. You've done all I wanted, and there is no doubt my mother will get on all right without you now. She has got rid of the idea that my half-sister is dead, and that was the main point. I've told them to pack your things, and as soon as you're ready to go you shall have that last fiver you managed to screw out of me. You've been paid a sight too well, but I'm a man of my word.”
“I'm not going,” I said
“Not going? Don't talk in that silly way. You'll have to go. I can starve you out—I can throw you out by force if you like. Still, I don't want a scene. I suppose I must make it two fivers instead of one. That's what you're after.”
I took out the slip of paper on which Dr. Wentworth had written down his address for me. “It's quite true,” I said. “You may have my things packed and put in a cab and may ask me to leave the house. If I do so, that will be the address to which the cabman will drive, and the consequences are likely to be serious for you.”
He raved and abused like a drunken cad for a few moments, and then went out of the room, and a moment later out of the house.
At eleven that morning Mrs. Gould died suddenly in my arms. It was a quick and painless ending. A telegram was sent to Mr. Gould's office in the City, and the reply came back that he was not there. Dr. Wentworth came down to the drawing-room with me and seemed slightly hesitating. “Excuse me,” he said, “for asking the question, but have you any friends in London?”
“None,” I said
“And have you any plans?”
“None; except to leave this place immediately. I shall see what happens. It was through seeing what happened that I came here. At any rate, I'm not going to take on any of the underpaid work leading to nothing of which women seem to be so fond.”
“I don't quite like this,” he said. “I rather wish you'd go and talk things ever with my wife. But you won't, and, after all, I don't know that it would do much good. You're playing a lone hand and you rather like it, and you can take care of yourself.”
I talked to him a little longer, and then my cab came. As I drove away I saw Mr. Gould approaching the house He was not helpless, but he was a little more than half-drunk. I wondered for what act he had been trying to find the courage.