Chapter SIX

She found herself in a room unexpectedly small and narrow, furnished with sparse simplicity. Nearly everything was white, walls, covers, the bed-hangings, pendent from a sort of crown. The only colour was contained in the dull mauve-grey carpet and in the dark wood of the severely beautiful Directoire furniture. The curtains were drawn, so that although it was nearly midday there was a clear, luminous twilight. On the panel beside the bed, facing the entrance, hung a silver crucifix, under which were wax candles in brackets.

All this was but a general impression. What the girl chiefly saw was the fragile figure in the bed, the grey eyes staring out of the drawn and pallid face, the thin arms outstretched to greet her.

“Catherine! You have come, then! I did not know till a moment ago. My dear--my dear!”

There was strained pathos in the quivering features, a catch in the voice which poured forth its words in a rapid torrent. Tears dimmed the invalid’s eyes, the veins stood out on her waxen temples as with feverish intensity she kissed the young girl on both cheeks, then clung to the warm hands with her own transparent ones.

“My darling Germaine!”

Now the first shock was over Catherine felt easier. Until this moment she had nurtured a cankering doubt as to whether or not Mme. Bender would recognize her.

“Madame! madame! Calm yourself! You will suffer for this.”

It was Jeanne who spoke, solicitous and reproving, hovering near by as though in readiness to interpose at the slightest warning symptom. Catherine had a fleeting impression of watchful eyes regarding them anxiously.

“No, no, Jeanne, I am quite myself. You need have no fear. Only I am so very, very glad to see this dear child, who has come all the way across the ocean to be with me. Leave us for a little. I promise I shall not become excited.”

“Very well, madame, I will go, but I shall not be far away. If madame wants me, she has only to call.”

She withdrew into the adjoining room, not without a backward glance full of doubt, and, it seemed to the girl, distrust. Through the half-open door she could be heard moving about, as if reluctant to remove herself from earshot. Evidently, although the patient appeared quite normal, she was not satisfied. Probably experience had taught her not to rely upon these fortunate phases too implicitly.

The Frenchwoman still detained Catherine’s hands, stroking them with trembling, quick movements. Her eyes devoured the vivid young face.

“Sit there, my child, in the big chair, quite close to me. Now, tell me everything about yourself. Did you have a good crossing, and was Eduardo in time at the station? You were well looked after?”

“Everything was perfect, Germaine dear! Quite, quite perfect.”

On no account must Mme. Bender know what had actually happened. Clearly she had not the least suspicion that her orders were neglected.

“And your room? Do you like it? I told Jeanne to give you my own old one, at the corner. I have lain here thinking how charming you would look against the green and gold. Are you happy there?”

“It is a beautiful room, Germaine. It is like you to think of it.”

“No, no. I have nothing pleasanter to think of, here alone. I have always marvelled how, out of that dull, cold New England, where no one has any eyebrows, you could have got that colouring of a Tintoretto. It warms one, like the sun.”

She ran on flutteringly in her pure and lovely French, and as the sentences followed one another with rapid irrelevance the girl scanned her features for some sign of aberration. After a few minutes he began to feel less uneasy. Germaine was much as she had always been--aged, of course, and tremulous from weakness, but otherwise little changed. In the haggard features it was still possible to trace remnants of the beauty which had first captivated Harry Bender. The luxuriant hair was streaked with grey, but it retained its natural wave, and was worn as she had always worn it, drawn back from a central parting to show her delicate ears. On the right temple it revealed the end of the ugly scar which marked the injury of last year.

Above all else it was the eyes which held Catherine’s attention. Wide, strained and wistful, the eyes of a neurasthenic, they now riveted their gaze eagerly on the girl’s face, now darted this way and that with frequent watchful glances towards the open door. They expressed timidity, lack of assurance, and some other less easily defined emotion baffling to the onlooker; yet in them Catherine could detect nothing to indicate loss of reason.

Nor in the rather childish prattle, skipping like a dragonfly from topic to topic, was there anything unusual. At no time had Mme. Bender possessed a keen or logical brain, though fineness of taste and an evasive charm had in a great measure made up for lack of understanding. Always she had given the impression of being withdrawn in an inner fantastic world, and when it came to practical affairs she had accepted the dictates of her husband without question. Now it struck Catherine that these characteristics had assumed exaggerated form. She had definitely reverted to a child-like state, trusting and fearing without reason, shrinking from reality and claiming protection. Just how far this retirement might extend it was impossible to say.

All was now silent in the next room, though the girl did not remark the fact until upon her companion’s face she caught an expression of acute listening. Then she knew that Germaine wished to tell her something, and had been waiting for the maid to go away.

“Catherine, my dear!”

She whispered the words, meantime clutching Catherine’s arm in a nervous grasp.

“What is it, Germaine?”

“Yesterday--or was it the day before?--I had a dreadful experience. Something so stupid happened. Have they told you?”

“A little, Germaine. You drank something by mistake. Wasn’t that it?” returned the girl, embarrassed to find a suitable reply.

The grey eyes took on an eager glitter.

“A mistake--yes, yes! Just that. So foolish of me--I cannot yet think how it came about.” She paused, again listening, then continued earnestly: “I want you to believe me when I say it was an accident. I had here on my table my sleeping-draught in a little glass, and in another glass a solution of carbolic in which at night I put a little dental plate. You understand?” she demanded urgently, her eyes searching Catherine’s face.

“Of course. What happened then?”

“You see, one of the glasses is green. That is the one that contains the sleeping-draught. Well, while Jeanne was out of the room getting me a hot-water bottle, I took up the green glass and drank a little. Only a very little, for at once I knew I had taken the wrong thing. Ah!” with a convulsive shudder, her eyes closing, “it was strong, so strong! It burnt my throat. My throat is still raw, though Jeanne declares that is my imagination. You know sometimes my imagination is very vivid.… Yet I cannot see how…” Her voice trailed off and she pressed her fingers to her throat with a distracted gesture. “Anyhow I screamed. ‘Jeanne, Jeanne, come at once!’ I called, ‘I have taken poison!’ But she was at the back of the apartment, she could not hear me. Meantime the drop I had swallowed burnt like fire all the way down. I was in agony. It was a long time before I could make her hear--poor Jeanne! She was terribly upset.”

Spent by the recollection, she lay back upon her pillows, while perspiration broke out and lay in heavy drops on the waxen skin. Catherine eyed her in keen distress.

“There, dear, it is all over now. Try to forget about it.”

Suddenly the prone figure stiffened, sat bolt upright, staring with a look of terror. At the quick change Catherine realized the fact that she was alone with a patient who a short time ago had suffered an alarming attack. Ought she to summon Jeanne? Yet a second before she had been impressed by the lucidity, the poignant underlying conviction, of the invalid’s recital. She watched, uncertain what to do.

“Forget it! Ah, that is what I must not do!” breathed the hoarse voice fearfully. “I must remember it, so I cannot commit so frightful an error again. The great trouble is my memory. I forget things so easily--so easily! I must have forgotten which glass was which, otherwise how could I have done what I did? You see? It shakes one’s confidence. It----”

She checked herself with a gasp, eyes dilating. Following the direction of their gaze, Catherine saw that Jeanne had come back, was standing just inside the door. So engrossed had she been by her cousin’s excitement she had not heard the light footfall.

The maid approached, anxious and disapproving.

“Madame! madame!” she declared with authority, “this will not do! I implore you not to speak of that affair. Mademoiselle, you see? She is getting into a panic again. Did I not warn you?” she ended accusingly.

Catherine thought it better not to reply. Besides, her attention was transfixed by the instant alteration which had taken place with the patient. Mme. Bender’s wan features assumed a timid, conciliatory smile as she relaxed and lay back, breathing hard.

“It is nothing, Jeanne! I was only telling mademoiselle how imbecile it was of me to mistake the plain glass for the green. Never in my life have I done such a thing. It makes me feel quite, quite odd!” She finished with an hysterical laugh of apology infinitely pathetic.

The maid, now on the other side of the bed, nodded at Catherine with grim significance.

“One makes these mistakes sometimes when one is not quite oneself,” she remarked soothingly yet with emphasis. “One imagines all sorts of things. Madame knows now that she was wrong, because I showed her the plain glass with the disinfectant still in it. Is it not so, madame?”

“Ah, yes, that is so. You were right, of course,” agreed the invalid with eager alacrity. Then she caught the maid’s unresponsive hand in hers and pressed it affectionately. “What should I do, where should I be, without my dear, good Jeanne? No one, Catherine, would do for me what she does,” she added, as though longing to assure the other of her appreciation.

“You had better go now, mademoiselle,” suggested the woman firmly. “This has been quite enough for one day.”

The girl rose, but a lightning clutch at her sleeve pulled her back again.

“No, Jeanne, let her stay! I will not excite myself, really I will not!”

With unmoved face the maid bent and loosed the fragile fingers.

“No, madame,” she said quietly, then stooping so that her lips were close to the other’s ear she whispered in a low, distinct tone: “Madame must try to behave reasonably, if she wishes to be permitted company at all.”

At once Mme. Bender gave in with complete docility.

“Very well, then, I will do as you say. But she is to come again soon? Catherine, my dear, you will sit with me often, will you not? I am alone so much, and I think and think--such strange, disturbing thoughts…”

“But of course, dear, I mean to be with you every day. As long as you will have me.”

She kissed the thin cheek and withdrew, gravely nonplussed by the recent scene. Jeanne followed her out, closing the door softly, and when they had reached the bend in the passage spoke in an undertone.

“You see?” she said, and her tone though sorrowful held a touch of triumph--almost, thought Catherine, as if she believed her word had been doubted.

“I don’t know what to say, Jeanne,” faltered the girl. “Madame was much more rational than I expected. In fact, if I had not been told about this insanity, I doubt if I should have noticed anything. It was only when she mentioned the poison----”

A quick gleam came into the other’s eyes.

“Ah, yes, I heard a little of what madame was saying. It is as I told you, she is trying to justify her action and make us think it was unintentional.”

“You are quite certain it wasn’t accidental?” suggested Catherine doubtfully. “It seemed to me----”

The maid raised her eyebrows.

“Who can say?” she returned after a pause. “But it is strange, is it not, how the mention of it throws her into a fever? No, I am afraid she has lain there making up this story, which she now believes to be true. She is often like that.”

“Do you mean, Jeanne,” whispered Catherine, recalling the marked discrepancy between the invalid’s statement and the maid’s, “that what she says about calling you and your not hearing her is an invention?”

A pitying smile broke over the sallow face.

“I am sorry to say, mademoiselle, there is not one word of truth in it,” she replied positively. “I was upon the threshold at the time, and snatched the glass from her lips. She did not know, of course, that I was watching. Eduardo, Berthe, both heard me cry out, and ran to see what was the matter.”

There seemed no doubt about it. Catherine pondered the matter unhappily.

“But why? Why should she want to take her life?” was all she could manage to say. “A year ago I saw no sign of such a thing, wretched though she was.”

“Ah, that is the nature of her malady. Melancholia. It comes in fits, and when the spell is upon her the poor creature cannot be held responsible. Only three weeks ago--but no, I must not alarm you unduly,” she broke off, closing her lips with determination.

“Tell me, Jeanne, I would much rather know the truth.”

“Well, then,” admitted the woman reluctantly, watching her as she spoke, “if you must know, I came into the room there to find madame, in her nightdress, standing upon the window-sill, preparing to throw herself into the court below. If you will look you will see that I have had two bars fastened across the opening, to prevent her attempting it a second time.”

Catherine drew in her breath sharply. This was something not easily explained away. Painfully she inquired the details, and learned that after the rescue Mme. Bender suffered from nervous collapse, following which the entire affair appeared to be erased from her memory. Not once had she referred to it, nor asked why the bars were there.

“You understand why it is I have moved my bed into madame’s dressing-room,” went on the maid. “As I told you last night, it is not safe to leave her for any length of time.”

Inconsequently Catherine recalled Jeanne’s departure the evening before, but naturally said nothing. After all, her charge had no doubt been sound asleep.

“Of course it isn’t,” she replied earnestly. “But all the same it is too much for you. Oughtn’t you to engage a professional nurse?”

The look of fanatical obstinacy she had seen before tightened the strongly marked features.

“Ah, no, mademoiselle. Such a thing might drive the poor creature to desperation. No, I have served her for fifteen years, and I shall continue to do so now that her need of me is so great. Who so well as myself understands her, who would protect her, not only from herself, but”--she hesitated, then finished with slow emphasis--“from those who perhaps might do her injury?”

What on earth could she mean? Catherine stared at her in astonishment.

“Surely, Jeanne, there can be no such person. Why do you suppose there is?”

For a second there was guarded silence. Then the maid, with a suggestion of a shrug, replied:

“I must not make any accusations, mademoiselle. But does it not strike you as strange, to say the least, that on the occasion I have mentioned and also two days ago the attempts at suicide should have followed close upon the visits of an old friend?”

This was news indeed!

“Whom do you mean, Jeanne? I understood madame saw no visitors.”

“No one, except”--here she halted and glanced about her, then brought out the name with apparent reluctance--“Mademoiselle Cushing.”

Hermione Cushing! Catherine could not suppress a start. She gazed fixedly into the unflinching eyes of the maid.

“Miss Cushing!” she echoed, wonderingly. “But what possible reason is there to connect her visits with--with----”

“There may be no connection. Do not misunderstand me, mademoiselle. Only, since you have put the question to me, I will say plainly that this lady, who calls herself an old and intimate friend, seems to me to exert a bad, a depressing influence on madame. So sure am I of this that I have done my utmost to discourage her coming; but,” and she made a gesture of helplessness, “I cannot always keep her away. I know that she persistently speaks of things which are distressing to anyone in madame’s condition.”

“What sort of things, Jeanne?” demanded the girl curiously.

At the same time she rapidly reviewed the disjointed letter which had so upset her peace of mind, recalling the writer’s complaints about the difficulty in seeing her friend. Was there anything behind it all?

The maid’s eyes turned from hers secretively.

“Mademoiselle Cushing cannot forget that madame is a rich woman, has been for years her patron and supporter. No doubt she is afraid that madame will die and leave her unprovided for. In short, she thinks always of feathering her nest.”

Indefinite as the explanation was, it hinted at unpleasing possibilities. It seemed to her she was beginning to understand in part the problem with which Jeanne had to cope. Had she not somewhere heard the prayer, “Oh, Lord, save us from our friends!”?

She came to herself to find the intelligent brown eyes regarding her shrewdly.

“And now, mademoiselle, that you see what all this is like, do you not think it would be happier for you to leave this sad abode? You can do no good here--you are young, you wish to be gay. It is no life for one whose duty does not call her to it. Believe me, I know what I am saying when I beg you to go elsewhere to live.”

Catherine had not expected this renewed importunity.

“On the contrary, Jeanne, I shall be quite content to stay, at least for a few months, and I honestly think I may have a good effect on madame’s spirits. She was so evidently glad to see me just now----”

She stopped in time to see an expression of strong displeasure settle over her companion’s features. Before she could finish her sentence, however, the silence was pierced by a long ring at the telephone. She found herself listening mechanically to the gruff voice of Eduardo answering the call.

A moment later the butler issued from the study, came a step towards them, then, spying Catherine, halted.

“A gentleman to speak to you, miss,” he announced in an offhand manner, more loudly than was necessary. “A Mr. Geoffrey Macadam.”

Her friend of the train! The tension snapped, as with a glad sense of relief she hurried towards the study.

She could not say what instinct made her glance back at the two servants, nor why the penetrating look of question passing between them should cause her such poignant discomfort. Certainly it told her that she was an unwelcome alien in their midst, but she half-fancied an additional meaning less easy to interpret.

A tremor shook her voice as she spoke into the telephone.